Apologies for taking such a long time to update. This is a kind of transitional chapter in the story and for a multitude of boring reasons, I found it really tricky to work out how to get to the next step, which I have down already (although only partially written).

At least it's mega long chapter, so that makes up for it, no? No...? Really? DARN DARN DARNY DARN.

As ever, huge thanks to makimurakaori for the beta and also to both her and AGDoren for advice and patient ears when I was whinging on about my writer's block.

Lots of bad language here.

VII. Rules of Engagement

Lorca watches her get her dues. In the throne room of the Charon, Michael is awarded the 50 Kills Medal (its youngest recipient ever) and officially anointed as Emperor Georgiou's heir. She receives a new suit of armour that seems too big for her but she wears it well. Georgiou looks upon her with more pride than he's ever seen before and he's glad. Katrina has stayed behind to negotiate with the Cardassians and to avoid further ire from the Picards, so Lorca has to smirk at them on his own, doubly so when they bow low before Michael and she spares him a quick amused glance.

Afterwards he accompanies the Emperor and the Princess on a tour of the outer colonies, Georgiou being keen to remind Terrans further away from home of the might of Starfleet and its officers, and how necessary they are to the continuing survival of these new territories. Their last stop is Tarsus IV, a colony at the far edge of the Alpha Quadrant. A class-M planet, it was gifted to veterans of the war with the Romulans one hundred years previously, and since then has become home to many veterans of other conflicts; he used to joke with Katrina about retiring there together.

The colony's main settlement New Anchorage has a spaceport planet-side but it was built to accommodate colony supply ships, not combat-class ones and let alone anything approaching the size of the Charon. Informed that magnetic fields are currently fluctuating too much for safe beaming on and off the planet, they take a shuttle to the surface. As its doors slide open, an endearingly child-like look of delight comes over Michael's face. He forgets that she has not spent much time on any kind of solid ground since her adoption and even less so since she joined him on the Buran. As for her life before, it had also been spent travelling with her parents, both scientists; she had spent a year as a prisoner of the rebels and his understanding was that the base she had been rescued from had been mostly underground.

Ah, hell. The sight that greets him is enough to make him seriously consider early 've landed on the outskirts of the city, which rises behind them, but everywhere else the land is a sea on fire: hills covered in trees of red and gold leaves, undulating ever higher towards a mountain range in the distance. The grass below their feet is a deep, swaying green, the flowers colourful and fragrant, messily dotted around them as they usually do when left to do what they will. Not far from the landing pad, he can hear water flowing over rocks. The air is cool, with a clean sharpness like only non-recycled air can have, but the sun is still hot on the skin.

He can feel Michael's eyes on him and they share a grin. He can tell she's itching to run off into the wilderness but she stays put and her expression turns more serious as the colony's representatives step up to greet them.

"Your Majesty, Your Highness." Governor Giselia Ribeiro bows deeply. "Welcome to Tarsus IV. You have bestowed us a great honour."

"And your service honours yourself and the Empire," Georgiou replies.

A Starfleet Marines officer steps forward and bows also. "Long live the Empire! I am Lieutenant Colonel Meizhen Bao. I lead the Marine outpost here. It is indeed an honour to have you and your daughter visit us." He turns and salutes Lorca. "As it is to meet you, Captain Lorca."

Lorca returns the salute, noting Bao's relatively young he's made Lieutenant Colonel already, he might be one to watch.

"Your Majesty, may I introduce you to Council Leader Adrian Kodos?" Ribeiro continues, using her arm to invite her companions forward. "And these are my aides, Balayna Ferasini and Ian Galloway."

Lorca pays little attention to the ordinary-looking men who respectfully bow to them all, and instead begins to wonder immediately about Ferasini. She is not particularly striking (her curly brown hair is worn in a simple ponytail), being pretty rather than beautiful, but something about the spark in her eyes and the curve of her hips in otherwise drab robes intrigue him. He tries a slight smile, which she returns in kind.

The columns of Bao's battalion part before them and they climb aboard the cars waiting to take them into the city - and it is is a wonder to enter it. Not because of impressive architecture - dwellings and workplaces have retained a mostly utilitarian look - but because there is no gradual change from countryside to urban environment. Instead the world outside New Anchorage suddenly disappears as they enter the city limits, as though they had driven into a tunnel. Michael has her gaze fixed outside the window, on the mountain tops that do remain visible above the roofs, while Georgiou listens to Ribeiro and Kodos extol the virtues of their agricultural engineering. Lorca finds the conversation dull and barely comprehensible, which turns his attention to Ferasini, who is sitting opposite him.

"Balayna, wasn't it?" he starts, crossing one leg over his knee.

She looks up from her PADD, laying it down on her lap with her hands clasped over it. "Balayna Ferasini, yes. Miss. What can I do for you, Captain?"

Miss? Well, that's helpful information, and from the way she sits and looks at him it's intended as such. "Miss Ferasini - apologies. All these amazing crops you're growing - do they include things like barley and hop?"

"They do."

"And you have cattle, too?"

"That's correct. One of our more successful recent development is a variety of wheat that provides more nourishment per gram than before, meaning less is required to feed our animals."

"Wonderful. Does that mean you have places that serve beer and steak?"

Her smile broadens. "Yes, we have several such places."

"Any you could recommend?"

"Of course, I would be glad to."

"Great. Maybe take me there tomorrow night?"

Balayna nods. "It would be my pleasure and honor. I will forward you details later."

They reach their destination: the centre of New Anchorage, which features a wide, attractive square dotted with water fountains and trees. The council building boasts a dome in the classical style and stands opposite a large amphitheatre where Georgiou is due to make a speech. Ribeiro claims proudly that it can accommodate up to half the colony's population and as such is the focus of most of the special events and occasions celebrated on Tarsus IV.

Lorca heads first into Georgiou's quarters with two of her bodyguards, as is his duty. The rooms definitely lean towards the handmade and old Earth but someone has tried to make them look more regal in her honour, with mounds of soft furnishings and platters of fruits and sweet delicacies on low, dark tables, and deep and very comfortable-looking leather sofas and armchairs. He does the same with Michael's quarters, in spite of her protests.

"Any Klingons under the bed?" It has become a private joke between them, ever since that night when he'd comforted her after a nightmare.

"None, Princess. Not even dust bunnies."

"Why do you never check my bunk on the Buran?"

"Don't need to. Crew knows you. Rightly too terrified to even try a whoopie cushion." He clicks his tongue as she reaches for something that looks like chocolate. "We need to scan first, check for poisons."

Michael predictably rolls her eyes. "Can't I just get you to try a bit of everything, see if you drop dead?"

"When I enlisted in the Fleet, I swore an oath to die for the Empire - not for the Emperor's daughter's sweet tooth."

"Coward."

"That's why I'm still alive."

She laughs. He leaves her guards to get on with the scanning so she can indulge before they reconvene with the Emperor for a briefing about the upcoming events they are to attend; namely her speech that evening, followed by a reception for the colony's ruling elite and other descendants of its early settlers.

The speech Georgiou makes at the amphitheatre is not particularly long - she does not like to talk when it isn't to drive people to action - but her presence on Tarsus IV, so far from the center of the Empire, has clearly surprised and awed most of its people. She is much more at ease later, in the company of veterans (one or two of which she seems to know from her early days of service), and her speech to them is much more lyrical and heartfelt than the one she gave to the civilian crowd. He notices that Kodos in particular listens somewhat raptuously and his applause is enthusiastically directed at the veterans. Lorca finds himself warming a little to the politician: slim, shorter than Lorca, with thinning red hair and overly-groomed facial hair, he'd struck him as your typical big fish in a small pond, the sort that would be least likely to make it anywhere near the front line of a fight, but he had gone to greet the former soldiers first when he had arrived at the reception and many had returned his greetings with what seemed like genuine friendliness. He spends a lot of time talking to Michael but she doesn't seem to mind as far as Lorca can tell.

Georgiou's second speech over, Lorca tries to catch Balayna's eye but she is by Ribeiro's side and flanked by Bao; in different circumstances he would simply walk over and either join the conversation or simply steer her away with him if she was amenable, but he knows of his duties as a guest. Instead he goes to introduce himself to a woman who looks to be in her mid-fifties and who he heard mention the name of a captain he served under early in his career. He ends up talking to her and her little group for a while, trying to map who else they all know. It's an odd kind of party, somewhat stilted - the very few parties he has gone to over the years have been grand affairs on the Charon, with copious amounts of all kinds of exotic dishes and drinks from all over the Empire, often different types of entertainments, and more politicking than should be going on given the state of inebriation that guests quickly reach. Surprisingly, Georgiou seems to be enjoying herself and the group she is talking to (Ribeiro and her Council members) gradually seem to relax a little in her intimidating presence. Still, she excuses herself early, catching his eye as she does so to direct his attention towards Michael and Kodos, still deep in conversation near the balcony. With a sigh, he excuses himself and joins them.

"Captain Lorca," Kodos greets him jovially.

"Councilman," Lorca nods.

"We have an heretic here, Captain," Michael mock-whispers.

Kodos chuckles. "I am anything but!"

"Councilman Kodos believes there are things we can learn from non-Terrans. Even Klingons."

"We are only as great as our strongest enemy, Your Highness. The Klingons are savages but they are capable of great cunning. They are intensely individualistic yet deeply dedicated to their clan and to their own Empire - such as it was."

"I'm not sure it turned out to be such a great combination," Lorca interjects. "In the end it kept them disunited and easy pickings."

"That's very true, of course, although I would suggest they may simply have lacked the right leadership."

"He likes Vulcans, too," Michael continues, a slight smile on her lips. For as long as Lorca's known her, she has been fascinated by Vulcans; they have spent many hours discussing their philosophy of logic, playing with different scenarios and putting them through a Vulcan prism.

"What's not to like?" Kodos replies. "Not only is their physical strength on the par with Klingons, but they are also highly intelligent. Their dedication to logic and ideas over emotions allowed them to become a powerful and united force. It saved us from what would have been a painful war and gave us invaluable allies."

"Well, you've certainly found a friend in Her Highness," Lorca says. "Sometimes I think she'd like nothing more than for all us to sport the same awful haircut."

"Nothing can make you look worse than you already do, Captain," she retorts. Lorca feigns a wounded look. "But what do you make of the Romulans, Councilman? They rejected logic, chose emotions as source of their strength, and they struck some resounding victories against Vulcan. In fact, they are probably to thank for Vulcan's eagerness to ally themselves with us."

"A very good point, which leads me to the one I was trying to make. We Terrans punch far above our weight, consistently so. In fact, our own rapid growth and development nearly led to the destruction of Earth. And that's because we feature far greater diversity within our race than the Vulcans or Klingons or Andorrians do. We must continue to do so. We have already been absorbing technology from other species - why not consider what in their culture could strengthen us also?"

"The diversity you talk about is also what kept us killing one another for centuries," Lorca interjects. "It was chaos. Is that what you'd have us do, go back to that?"

Kodos' countenance grows more serious. "Not at all. Quite the opposite. I believe the Empire is the best thing that ever happened to our race. We need order, just like the Vulcans need logic. Because of our very nature."

"Meaning?"

"We are all just animals, Captain. Highly evolved and adaptable. But we haven't fundamentally changed over the last few thousand years. We can do nothing without food and shelter. We are primed to ensure the reproduction of our genes. Take away food and shelter, and survival will trounce everything else. That's served us well in many ways, of course. Survival of the fittest and so on." He pauses and chuckles, indicating his own slim, groomed appearance. "In my case, survival of the smartest, because I doubt I could win even an arm-wrestling contest. But this is what makes us - makes the Empire - great: we have both order and competition. We need the strongest among us to bring order, and in turn order allows us to become truly more than what we are. You need fire to forge steel, after all, but only skill turns it into a sword."

Lorca can feel his lip twitch. Sure, he's discussed a lot of different ideas with Michael, but he's always turned her away from the more abstract thoughts. They don't help when you've got 3 enemy warships bearing down on you. "You seem too much of a philosopher to enjoy being on a backwater farming colony like this one. How'd you end up here?"

Michael frowns at him, hearing the hostility in the question. Kodos, again, doesn't seem to notice or mind. "I chose to be here. I see this place as the potential template for the future of the Empire. Its high population of veterans means I can see for myself what makes a true survivor and how leadership works. The way this colony has grown is remarkable, and that's down to its people - very few people of which aren't remarkable in one way or another." Kodos tilts his head towards Michael. "None as remarkable as Your Highness, of course. A warrior and a scholar, it seems."

There is no obsequiousness there that Lorca can see. Michael looks a little uncomfortable, but then she's never been good at taking a compliment. "That she is, Councilman," Lorca responds. "Who unfortunately needs to return to her quarters and prepare for tomorrow."

She's not happy but knows better than to complain. They give their goodbyes to Kodos, as well as the rest of the guests.

"What do you make of him?" Michael asks on the short walk to her quarters.

"Talks too much."

She gives him a playful slap on the arm. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Pretend to be dumb when you're anything but."

Has Michael just called him smart? It's a strange thing to hear from the smartest person he knows. He shakes off the awkwardness with a shrug. "Another reason I'm still alive, Princess."

Having checked her quarters, her two bodyguards swap places with the ones that have stood by her doors all afternoon. It doesn't take long to review her activities for the next day.

"I thought he was interesting," Michael resumes, to Lorca's chagrin. "And quite bold with his ideas. Not many people would say out loud what he did."

"That's because there's no one here who listens."

"I listened. I could tell my mother."

"I'm sure that's what he's hoping for. His ideas may be unusual but hardly revolutionary - I agree with most of 'em. He probably figures a good word in the Emperor's ear from her daughter wouldn't hurt."

"Yeah," she says, sounding disappointed. "Probably."

Lorca sighs inwardly. Although they have got closer again since her rescue of the Buran, some of her reactions still baffle him. She's not naive, or ignorant of how these things work, what her position means for the relationships she makes. This should not be a surprise to her.

She straightens her shoulders and goes to one of the large bay windows, cracking it open. People are milling about in the square below, laughing and drinking, in spite of the chill in the air. Lanterns have been strung across the trees in honour of the Emperor, and it gives the night a warm glow.

Lorca's communicator beeps; Georgiou wants to see him.

He finds her in the same place he left Michael: staring out of her own window. "Interesting place, isn't it?" she starts. "A little bubble of peace in a very dangerous universe. If that was all you knew, what a wonderful world it would be. But we know better, don't we?"

"We certainly do, Your Majesty."

"To think we used to fight and kill and enslave each other," she continues. "What a waste. The other - the REAL other - was never next to us but above us. I look at this place and I wonder, how long can we protect it? Ourselves? How many of our lives up there -" Georgiou tilts her chin up to the skies then out towards the square "-for the lives down here?"

"As many as it takes," Lorca answers. "That's why I joined Starfleet. It doesn't matter where you meet Death - space or the ground. If Death wants you, it will find you. At least in space you can meet it by choice, and keep it away from your people."

"Your loyalty to the Empire and our race is a true gift, Captain," Georgiou replies with a nod. "And you are mostly right. But I think it is time that we change strategy. Instead of waiting to meet Death, why not become Death itself?"

Unlike some of her predecessors, Emperor Georgiou has always been predictable where it matters. The rules as she has set them down are clear: follow your duty; your duty is to the Empire first, then to your honour second; the Emperor is law and the rule of law is all. As long as you follow the rules, she will encourage and reward your ambition. That is how Lorca has become the Emperor's Fist.

Something about this declaration, however, does not sit well with Lorca. He knows his history well enough to understand that the temptation of total victory can be a fatal one.

"What would that entail, Your Majesty?"

"It doesn't matter where or when you fight, the key to a successful military campaign remains logistics. Moving people and supplies quickly enough. So in the short term, ramping up research into anything that can give us a tactical advantage, such as cloaking or speed. And we need to start doing what our enemies do not. The element of surprise is still the most important weapon. Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."

Lorca relaxes a little. He can't disagree with any of that. "I have a few thoughts about our current tactical strengths and weaknesses. May I present you with a report?"

"That is exactly what I need. And get Michael involved. The girl can clearly think outside the box."

Lorca bows and leaves.

He spends most of the next day preparing for the joint exercises planned with Bao's Marines (his crew need more ground experience), with Michael doing the same with the Standard-Bearers cadet corps. The children and teenagers give Michael a rapturous welcome, incredulous that someone who pretty much looks like them has already attained the sort of glory few adults ever do. She's one of the oldest teenagers there but there is no mistaking her youth, and Lorca feels a little sorry for her. He was a tall fifteen year-old and he thought he knew it all but he was still little more than a child at that age, more concerned with ways to have fun than the future - or even the present. They had been happy times, even if he had no interest in revisiting them. He would not wish Michael's burden on anyone, yet she seems to bear it effortlessly still. She deserves everything he can give her.

Before he meets Balayna, he visits a bar off the main square so he can buy a few drinks for those of his crew that are planetside. They are already engaged in a drinking contest with a few of Bao's men; when he enters, Ensign William Pickford jumps on a table and whistles so loudly and sharply that everyone in the room flinches.

"Captain at the bar!" he bellows, in a voice that fits his broad shoulders and stout face, before leading the rest of the crew into rowdy salutes and a song to Lorca's glory. Lorca laughs and gives Pickford a bear hug and a sound thumping on his back when he comes off the table. He takes the young man's place and stretches out his arms to demand silence.

"Thank you," he tells his crew. "I will remind you that you are guests in this fine establishment and on this fine planet - you will uphold the good reputation and honour of the ISS Buran or I will have you scrubbing portholes with a toothbrush and no space suit for a month. CLEAR?"

"YES, CAPTAIN LORCA, SIR!"

"Next round on me -" Their cheering interrupts him but he brings it down with another raise of his hand. "Barkeep, your finest lemonade for all!" Groans and laughter mingle. "I'll remind you all bunch of butt-sharks and BUBs that you're not doing battle tomorrow with Cadet Burnham and her rugrats but with some fine Marines. You gonna embarrass me? Yourself?"

"No, sir -"

"Never -"

"Good. As you were."

Lorca jumps off the table. As he pays for his crew's lemonade as promised, he spots Bao sitting at the end of the counter, nursing a beer. He nods to the Marine, gets a nod back, then is distracted by Pickford, who seems to have volunteered to collect the drinks from the bar.

"Hey, Pickford." The young man straightens, tries to look more sober. "I mean it. All of it. You've got tomorrow to think about and if you end up in the drunk tank, I ain't getting you out. We leave without you and the A.W.O.L. is on you. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

Lorca grabs the back of his neck, pulls him close to his face. "I like you, Pickford. Don't make me do it."

"No - no, sir."

He lets Pickford go, slaps him on the ass as the Ensign struggles away with glasses in his hands. He can still feel Bao's eyes on his back when he heads through the door.

Balayna is waiting for him at the entrance of the place she recommended, wearing a black, long-sleeved dress that hugs all her curves all the way to the middle of her thighs, calf-length boots and tights over what's left visible of her legs.

"You look lovely," Lorca grins, wondering if this place delivers its food.

She smiles back, holding his gaze. "And you look very handsome - but I'm sure you knew that."

He chuckles, pleased that she seems playful, and he holds the door for her. It's more of a bar or a pub than a restaurant from what he can see, but offers a handful of plain dishes as a lunch and dinner service. It's located on one of the more narrow, quieter and older streets near the centre, and not much natural light comes through the large bay windows that make up its street side. He wonders about eating al fresco only to find that he likes the muted light inside. It's busy but not too noisy and their table is in a good spot - he ignores the inner voice that tells him to sit face out towards the room but she seems keen that he should enjoy the view of the street outside so he dutifully follows her instructions. It is a pretty view: lights come on as they settle down, warming up the dusk. Having made their choice of what to have, Lorca stands again to order from the bar.

The food is great, the beer crisp and cool, and the company extremely pleasant. Balayna is intelligent and witty and fun-loving: she takes him to another bar when they have finished eating, one where the lights are low and flashing and the music is too loud to talk, so that the only thing you can do is drink and dance. He likes to practice what he preaches so doesn't drink as much as he'd like to, which seems to have been Balayna's plan all along.

"If you're not drinking, you've got to dance," she shouts into his ear above the thumping of the music, and he lets her drag him onto the dance floor. He can't afford to stay out all night, either so he decides to test the waters now, and puts his arm around her waist, pulling her to him. She's surprised but happily slings her arms around his neck. They sway together like that for a bit, not exactly keeping to the rhythm of the music, and he kisses her. Balayna kisses him back, her mouth welcoming him, her hips pushing against him most invitingly.

Lorca directs her off away from the crowd and they spend some time in a rather dark corner until he decides he's done with feeling what's under her dress and wants to see. They stagger out into the street hand in hand and she points straight ahead; as it's not back towards his quarters he guesses she's taking them back to her place. A few meters down the street, she pulls his hand to make him stop and, leaning against him, removes her boots.

"That's pretty damn keen," he says, making her laugh.

"Hate those damn things," Balayna says. "Didn't want you to have to carry me."

"I've carried heavier and uglier, and all under fire. Come on -" He signals to her to hop on his back. She gives him an incredulous look but when he repeats the gesture, she obeys.

They walk along like this, the crowd too busy with their own end of the week revelries, to notice them or the way Balayna kisses and nibbles on his ears and neck, until she suddenly stiffens behind him.

"Not that way, Captain -"

"I think Gabriel's fine."

"Not that way - we need to turn around -"

Lorca frowns. "Isn't it faster through the square?"

"I know a better way," she insists, "we just need to -"

"CAPTAIN!"

Lorca turns back towards the square. Some of the crew and Marines he had found in that bar earlier are standing around by a fast food hole-in-the-wall, either waiting for their orders or to place them.

"Fine way to uphold the Buran's honour, sir," Ensign Pickford shouts out, saluting him. "You must plant that flagpole for the Emperor, sir!"

Thankfully Lieutenant Deschamps drags Pickford away, looking like she's having a strong word in his ear, which means Lorca can carry on his way through the square.

Balayna is strangely restrained for the remainder of their short journey. He's wondering whether she's changed her mind, but she drags him in for a kiss as soon as she is on the ground by her apartment door.

Balayna makes them coffee afterwards and they talk; he wants to ask her about what was wrong earlier but as she no longer seems unnerved, he decides there's no point. She tells him about growing up on Tarsus IV, about her boredom and how she once hoped to visit Earth and study there. She asks him for suggestions and he offers what little advice he can - and then he can't resist the curve of her breasts under the sheets and the talking stops again.

He makes it back to his quarters around 1am and is glad to find his eyelids feel heavy in spite of the couple of strong espressos he's shared with Balayna. He gets his uniform ready for the morning, makes sure his boots are polished, then falls asleep almost as soon as he gets into bed.

It's another bright, sunny afternoon as all involved in the exercises gather at the foot of the forest outside New Anchorage, with the Emperor, Governor Ribeiro, and Councilman Kodos watching from screens linked to cameras and drones among the trees; Balayna, however, isn't there. A few children from the Standard-Bearers cadet troops have been selected to join the exercise as observers, led by Michael. One boy, his hair a light brown and skin likewise from a lot of time spent outdoors, spends the waiting time chatting to a couple of his crew members, darting his eyes in Lorca and Michael's direction several times.

Lorca points him out to Michael. "I think you've got a fan, Your Highness."

She looks up from checking the clasps on her utility belt, then rolls her eyes. "Oh no, not me. You have. He spent about half an hour asking me questions about you yesterday - I think he knows your record better than you."

"You should tell him I'm a terrible role model."

"I think that's why he loves you."

He grins. "I like the kid already. What's his name?"

"Jim Kirk." She unsheathes her knife, lets the blade shine in the sunlight, then returns it to its leather scabbard. "He's a pain the ass, so I'm sure he'll go far."

"What's your plan on how to handle him?"

"He's eight years-old, he doesn't require 'handling'." Michael pauses. "Give him a wedgie until he whistles like a kettle the minute he thinks he knows better than me."

"That's my girl." He slings his rifle to his back, and they bump their raised forearms.

He leaves her to finish briefing the cadets while he preps his own men. It isn't a competitive exercise as such - both groups are a mix of his crew and Marines - but the way Bao's men stand apart from his own suggests it may as well be.

"Deschamps, what's with the wallflowers over there? Something happen last night?"

She looks a little uncomfortable. "Not exactly, sir. Bit of joshing. We got the last word and I'm guessing they don't like it."

"Well, this is gonna be fun, isn't it?" Deschamps starts to reply. "Shut up. I know I'm smiling but I'm really fucking furious. Do your fucking jobs, let them teach you something then say thank you afterwards. You got that?"

His crew's positive reply is quite a lot more subdued than the night before.

It's a slow-going affair, and Lorca 's glad because that's exactly the kind of experience his crew lacks. Their battles up in space happen very fast and against basically invisible enemies. Taking a fight to the ground, in this kind of topography, requires personal stealth, patience, and the ability to control your trigger finger. During the first phase, it's maneuvers only - they practice assessing the terrain and their route using drones that transmit images directly to their goggles, which is not as easy as it sounds, before taking turns on choosing a location to defend and then assaulting the other group's base. Lorca's group defends first: a few booby traps slow down Bao but in the end his greater experience allows him a victory whose speed seems to satisfy him - although Lorca wonders whether he would truly sacrifice that many men in a frontal assault in a real fight.

After a break, it's Lorca's group's turn to go on the offensive. They advance in a double-breasted flying wedge formation across the forest, with another unit much further back to cover their rear, while pairing men within the wedge formation means that they can protect their flank and advance at the same time. They won't have much time once they engage Bao, and hope that forcing him to spread his defences means they could break through decisively.

The tactic seems to work - Lorca loses men at the rear but once stealth is no longer required, they dart forward towards Bao's defensive line. Just as they reach the shelter of some mossy rocks, Bao's soldiers run over the top of their line towards Lorca and his units. With no shelter they are easy pickings; he is trying to work out how many men Bao may have left now when Michael's voice booms overhead through the monitoring drones.

"Cease fire, cease fire. Captain Lorca, please come now -"

As the noise of their firefight dies down, Lorca becomes aware of people shouting - he's pretty sure Michael is one of them - and sprints across to Bao's ground, switching the setting on his rifle from 'exercise' to 'kill.'

Just as he leaps over the barricade of large, ancient tree trunks, there is a gurgling noise he knows too well, then a heavy thud. Bao has his back to Lorca but he turns to face him as Lorca calls out to him. His face is sweaty and dirty but otherwise impassive. At his feet, lying on his stomach in an expanding pool of blood, is Ensign Pickford. His already pale skin is now ghostly, to match the lifeless eyes fixed on the earth. In Bao's right-hand is a large, jagged hunting knife, dripping red, which he proceeds to wipe on his sleeve.

Lorca grabs Bao by his collar so hard and so fast that the blade is dropped to the ground; with a kick to the back to Bao's legs, the Marine ends up on his back on the forest floor, the landing so heavy that there is the distinct sound of air knocked out of lungs.

"What the actual fucking fuck, Bao?"

"Captain, let me explain, sir -"

His forearm pushing hard against Bao's throat, Lorca looks up at Michael. Some of Bao's Marines are pointing their rifles at him, while others are pointing them at Lorca's crew, who have raised their own weapons. He glances around him, picking up the sounds of a light scuffle, but it's two of Bao's people trying to hold the kids back a short distance away; he's dimly aware of the Kirk boy breaking through and stumbling forward a few steps.

"Captain Lorca, Lieutenant Colonel Bao, report to Command immediately."

That's the Emperor's voice. His crew and Bao's men lower their weapons almost immediately. Lorca tightens his grip one last time before releasing Bao and he gets some grim satisfaction from the sound of the man's wheezing as they hurry to Emperor Georgiou's camp.

Bao kneels in front of Georgiou as soon as they get there; Lorca can barely stop himself from sending him to the floor with the kick to the back of his head. He won't play Bao's game, either, choosing to simply salute the Emperor.

"Ensign Pickford was Captain Lorca's man. Explain yourself, Bao."

"Ensign Pickford was tasked with Communications during this exercise. On several occasions he transmitted orders incorrectly and also challenged my authority - I believe because he was drunk."

"On what evidence?"

"That of my eyes, and the fact my men counter-attacked later than I told Pickford to order them to, leaving them open to Captain Lorca's fire."

"Is that what the drones showed?"

Georgiou waves a hand in the air. "There were no drones in their location at that moment in time."

"Convenient," Lorca sneers. "And in any case Pickford was mine to deal with, Bao."

"It was not your authority being challenged, Captain, it was mine. To be challenged in front of my men - by a space cowboy - I was not gonna let that go."

"What did ya call us?"

"ENOUGH," Georgiou barks. "In what way did Pickford challenge you, Bao?"

"Ask her, Your Majesty." Bao indicates Deschamps, who has just arrived with Michael.

"Lieutenant Deschamps, is it?" Georgiou asks, her tone glacial. "Care to explain?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," she replies, bowing deeply. She has more sense than to hesitate. "I don't believe Ensign Pickford was drunk today, but he was last night, when we were out. He made some jokes about Lieutenant Colonel Bao."

"I was not there at the time to deal with it," Bao interrupts. "It was my men who reported his remarks."

"Jokes? And did they offend you because they were not funny, or too funny? Deschamps, do you remember the jokes?"

"Not the specific words, Your Majesty. Just something about… about the Lieutenant Colonel and Balayna Ferasini and Captain Lorca. Because Captain Lorca and Ferasini were seen together. But it seems there was a relationship established between Ferasini and the Lieutenant Colonel."

Oh, shit.

"Michael?" Georgiou addresses her daughter. "You were there, were you not? Was a challenge issued?"

She nods. "Lieutenant Colonel Bao told Pickford he had a choice: lick his boots, or fight. I told Pickford to choose the boots. He felt he had to defend the honour of the Buran, of the Captain. So he picked the fight."

"Why didn't your men fight for you, Bao?" Lorca interjects. "Did they find the jokes funny, too?"

"Unlike you, I don't need my men to fight for my honour, Captain."

There is that whistle of steel against steel as Georgiou draws her sword quicker than her small stature should let her. She swings the blade into place between Lorca and Bao. "That's ENOUGH. This is a ridiculous matter to lose a man over, and I don't need to lose another excellent soldier over it. Pickford mocked a superior officer. He was offered a choice, he took it. Kneel before me, both of you."

Bao is first to the ground, Lorca takes a beat longer, seething with anger. Then he feels the cold, sharp point of Georgiou's sword on his chin and is forced to look up at her.

"I shall hear no more about this incident, or anything related to it. Do you understand, Captain?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," he answers, loud and clear.

She moves her blade to the side of Bao's face, lets it glide ever so slightly over his cheek. "Bao?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." His tone is slightly less monotone for once, as a cut opens over his skin and blood begins to flow.

"Splendid. Everyone did well today. I look forward to the reports. Dismissed."

Lorca can feel his jaws clench. As both he and Bao rise to their feet, Michael moves and comes to stand between him and the Marine. She takes a step so he can't walk out without barging her out of the way, and only after a beat does she head out the way Bao went, pausing again on the threshold of Georgiou's tent. She checks her watch as she finally steps aside.

"That's enough of that, Burnham," Lorca starts, nearly growling. "I don't need -"

"Look at that, I'm off-duty. Captain Lorca - take me back to New Anchorage, would you? Lieutenant Deschamps can wrap things up here." Deschamps is taken aback by the change in Michael's tone and the sudden shift in power. She looks at Lorca, who signals to her to do as Michael says.

Safely ensconced in their car, Michael offers Lorca some water, which he rejects. "I couldn't let you, Gabriel. You heard her." She points at her cheek. "And she made Bao know she wasn't impressed."

"What I heard was an asshole spouting horseshit because he didn't have the balls for a real dick-measuring contest."

"That's got to be a new record for mixing metaphors."

He suddenly remembers who he's with, and how old she is. "Apologies, Your Highness."

She makes a face. "Michael, please. I only pulled ranks because I didn't want you to lose your head and then lose your head. Anyway, I've heard worse in Engineering. Usually about you." He grunts. "Bao may be an asshole, but Pickford was an idiot."

"You think it's true? He messed up the orders and showed up drunk today?"

"No, I don't, actually. But I'm talking about whatever he said about you and Balayna, and who he said it to. He was a fun guy but he was always looking for a fight, from what the others said - and you don't go butting heads with a Lieutenant Colonel of the Marines who's got twenty years experience on you."

She's right, of course. But still… "I just don't like assholes."

Michael nods. Then, "Did you know? About Bao and Balayna?"

"No, I didn't."

"Would it have made a difference if you had known?"

"Sure. I'd have been more discreet."

"Look who's an asshole now." Lorca frowns at her. He's in no mood for their usual sallies. She sighs, raises a conciliatory hand.

Looking out of the car window, he notices they can't be far from Balayna's apartment. When the driver, employed by the Council, confirms she does know her address, he directs her there.

"I will you see at dinner tonight," he tells Michael as he steps out. He doesn't plan on being long but he badly wants a beer, and to drink it on his own.

He rings Balayna's bell, then bangs his fist on the door when he gets no answer. Finally he calls out to her - and this time she comes to the intercom.

"Gabriel? What are you doing here?"

"Got something to talk to you about."

"What's that?"

"I'm not gonna shout it out here for everyone to hear, Balayna."

The screen goes dark - there's a pause, then a click and her door slides open. It's late afternoon now but her blinds are down already, plunging her apartment into an early semi-dark. A hoover-bot is quietly buzzing around the floor in her small living room. Shelves have come off the wall and in a corner sits a box full of broken knick-knacks.

On the wall behind the shelves, someone has burned a large 'W'. The same letter appears on the sofa and then the floor. Lorca goes to Balayna's bedroom - another 'W' on the wall behind her bed, and on the ceiling. He returns to the living room, where Balayna is re-arranging cushions to cover the mark on the sofa. She moves in a slow, deliberate way, the way people with broken bodies do. And then when she looks up at him, her hair sways away from her face long enough that he can see the black and blue around her left eye, and her loose top slips off her shoulder and reveals a bandage. He recognises the type - it's what you put on a burn. Lorca points at it.

"Did he put a letter there, too?" She nods. "What else?"

"Nothing some rest and painkillers can't cure."

"Last night you were asking me how to get off this planet, maybe make it to work on the Charon. Balayna baby, you wouldn't last a day out there. What the hell did you think was gonna happen here, huh? Somehow I'd sweep you off into space after one night together? That's really, really dumb. And now one of my men's dead because you thought you were something special."

"Someone is dead? I don't understand -"

"Don't worry, I'm sure you'll hear all about it, soon as you step out of your door again." Balayna has tears in her eyes now. "I'm sorry for what's happened to you. But I'm even more sorry for what happened to my man. Now here's some free advice, because I think you're a nice girl. You don't know how good you've got it here. Don't go finding out."

He walks out of her apartment and away from her building. The thought of sitting across from Bao over dinner later enrages him. Maybe he can find a reason to excuse himself from the meal, or convince Georgiou to leave early.

He's had enough of Paradise.