Echoes of the River

Posted on Sat Mar 30th, 2019 @ 11:56pm by Lieutenant Samuel Clemens XV

Mission: Detours
Location: Holodeck One, USS Hera, Deck 6
Timeline: Enroute to Sickbay, post-infarction

Sam slept.

And as he slept, he dreamed. He dreamed of many things, as a single night can contain an entire lifetime. But not this night- it was, in most respects, a perfectly normal night of dreams, something that, on some deep level, was reassuring to Sam. Normal, everyday, slice-of-life stuff. Except it wasn't even night. And it wasn't normal.

Until his great, great, times-twenty-five grandfather showed up. While he was tying his shoes.

"What do ya think yuh doin', boah??"

The moustache was truly legendary. So was the stogie.

Sam (the latter) raised up, slowly, taking in the astoundingly-brilliant Southern Gentleman's attire, and sat there for a moment, as he remembered the last time he'd seen him...

...and the dream became lucid.

Latter Sam sat back, and drawled, "Hello...Mahk."

The bushiest of eyebrows lowered, like an oncoming storm. "That wuz mah pruh'feshun'l name." The gloom and doom held for a moment, but then the teeth like the sun broke through.

"Ah, hell. Ah can't be mad atchya, son. Yer proof that it was all true...not some fevah dream. An' that muh faith wuzn't misplaced," the Ancient Author announced.

Sam just shook his head. "Grampa... what thuh livin' hail is goin' on??"

Sam the Elder legged himself up on a stool, and took to expostulatin'.

"You've been soljerin' on, wuhkin' yuh' arse off. Fightin' th'Good Fight, an' ah'm proud uv ya, ah am, truly." He leaned in a bit.

"But'cha can't go on, skippin' sleep, son. 'Taint healthy. An' don't try't'snowball me, boy- we'ah in yoah haid- know y'ain't been restin'."

Sam had started to object, but knew his bluff was already called. "Awright, awright. But ah got way too much t'do, an'precious little time t'git it done. Hell, ah'm only half a man, anyway- ah shouldn't need as much sleep," he began...

...and like lightning, Samuel Langhorne Clemens The First lashed out his open hand, and slapped his descendant square in the back of his head, hard enough to make the boy see stars.

Mark sat back up straight, and beamed a glare at the young man.

"Don't you EVAH tawk about yuhself oah ANYONE ELSE like that, you whelp! PITY IS NOT HOW WE DO THANGS," he roared, like the lion he was.

Sam sat there, stunned, rubbing the back of his head, absently, a flush creeping up his neck toward his face, driven by equal parts initial anger, then shame. "Ah'm sorreh, suh. Ah wuz raised bettuh than that." He hung his head.

"You'd bettah be," the old man groused. Then he reached out, and laid a gentle hand on Sam's head. "You gotta think bettuh of yuhself, an' uh'thuhs, Sam. Gittin' huht oah sick doesn't make yuh any less impoaht'unht, or wuhthwhile. An' you do got a whole heap uh wuhk t'do." He straightened back up.

"But you can't do it in here. An' you can't do it if'n you d'stroy yuhself out theah. You gotta rest when thuh restin's t'be had. You got peepuhl out theah who need yuh, an' that means no moah runnin' y'self intuh th'ground."

"An' that means ya gotta stop runnin' away from propuh sleep. No one evah knows if'n they'll wake aftuh they lay theah head down- but thems thuh only game in town, Samuel."

Sam looked up, a little shocked that Mark knew, but then shook his head, and chuckled. "You, of all people, could spot the wool-pulling a mile away, grandfather." He looked concerned. "Can you tell me what the hell happened with my sword and clothes and gun? How can they be on the ship with me? They're not real, after all."

Mark Twain, writer of fiction, witness to the far-flung future, gambler, father, husband, and explorer, just grinned at the young man, and tipped his hat. "Don' make assumptions, boah. And keep 'em close. Yer gonna need' 'em. Goodbye foah now."

...and the room went dark.

TO BE CONTINUED