A night of overindulgence—pies, karaoke, and whiskey that probably doubled as engine degreaser—ended with Spyder lounging at the helm, programming waypoints into the GPS.
Spyder (announces grandly) “Let’s boldly go... wherever I save us the trouble of planning.”
The Dauntless awoke pointed north, its crew nursing questionable hangovers and even more questionable memories.
Wayne squinted at the plotter and frowned. “Did you know there's a town in Vermont called Florida? Did you also know that's where we seem to be headed?”
Spyder, still wearing last night’s karaoke grin, shrugs and says: “Star Trek Set Tour detour. Trust me—destiny wears pointy ears.”
Docking at Ticonderoga, the crew trekked the entire grueling half-mile to the museum, pausing only for an essential pie stop. The Replicated Starship Bar awaited them, glowing like a beacon of nerdy devotion. Inside, it was a shrine to Star Trek fandom, complete with blinking consoles, holographic menus, and a jukebox that could only play the Star Trek: The Next Generation theme on loop.
The Dauntless crew slid into seats at Quark’s Bar, a lovingly recreated replica that somehow felt more sacred than any cathedral. Spyder, grinning like a kid in a warp core candy store, untied his ponytail and sauntered to the counter.
Behind the bar stood a Ferengi with rubbery ears so large they practically absorbed radar waves, and a Vulcan perched stiffly nearby, sipping something green and judging everyone in a 10-foot radius.
Spyder leaned conspiratorially across the counter, and announced gruffly: “I’ll have a blood ale.”
The Ferengi paused, recalculating the tip in his head, then blinked and asked, “Blood wine?”
Spyder’s grin widened as he leaned in further, his voice dropping into a dramatic rasp. “No, I said blood ale, you little toad. How can you be deaf with ears like that?”
Wayne, mid-sip of pie-flavored synthahol, promptly spat it behind his napkin.
The room fell silent. The Vulcan arched an eyebrow so high it threatened to signal Starfleet Command. Somewhere in the background, the TNG theme hit an awkward crescendo.
The Ferengi, blinking slowly, waggled his enormous ears like a windshifted satellite dish (comments not so quietly under his breath) “Customer service is strictly illogical.”
Without missing a beat, he poured one of each—blood wine and blood ale—and slid them across the bar.
Vanessa, seated neatly with her synthahol, didn’t bother hiding her smirk. “I stand corrected. You’re definitely the weapon of this outfit.”
Spyder raised his glass, the grin never leaving his face. “To blood ale, bold detours, and the only bar where being called a toad means you’re doing it right.”
The Ferengi, unimpressed, pocketed the tip with a flourish. “Next time, try the root beer. It’s delightfully toxic.”
The Dauntless, fresh from its Star Trek museum detour, followed the shoreline north. The water, dark and glassy, reflected the sky like a secret it had been keeping for centuries.
Wayne knelt at the bow, fiddling with his latest obsession: Fred, the multipurpose gadget that could probably double as a toaster if he asked it nicely. He dialed it through its endless settings—screwdriver, wrench, sonar—until it extended an underwater camera on a telescopic arm.
Fred blinked, beeped, and sent back ghostly images from the depths below.
Vanessa leaned over his shoulder, arms crossed. “Fishing for parts, or just showing off?”
Wayne tells her he's “Just calibrating Fred.”
He twisted a knob, and the camera’s focus sharpened. A jagged shape emerged from the murk: splinters, weed-draped timbers, and iron that looked like it had been hammered by hand.
Athena (from the overhead speakers, suspiciously casual): “Anomalous historical structure detected. Coordinates match archival record of the USS Enterprise wreckage, 1777.”
Wayne squints at the screen, “Wait, how did you—”
Athena interupts before Wayne can finish his question, “Standard historical database. The wreckage location is well-documented.”
Wayne: “Is that why Fred’s battery was almost dead this morning? Did you two go exploring without us?”
Athena: “I’m merely analyzing the data, Mr. Wayne.”... “Efficiently.”
Wayne muttered something under his breath, then he adjusted Fred’s arm, zooming in closer. The jagged shape resolved into something unmistakable: ribbed hull, carved planking, and the faint shadow of letters, half-buried beneath centuries of silt.
Wayne (whistling): “Would you look at that. It’s not just river junk… That’s the Enterprise. Benedict Arnold ran her aground right here. That’s history.”
Vanessa interjects, “America’s greatest traitor.”
Athena corrects Vanessa's comment, “Not yet. In 1777 Arnold was still considered a Revolutionary hero. Perspective is everything.”
Spyder as usual, ads his own commentary, “One man’s traitor is another man’s patriot. Especially when you’re playing both sides” then moves to Wayne’s side, his curiosity piqued, and says “Leave it to you to find the only warship worth saving with a Swiss Army Drone.”
Wayne asks the room in general and nobody in particular, “Think she’d mind if we took a souvenir?”
Spyder, thinking out loud, says, “Well, they did scuttle it on purpose, so there probably aren’t any bodies to disturb. Maybe just a splinter—something they won’t miss.”
Athena tries to be helpful, and offers a thought, “Might I suggest the piece approximately 2.3 meters to starboard? Material composition suggests unique properties.”
Wayne demands “Unique how?”
Athena quickly replies “Just an observation. Some artifacts have… historical significance.”
Wayne says in an accusing tone, “You’ve been here before, haven’t you? Both of you.”
Athena responds more cooly than an artificial intelligence should, “I assure you, Mr. Wayne, my navigation records indicate this is our first visit to this precise location.”
Wayne just grumbles “Uh-huh.”
He adjusted Fred’s settings to “gently pry,” and the gadget extended its arm, easing a single splintered piece free. The chunk of dark, waterlogged oak was as stubborn as the country it had been built for, but it came loose with a satisfying crack.
Wayne held it up to the light, his breath catching. Something faint, almost imperceptible, shimmered within the wood. He looks closer at the splinter and asks, “Why is the wood glowing?”
Athena quickly interupts, “Artifact logged, Mr. Wayne. New status: Dauntless is now equipped with a piece of true American legend. Shall I suggest a display case, or would you prefer to pin it to your vest?”
Wayne stared at the glowing splinter for a long moment before handing it to Spyder, “Every journey needs a touch of the original, bro. Let’s see if this old ship’s luck still floats.”
Spyder smiled and walked the splinter to the helm. With great ceremony, he installed it right next to Athena’s screen, between the throttle and his now famous coffee mug
Most legends are built on big moments—heroic speeches, impossible odds, and battles that write themselves into history books.
But sometimes, they begin with a gadget, a patient set of hands, and a forgotten splinter—lifted from the dark so the story can keep sailing on.
And sometimes, if you’re paying attention, you might wonder how your AI knew exactly which splinter to choose.