"All right, folks-- listen up," the Captain began. "On the padds you have been handed are schematics and plans of the space station we call Starbase Deep Space Nine."
I was sitting next to Tim, with Ren on the other side of her, and M'Nurr, who was Tom's second, next to her. I noticed that Ren's eyes were watering.
'Problem?' I sent to her.
'I'm allergic to Caitians,' she sent back. I smiled.
The Captain continued. "Now, all of this is provided that we break through the cordon of starships the Dominion is going to put between us and the station. But DS9 is well-defended. So we need to be prepared for anything, and by 'we', I mean 'you'."
I don't know if you're familiar with DS9, but it's hideous. It looks vaguely like a bull's-eye from the top-down, but has three docking arms jutting straight up from around the ring, a hundred and twenty degrees apart. The rings themselves curve slightly inward. And it's this terrible shade of copper. One thing I like about Starfleet-made starbases is that they're silver. And there tend to be more open spaces inside. Which makes them a bitch to fight over since you can't exactly go door to door and deck to deck. I suppose that's what I liked about DS9. The layout was very conducive to fighting.
The Captain pointed out twelve blinking points within each ring. "These are the shield generation points on the station. In the event that we get a breach in the shielding, these will be your primary objectives, as will be the reactor core and the Operations deck. It's absolutely imperative that we prevent any attempts at sabotage. If the station goes, so does our best chance of holding the wormhole.
"Just to give you people a little background, this station was handed over to us after the Cardies decided they no longer felt compelled enough to keep the people of Bajor under their heel. Now they're back. And while Bajor is not a member of the Federation, and has signed a non-aggression pact with the Dominion, I can tell you that they're not about to let the Cardies keep the station. They want us back, mostly because we give them the best chance at their best destiny. So, Captain Sisko himself has asked me to pass along to you that it is absolutely imperative that no Bajoran civilians or station personnel be harmed. Even if the enemy uses them as sentient-shields, we are not --I repeat, we are not to fire upon them for any reason whatsoever.
"In addition, we may also encounter station personnel of various races. Ferengi, for instance. We believe there are as many as three Founders currently operating aboard the station. One of them is Station Security Chief Odo. His picture is available in the padd dossier, as are those of Major Kira Nerys, the station's Bajoran liaison officer, and Jake Sisko, Captain Sisko's own son."
"Sir!" Sergeant Frank Henley, of Able Company, drew the Captain's attention. "Begging your pardon, but how are we to tell that this changeling will look the part?"
"I have Captain Sisko's assurance that Constable Odo is a trusted and valued member of the Bajoran security force."
"And supposing the Captain's assurances are wrong, sir?"
"In such a situation, Sergeant, I would imagine that you would never have the opportunity to find out. Logic suggests that the Founders aboard the station will be evacuated immediately. Our force is too large for their infiltration to work. And, of course, before and after the operation, all surviving members of the assault force will be checked for infiltration."
I liked that. All "surviving" members. Slipped in so casually that the green-blooded bastard didn't even catch us flinching. But what did you expect from a room full of pointy ears. Our regiment was the only one composed mostly of humans. That, of course, made us the first ones in. Logic dictated that the greater good be served by the lesser forms. Of course, if Jemmy came stomping in, him and the other pointy-eared ones that came with him would be the only solids tolerated.
We didn't know what happened to the races under the Dominion. Rumours spread like wildfire. They were just a slightly less subtle Federation-- at least they told you that they came to rule. They liquidated all those solids they found, and the iron fist of the Jem'Hadar pounded flat countless worlds in the process of doing their gods' bidding. And all points in between, sometimes several points in the same conversation. No one had reported what happened behind Dominion lines, outside of prisoner-of-war camps. And those were mostly on barren, isolated rocks floating out in some belt or around some equally barren planet. Jemmy was good with prison camps. Death camps didn't seem that much further beyond him.
The briefing went on forever. Felt like they had to walk us through every room. Provided the T-child made it through the fire, and that became a bigger if with every passing minute, we were to be the first ones aboard DS9. Our objective was to take and hold the Promenade, Ops deck, and upper habitat ring. Which made sense. They didn't want to risk Vulcans on the uppermost decks. And, you know, I could've respected that, if they'd gone and made it plain. Way I saw it, T'Lanis was the last Vulcan with any sense of anything beyond self-preservation--- and look what she got for it. I know it isn't real encouraged to talk that way about our closest allies and all. But so it goes.
Lots had changed since we went down to Buruta II. So much can change in the space of a week, a month, a day, in wartime. The Klingons were back onside with us, the Cardies were now holding the Dominion's only Alpha Quadrant toehold. Some classified minefield was keeping Jemmy from using his only route home. News of this new strain of tougher Jemmy, called "Alphas" because they were bred in this quadrant, started to spread. There were a hundred other stories--- the Tholians were giving their web technology to the Dominion in an exchange of some sort. The Tal Shi'ar were losing control of the Romulan Star Empire, and the people were marching in the streets of Romulus, demanding peace. There was also rumoured to be infiltration of every major institution-- the Federation Council, the Klingon High Council, Starfleet Command, the Cardassian Union. Everyone was looking askance at everyone else, fearful of shapeshifters in our midst.
And everyone had an opinion-- on the conduct of the war. Some said we should just eradicate DS9-- others, the whole Bajoran system. Some said we should be negotiating for peace, though most knew better, that the only peace Jemmy believed in was the silent presence of one genocide or another. Some said we should focus on taking Jemmy out of the fight--- others, on the Cardies.
Everyone was on edge. At least starboys could filter it out into their work. Us, we had to keep in shape. That meant holo-simulated battles, hour after hour, day after day. DS9, level four, or promenade deck, or the very Ops quarters itself. Someone, I think it was Ashley Fitzgerald over in Echo, had actually been in Captain Sisko's DS9 office. She said it was inaccurately portrayed in the simulation. The Captain had some antiquated spherical object or another on his desk, possibly a model of Europa.
This, naturally, sent Kornilov searching the archives. He finally found one picture or another, and cross-referenced from the historical archives. It was something called a baseball, central object in the game of the same name.
I took this to heart. After all, I figured if Captain Sisko was so good as to provide me with motivation for my troops... well, the least I could do was repay him by getting him his dugout back.
It was Corny that pointed out how DS9's Ops deck rose in the centre like a pitcher's mound. That gave Ren and myself an idea, which we put past Tim. Tim didn't like it-- he preferred his analysis done in compound, rational fashion. But we needed to sell it.
We picked the points on the habitat ring that formed major intersections between that ring and the next ring out. These became first, second, and third base-- our beam-in points. Delta was to base at first, Echo at third. Ten troops each . An irregular formation, led by Renalla, of the other twelve redshirts from Delta and Echo, would drop in at second base. We would then sweep towards each other, and up to the Promenade ring-- the infield. Our main objective was the pitcher's mound, in Ops. And, if you're wondering, home base was technically the T-child.
Going into battle was hard. We knew there was a fight going on, but we couldn't fire a shot in anger until we got off the ship. It was also really frustrating to meet for what could be the last time with Ren and Tim before I went into Troop Transporter Room One.
"So, this could be it," I started.
"Could always be it, boss," Walters reminded me. "That's the name of the game. Kinda looking forward to it, to be honest. It's been a long time since the Fed won a damn thing. I'm tired of retreatin'." He looked at me, sombre. The corridor lighting gave his pallid skin a dazzling sheen. "Some day this war's gonna end," he stated plainly, and walked away.
Ren and I looked at each other. What we said to each other, we didn't do with voices, and I'm not going to try to repeat for you all here. Figure you can put it together for yourself. Like I said, I don't share how I feel with just anyone. Of course, I can tell you that I also reminded her to let me know, the head way, where she was and what was going on the moment she beamed in. If she was pinned--- orders be damned. I had to protect her.
I assembled my squad in One. In addition to myself, Sholar had stepped up to serve as second for the squad. Leduc, Pratt, Bluvid, Dalton, Franks, Heath, and Park were with us. It was good to see Marianne Leduc back in the uniform, ready to go. In addition, Dr. Singh and a small medical detachment were going to accompany us to first base. They knew the way to the station's medical office, on the Promenade, and since we were going that way, regiment HQ decided we should take them to base. After all, if Two-Oh-Second was going to be called upon to set up shop until the regular station crews returned, least we could do is get the good digs for our people.
Sholar was, as usual, itching to get into it. But his itching was also irritation: he'd been forced to not only carry the scope rifle, but also a standard-issue phaser. He didn't like it, but there was no way we were going into battle without everyone carrying a phaser. Everyone fights in the redshirts. No exceptions-- not even the fancy officers. Under Starfleet regulations, medical personnel were not to carry any weapons, but you'd better believe that Singh and his staff were all packing something along, even if it was just a scalpel zealously oversharpened. And David Emerson refused to let me take Rachel Pratt station-side without a sidearm. "Court-martial me if you want, sir," he said, "but I refuse to let my girlfriend go into combat unarmed. I'm sure you can understand." He knew I could. But Ren was tougher than any other Betazoid I'd met. A few more like her back home could've held off Jemmy singlehanded. Still, Rachel was wiry and capable of taking whatever came, phaser or not. I just couldn't fool myself into thinking her expendable because she wasn't the only medic we were taking along.
If you've never been in a troop transporter room, you've got no idea how rough a go we had of it. The room itself is like any other transporter room you've ever seen, with two major exceptions. First off, the transport chambers were different-- each one big enough for a Mk I humanoid and various kit, and stacked six by six. Each one had a small set of walls that divided it off from everyone else around it. This was for signal enhancement: your average redshirt carries more gear for a planet-side encampment, for example. But these partitions give you roughly the same room as a sonic shower. Though it felt more like a torpedo casing-- and we all knew the only reason they stuffed you into one of those. They could give more room, say for transporting down an industrial replicator or a collapsible shelter unit, in a two by two or four by four grid. I figure it was big enough that you could transport out a whole shuttlecraft if you felt the need. Of course, the problem was moreso getting something that big into the chamber, rather than out. But the walls went up around it, whatever it was that was going out.
These walls are as much to keep you from getting tossed around as they are to get you focused on the drop. After all, you get so anxious waiting to get out of there that the whine of the beam kicking in is a relief. Not only that, but you come out fighting that way. And they're lined with bars for grabbing onto if the ship gets rocked. There's the other reason for these walls, right there: each one is capable of functioning as a self-contained transporter system. So if the ship's going down over a planet, you still get out in one piece. Even if the warp core's just gone and there's nothing between you and the sweet hereafter but the blue beam out. That, and if there is any peripheral blowback, like say the Heisenberg compensators short out and the deck breaches, you still get out. The main transporters might be offline, but the troop transporters get one shot to put you to the last known co-ordinates for your beamout. And if you're not in range, then it's your big chance to get away from it all.
Anyway. We were all lined up, and the partitions raised. The operations guy, some smug starboy who couldn't take his eyes off Marianne, set us all in place. Sholar didn't take too kindly to being the first one into setup. After all, there were only eight of us. We could've transported all from the same room, but orders were specific on that: since we were going to DS9 itself, T-child was going to have to be one of the first ships through that line. After all, we wanted this one to be ours. There were other units on standby, trained on our mission to the letter. We didn't want any one of them taking the glory of being the first of Starfleet to see the inside of DS9. A liberated DS9, that is to say.
I ordered everyone to keep their comm channels open. There was nervous chatter back and forth. I made sure I ran through all the points of order and the rules of engagement, top down, again. I didn't want anything to go wrong.
"Singh to Dixon," the signal broke in on me.
"Dixon, you in, Doc?"
"We are, Sergeant. All ten of us. We're going to beam in right next to you."
"From where?"
"Troop Transporter Room... One?"
"The same room we're in."
"Oh, that's you in there. Yes. The same."
"All right. See you station-side."
"I look forward to buying you a drink on the Promenade, Sergeant. Singh out."
"Out." I went back to my rules. The ship shook, but the light in the case didn't even flicker. We could hear the noises, but we couldn't do a damned thing. Someone --I think it was Heath-- started screaming, and I had to yell back for a while, take control. The ship shook a few more times. I pulled a padd out of the kit I'd brought into the chamber, and linked up to the ship's computer. I pulled up a limited tactical display to find out where we were. T-child was busy with two other Klingon ships --nobody had told me there'd be Klingon ships-- fighting through a hole that seemed to be narrowing with each passing moment. I panned around and saw a blip, centre of the screen, beyond any other ship, on its way through the enemy formation. NX-74205, it read. I knew that number. It was Defiant. She was clear through, and on her way to DS9. No holding Sisko back, it seemed.
The tactical display was an absolute mess, and it made my eyes hurt to try to follow everything. I set it aside and went back to barking at the troops. Sholar wasn't much of a second. In fact, he was just making things worse with his muttering.
"Sholar, control yourself," I said. "Remember who you are."
"I'm the only blue-skin in this transport chamber!"
"You're also the only blue-skin that's going to be demoted if you keep it up."
"What's it to you, anyway? Pink-skins don't know ANYTHING about how to fight a war! That's why we're losing!"
"That's treason-talk, mister! Leduc!"
"Sir!" came Marianne's quick reply.
"You're squad second. Until Delta gets put back together, you've got my back."
"Sir." She didn't sound very confident. Hell, I'd made second in a similar fashion-- only, it'd been a casualty rather than an error in judgment. I hadn't earned this position-- I just had the rank thrust on me, by virtue of everyone who was qualified for it walking into a Jemmy bullet, or mine, or sometimes both.
I checked the padd again. T-child was clear, with four Klingon ships and the USS Tripoli visible around her. I could also see the USS Venture on the edge of the screen. Our heading was listed as the co-ordinates for DS9. Estimated time of arrival was 2:39.
"THREE MINUTES!" the transporter chief bellowed to us along the commlink. Everyone went quiet. We'd made it through the fight. Not to be said about the Majestic, for example. We lost her and a handful of other ships that day. Don't think I'd leave them out. Seems unfair to remember this without remembering those who died.
"TWO MINUTES!" Everyone was still quiet. It was Marianne Leduc who broke the quiet.
"Sir?" she said-- and I noticed from the beep that this was a direct channel.
"Go ahead, Leduc," I said.
"Permission to speak freely, sir?"
"Let's hear it."
"If you could, sir, please, call me Marianne. I just wanted you to know... well..." The line went quiet, only to be broken by the sixty-second warning.
"Whatever it is, just think of it like I already know." The fight on Buruta II had made her quieter, more reserved. I think it did more than just wound her. I think it'd broken her heart. I'll never forget the look on her face when she apologized to me for having taken the wound. It'd shaken me pretty bad. "I'm proud to have you as my squad second, Marianne."
I could hear her laugh--- just a little laugh, enough to tell me that she was smiling. "Thank you, sir. I'm just so glad to be going into the fight with you. I feel like that's where I belong."
"In the fight?"
"Yes, sir. Some folks are made for a nice little pasture on some green planet. Me... I'm not that kindof girl, sir. And I just wanted you to know that I'd follow you anywhere. Even death itself."
Seeing as I was mostly convinced that was precisely where we were headed, I didn't know what to say for a moment. Fortunately, the uncomfortable silence was broken by a thirty-second warning. "Thank you for speaking freely with me. I'll see you station-side."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
I went back to that squad comm wavelength. "All right. STARFLEET! PLAY BALL!" That was the appointed signal I'd chosen --on Corny's recommendation, considering the tactical theme we were working-- for us to check rifles. Safety off, they were to signal 'clear' to me preceded by their name. That was our last chance. Then we beamed in. To what, no one could tell us.
"Heath-- clear!"
"Park-- clear!"
"Leduc-- uh, clear!"
"Sholar-- clear!"
"Bluvid-- clear!"
"Dalton-- clear!"
"Franks-- clear!"
"Pratt-- ready!" After all, she didn't have a weapon.
"Energize!"
The blue. Then we were on point. Singh's medical staff appeared a moment later, down the corridor behind us. Immediately we drew our weapons--- right before us were two Cardassians, only neither of them was fighting. I signalled Marianne forward, and she checked them out.
"MEDIC!" she yelled. Rachel stepped forward, but Singh's team flooded past us and into position around them. Marianne tried to pull the Cardie in uniform off of the wounded girl, but he threw her against a bulkhead. I saw Sholar raising his rifle.
"HOLD! He's not armed!" I saw the markings on his breastplate. Rank of Gul, equivalent to our Captain. Whoever he was, he was important. "Bluvid! Dalton! Sholar! Take this man into custody-- Leduc! Park! Pratt! Escort our medical personnel to the Promenade! Franks! Heath! On ME!"
Immediately I started to panic. I couldn't feel Renalla. I looked around, anxious to see her, though I don't know why I tried to find her with my eyes. Then it hit me-- a wave of anxiety, followed by immense relief. She'd found me. Right on second base. She'd split the Echo personnel in one direction, and was headed herself with the rest of Delta towards us-- and we were to arc around the habitat ring, double-time.
"Franks-- tricorder."
"Yes, sir!"
"Scan for life signs, this corridor only. Double-check for changelings."
"Right away."
"Heath-- watch that corridor. Anyone comes in, you give the countersign. Do NOT fire until fired upon."
"Aye, sir."
"Franks? Anything?"
"Reading four Bajorans that direction, no life signs save our personnel in that direction, and... sir, someone's coming your direction."
"I know. It's the rest of Delta." I turned and looked down the corridor, anxious for a sight of black and silver. I was satisfied within a moment. "Fire on high!"
"Fire down below!" came the countersign like a breath of fresh air. "All clear this corridor!"
"Roger. We're clear here, too. One casualty-- a Cardassian."
"Anyone worth mentioning?"
"That's enough, Mr. Lange. She was just a girl."
"Just a Cardie girl," Lange corrected me.
Renalla broke past Emerson and Lange, a little too eagerly. We both knew what the other was thinking. Emerson cut in. "Sir? Rachel."
"I sent her with the medical detail to the Promenade. Hayden, Heath, Minor-- with me. Let's go secure the infield. The rest of you-- follow Corporal Yan and link up with Echo."
"Sir," David Emerson repeated.
"All right. Minor-- trade places with Emerson." I understood his concern in ways he couldn't perceive. "Let's roll."
Now, I don't know if you're familiar at all with the Promenade deck of DS9. It's hideous if you're not accustomed to Cardie architecture. It looks like the outside of the station. After a while, you get used to the serpentine engravings, the jutting overheads, the slinky railings, the dark and rounded columns holding up the fishbowl windows reflecting outwards on space beyond. I stepped out onto the lower level, and walked straight forward along a broad walkway that was dominated by a catwalk overhead. The shops along the way were mostly shut, for fear of fighting. On my left, the outer side, under the walkway were entrances to a Bajoran temple, a tailor's shop, on my right a bar of some kind. Overhead, I could see Marianne leaning over the railing, giving a signal over her shoulder to the redshirts with her, perched overhead like a very depiction of liberty itself. I could almost see the Federation flag aloft behind her.
But around me, Emerson, Heath and Hayden had fanned out into a rough diamond formation, with Heath bringing up the rear. Before us on the lower level was a contingent of troops, some in grey, others in tan, and one or two in red. One of them bore a striking resemblance to Renalla as she stepped forward, but the nose and the earring gave her away. I recognized Major Kira Nerys.
"Major Kira, I presume."
"The Dominion left an hour ago. I assembled everyone here. Have they sabotaged anything?"
"I don't know, myself. Are there any wounded among your people?"
"No, they left us alone. We'd have to check the infirmary to see if there was anything else."
"There was one-- we found her on the habitat deck. A Cardassian girl."
"A what?" she said, stepping forward.
"A Cardassian girl. She took a phaser hit to the chest."
"Describe her to me." The Major was insistent.
"Beg pardon, ma'am, but I didn't get a good look at her. Appeared to be a civilian. Had a Gul with her-- we took him into custody."
"I hope to the Prophets that you're wrong, Sergeant." I didn't know what she meant then. I wouldn't find out until some time later.
"We're on our way up to the Ops deck now, ma'am. Request permission for you to lead the way."
"I don't see any harm in that," she said. "But if we can stop by the infirmary first."
I gave a look over my shoulder at Emerson, and saw him get a little excited at the mention of the infirmary. "No harm there, ma'am. Emerson, Heath-- escort the major." Major Kira made her way past me, and I turned to Hayden. "Julia."
"Sir."
"Go up and relieve Leduc."
"Aye, sir." Hayden took to one of the spiral staircases and along the upper level. I nodded at the Bajoran troops before me, and walked around them. Marianne came bounding along, with Lange and Dalton.
"Sir?" Marianne inquired.
"Report," I demanded.
"Echo company is coming in from the habitat ring, sir. They're taking up station all along the Promenade, clearing each room."
"Very well. Lange, Dalton-- stay here and see if you can't coax a few of these Bajoran folks into helping you get the shop owners and station personnel out of hiding. DS9 is open for business again."
"Yes, sir."
"Leduc-- come with me."
We made our way to the infirmary, where I saw three sights, one out of either side. On one side of me, Rachel Pratt and David Emerson were checking each other over for bumps and bruises. Renalla was coming towards me on the lower Promenade. But before me, centre of my vision, was a heartbreaking scene. I saw Major Kira flanked by Starfleet and Bajoran medical personnel on either side. She had her head down on the breast of the Bajoran girl --I would never mistake her for a Cardie again-- and she was holding the dead girl's hand. I didn't know quite how to feel right there. I was kind of afraid to, if you want the honest truth. Didn't want Renalla to find anything out. But I heard Marianne sobbing to my left. I stepped forward, Renalla and Marianne doing likewise.
"Major," I said. Dr. Singh showed a piteous expression on his face, and then Major Kira straightened up. For a moment, the look on her face was pure, darkest anguish. Then, with a momentary shake of the head, it was gone, and she blinked until her duty face had returned.
"Sergeant. I apologize."
"No need. This is my company second, Renalla Yan. She has a report on the Promenade deck."
"We have secured both levels, Major. Our troops are turning things over to your forces now."
"Very well. The security post?"
"Empty, ma'am. Save for two dead Jem'Hadar."
"The Constable?"
"He wasn't there, ma'am."
Marianne spoke up. "I believe we detected him, ma'am. In the habitat ring. But we'd been trained to know where his quarters are located-- we just hope it was him in there."
"I don't doubt it," the Major said. Her voice had a touch of rage to it, which I attributed to the situation. "Sergeant-- if I may, can I have a moment before we proceed to Ops?"
"Yes, ma'am. I apologize for intruding."
"Don't. I should be used to it by now... so many years fighting the Cardassians and now this."
"Used to what, ma'am?" The question was mine, but Renalla said it.
After a moment, the Major replied.
"Used to saying goodbye."
We stood outside for a moment, with the infirmary doors closed behind us. Tricorder scans had shown no life signs on the ops deck. But we couldn't risk anything. I'd spoken to Tim Walters, who had set up for regiment HQ in an empty shop just down and across from the security office. A few Ferengi had shuttled past, one in a Bajoran uniform, skittishly walking in that Ferengi manner. Now that I think of it, the reason they stand out in my memory was because they were looking at all of us, taking it all in after a brief occupation. I don't doubt that they were happy to see us, but I suppose any Ferengi has some dark tale that he'd rather not share with just anyone. Most of the other shop owners were Bajoran.
Major Kira emerged then from the infirmary, the very picture of duty. "Sergeant," she said to me, "your regimental commander?"
"Lieutenant Ronik, ma'am."
"All right. I'll... be sure to put in a good word for you and your section. You've done a fine job."
"Thank you, ma'am. Permission to speak freely?"
"Of course."
"Reckon you'd best hold off until our work is done. We've still got to clear the Ops deck."
"Understood." She drew her disruptor and indicated the space before us with her free hand. "Lead on. I'll just get a few of mine to come along."
"Yes, ma'am."
Ten seconds later, we were heading up the stairs --we'd trained that way in case the lifts were sabotaged-- to the Ops deck. I stepped out first, Marianne and Renalla following. The room itself, if you've never seen it, arched towards the centre, where a main table faced a giant viewing screen. There was a transporter pad to the left, and a lift entry just a little past that. The Captain's office dominated the space under the viewscreen, a pair of doors done up in a typically hideous Cardassian lattice work, sealed shut. Major Kira stepped out, disruptor in hand, and made her way naturally around the workstation level. I followed her, with Renalla and one of the Bajoran troops accompanying me. I signalled to Marianne, who fanned out with the other two Bajorans along the other side. The deck was empty.
The Major entered the office, and I followed closely. She looked once to her right, then to her left, and then holstered her disruptor. "Well," she said. "It's good to be back." I noticed that she stretched out her left hand and took the baseball into it.
"If you like, I can get Lieutenant Ronik on up here now, ma'am."
"No, that's all right. Sergeant-- your name?"
"Sean Dixon, ma'am. Section commander, Fourth of the First, Two Hundred and Second Marine Division."
"Sergeant Dixon. Has there been any word from Defiant?"
"Yes, ma'am, they were heading back to rendez-vous with--- I---- what the hell---?"
At that exact moment, in the window over her shoulder broke what looked to me like a sudden nebula formation-- but I knew nebulae didn't happen instantly. It appeared as though a great pair of hands made of cloud had suddenly appeared, one cupping something into its yellow palm and delivering it forth with blue fingers of smoke, while the other, purple, masked the revelation of what lay within for just long enough to draw my attention.
"The Celestial Temple of the Prophets. You might call it a stable wormhole."
"I'd heard of it, ma'am, but I hadn't seen it before. Wasn't there... a minefield?"
"The Dominion destroyed it."
"So what's coming through?"
"Going through, you mean."
"I can't tell one way or another."
"A small Klingon force on their way to the Gamma Quadrant. I saw it on the console when I came in." She pointed to the desk. "They're going through just to make sure the way is shut."
"I see. Thank you, ma'am. I apologize if I offended you."
"Not at all. It takes your breath away, the first time. Happens to everyone." She sat in the chair. No, that'd be inaccurate. She sank into it, slowly, with a grin rapidly spreading across her face. "I like to steal a sit in this chair any chance I get," she explained.
"I understand, ma'am. Is there anything else?"
"No. Just... the thanks of a grateful Bajor."
"Yes, ma'am. Proud to serve. Thank you, ma'am."
I stepped out of the office, crossed down the stairs, and back up to where Marianne and Renalla stood. Bajoran duty officers had already resumed most of the station functions, and were working to bring the weapons array back online. "Well, I think it's time we made a discrete exit," I said to the two of them when I reached them. Marianne smiled, and Renalla tucked her chin into her chest and followed me into the lift. We were on the Promenade moments later.
I think we were there the better part of a week. Starfleet cancelled any major combat, supposably to retrofit and repair the ships involved in the battle. Really, I think they just wanted to let the morale effects of re-taking DS9, our first real tangible victory since the War had begun, turn around public opinion and get people back behind the Fleet-- where they belonged.
I can't tell you what kind of ingratitude I take it as when I don't see someone giving full recognition to what the uniform stands for. Sure, it's changed a lot over time, tailored to suit whatever generation was wearing it. But it's always stood for the things Starfleet has stood for, the things redshirts like us and the starboys have bled and died to uphold: the same things the Federation has meant for hundreds of years, across hundreds of worlds, to trillions of people. So when civilians or military people alike start getting their lips going --provided that they have lips-- about the Fed, or the War, or the Fleet, it gets my back up in a hurry.
Which is kind of what happened one night in a replimat. Some Ferengi barkeep got uppity, and next thing I know, half of Delta is pulling me off of some guy. I was confined to quarters on the T-child for a week. Ren spent a lot of that time looking after me. She was acting sergeant to Delta, and explained that she expected to see the kind of fire, passion and drive that I embodied that night every time we went into battle. It was good spin, and little besides. She knew I felt terrible for having gone the round with this guy. I didn't even catch his name. Not that it matters.
"Another two days of this," I told her after the first five stardates had passed.
"Don't worry about it," she replied. "We're doing all we can. Corporal Leduc is really stepping things up."
"Oh, I don't doubt it," I said.
"She's crazy about you, Sean."
"I don't doubt that, either. She really has no reason to be."
"Why not? You have a lot to offer."
"Not to a subordinate. Not in wartime. It's just not right."
"Oh. I see." She looked at me, half-heartedly. I could tell she was anxious. But I didn't know what to say.
"What would you have me do? I don't want to hurt anyone."
"But you will anyway. You can't reach out to someone without possibly holding onto them too tight."
"I'm not so sure," I said. "I mean... if something happens to me --and I know it will-- what then?"
"What about it?"
"If I had a girl back home, it wouldn't matter. I could talk to her safe in the knowledge that she safe."
"Or safe in the knowledge that all the glory will be yours?"
"What do you mean?"
"You're living in the twentieth century, Sean. The idea that men were the only ones who can die in a war should've gone to its grave along with the six hundred million dead in the Third World War. Or the Eugenics War. You can't escape how you feel. It stays with you. And if you feel the same way about Marianne... I'm not going to stand in your way."
"I--- what?"
"I'm your second and I'm also your friend. But I need you to know that I admire you. And that I need to know if I mean more to you than just that."
"Than just an officer? Of course. I can't tell you how much you mean to me."
"But---" She looked at me, exasperated, and put down her drink. I leaned forward, expecting the worst. "This would be easier if you were a Betazoid. We wouldn't have to do all this damned talking."
"So tell me. I know how."
"I'm afraid of overwhelming you."
"You feel that strongly?"
"Yes---- no. I mean, what I do feel is one thing, but for me to just give it to you... I'd want to make sure I wasn't, you know, controlling your mind."
"Is that what you're afraid of?"
"Yes. I'm worried that I'm trying too hard to get you to notice."
"Suppose I have been a little obtuse. I'm sorry-- I just... I don't feel anything the way I used to."
"Before what, exactly?"
"I don't want to get into it. You don't want me to get into it."
"How do you know I don't?"
"Because if I did, your idea of me would shatter, and---"
"What makes you so sure my idea of you is what you think it is?"
"Because I've seen it. In the way you look at me, talk to me, talk about me."
"You'd be surprised. We see both sides of these things, you know. I admire you for the person you are just as much as I fear you for the person you could be. My thinking is not as two-dimensional as you seem to believe."
"But I don't want you to get attached to me," I said.
"It's too late. People won't leave you alone if you don't completely isolate yourself-- and even if you did, you'd be left with nothing but fear. Don't you think I know you're afraid?"
"Of course I am. We all are. But that's no excuse."
"Excuse for what?"
"I don't know. I suppose part of me wants to believe that there's a life to be lived when this bloody war is over. And if all the people I care about all come from this war... I'll never really leave."
"We won't leave each other behind," she said with a smile. "You've never abandoned me. I won't abandon you-- not now, or ever." And she reached out for my hand, and took it into hers. "Please tell me that you feel the same way I do."
I looked into her eyes, radiant as they were in the light of the room. And I didn't know what to say. "I need someone who can save me from this, Renalla," I said. "And maybe it's going to be you."
"I want it to be," she replied. "If you'll let me."
"I can't be certain of how I feel. I guess I just need you to know that."
"I don't think any of us can be, Sean."
"No, I mean, I don't think I'll ever be able to give you the kind of... connection that I think you need."
"I don't understand."
"You know how I'm not exactly forthcoming with my feelings."
"Yeah."
I shrugged. "What makes you think I'd change?"
"I don't think you would."
"Won't you get annoyed with that, though? I think you are already. I can't help it, though. Where I come from, we don't get by on a lot of talk. We do our work, we tend to our fields and we go home to watch the news. I'm a simple man, Renalla. I'm not the type to get worked up talking. As you've noticed. I know you're bored with me already."
"I just really want to believe there can be something more."
"What I guess I need you to know is that I'm content with you as my friend. I can't help but feel like I'd only end up hurting you. And that I'd go on hurting you."
"I know," was all she said. "I suppose I just needed to hear it."
She left shortly thereafter. We talked a little more, but things were left on an awkward note. She knew how I felt, and yet, she didn't want to acknowledge it. Thinking back on it now, I didn't really love her. I was just a desperate man in a community of desperate people. And the kind of love she was looking for, I couldn't offer. Betazoids have all kinds of truly strange traditions regarding love. Because they feel so deeply, they commit deeply-- often for life, on the first try. That's just never been my style. Then again, neither's been love.
Two days later, I walked out to the T-child's main infantry training holodeck, where I made an inspection and a brief speech. Delta was in better shape than before. I knew Renalla and Marianne had taken good care of the company. Everything seemed a little brighter, everyone seemed to have a little less of a chip on their shoulders.
See, about that time, the Federation stopped fighting a containment battle ---the fight they hoped not to lose--- and started fighting the fight they hoped to win. Nothing short of total victory would be satisfactory any longer. And we all recognized that the war aims had changed, and that there was no going back.
About the same time as our perceptions of the war changed, my way of fighting it was about to change. Renalla had been recommended for NCO training, and would stay on DS9 to engage in training. We were to be assigned a new R-5 for our two companies, though so far nobody knew anything beyond that Ren was leaving.
I didn't even say goodbye to her. Felt it was inappropriate. There was a big send-off for her at the station, one bar or another filled with Delta and Echo troops looking for a few good drinks. I showed up, made a customary appearance, really. Renalla saw me, but she didn't say, or send, anything. I know I broke her heart. But I was getting briefed on our next mission by Lieutenant Ronik that night. My duty was to the section. And that was where my heart had to be.
I had a hard choice to make, in picking a second. There were a lot of excellent choices for Corporal but I whittled them down. Sholar was a little overzealous and didn't have the subtleties of command down well enough. Park was committed, but I couldn't see him in a command role. Dalton, Franks, and Bluvid were all too strong in their tendency to swing back and forth between fighting spirit and total panic. Emerson was too worried about Pratt. Heath was usually too stoned, Lott too intense, Lange was more prejudiced than Starfleet liked to see in its NCOs, and Lawrence kept to himself too much.
This left me with Minor, McFarlane, Hayden, Leduc and Pratt. Darren Minor was a good officer candidate, if you didn't include his tendency to share his opinions a little too actively. Most of his combat experience was in one barroom brawl or another. It'd been good to know he had my back that night, but he was an anachronism. That standard of masculinity died in the Third World War.
And Joey McFarlane was a good soldier, but she didn't have the moral convictions for command. The only things I knew about her were how she was with a phaser rifle, and how she was in bed. And even then, not through any experience of my own. Not like she hadn't offered.
Which was actually the same problem I had with Rachel Pratt and Marianne Leduc. Both of them were very capable officers. But promoting either of them would get me in trouble. Pratt would be both medic and second. That didn't work for me. And Marianne... I mean, she could certainly fight, and command. She was probably the most qualified person for the position and she'd proven it on DS9. But her feelings for me made her a liability. Don't get me wrong, I cared about her and everyone under my command as a fellow citizen-soldier of the Federation. But I needed some space. Renalla had taught me that lesson. Hell, for a while there I'd thought of asking Tim Walters for a trade. I knew Aaron Binyamin in his company would've been a perfect fit for Delta as a second. But I'd already broken enough hearts for the time.
That still left Julia Hayden. She'd proven herself at DS9 just as much as Marianne, and she'd held a fire point with Bluvid and Ashley Fitzgerald from Echo, back on Buruta II. I'd been really impressed with her performance in drill, and in her fighting spirit. And, as well, she didn't seem to have many feelings at all, save those that ran before her, to Starfleet and to God.
That was the one thing I didn't like about her. She was very devoutly religious. Starfleet didn't outright ban explicit practice of religion. Abdul Al-El, over in Echo, for example, was also very religious. But he didn't seem to have that same missionary spirit. Julia seemed to see the war as a battle against those false gods, the Founders, and the devil's soldiers in bony uniforms.
I couldn't decide, so I brought the matter to Tim.
"Well," he said, "both of 'em are really good soldiers. Both of 'em are human, both of 'em are female, and they're just about equal, or better, against any other corporal I can think of."
"So what are you telling me?"
"It's a judgment call. Are you more or less comfortable, and if so, with which one?"
"It's really just a question of style. Hayden thinks in terms of offensive-defensive, grab-and-hold. But Leduc's out for the big victory, death or glory."
"And the way the war's shifted, Hayden seems to be the right choice for six months ago."
"Reckon so."
"But then, we're not here to fight the war. We're here to win it. And you need to think on company scale."
"That's about right."
"So... sounds to me like you've got to go with Hayden."
"Hayden? How do you figure?"
"Because for some reason, you're not arguing nearly as effectively for Leduc. And your decision makes itself."
"Don't suppose I could talk you into lending me Aaron Binyamin."
"Hell no! Who's got my back, then?"
"M'Nurr?"
"Too busy off with her tech-toys. I should never have made her second, but then, I have no solid reason to demote her. So Binyamin acts the part."
"Don't you need someone who'll do more than just act the part?" I asked.
"Suppose I do. Don't you?"
And that was what settled it. Corporal Julia Hayden took her position directly behind me in the parade formation we took down the Promenade on our way out to the T-child. We hadn't been given a specific assignment quite yet. T-child had been added to the Seventh Fleet.
We were to come in on support of the other half of the Two-Oh-Second. After all, we were just the First Battalion. There were three others, all on Kalandra, fighting a long, hard land war. The Third Battalion was in reserve, and had been our reserve for DS9. Now both battalions were heading back to Kalandra, to finish the fight. Second Battalion --with its all-Vulcan sections-- was to be put into reserve. They'd taken some of the hardest fighting on Kalandra. And now they needed the break. Not to imply that First Battalion didn't, of course. We'd just had a week off. And that was supposed to be sufficient.
Third had come in to back our play aboard USS Sutherland, and was going out the same way. Someone upper-up had managed to coax Seventh Fleet into letting Sutherland bring along Merrimac, one of Sutherland's sister ships. So T-child was going to arrive in style, with two Nebula-classers as escort. I always liked making a big entrance.
Kalandra was the only planet in the system, class L. It was simply known as the Kalandra system, but it just so happened to be the middle of nowhere between the Rigel system and one Cardie system or another. And that made it strategic.
That made it a place we had to go, to win, and to hold. Every world that wasn't theirs was another step closer to victory. And that was all that counted now.
Kalandra was itself a messy planet to call home. And we were going to for the next six months, though we didn't know it yet. Nobody told us that Jemmy held half the planet, after all. Or that it was all barren rock and stagnant water. Regulations were very specific about beam-down: no flora, no fauna, no bacteria, no nothing that wasn't completely decontaminated.
Which begs the question, why not simply phaser Jemmy's side of the planet? The short answer: Jemmy already had. See, there'd been a Federation archaeological colony on Continent C. We had such a romantic way of dealing with this particular planet. Kalandra C had seen thirty thousand dead, mostly scientists, as well as the destruction of USS Hiryu, when it had raced to the rescue not realizing that Cardie ships were flanking her all the way to target.
So we had quite a few dead to avenge. To say nothing of the millions more if Kalandra saw a Jemmy starbase floating overhead. It was bad enough they'd put down a forward stockade position right in what we'd all taken (after Corny's lead) to referring to as Jemmygrad.
Jemmygrad was located on a lake. Most of it was ruins, but the citadel was intact. Jemmy had set up a starport on the far southern side of town, around what our scientists' reports had taken to referring to as the ruins of either artisan shops or residences. There were larger houses, probably for the richer folk, down near the shoreline, as well as a large coliseum that Jemmy had fortified as an industrial replicator complex.
Spoony had done his bit, too. The central administrative district --as our reports called it, courthouse, city hall, those sorts of things-- were all back in business, used as officers' quarters and fortifications. There were other walled structures that'd been turned into tiny strongholds. Each one a fortress, each man within them fighting for his very life, and as many as forty Cardies or Jemmies --or both-- in each.
So I can't begin to tell you how happy I was to find out that our new R-5 --at least for Kalandra-- was going to be a Bajoran woman, a specialist in street fighting and guerrilla warfare. Her name was Alri Magro, and she was to be given the rank of private first class for the time being. I didn't ask where they'd gotten that idea from. She outranked three-quarters of my personnel.
When I first met her, I must admit, I was less than impressed with her. She'd been quartered in the lower decks of the ship, until she was introduced to me by Lieutenant Ronik.
"Sergeant Doyle, this is Alri Magro, your new R-5."
"Pleasure," I'd said, and shook her hand. Or, at least, I'd tried. She just kind of nodded to me and Tim, to whom she was introduced next. None of us really knew what to say-- at least, Tim and I didn't. Alri Magro didn't look too keen on speaking.
We walked half the way back to the section training bay before any of us said a word. "You serve with the Bajoran militia," I tried.
"Yes, sir," she replied, her voice tense. "Soon as I found out we were going to be fighting the Spoonheads again, I signed up."
"There a reason for that, Private?" Tim asked.
"Yes, sir, and her name is Alri Selna. My mother. She died in the Occupation, sir. My father never forgave the Spoons for it. Or himself."
"He died three years ago," I remarked, as I'd read in her personnel file.
"So you've read that file," she said.
"It's my responsibility to know my troops."
She stopped, hard. Tim and I walked a pace past her.
"Permission to speak freely, sir."
"Go ahead.
"I'm not one of your troops. Sir."
"Look, you can drop the Ro Laren bit, Private. You are in my section and you are one of my troops, and I damn well expect you to behave like it."
She wasn't expecting that. I was counting on her not expecting that. At least, not off Bajor. "Sir." And then she proceeded into the training area.
"Ro Laren bit?" Tim's left eye, entirely composed of metallic bits, a residual of his Borg experience, almost winked at me. Of course, I knew it couldn't-- he would've torn his eyelid to shreds if he'd closed it.
"You've never heard of Ro Laren? Ensign Ro Laren, first Bajoran in Starfleet? She was a legend. I knew her for a while back when--- uh---" I said no more.
"Back when what?" Walters gave me an inquisitive look.
"Back when I was a foolish young lad of seventeen living on Setlik III."
"You grew up on Setlik?"
"You could call it that." Then I stepped inside.
Alri was standing, aloof, against one wall. "TEN-SHUN!" I yelled, and everyone was on their feet, shoulder width apart. "STARFLEET-- at ease!" They all dropped their chins and watched me instead of the wall behind me. "This is Private First Class Alri Magro, of the planet Bajor. She is rated R-5, so you do not salute her. However, her security clearance exceeds my own, so I will be relying upon her heavily in the fighting to come.
"I've come to serve you all notice: the fighting in the days and weeks to come will make Buruta II look like Deep Space Nine. Some of you will not ship out with us to the next planet. Some of you will, but wish yourselves dead. Despair is not the answer. We're Starfleet. We're here to take this planet out of Jemmy's hand, or lay all our lives down for the trying.
"Now, I recognize that some of you are not comfortable with this-- and I would not die in anyone's company who didn't feel pride to fall next to me. For I could not find myself content to die with any other section about me. Here we represent the Federation. But on that planet, we will represent nothing but the grey and black harbingers of death, to our enemies. Anyone who has a problem with that, register your name at the door with Sergeant Walters, and be on your way. You've all made it this far-- but Starfleet doesn't look down on anyone who turns back now.
Nobody moved. No one even stirred. There were a few glances around, sure, to see if anyone took that fateful step. Not even so much as a waver. I continued.
"We will commence our mission briefing in fifteen minutes, in the junior officers' mess, E Deck. Anyone who is not there on time will not be rated for battle, and will be scrubbed from the drop. Are we clear?"
"SIR! YES, SIR!" came the response. Just as I'd hoped.
I let it linger for a moment. "Dismissed," I said at last. I turned to find Julia and Tim standing together.
"Well?" I asked.
"You stole that from somewhere, didn't you? That bit about dying in anyone's company."
"How'd you know?"
"Because they're your companies, boss." Then he made his way over to the door.
"Sir," Julia said. "May I speak with you?"
"Certainly. Let's step into my office." We walked to the back of the room, and I stood against the wall in the corner.
"Sir," she began.
"Yeah?"
"Your office."
"You're in it. Go ahead."
I saw Marianne lingering at the door. I hoped she'd leave. She did no such thing. She waited. As Julia and I talked, I watched Tim give her a long, hard talk about the meaning of the word 'dismissed'.
But for now I was focused on Julia. "Sir, I don't feel confident in my ability to lead this company, if--- well--- you must understand, sir, I have to be ready for the contingency that some fate like the one you mentioned before will fall upon the company."
"I wouldn't expect you to be anything but, Corporal. After all, how do you think I got these stripes?"
"Sir?"
"I was second to a staff sergeant named T'Lanis, a Vulcan. She took one for the company. She died, that others might live. And that is the very first responsibility of command: to brace for death in the name of the greater good. But the second responsibility is that which comes when those who command you undertake that first responsibility. There may be a time when you are the only ranked officer among a thousand others-- all privates, and you nothing but a corporal. They will look to you. Because the only other pair of eyes they have to stare into are those of Death."
"Yes, sir."
"Look, that's another thing I'd been meaning to ask you. Renalla --Corporal Yan and I were on a first-name basis. After all, it was hard to depend on each other if we had no trust between us."
"I understand, sir."
"No, no, that's what I mean. Don't call me sir. Sir is for everyone else in the section except Sergeant Walters. Call me anything else. Boss, Sean, jackass, Dixon, what have you. But not sir. Understood?"
"Understood."
"Good."
"I apologize if I made you uncomfortable--"
"No need. Just know that I need to be comfortable with you. Everyone else is less trained with a gun." I smiled at her, and there was nothing more to say. She made her way out. As did Tim Winters.
That left me and Marianne. She stood there, anxiously trying not to look straight at me. I knew she wasn't there just to hold up the bulkhead.
"Private Leduc," I said.
"Sir," she replied.
"What is it?"
"Permission to address the Sergeant openly, sir."
"On what grounds?" I feigned disconcert.
"I would like you to explain to me why I was passed over for promotion, sir."
"You weren't passed over, Private. I just couldn't bear the thought of you in the deadliest position in the company."
"Sir."
"Jemmy likes to shoot at women with stripes, Private. He knows the effect it has on all of us, to hear the tough ones scream in pain."
"May I ask a question, sir?"
"Go ahead."
"Am I qualified for the position, sir?"
"Reckon so," I said. "But you must understand something, Private. I had a problem with my last second. Rumours of impropriety and fraternization. I had no such feelings for Corporal Yan, nor did she for me. We were simply as close as a sergeant should be with his second."
"I understand, sir." Of course she did. I knew what they were saying about me, even in my own section.
"And thus I did not want the scandal of an unfair trial in the court of redshirt gripings to taint another one of my best troopers."
"That doesn't make any sense, sir."
"Humans don't, usually, Private."
"If I may, sir."
"Certainly."
"You are aware that I have feelings for you beyond simple duties of command."
"I am. And I'm flattered."
"If I may, again, sir."
"You asked for permission to speak freely, Private Leduc. Go ahead."
"I do care very much about you, sir. And yet I would ask you, if that was a reason to disqualify me from consideration for the rank of Corporal, that the Sergeant simply make it plain rather than attempt to handle gently one he refers to as 'one of his best troopers'."
I didn't realize it before, but she was standing bolt-straight, at attention. And yet I was the one who was uncomfortable.
"You are aware that fraternization between ranks is strictly forbidden by Starfleet regulations, Private Leduc."
"Yes, sir."
"You are also aware that if your feelings were so much as to cause you to blink at the wrong time, I or someone else in this section could lie dead as a result."
"I am fully aware of that, sir."
"And yet you... persist in your feelings."
"Sir, I do. I apologize if that is not something you are equipped to handle in combat, sir."
"You're damned right it's not. And I'm ordering you not to repeat this to anyone, Private."
"Understood, sir. I'd like to hear it."
"I don't want you going into the fight. Not now or ever."
"Sir?"
"For exactly that reason, I'm recommending you for training in starship operations, as a petty officer onboard the Thunderchild."
Marianne just blinked at me-- a hard, stoic blink.
"You're not cut out to be a redshirt. You're compassionate, understanding, diplomatic, courteous, and you have a lot more refinement than anyone else in this section."
"That is a compliment, right sir?" Her chin tucked itself in, an expression of shame.
"It is. And if you're willing, I'd like to find a way to circumvent those regulations." I looked straight at her. "Ever since that day when you apologized to me for taking that wound, I haven't been able to shake the feeling that you had a bounden duty to do better for yourself. And if your devotion to me is all that's keeping you here, I would sooner do what I can to put you in a role where your devotion counts without you endangering your life to express it."
"Sir," she started, but she couldn't. "I... I don't know what to say."
"Thank me. And tell me if I'm right."
"Of course you are, sir."
"You're the first soldier that was ever wounded under my command, Marianne." She looked up at this-- me addressing her by name. "And I don't know if I could handle losing you. Not knowing what I know, and knowing what you feel."
"May I--- a question, sir."
"Go ahead."
"You... you don't feel the same way about me."
"Reckon I don't," I said, and her face fell, as did her chin, yet again. "But with your permission, I'd like to get to know you better. After the transfer of duties papers are in, of course."
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"Now. You're not coming with us. It's easier to put in the paperwork and change your mind-- so I hope you don't mind me taking a step in advance."
"Not at all, sir."
"You're to report to G deck. A fellow named Chief Macmorris is to meet you there, to instruct you when your training will begin."
"May I ask in what role, sir?"
"Troop transporter operations. It's a requirement of the role that the operator be at least partly qualified for battle. And I can't think of anyone more qualified."
"So, I still have to salute you. Call you 'sir'."
"For another couple hours, at least. Can I see you for dinner?"
"Will I get new quarters?"
"Your very own, in fact."
"I'll see you there, nineteen-hundred?"
"Nineteen-thirty. We're going to be briefing the section until then."
"Very well. Sorry I'll miss it."
"I don't think so," I said. And then I extended my hand to shake hers. She took it, and then we embraced. Then she was on her way to G deck.
I stepped out of the room, trying not to show any expression to Tim. But he knew.
"So that transfer notice cleared?"
"Without any problem. Second Class Petty Officer Ulrich, who beamed us over to DS9, was begging to be transferred out of the starboys."
"And you just beamed your new girlfriend in."
"Well, don't know about that yet. Just keep it under your commbadge for now, will you?"
"Jemmy could torture me for three years and he wouldn't get it out of me, boss. I'm happy for you."
"Yeah. Me too."
The briefing was standard stuff. Here's a map. Jemmy expects us to beam in en masse. We'll be riding down beyond the horizon, and come in over the lake, on the horses. Landing zones here, here, here, and here. Primary objective the High Castle, Jemmy's citadel stronghold in the centre of town. Secondary objectives were the industrial replicator plant and the starport at the far end of town--occupy or destroy, it's just as good.
Then I was on my way to dinner with Marianne.