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Malcolm entered the room warily.
Wariness was a part of him now, but even so he felt very much on trial. This was the start of his new life; not a life he'd ever expected, and even now some of him still felt it wasn't a life he'd ever wanted, but when you're caught in a rip tide you only exhaust yourself trying to swim against it. For now, he told himself, he'd float and see where events took him.
He was slightly taken aback to find only one man waiting for him, a massive African who seemed to be completely relaxed. As it was a conference room, there was a table there with ten chairs around it. If the stranger had been seated in one of the end chairs, that would have felt like a statement. That he was sitting in one of the more 'neutrally placed' ones, and not even pulled in to the table but left at a forty-five degree angle to it, was also a statement, but it wasn't immediately obvious of what.
There was no evidence of a Starfleet uniform, no rank insignia. His new commanding officer was wearing civilian clothes, navy slacks with a cream short-sleeved shirt that did nothing to disguise the slabs of muscle in his chest and arms. But to be on the safe side, he delivered the salute before coming to parade rest as soon as the door closed. "Reporting for duty, sir."
The head of his new team pushed the chair beside his out with his foot to about the equivalent angle. "Sit."
It was an informality he hadn't expected – since being released from the lab he'd endured a highly intensive refresher programme that had retrained him in Starfleet protocols – but obedience is everything. Now his duty was to watch and learn, so that was what he would do. He walked forward and sat in it, conscious of being studied by eyes that were as black as obsidian and exceptionally penetrating.
It was inappropriate to speak until spoken to. He simply sat and endured the searching scrutiny.
"For our purposes, from now on your name's Jaguar." The voice was so deep it almost felt as if his breastbone vibrated slightly in sympathy. Its accent was similar to that of one of Malcolm's fellow Academy students from Canada, though there was enough difference to suggest they came from different parts of the country. "Mine is Leo.
"I'm the head of the team, you probably already know that.
"But being as the work you'll be doing with us isn't exactly your standard Starfleet business, I thought it best we sit and have a talk.
"Some of this you'll know already, it's basic. There are some things you need to know, and some things you probably want to know. This is the place to ask questions. But first, I'm going to give you the talk, and if there's anything that's not clear when I'm done, speak out. When we leave this room, I want you crystal clear on what you've committed to." He waited for the nod of assent.
"First off: you already know this is Covert Ops. You join us, you step away from a whole lot you've learned in Starfleet, and the first rule is keep your mouth shut.
"As regards the team: you don't tell, we don't ask. You tell, we don't blab. But one thing we don't tell is our real names." He saw Malcolm's eyebrows quirk up, and elaborated, "I'm sure you've already been told we get given dirty jobs to do. It's easier to deal with if you leave your real self behind. In this job, you have to do what you're told – whether you like it or not.
"Second. We don't need to know your history or anything about you personally. We don't care what school you went to or whether you have a sexual attraction to three-legged zebras. What we do need to know is can we rely on you. We already know you can shoot and blow things up, or you wouldn't be here. But can you keep your nerve? Can you still do your job when the ceiling's falling in and you're knee deep in bodies?
"Third – and this is a big third. If you've come here with a death wish, go jump off a bridge. We need survivors. When we're out on an op, we don't come back leaving one of us alive. But if one of us has to be left, the rest of us make sure they're not alive before we leave – which was exactly what happened to the guy you'll be replacing. You have to be able to handle that. You're going to be the guy with the guns, and I need to know you could look down at me, or any other member of the team, and take us out if necessary. Just like you understand that if you're the one who has to be left, you can look at whoever puts a gun to your head and not make them feel any worse than they already do.
"Fourth. We don't work what you'd call 'standard hours'. We're on duty 24/7. Sometimes we can be away from Earth for months, sometimes we get a job closer to home and will be back in a week. When we come back, we can be home six hours and get sent out again, and if that happens you pack your bags and turn up where and when you're told to, no arguments.
"Five follows on from that. I'm not your daddy, I'm not giving you the talk about relationships. I'm just going to warn you that in our line of work, doing what we do and being away as much as we are, they usually don't work out. You do not talk about what we do, you do not try to impress your zebra of the day with the fact that you work in Covert Ops and could make her hair curl if you told her the half of what you do. If you're asked – you lie. You lie well, you lie consistently, and for preference you do not get involved.
"Six. In our line of work, we obey orders. We don't question them. If you've got a conscience, build yourself a safe in your head and lock it away as soon as you set out on a job. Because I'm warning you now, hesitation will get you killed faster than anything else.
"Seven follows on from six. There will be assignments where you see and do bad things. Till we're all turned into robots or get an AI implant, some of them will have consequences. I'm aware you're English and most likely pride yourself on your 'stiff upper lip', but that doesn't mean you're not human. Your team is here for you as much afterwards as they are when you're pulling the trigger, and we've all gone through the mill at some time or another. Sometimes the best thing for you – the best thing for all of us – is to admit none of us is a damn hero and you need help. Because if you have problems and you don't man up and talk about them, and it has consequences further down the line, I will kick your damned ass so hard you'll turn inside out.
"Eight. If you're disabled in the course of your duties, you'll receive the same care as any standard member of Starfleet. If you're killed, the cause of your death will remain classified. No member of your family will ever know the truth of what happened to you. You do not leave letters to your loved ones to be opened in the event of your death that would cast doubt on whatever official version of events they're given.
"Nine. You may leave the Section one day, but the Section does not leave you. You sign an NDA and that is an official document, binding for the rest of your life. You do not, ever, disclose Section business unless authorised to do so by personnel employed by the Section. Failure to honour that agreement could, and almost certainly would, have extremely serious consequences for you personally, not to mention whoever you confide in.
"Ten. As a team, we try our damnedest to get along. I hope you will too, but I don't hold anyone's hands and put them on the Naughty Step if they don't behave. You protect us, we protect you, and that's the way that hopefully we all get the job done and get out in one piece."
Throughout this he'd held Malcolm's gaze, hardly blinking, as if assessing his reaction to every word. Then, as he came to a close, he suddenly smiled – a change that was like seeing sunlight sweeping across a cliff face. "Am I talking your language?"
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
Leo huffed with laughter. "That's one thing you do get in the team. You can speak as freely as you want to, as long as you obey orders.
"And don't call me 'sir'. And that's an order."
"No, s– I mean, no, if that's the way it is." He swallowed the word 'sir', which wanted to add itself to the end of the sentence.
His mind was in turmoil. Reared in a household where discipline was everything, it was hard to imagine such an unstructured environment. And yet, he'd wanted excitement. Wanted revenge, for what had been done to him because a vain woman couldn't take rejection. And a part of him yearned desperately for a chance to prove himself.
He liked the idea of anonymity, the possibility of leaving behind everything he'd 'failed to achieve' in his father's eyes. He was detached enough to shake his head inwardly at the degree of excitement he felt at the prospect of operating 'outside the wire'. As for the risks – well, there were rewards too. Given the figures that had already been discussed, his bank balance at the end of the year would bear little reward to that of your average Starfleet ensign.
He hadn't, in the beginning, envisaged working with a team. He'd always been something of a loner; when you have no-one to rely on but yourself, you have no-one to let you down. His motto Friends are people who betray you was already engraved on his soul. But this was a relationship that sounded as if it had much to recommend it.
"To what extent do Starfleet regulations govern us?" he asked.
The fact that he'd used the word us quite certainly did not go unnoticed.
"Some of Starfleet know we exist," Leo replied. "Those who need to know.
"As for the regulations, well, we all know them. We follow them to the letter until the time comes for not following them.
"I get the impression you're a by-the-book kind of guy. I've got no problem with that just as long as you're prepared to put the book down to get the job done."
Malcolm nodded. "I can do that.
"You say a team, but nobody's given me any details."
"There are five of us." Leo stretched out a hand to the carafe of water standing on the table and poured some into the two glasses.
"Our rudder man's codename is Tiger, but he won't answer if you call him that. Stripes is less formal, and we're kind of keen on informality. Don't be taken in by how he looks. He's one of the best in the Fleet.
"Our engineer's called Cheetah, answers to Spots for the same reason. He has a thing about birds, so if you have any allergies to them get your shots.
Our code and security specialist's called Leopard. I'm sure you can guess it's Pard for short. Don't even think about making allowances for her being a woman, unless you want your balls kicked all the way back up.
"We all cook and clean, we all take responsibility for our weapons and our ship and our performance, we help each other as and when needed, we tell each other hard truths when it's necessary, and above all we cover each other's asses.
"As the ranking officer, I expect obedience from everyone. That doesn't mean you can't have your say, if and when the situation allows. But bottom line is, the final decision is mine, and if I've heard you out and don't change my mind, you put up and shut up and do your job."
He pushed the second glass over to Malcolm and lifted his own. "Now, do you want to be a part of that?"
Glass clinked against glass. "Sign me up, skipper."
=/\=
The introduction to the rest of the team wasn't quite what he'd expected – probably a sign of things to come. It took place in an Italian restaurant in town later that night, where a table had been booked.
It was a stylish place, the décor restrained and the lighting subtle. Arriving five minutes early (punctuality was one of his obsessions), Malcolm had no difficulty in picking out Leo, one of two people already seated at a reserved table in one of the alcoves. For one thing, he must be at least a head taller than anyone else present and probably half as broad again.
The man seated opposite him was so small by comparison that they looked like some kind of comedy duo. And though both were dressed with the appropriate care for the occasion, the second man (don't be taken in by his looks) spoiled the effect completely by having a woollen orange hat on his ginger head – it looked hand-knitted and had a large darn in it of a slightly different shade of wool. Both in face and physique he looked like a refugee from Fagin's gang of child criminals, but his expression was cheerful as he looked up from the menu. "It's our new Brit!" he said, and his slightly nasal American voice launched into an execrable imitation of what he probably thought an upper-class English accent sounded like. "Top-hole! Delighted! Jolly good show, what?"
"Piss off," said Malcolm amiably, dropping into a vacant chair.
Stripes shook his head. "Jolly bad show," he said sadly, and winked.
"I can see you two are going to get along." Leo asked what drink the newcomer would prefer, and ordered for everyone – clearly he expected the two remaining team members to show up on time.
And a couple of minutes later they fulfilled the expectation. Malcolm, watching the new arrivals idly, felt his heart stop as he recognised the very attractive blonde woman he'd seen in the café the day before. But now she was dressed in a sleek sea-green dress that emphasised her figure, and her hair was lying on her shoulders in a silvery waterfall. Her clutch bag and shoes were the same colour as her dress, but she had no jewellery except for a narrow gold chain around one wrist.
She was accompanied by a man who was almost as striking. He was very tall and very toned, if not in Leo's league. He was a blond too, but his hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. His eyes were blue too, but a cooler blue than her sapphire; the word Viking wasn't too unjust a comparison, and his Scandinavian accent explained his looks. His clothes (grey jacket and shirt atop black trousers) were very stylish, and the chronometer on his wrist was one you didn't buy on an ensign's wages.
Pard showed no sign of remembering yesterday's exchange of glances. With very feminine grace she took one of the remaining chairs and flashed an inquiring glance in Leo's direction.
"I've already ordered the drinks," he said, and then made the introductions.
"Pleased to meet you." Spots extended a hand, and Malcolm shook it, liking the firm grip and direct gaze. "Welcome to the club."
Finally Pard looked at him.
Someone less observant would have missed the slight tilt of the head, the parting of the lips. The familiar, predatory stare.
No-one else was giving him the tells. But Pard had been there. He was certain of it. His heart thumped with joy and anticipation.
The drinks arrived at that moment and were distributed: Leo and Pard had wine (he heard her voice for the first time – also American, though a slower, softer drawl), Spots had a single malt scotch and Malcolm had a spiced rum. Last of all there was a cocktail with an umbrella in it – for Stripes, who would probably have stuck this in his hat if Leo hadn't given him the Look.
When everyone was ready, they raised their glasses and clinked them together. "To a long and successful partnership," said Leo.
Pard looked across her glass at Malcolm as she allowed the tip of her tongue to dip into it. "And happy hunting," she said.
The End.