The Universe Had Other Plans

24,769 Words

Station Salem One:

Captain Esek Hrelle looked out at the line of recruits behind the flimsy wall of their fortress, all fresh faces eager to please, and thought: Mother’s Cubs, I have boots older than some of them. Was I ever that young?

He already knew the answer: of course he’d been, and even younger, barely able to keep his tail under control, and as eager to prove himself as all these humans who now looked to him for leadership. And though he may have a few strands of grey fur in his mane, and his sense of smell wasn’t as keen as it once was, he made up for it with what his wife’s people called chutzpah, or what his own people called shaheeris.

He preferred a cruder term, but didn’t dare use it in front of these troops of his. “Remember to set your phasers to Level 5. Any level less and the beams won’t pierce the Gorns’ ugly hides.”

That made some of his troops giggle, before they quickly stifled themselves. But beside him, his trusted second in command, a short Terran with honey blonde hair, a pert nose and almond-shaped, almond-coloured eyes, tugged at the sleeve of his Starfleet jacket. When he knelt down closer to her, she reminded him, “We shouldn’t judge how others look by our own standards. What is ugly to one can be beautiful to another.”

Hrelle kept a straight face, allowing only his muzzle to twitch and his bronze, gimlet eyes to narrow further, though he knew from experience that this attempt at intimidation would not work on Lieutenant Sasha; despite her youth, she was as stubborn as they came. “You’re right as always. What does your tricorder say?”

She looked down at the unit in her hand, pursing her lips as she read the output on the screen. “I’m still picking up one of them. Female.”

He nodded, peering over the top of the wall. “The Gorn Commander.” He sniffed the air. “1.5 metres in height, 85 kilograms in weight, unarmed. Am I right, Lieutenant?”

Sasha checked her tricorder again. “Yes, Sir!”

His correct assessment, despite the impossibility of his having worked it out by his sense of smell - he snuck a peek at the readings when she wasn’t looking - elicited gasps of awe among the troops, and a smirk from himself. It was said that every Caitian could track a mouse across a hundred kilometres, but it was no more true than the notion that every Vulcan could calculate Pi to a gazillionth decimal, or that every Klingon could fight off an army with only a toothpick.

But there was always something to be said for a good reputation. Especially if it helped avoid arguments.

He looked to his troops again. “Keep your phasers raised, but do not fire without my orders. The Gorn Commander is unarmed. She may be coming to negotiate a ceasefire. We always try for a peaceful solution. Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”

The apple-cheeked girl beside him grinned. “Yes, sir!”

He heard noises and tensed. “Stand by... Here she comes...”

The kitchen door swung open, as Hannah Hrelle walked in with a huge tray of freshly-replicated snacks. “Everybody ready for seconds?”

The children cheered as one and charged forward, bringing down the blanket wall of the fortress as they surrounded Sasha’s mother, leaving behind the ten-year-old girl in her replica Starfleet uniform, and her stepfather in his real one.

Hrelle shook his head. “No discipline.”

“No, Sir.” But her eyes were glazing over with gastronomic longing at the collection of cakes and other pastries being devoured by her party guests. Still, she remained faithfully at his side.

Until he finally relented and said, “Dismissed.”

Sasha handed him her toy tricorder and raced to catch up with the others, as he helped himself up, set the tricorder down on a table and plopped himself down onto the couch, wincing as he crimped his tail, before lifting himself up and adjusting his seated position.

There wasn’t enough furniture in the station apartment to accommodate his particular needs, though to be fair his wife had offered to obtain more for him. At least his Captain’s Chair on the bridge of the USS Furyk had a space in its lower back, even if his real First Officer often threatened to take advantage of this to tie a bell to the top of his tail-

“Thirsty, Papa Cat?”

He glanced up to see Hannah standing there. “For some of that Coca-Coola concoction?” Sometime ago, someone on the Station had managed to replicate an ancient Terran non-alcoholic beverage of sugary carbonated water flavoured with coca leaves. He tried some and nearly gagged at the sweetness of it - not to mention the fact that it hissed at him. But the children seemed to love it. “No, thank you. That’s Nightmare Fuel.”

She smiled and held out a glass, one that was identical to the one in her other hand. “This is more adult.”

He smelled it appreciatively before he took it in his hand, raising it to her. “Mazel Tov.”

She slumped down beside him, sweat beading her forehead beneath her mass of curly black hair. “I should never have taught you Yiddish. What are you congratulating me for?”

He sipped, his nostrils flaring wide. “A successful birthday for the Rugby of the Litter.”

Hannah smirked. “I stay out of the way and appear only long enough to keep the monsters fed. You’re the schmuck who keeps them amused. Don’t know where you get the energy from.”

He glanced behind, at the gaggle of children from Sasha’s class, filling up on more food before inevitably returning to enlist him in another game. “Beats chasing Tholians out of our territory.”

His gaze drifted away with his mind, recalling the last mission for the Furyk, and the resulting casualties. It was a difficult time for the Federation, what with the Cardassian incursions and the Galen Border Wars; other powers were taking advantage of the conflicts to test Starfleet’s remaining forces. He supposed they should consider themselves lucky the Klingons and Romulans were currently too busy fighting each other yet again to try their luck.

He returned to the here and now with a touch on his hand, and a look from Hannah, and those wide, pleasing hazel eyes. “Hey, stay with me. You’re away in the flesh too much as it is.”

He encircled his fingers in hers. “Sorry.” It ached sometimes, how much he loved her. They had met by chance, when he visited the station’s onboard diagnostic team to demand that they pull their heads out of their orifices and get his ship back into working order following a cybernetic attack on the Furyk’s computer.

Hannah, temporarily covering for her ill supervisor, was not intimidated by the Caitian’s size and legendary glare, and told him in no uncertain terms that the cleansing operation would take as long as it would take, and if he didn’t like it, he could stick his own head up his own kiester, and she’d come along, tap him on the rear end and let him know when they were done.

Their relationship blossomed from that point.

And though he never expected himself to be attracted to humans - the scent, the furless skin, flat faces and lack of a tail could be off-putting - here he found himself looking forward to his ship returning to the station to see her again.

A squeal drew him from his reverie to see Sasha leading a landing party chasing after some other children being... something strange.

They all leapt over Hrelle’s outstretched legs, when it would have been easier to run around them - just less fun. Sasha led the landing party with her tricorder, nearly tripping over his feet.

Hannah frowned. “Watch what you’re doing, sweetie.”

The girl nodded. “Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad.”

Hrelle made a sound in his throat. He had heard her call him that a thousand times, but even now it never failed to make his heart race just a little faster. It had seemed like only yesterday, when he had first met the girl when she was six, and she had made it clear to him from the start that he wasn’t welcome, that she and her mother were perfectly happy by themselves, thank you very much.

In subsequent visits, Sasha produced an amazing number of elaborate stories in an effort to dissuade him from returning, including: the claim that her mother was really a Romulan agent; that they had contracted Rigellian fever and were under quarantine; and best of all, that Sasha hadn’t always been an only child, but had eaten her brothers and sisters when they displeased her, so he’d better watch out...

When he proved resistant to her attempts at intimidation, Sasha finally came out and informed him that he would never replace her father, a Starfleet chief petty officer who had died fighting the Tzenkethi years before. Hrelle knew she would have been far too young to even remember him, but had obviously fashioned together this perfect image of the man. And no one would ever take over from him.

Hrelle understood her, and how she felt, and told her so. And he assured her that it wasn’t his intention to be her father... but he’d be honoured to be her friend.

It was a gradual, grudging breaking of the ice - helped with the chance for her to be able to call upon a real starship captain to show off to her friends, and even arrange a visit to the Furyk and sit in his chair on the bridge.

And happily, very happily, they became far closer than he could ever hope or deserve. And then one night two years ago, and a year after Hannah and he had wed, as Sasha kissed him and her mother good night, she called him Daddy, Hannah later admitting that the girl had approached her earlier, asking if she thought he’d mind.

Would he mind? Would he mind?

He couldn’t stop smiling or crying for the rest of the night. And Hannah couldn’t stop teasing him for getting so verklempt.

Life couldn’t get better.

“Hey, Little Papa, you might like to know that while you were in here defending the Federation, I got word from the Geno-Obstetrician.”

His ears twitched, and his heart raced, as he read her scent and expression. “They think it’s possible?”

Her hint of a smile grew. “I could carry a child of ours to six months, or the full term if they adjust the genes to delay development of the baby’s - the cub’s? - claws until after I deliver. It’ll have my brains, but your looks. Still, you can’t have everything, can you?”

A child of ours... He never dared consider it until recently, as he reached a certain age. His clan on Cait lived in an archipelago where they ran a successful fishing business, but had grown estranged from him following his desire to leave their homeworld and join Starfleet. He thought, even after he married, that this meant no more family, no more clan continuation, at least through him. His wife never let it go over the subsequent years, though, sometimes bringing it up again in discussions about Caitian childrearing and naming.

Still, it wasn’t a certainty that it could be done. Children of different races were known, of course, had been since before the birth of the Federation, and sometimes even occurred naturally. But it was risky, for obvious reasons, and usually required medical advice and intervention to prevent injury or worse to mother and child.

Now... he set aside his glass and hers and took her in his arms, ignoring the disgusted reactions from the surrounding children until they literally surrounded the couple, teasing them mercilessly.

“Get back to wrecking the place, you little Klingons!” he snarled. As they scattered again, a thought made his expression sober. “Sasha... What about her?”

“We could always get rid of her to make room for the baby.”

“Very droll. I don’t want her feeling threatened in any way by a new arrival.” Her looked in the child’s direction. “We’ll broach the subject later-"

“It’s already been broached, Papa Cat.”

“It has?”

She retrieved her whisky. “I do do parenting stuff on my own from time to time when you’re gallivanting across the Galaxy.”

“And how did she react?”

“She wanted to know if she has permission to beat up anyone who picks on her little brother.” She sipped again. “According to her, it has to be a boy. Thought you should know.”

He laughed. “Do you have a preference?”

She shrugged. “Are Caitian boys easier to raise?”

He considered the question. “They shed less, and their tails are shorter and don’t get caught as much in things. But when they reach puberty and there are females in season nearby, they, uh, discover this wonderful new toy they never knew they had in their pants-”

Hannah smirked and finished her drink. “So, like every other male in the Galaxy. It still sounds easier than what we’ll go through when Sasha gets to that age.” She rolled her eyes. “Oy, imagine what you’ll be like when she starts dating, and you’re scaring off the ones you don’t approve of.”

”I wouldn’t do that,” he lied.

Hannah gave him The Look.

Okay, somehow life could get better.

He almost missed the chirp of the communicator on the nearby table, reluctantly rising and retrieving it, repairing to a corner of the living room before answering the hail. “Hrelle here.”

The familiar Cajun patois of his First Officer replied. “It’s Labine, Sir. Sorry to bother you, but we’ve picked up a distress signal from the research outpost on Banaris IX. Reactor failure, dome breach, possible casualties.”

“Possible? Haven’t you tried to get further information?”

“Yes, Sir, but they’re not answering. May be related to their systems failures, or...”

The man left it at that.

Hrelle glanced back at the party; only Hannah was looking his way, her seasoned expression telling him she had already guessed what it was about.

He offered her a silent apology before speaking into his communicator again. “Recall the crew from shore leave, on the double-”

“Already done, Sir. You’re the last.”

Hrelle frowned to himself. “You mean you held off telling me about an emergency just so I could have extra time at a child’s birthday party?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Hrelle breathed out. He didn’t approve of being treated differently to the rest of the crew - many of them had families, too - but he appreciated the gesture. “Thank you. So I may as well be cheeky and ask for another minute to say goodbye. Set off immediately after I arrive, maximum warp when possible.”

“Understood, Sir.” After a pause, he added, “Sorry, Captain.”

Hrelle grunted. “No worries, Nathaniel, at least I was here long enough to help defend the fortress against the Gorn. Stand by for my signal.” He tapped the comlink shut and turned to see Hannah standing there, with an expression that was both sympathetic and damning, as she ushered him into their bedroom so he could explain. “Emergency at Banaris IX. There’s no other ships fast enough in the sector-”

“I know.”

“I’ll be a couple of days, three-”

“I know, shut up.” She pulled herself together, as much as she could. She could never fully hide the trepidation she always felt whenever he set off, wondering if this mission would be the one he didn’t return from, like it had been for her first husband. “Don’t say anything to her, just go, I’ll explain it later. She’ll be too exhausted by then to cry much.”

He nodded back. “What about you?”

But Hannah just looked around, as if she hadn’t heard him. “The wall, or the window?”

“What?”

“I’m thinking of a place to put the crib. The wall vibrates from the power couplings behind it, that can be soothing for a baby. But the window will give you something to look out at when you get up for the night time feeding and changing.” She looked at him again. “I volunteered you for that, I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

“I look forward to it.” He moved in to nuzzle against her throat, the closest Caitians came to kissing. She clung to him tightly for a moment, and then pushed him away. “Go, Papa Cat.”

“I’ll message you when I’m coming home.” He released her and let her retreat, knowing better than to linger at such moments. Alone in the bedroom, he tapped his communicator. “One to beam up.”

Just before he was transported away, he took a last look around, realising then that the best place for the crib would be-

*

Six Years Later:

“Captains Log, Stardate 34221.6, USS Yosemite, Captain Gombe commanding: We have arrived at the site where the Corvallen freighter sent her distress signal. We are scanning for survivors, but the initial signs are not hopeful.”

Matthew Gombe flicked off his log book. He had been taught in the Academy to keep the official logs concise and impersonal. But damn, if it didn’t make him sound cold as a Vulcan sometimes.

The bridge viewscreen was filled with a miniature belt of debris, shadowed soot against the steady glow of a small, fierce white star. If they pushed the magnification to maximum, they might see smaller objects... like the bodies of the crew. He chose not to pursue such detail.

Behind him, his own crew manned auxiliary bridge stations, scanning nearby space for lifeboats, fighting to pierce the layers of interference from both the star and the theta radiation waste that the Corvallen engines produced. They could still find survivors, it wasn’t out of the realms of possibility. But the more they scanned the area, the more it seemed as if this was some catastrophic warp breach, one that happened so fast that no one had time to-

“I’ve got something!” Ensign Willows exclaimed, drawing the Captain’s and everyone else’s attention to her station as she elaborated. “Some sort of maintenance pod, approximately six cubic metres in size... I’m detecting eighteen lifesigns within-"

“Eighteen?” Someone near Gombe echoed. “In something that small? Must be packed in like pages in a book.”

“Beats the alternative they’d faced,” Gombe reminded him. “Are the lifesigns Corvallen, Willows?”

“Hard to tell, Captain, the theta radiation is making precise readings difficult. I’m also picking up large quantities of sedarite.”

Gombe nodded at that. Corvallens traded throughout the Federation but were not a member, and have been known to engage in smuggling and other illegal activities, using sedarite to block scans of their ship interiors. Perhaps they were carrying something unstable as well as illegal, something that finally, literally blew up in their faces? Like his mother used to tell him: ‘Sometimes, the Universe Has Other Plans’.

”Best not try to beam them onboard,” he finally said. “Mr Sarko, tractor the pod into our shuttlebay and get an emergency medical team down there. Willows, lead the continued search for more survivors.” He straightened up. “I’m going down there. Maybe these people can give us some answers.”

By the time he’d reached the shuttlebay, his crew had already brought aboard the pod and opened it, and a medical team was helping the survivors out and onto the deck, voices urgent as hoverbeds and emergency packages were summoned. Gombe stayed back, knowing from experience that his people didn’t need their Captain getting in the way.

But even as he tried to do otherwise, he was still drawn closer. These was not the expected Corvallen crew: among them, he spotted humans, a Tellarite, a Bajoran, an Andorian minus one antenna, and others. And their clothes were as ragged as their bodies, instinct confirming to Gombe that neither was the result of the recent catastrophe. Who the hell were they-

“Captain!”

He started at the alarm from Polk, a medic at the far end, and rushed to join him.

“What is it?”

The young man was pale as he tended to his patient, a pitiful-looking stick figure, scarred and grey; it took a moment for Gombe to recognise the race as Caitian, though this one lacked a tail he could see. The medic stammered. “S-Sir, this individual says he’s with Starfleet... A Captain-”

“What?” He knelt closer, trying not to react to the stench; how long had it been since they bathed? The survivor was indeed a Caitian male, with one eye sealed shut from an old injury, and his muzzle looking like it had been broken and reset at some point. Gombe swallowed and spoke gently but urgently. “My name is Captain Gombe. You’re onboard the USS Yosemite. Who are you?”

The Caitian peered up from his one good eye, coming in and out of focus as if to mirror his obvious mental state, and his voice was ragged, but still determined to say its piece. “Captain... Esek Hrelle... USS Furyk... tell my wife... tell her the crib should be by the window... so our son can see the stars…”

*

Deep Space, Today:

For something that was nicknamed by its pilot as ‘The School Bus’, it certainly had style: a civilian vessel temporarily leased by Starfleet, it was designed for short-term tourism, with a large central area dominated by a series of tables and chairs and overlooked by large observation windows, now currently filled with streaked starscape as the engines dilated normal space into a warped version of itself. The third-year cadets it currently carried sat around, availing themselves of food and drink from the nearby dispensers, or read or chatted anxiously about their unknown final destination.

Or in the case of those at the table at the extreme rear, played a game of Kal-toh, a surprisingly addictive Vulcan game where opponents moved a chaotic stack of holographic rods in order to create ordered patterns - or to destroy the efforts made by one’s opponents. Vulcans protested that outsiders had turned what was meant to be a meditative game reflecting the quest for finding logic within illogic into a competition, and released versions of the game where such tactics cost a player points instead of earning them. But most just sought out the original versions. They were more fun.

Assuming one was paying attention. “This is not gonna end well,” Sasha Hrelle announced to no one in particular, drawing back strands of blonde from her forehead. She had finished her iced mocha some time ago, but didn’t want to rise and get another and risk being seen, and was waiting for someone else at the table to go for something themselves so she could ask. But no one was rising.

“Then concede. There is nothing dishonourable in that course of action,” her friend beside her suggested, studying the board in front of her. Eydiir Daughter-of-Kaas of the Ten Tribes of Capella was tall and lithe like most of her race, with skin the colour of polished mahogany, sable hair cropped down to the scalp and a dour attitude, at least to those who didn’t know her.

She wasn’t the first Capellan to join Starfleet, but she was the first with a Medical major, her combat-oriented race only recently accepting the notion that the sick and injured did not have to be left to die, that a fight to save their lives was every bit as honourable as a duel. “And you can get me another sandwich while you’re at it.”

On Sasha’s other side, Jonas Ostrow looked up from his seat, his brow furrowing. “Are you going for something? I could do with another coffee, extra cream, extra sugars please.” He was a skinny, swarthy figure, with wide eyes and shimmering, silver-tinted hair indicative of a lineage spent mostly in space collecting mutations along the way, and an easy-going accent usually heard in colonies near the Outer Rim.

On Jonas’ other side, Neraxis Nemm snorted. “Extra cream, extra sugars.” She was a heavy-set Bolian, like all of her people blue-skinned, bald with dark-blue bands along the scalp, a prominent vertical ridge bisecting her body, and dark eyes that narrowed as she studied the board. “Why don’t I just pop out a teat and let you suckle on that?”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Eydiir advised. “Bolian bodily fluids are corrosive to other species. I read a case study during the summer about a human who had unprotected sexual relations with a Bolian, and-”

“-And we don’t need to hear the details,” Jonas assured her, blushing and ignoring the chuckles from Neraxis.

“I don’t know how all of you can just sit there calmly,” Sasha asked, her eyes fixed on something other than the game. “He’s almost here.”

No one looked up. No one needed to, knowing who she meant: one of the last cadets to be picked up, from the Starfleet Academy Annex at Beta Aquilae II. Since his arrival, he had been moving from table to table, obviously introducing himself and allowing the other cadets time to properly appreciate the honour bestowed upon them. He would grin or laugh, sometimes not even only at his own jokes, slap backs in a manly fashion with the male cadets and flirt with the female ones.

“He needs kicking,” Sasha decided.

“He doesn’t seem so bad,” Jonas noted. “You might even end up liking each other.”

“But if not,” Eydiir assured Sasha, “I have weapons in my bag behind you.”

“Hi there.” He drew up a chair from an adjacent table and set it between Sasha and Eydiir, sitting on it backwards and resting his arms on the top of the back of it. He had bronzed, chiselled features and perfect teeth and chestnut-brown hair, and looked like he was physically incapable of not smiling. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to meet and greet sooner. My name’s Giles. Giles...” He paused for dramatic effect.

And Sasha stole his thunder, pretending to be engrossed in the game despite currently scoring last. “Arrington?”

He beamed at her. “I see my reputation precedes me.”

“No, your voice does; we’ve heard you talking to everyone else before us, and were all sitting here wondering what we’d done to miss out on the honour of meeting you sooner.”

He held up a reassuring hand. “Hey, I promise you it wasn’t intentional, I had to start somewhere.” He glanced at her side of the board, reached down and worked the controls, forming a pattern on her behalf and earning her points. “You should pay more attention, that was an obvious move.”

He missed the looks Sasha exchanged with Eydiir to continue, “I’m majoring in Command, as you can imagine, although of course I also had to choose a minor in Flight Control and Astrogation, but that’s okay because I’m a decent pilot, I even have my own solar yacht back at Beta Aquilae. I got it for my twelfth birthday; if you find yourselves in that area, I’ll give you a spin around the local sun in it. How about the rest of you?”

“No, I don’t have a yacht,” Sasha admitted, deadpan.

He chuckled politely. “No, I mean, what are your names, your majors, some interesting facts about you?”

When Sasha didn’t respond, the answers started from her right. “I’m Jonas Ostrow, majoring in Engineering. I’m from Hyralan, my family runs a salvage business.”

“Hi, Jonas! I love the accent, very rustic, it’s good to know the Academy hasn’t forgotten those out in the boondocks. And who’s your charming-looking friend there?”

“Oh, this is Neraxis Nemm, she’s majoring in Security.” He paused, when he realised the Bolian girl wasn’t going to follow up on it herself. “Interesting fact about her? Well, uh, her favourite food is Terran Kippers Vindaloo.”

“With extra chillies,” she finally added.

Giles beamed to her. “Pleasure to meet you, Neraxis! I really like Bolians. My nanny was Bolian, and so was one of our cooks; your people make marvellous contributions to the service industry.”

Neraxis looked up at him now. “Gee, thanks for the compliment. Would you like to have unprotected sexual relations with me?”

“I am Eydiir Daughter-of-Kaas, of the Ten Tribes,” the Capellan announced, never looking up at Giles. “I am a Medical Major.”

“Excellent! Anything interesting to note about you?”

She seemed to consider the question before replying. “I killed my sister in a duel over a boy when I was fourteen.”

His jaw dropped. “What?”

She frowned. “Father wasn’t pleased.”

Giles froze, drinking in the silence among the group, as if perhaps waiting for someone to tell him it was a joke. Then he looked to Sasha, the last of them, expectantly.

She pretended to only just notice him doing that. “I’m Mazel Tov. My Major’s Applied Chutzpah.”

“Chutzpah? Is that a science, Mazel?”

“People have said I make it one.”

He frowned, and then chuckled politely. “You’re kidding me, aren’t you? I can tell. So, who are you, really?”

“You got a reason for asking? Apart from the chance to hear yourself speak?”

Giles eyed her, looking ready to challenge her attitude, before looking to the others. “It’s useful to learn something about people who might be serving under you.”

She arched an eyebrow. “‘Under you’?”

He nodded. “Of course. When we get to our assigned ship, the eighteen of us will be divided into three squads, each with its own leader. So...” He left it at that, as if the rest was obvious.

Now Sasha folded her arms across her chest as she regarded him. “I hate to burst your bubble, Giles, but maybe you won’t get the job? There’s a few folk here who could foot the bill.”

“True,” he admitted, smiling with derision at the very notion. “But another consideration is where we’re being posted.” He leaned in more closely to the table. “I caught a glimpse of the coordinates for our destination when we left Beta Aquilae: that sector has the USS Impala. Commanded by one Captain Lucille Arrington.” His eyes twinkled. “My aunt. So, it stands to reason that I’ll-”

Eydiir glared angrily at him. “You believe Starfleet would allow for nepotism? That is dishonourable. I do not accept this.” She started to rise. “I will speak with the Commander-”

“Wait-” He put a hand on her shoulder to stop her, before withdrawing it quickly at her expression. “Nepotism is too strong a word. But you have to understand, the Arrington family has been influential within Starfleet for eight generations. You’ll find us in Starfleet Headquarters, Utopia Planitia, Alpha III, Starbase 12... we’re unavoidable.”

“Like a night on the toilet after a Klingon banquet,” Sasha offered.

Now Giles focused on her again, unable to ignore her any longer. “Has my family done something to offend you in a past life?”

She twisted in place to face him. “Not a past life, Bubulah, this one.”

“Umm, Sash-” Jonas begun, before deciding to shut up when Neraxis put a hand on his arm.

“Oh?” Giles replied, still facing her. “And who was it then? Which member of my family are we talking about?”

“Commander Matthew Arrington.”

The answer made him start. “My uncle? He’s an important figure within Starfleet Intelligence! Under what circumstances would he see a cadet like you?”

Sasha grunted. Like she said at the start of this, this was not going to end well... “My first week at the Academy, your uncle made the mistake of taking it upon himself to enter the grounds and visit me in class. He then made the mistake of publicly informing everyone not only who I was, but giving his utterly unsolicited opinion that I had no business being there, and that I should just resign.

He then made the biggest mistake of all: he gave me permission to speak freely.

By the time I was finished with him, he looked ready to crawl into a corner and die.” She breathed out. “Hope that counts as an interesting fact about me.”

As Sasha told her story, she could see his face grow paler, his breath quicken and beads of sweat appear on his forehead, as he finally recognised who she was. Finally, he rose back to his feet, stumbling slightly, unable to take his appalled eyes off of her. “You’re her... Sasha Hrelle!” He glanced in angry disbelief at the others, as if in disbelief that they could be so calm about it. “The daughter of that traitor!”

She knew he was going to say it - other cadets had said as much, or similar, and lived to regret it - and she was already leaping to her feet and kicking aside her chair with a loud crash. Her fists balled at her sides, and her teeth were clenched, and her eyes were fixed mercilessly on him. “You wanna step outside and say that again?”

“That would be inadvisable, Cadet,” came an older, cooler woman’s voice. “Given that ‘outside’ is currently warp space. The expected fisticuffs would be extremely short-lived.”

All cadets stood at attention, though Sasha and Giles continued to glare at each other, as a tall, gaunt Vulcan with Commander’s pips on her collar approached. She was young, for a member of her race, but carried herself with authority and an expectation to receive all the privileges that this authority carried. With a practised eye honed from a career serving as an Academy instructor, Commander T’Varik overlooked the scene and focused on Giles. “Cadet Arrington, why are you away from your assigned seat?”

He shifted in place, face reddening further. “Commander, I was just getting to know my fellow shipmates.”

“You appear to be doing far more than that, based on my observations and the gossip left in the wake of your passing. In addition to numerous failed sexual overtures, you have boasted both that you will be appointed to the role of Squad Leader, and that our next assignment would be the USS Impala.” She paused and added, “The former is not guaranteed. The latter will not happen.”

Sasha and the others remained quiet, knowing better than to draw attention to themselves, let alone argue. But Giles, perhaps because of his unfamiliarity with her, or just plain stubbornness, didn’t seem able to resist himself. “But- But the Impala is in this sector-”

“Indeed, as are more than a few other Starfleet vessels. But the Impala is a military escort; vessels engaged in combat or exploratory missions are considered unsuitable for cadets in the Accelerated Work and Education program. You should expect to serve on a supply or personnel ship, a tender, tug or possibly a buoy maintenance rig.”

Giles’ disappointment was visible, though Sasha knew that it had been clearly explained when they all applied for a place in the AWE Program: a golden opportunity to continue their Academy training while performing actual work in their chosen fields, earning credits and service time. And it probably wouldn’t do for the Academy’s best and brightest to be killed fighting the Tholians or disappearing into an unknown spatial anomaly.

And it seemed to sink into Giles’ head, because he moved onto his next tactic, “Commander, I need to send a message to my father, Admiral Jason Arrington at Starfleet Headquarters-”

“I am well aware of the name and location of your father, Cadet,” T’Varik informed him archly. “You may submit a formal request once we have berthed and billeted on our assigned ship, as per regulations.”

Anyone who knew her knew that her tone now confirmed the matter was at an end. Giles obviously didn’t know her. “But I really need to speak to him urgently.”

The Vulcan seemed to grow centimetres in height before their very eyes. “You really need to return to your seat at the front of the ship, Cadet. Or you can remain onboard and return to Beta Aquilae II, where you can explain at your leisure to your father how you managed to get yourself removed from the Program before it even began.”

He stiffened, nodded curtly, and offered Sasha a final dirty look before departing.

T’Varik then turned to Sasha. “Cadet Hrelle - or have you changed it to Cadet Mazel Tov? - whatever your personal circumstances, I will not tolerate aggression towards your fellow cadets or shipmates. Is that understood?”

She nodded, feeling self-conscious and embarrassed. “Yes, Commander.”

Now T’Varik’s attention focused on the Kal-toh board, gaze narrowing for an instant, before reaching out and working Sasha’s board controls. The Kal-toh rods reassembled and formed a perfect icosidodecahedron.

“You would benefit more from playing the non-competitive version of the game,” she informed them, before turning to depart.

But then stopped when Jonas asked, “Commander, I know that our assigned ship is meant to be a secret until we arrive, but we can’t be that far away from it now, can we? I mean, you could come out and tell us at this point, couldn’t you?”

The Vulcan regarded him. “Yes, Cadet Ostrow. I could.”

Then she left.

The cadets returned to their seats, Eydiir noting, “She is very droll. I did not expect that in a Vulcan.”

“Yeah,” Jonas muttered glumly. “I’m splitting my sides here from laughing.”

Sasha stayed silent, staring at the remains of her drink, feeling ashamed of herself. The first year at the Academy had been difficult, given what had been said about her stepfather by some circles: that his vanishing, quickly followed by the attack on Salem One, had not been coincidental, and that in fact Starfleet Intelligence court-martialled him in absentia for treason. She was fortunate in that Captain Hrelle had just as many supporters as he had detractors - and that her verbal assault on Commander Arrington became the stuff of Academy legend. She shouldn’t have risen to the bait with Giles, as much as he had provoked her.

“Stay calm. Don’t lose your head. Accept your fears, and move on.”

Dad’s words rang in her head, and remained as relevant now as on the day when she first heard them. And as on the day when she first really needed them.

*

Station Salem One, Six Years Ago:

“Sasha? What did I say before about leaving your tricorder in your locker?”

The ten-year-old girl looked up at her teacher, flipping the lid closed to conserve power. “I was checking the content of my lunch for toxins.”

“I see.” Mr Oruh was a Betazoid, his solid-coal black eyes narrowing. He was a short man, bald, with large ears and nostrils and a warm smile, but Sasha and the other children were always wary of him, because of his telepathy. Oh, he always said that he would never read any of his students’ minds without permission, but somehow he always knew when one of the children was daydreaming or hiding snacks in their pockets. “Do you suspect we might be poisoning you?”

“Not intentionally,” she admitted. “But Mom said the diagnostics on the station replicators in this sector were overdue thanks to the schmucks in Administration and-”

“Your concern is appreciated,” her teacher cut in, “But perhaps in future you can leave your tricorder at home? I know it was a birthday present, but that was last week. What do you think?”

She sighed. “Yes, Mr Oruh.” She tried to use those mental techniques Dad had told her about, to keep her thoughts shielded, but of course didn’t know if it was working or not.

Dad. She hoped he was okay. He went off during her birthday party on an emergency, Mom said, and based on her silence in the last couple of days, he hadn’t responded. But that was okay, Sasha would reassure her. Space was big, even at warp speed, and Dad was always busy because he was very good at his job-

Without warning, an explosion rocked the classroom, with debris and dust raining down. Sasha had immediately dived under her desk, as per her Emergency Drill Training. Children screamed, quickly drowned out by the station’s Red Alert klaxon. Another explosion, and she shrieked as she felt debris strike her desktop, and she wrapped her hands around her head. What was happening? An asteroid strike, perhaps? No, the station had deflectors for that sort of thing.

She twisted in place to peer out from under the desk, towards the large observation windows in the rear of the classroom. The view was typically dominated by the fuchsia and aquamarine swirls of the nearby Banaris Nebula. It was still there - but now angry-looking vessels of unknown configuration swarmed about, firing white bolts of disruptor energy.

Sasha withdrew back under the desk as a third explosion rattled them. She called out, “Stay calm! Stay under your desks!” But she couldn’t tell if anyone was listening to her, they all seemed to be in a panic. Where was Mr Oruh? He should be calming them down!

She peered out again and down the row of desks, seeing a large black duranium girder jutting down from the ceiling... with Mr Oruh under it! Quickly she crawled out towards him, concern for him overriding her terror. He was a good man, always said nice things about her to Mom and Dad, he had to be okay, he had to be-

He was! Well, he wasn’t okay: he was pinned down by the girder, and there was blood oozing from him, and he was struggling to speak, but all he could do was open his mouth and his eyes, attempting to communicate with her, managing only a weak telepathic plea: Pain- shelters- go to shelters-

Sasha nodded. The Shelters! Every section of the station had secured, self-contained areas that would provide oxygen, medical supplies and other useful items! They had to get to them! She rose and raced for the door- only to find more debris blocking it.

She coughed and waved away the smoke in the air... only to stop as the smoke seemed to move of its own accord, like scarves drawn through the air by invisible hands. Numbly she watched the path they took, a path that led them... to cracks in the windows, letting them escape into the vacuum of space. But the windows were laminated clearsteel! The force required to breach them was- was-

She looked around. The other children were crying, crying for their parents, for Mr Oruh, for anyone to come help them. Sasha wanted to cry, too. She hadn’t been this afraid since Dad and she went camping planetside, and she wanted to try rock climbing. Twenty metres up, and she had begun deeply regretting it. It was so high, and there were no more hand- or footholds! She knew she had antigrav harnesses on, and that Dad was climbing beside her and would never, ever let her be hurt. But still, it was crazy! Crazy to be up here! She was gonna die!

“Stay calm,” he told her softly, “Don’t lose your head. Accept your fears, and move on.”

Sasha tried. She swallowed, and tried to slow down her breathing. And then she looked up... and there were indeed places to grip, somehow appearing when they surely couldn’t have been there before! She resumed her ascent, ignoring how far she’d come and focusing on how far she had to go, making her way upward, upward, upward...

She cheered at the top of her lungs when they’d reached the top, Dad hugging her so tightly she thought she’d pop, almost as proud of her as she was of herself.

She couldn’t count on help arriving before Mr Oruh died, or before the air all leaked out of the classroom. She had to do something.

And she knew what to do. Retrieving her tricorder, she went to a corner of the classroom where, according to her Mom, a maintenance hatch was hidden. She removed a floor panel and found it; it was locked, but dad had taught her a trick with her tricorder that- yes! It worked!

She pulled the hatch off and set it aside with a grunt; it was heavier than it looked. Now she called to the others, “Come on! We have to get out this way!”

No one was moving. The station rocked again, making them squeal.

They were scared, too. But they had to accept their fears and move on. Adopting the tone her Mom always used when the woman had had enough, she barked, “Everyone line up on this spot RIGHT NOW!”

Children moved automatically, still looking terrified but somehow also glad that someone was there to take charge. She wondered if this was what it was like to be Dad.

When it looked as if everyone had followed her orders, she nodded and said loudly, “We’re going to crawl through the maintenance tunnels to get to the corridor outside, and then the Shelter. Stay close together, watch out for each other, don’t touch any cables or junction boxes.”

“We can’t go in there!” Aneela, one of the newer girls, complained in distress. “It’s against regulations!”

“This is an emergency,” Sasha declared, puffing up her chest. “I accept full responsibility.”

“We’ll get lost!” Peter cried.

“No,” she determined, holding up her tricorder. “Not with this.”

And she was right; she was able to create a sonic map of the tunnels, avoiding ones that had been blocked by debris, and lead them to another hatch, this one leading to a station corridor. There was no one around, but there were distant explosions and what could have been weapons fire. But at least there was an unoccupied Shelter here, and she guided the other children inside, almost ready to join them and close the door.

Until she remembered Mr Oruh, his injuries, and the escaping air. He couldn’t be left alone to die! She had to do something! She tried the communications panel on the Shelter, but either couldn’t get it working, or the whole system was down.

She only took a moment, before retrieving an emergency medical kit from under one of the Shelter seats, telling the others, “Stay here until grown-ups come.”

No one said anything as she closed the door on them, and returned to the tunnels, pushing the kit ahead of her. Mom and Dad would probably kill her for doing this. But she had to do what was right.

She returned to the classroom, relieved to find her teacher still alive, but unconscious. Remembering the first aid training she received, and a peek at the medical kits her mother used to inspect, she opened the kit and withdrew a hypospray, recognising the vial for inaprovaline, inserting it and pressing it against Mr Oruh’s neck, hoping she remembered the right dosage, before moving onto his injuries. Again, she knew Mom would probably kill her for doing this.

More blood had leaked out from him, and he was much paler than before, but she used the dermal sealant foam to temporarily patch up his wounds and prevent further loss of blood. She amazed herself by how calm she was, especially about all the blood; she always thought she was a lot more squeamish about that.

Her head, and she almost fell over. Maybe she was squeamish- no, it was the air, it was getting thinner. Some was coming in via the hatch she had opened, and by one of the remaining working filters in the classroom ceiling. But the rest was escaping from the hairline cracks in the windows. She should have brought a repair kit, too! Why didn’t she-

Sasha stopped, looking at the dermal foam dispenser. Yes!

She moved a table closer to the windows, climbed up on it and began running the dispenser over the cracks, the pink foam instantly hardening as it did around Mr Oruh’s injuries. It was working! There were some cracks that were too high for her to reach, but she thought she had sealed enough to keep too much air from leaking out.

Weakly she returned to Mr Oruh’s side, exhaustion and shock quickly catching up with her. As a final afterthought, she set the distress beacon on her tricorder. And that was it. She was shaking. She was crying. She wanted her Mom and Dad. She just wanted them here, and nothing more.

They were rescued hours later; people were saying that the attack had been from the Bel-Zon, a criminal gang that had been looking to steal valuable trilithium resin being stored on the station. Everyone was praising her, checking her for injuries, questioning her on how she managed to do all she did.

No one was telling her where her Mom and Dad was…

Starfleet Transport, Today:

“Sash?”

She looked up. “Eydiir?”

The Capellan was eyeing her curiously. “I asked if you wished for another one of those noxious Terran beverages you prefer?”

She shook her head. “I wish to not be serving onboard a starship for the next year with that smug jerk.”

“Oh, I’m sure once he calls Daddy he’ll be whisked away,” Neraxis assured her. “It’ll save me having to kick his aft into the warp core.” Then she did a poor but funny imitation of him, sticking her nose up in the air. “Look at me, I’m Giles Arrington of the Arrington Dynasty! My family have been dunsels for nine generations! We’re so inbred our family crest is a Moebius Strip!“

Despite herself, Sasha smiled, and then giggled. She didn’t know what she would have done this past year without her friends.

“Have you heard from your father lately?” Jonas asked.

Sasha nodded. “He finally got a ship, a supply ship called the Surefoot. Don’t know where he’s posted.”

Suddenly, the streaked starscape outside the observation windows slowed and returned to their normal look, as their ship dropped out of warp space. Some of the cadets left their seats to peer more closely out the windows.

“A supply ship?” Jonas enquired. “Seems like a downgrade for him after commanding a frigate. Was it his choice?”

“I...” Sasha wanted to answer, but to be honest, Dad’s last few letters had been... perfunctory. General talk about how well he had been doing since his return to Starfleet, hopes that she was doing well. But little more. It had been an... eventful year for him, to say the least. “I don’t know. I don’t even know what class the Surefoot is.”

“It’s Oberth-class.”

The others looked to Neraxis, whose face was pressed against the nearest window, looking out.

“How do you know that?” Jonas asked, curious.

“Because I can read, Scrappy.”

Suddenly, the warp nacelles of another vessel came into view, as their own ship slowed to a crawl on its approach. Sasha and the others joined Neraxis, Sasha pushing up front to see.

Their friend was correct, they were indeed approaching an Oberth-class ship: the split-hull design was distinctive enough, with the small saucer, the engineering section and impulse drive mounted onto the rear and the warp drive nacelles extended from either side, and the oblong pod slung underneath and connected to the primary hull at the nacelles by reinforced pylons. The class of vessel had been in service since Kirk’s day, working as planetary surveyors, general science ships and scouts.

All Starfleet ships had their names emblazoned in various parts of the hull, including over the aft shuttlebay doors:

NCC-650 USS SUREFOOT

No way.

NO WAY.

Sasha thought her grin would break her face...

*

USS Yosemite,One Year Ago:

Captain Gombe wanted to be anywhere else in the universe but where he was now. Fighting Klingons. Trapped in an event horizon. Back at the Academy getting yelled at by the Superintendent. Anywhere else.

Certainly his Chief Medical Officer looked like he’d join him anywhere; Dr Rabin appeared to have aged ten years since they picked up the survivors of the Corvallen freighter. “In all my years in this job, I’ve never seen physical injuries as extensive as this on someone who was still alive.

Even discounting the years of malnutrition, theta radiation poisoning, and the extreme trauma he must have undergone when they amputated his tail and removed his claws, there are years’ worth of broken bones that have been crudely reset, as well as second- and third-degree burns, parasites, evidence of exposure to extreme cold, including the vacuum of space... sexual assault...”

He looked like he could down the entire contents of the nearest bar. “I removed pain-inducing implants from his spine; they’d stopped using them years ago, but had left them in, and they caused infections in the surrounding tissue and-” Suddenly he stopped and wiped his hand across his brow. “Sorry, Captain.”

“It’s understandable, Doctor. And the others? Have they been identified? Do they have similar... injuries?”

He nodded. “Two of them were former crewmembers of a freighter, the Deirdre, reported missing two years ago. The rest are civilians of Federation and non-aligned worlds, many reported missing. Captain, how can we have let this happen? Slavery, in this day and age?”

“We didn’t exactly ‘let it happen’, Doctor.”

“But the ship that was keeping them prisoner was in Federation space! They talked about the Bel-Zon selling slaves to Corvallens, Orions, the Breen, the Boslic! How many others are out there, right now, unseen?”

“I don’t know,” Gombe admitted, horrified at the notion of how many ships he may have let slip by without knowing that there may have been slaves onboard. “Once word about this gets out, there’ll be changes, changes to procedures, to policies...” He breathed out, wishing he had a drink himself. “Speaking of which, I have a procedure I need to follow now. However distasteful. He’s out of danger?”

“Yes. He still has many scars, and of course he’ll need to get his tail, his claws and a few of his teeth regenerated, but...” Rabin frowned. “You’re not really going to do this, are you? The evidence is-”

“I’m not Starfleet Command. I only follow their orders.”

“Better you than me.”

Gombe didn’t blame him.

Captain Hrelle looked somewhat better than when Gombe last saw him - though not much. He had been cleaned up, given fresh sickbay clothes, and from the look of an adjacent tray, had even eaten something. Now he half-sat up, both eyes repaired and focused on the visitor. “Captain- You are the Captain, yes?”

“Captain Matthew Gombe, yes.”

Hrelle nodded. “I want to thank you and your crew for rescuing us.”

“It was the least we can do. Captain, what happened to the Corvallens?”

His gaze narrowed. “We happened. We were kept in the recycling section, clearing out theta waste; slaves are cheaper than automated systems, apparently. We were slowly dying. If we refused to work, then we were denied food, water, hyronalin for the radiation. We never knew where we were, of course, but we knew there were periods when we were in Federation space. Eventually we gleaned clues that told us when that happened, when we were going to be approached by a Starfleet vessel to be scanned.

So... we waited, and bided our time, and when the opportunity arose, we sabotaged the reactors, and packed ourselves into a maintenance pod, in the absence of access to a lifeboat.”

“You were certainly packed into that pod, Captain.”

Hrelle nodded. “I didn’t intend to leave any of us behind; at least if we died out there, it would be as free individuals again. Any Corvallens survive?”

“No.”

The Caitian grunted; he didn’t sound too regretful. “Captain, we didn’t exactly have access to calendars where we were... how long have I been away?”

Gombe swallowed. “Six years, more or less.”

The Caitian paled, as if the confirmation of the years had finally caught up with him. “That long? I knew it was a long time, but...” He grunted. “Hannah’s gonna finish what the Bel-Zon started when she gets me-” Then he looked up again. “Did anyone from the Furyk survive?”

Gombe shook his head. “The ship was relatively intact, but all the bodies we found had died of massive radiation poisoning. I’m sorry, Captain.”

Hrelle nodded numbly. “It was a trap. The Bel-Zon, they- my Bridge crew and I were taken- I was... questioned about Salem One’s security- I couldn’t-”

Gombe held up a hand. “Perhaps you shouldn’t say any more, Captain-”

Hrelle’s expression changed; none of the fragility he had displayed before was there now, only a steely resolve, the same resolve that must have kept him alive all these years. “Captain, what happened to my wife and child?”

Gombe stiffened. He knew it was inevitable, he knew that no one else could do it, and lying would be exponentially worse. Damned if all that made it easier... “The Bel-Zon raided Salem One for the trilithium resin being stored there. There were casualties. Lt. Hannah Hrelle was one of them. I’m... sorry, Captain.”

Gombe had never seen a reaction like that on another person’s face. He hoped never to see one like that again. No matter what his fellow Captain might have done, no one should have to suffer this as well. The Caitian’s voice cracked. “They... they died?”

“‘They’?” Gombe shook his head. “No, not your stepdaughter. She survived.”

It seemed like the slenderest of threads, but Hrelle clung to it like a lifeline. “Sasha? Sasha’s alive?”

Inside, Gombe was eternally grateful to give this man something positive for once. “More than that, she... she became the Hero of Salem One.”

“What?”

“When the attack started, her classroom was cut off, her teacher critically injured, air was leaking from cracks in the window, the children were panicking. But she kept her head, used a toy tricorder to lead the children out through the maintenance vents and into the shelters, and then went back in with a medical kit, saved her teacher’s life, and kept patching the cracks in the windows until help arrived.” Gombe remembered the story well, it had been one of the very few bright spots on that day. “She remains the youngest recipient of Starfleet’s Medal of Commendation for exceptional valour.”

Tears welled in Hrelle’s eyes, and he forced a grunt that could have been laughter, had he any amusement left in him. “When I was ten, I thought it was a great achievement to keep my tail from getting caught in doors... that she could do all that...” He wiped his face repeatedly. “Captain, I have to see her- where are we, how far away-”

“Captain Esek Hrelle,” Gombe announced, forcing himself to adopt formality at this stage; there was no other way he could get through the next minute. “It is my duty to inform you that, following your disappearance and the attack on Salem One, an investigation was conducted by Starfleet Intelligence. They concluded that you had colluded with the Bel-Zon, providing them with the necessary intelligence to bypass the station’s security, and most likely were hiding in neutral space.”

“W-What?” Hrelle’s face creased in confusion. “They think that I-”

“You were court-martialled in absentia. There are standing orders to put you into custody should you ever return to Federation space. I’m sorry.” Gombe’s face tightened; how many times was he going to have to apologise to this man? “Captain, once the truth is revealed, once they find out what you and the others went through, I know they’ll overturn their ruling-”

“Have you got irons?”

“Excuse me?”

Hrelle rose to his feet, and only then did Gombe realise just how tall his fellow Captain was in comparison. He held up his wrists. “Are you gonna clap me in irons, Captain? Got a cell waiting for me? Will I be drawn and quartered? Go ahead, I’m used to worse, believe me-”

“Captain, please-”

Hrelle’s face twisted now, and his hands became fists, and he spoke through clenched teeth as he drew closer to Gombe. “Come on, man! Do your duty! It doesn’t matter what I went through. Do you know what I went through? While all of you having been sitting around, free, with full bellies and content minds, enjoying yourselves? Do you even care?”

Gombe found himself backed against the wall of the medical room, his pulse quickening. “Captain, I must ask you to control yourself-”

“They want to lock me up? Fine! They can even kill me if they want! I’d deserve it, and more! I killed her! I killed them all!”

Gombe was ready to call for security - but then he saw the shift in the emotion of his fellow Captain’s eyes: the rage was still there, but more was mixing into it.

Then he saw the eyes well up again. “Captain Hrelle-”

“She’s dead- Hannah’s dead- my wife- my Beloved- She’s dead-”

All the strength, all the resolve, bled from him like one of his many wounds. He collapsed, sobbing, held up by Gombe, who waved off the concerned looks of the medical staff who entered the room. He whispered words unclear in content but clear in meaning.

Gombe still would rather have been anywhere else - but for the moment, he was glad that he was here, now, for another person in such terrible distress.

*

USS Surefoot, Today:

“Well,” Neraxis muttered. “I don’t think much of your Dad’s ship. Looks more like a cargo bay.”

Sasha showed her friend how many middle fingers she had on her right hand. Not that she was genuinely offended; she can’t imagine anything bringing her down at this point. Even seeing Giles Arrington looking peeved at being on a ship commanded by Esek Hrelle was only a boost to her enthusiasm.

Their transport had docked with a port on the side of the Surefoot, and the cadets were marched out with their belongings into a large cargo bay, whose walls were lined with containers and crates of various sizes and shapes, stacked and secured. The central area was illuminated from above, and now occupied by the cadets forming a parade rectangle of six by three, leaving their baggage stacked behind them, while T’Varik was conversing with crewmembers.

Sasha couldn’t stop grinning. She would actually be serving with her father! Just like those days when they would pretend to go off on Away Missions, exploring planets and fighting Klingons! She hadn’t felt this optimistic in a long time!

She looked to Eydiir, standing beside her. “I can’t believe it! Can you?”

The Capellan woman kept her eyes fixed ahead. “You’re meant to be at attention. Show some discipline.”

Sasha frowned. She knew her friend leaned on the formal, stiff-necked side, but she seemed even more like she was, in the days when they first arrived at the Academy together and shared a dorm room, both of them wary and suspicious, albeit for different reasons.

But before Sasha could question her friend’s attitude, T’Varik called out to them. “Cadets, welcome onboard the USS Surefoot, an Oberth-class starship originally designed for planetary and stellar surveys. It has since been modified for its current multi-mission role, transporting supplies, maintaining communication relays and buoys, conducting customs and safety inspections, and, when necessary, assisting in search and rescue missions. We are based in the Leonis Sector, 99.2 light-years from Earth; further details of this sector and the stellar bodies within are available via your information packs in your cabins.

I will now introduce you to our Captain, Esek Hrelle, who wishes to greet you personally.” After a moment, she added, “I understand that there are those of you who may have... issues regarding him. I will remind you that Starfleet has cleared him of any wrongdoing whatsoever, though I suspect some of you might still hold strong opinions on the matter. You are of course entitled to your opinions. But your entitlement should not prevent you from showing anything less than the requisite respect he deserves as your commanding officer.”

As T’Varik continued to speak, a door slid open behind the assembled cadets. Sasha didn’t even notice it until the figure who walked through it had already passed her. And though she instantly recognised him, she had to keep the urge to call out to him in check, remembering T’Varik’ s earlier warnings.

So she watched her stepfather as he... just walked along, like everyone else. He looked... older than when she last saw him. Slower. Greyer. More fragile. He never replaced his tail, or claws. He had quite a bit more more weight around the belly, more then when she last saw him, something closer to the cuddly man she grew up with, but still…

Anxiety now mingled with anticipation within her. She had been informed of his survival not long after Starfleet, and the Superintendent had arranged transport out to him at the Starbase where he was being treated - and incarcerated, pending an extensive debriefing and a subsequent investigation. It killed her to have to leave him again and return to Earth after a few weeks to complete her exams, though they promised each other that they would stay in touch.

Word about the slave trafficking taking place within Federation borders spread like a supernova blast. Starfleet Intelligence, who had already come under fire for failing to anticipate the attack on Salem One, now faced renewed criticism for this oversight. Commander Arrington, in response, had doubled down on his attack on Captain Hrelle, suggesting that his criminal cohorts had betrayed him, or that at the very least, he should have tried harder to escape or resist, and it was a feeling that his family were eager to spread through the organisation.

Sasha had been appalled by the number of people, within and without Starfleet, who agreed with that sentiment. They were typically the Ignorati, the ones who had never fought or served onboard a starship but still thought they knew what they were talking about, armchair admirals who believed in death before dishonour and other melodramatic nonsense, the ones who couldn’t or just didn’t understand how terrible real life can be beyond their Utopian bubble - and hated her stepfather and the other survivors for reminding them of those harsh realities. She had little patience for the less scrupulous agents of the public media networks, who seemed to revel in the details of the torture he and the others had undergone.

He had ultimately been declared not responsible for revealing information that assisted the Bel-Zon in their raid on Salem One, and after extensive counselling and physical therapy, was deemed fit to return to duty – the only Starfleet survivor found to do so, the remainder understandably taking permanent retirement or medical leave. Many, including Sasha, thought he might look to return to the Banaris Sector, perhaps to command another frigate and maybe even pursue the remains of the Bel-Zon, most of whom had been either arrested or chased out of Federation space.

Instead, he was here, five hundred light years away from that, commanding a small supply ship.

He had walked around the square, never even looking at the cadets, and was ascending the raised platform to join T’Varik, when Giles, standing two rows ahead of Sasha, nudged the cadet beside him and declared, “Looks like he had a hard time on the litter tray.”

Sasha felt her face burn, and almost broke ranks to confront the jerk, when her attention was taken by Captain Hrelle suddenly turning in place, descending the steps and retracing his steps, up to the place where Giles was standing, gently pushing aside the surrounding cadets to look directly at him. His voice was low, gravelly. “Follow me, please.”

He turned and departed again without waiting – and without even looking in Sasha’s direction, and he must have known she was there, even by scent alone! – as Giles followed, his face red and his eyes wide, looking to those cadets around him for support, or even a reaction. No, no help there.

Hrelle returned to the platform, with Giles in tow like he was on a tractor beam, until the Caitian turned again, regarding him once before he looked at T’Varik. “Have the standards been relaxed at the Academy since I was there?”

The Vulcan looked to the boy. “You are meant to be at attention, Cadet.”

Giles snapped to it. “Cadet Giles Arrington reporting as ordered, Sir!”

Hrelle folded his hands behind his back. “Arrington? That’s a familiar name. And how old are you, Mr Arrington?”

“Uh, seventeen, Sir.”

“Seventeen? Are you sure? Because you tell jokes like a nine-year-old.”

“Sir?”

“Your joke about my using a litter box. On those rare occasions when I hear jokes made about my race, they’re usually only made by nine-year-old children who don’t understand how offensive they are being.”

“I- I didn’t say anything, Sir.”

The group somehow went even more silent than before. Hrelle’s expression stiffened, and his tone changed, only slightly, though he never took his eyes off of the cadet. “Mr Arrington, there are many stories told about Caitians, some true, some not. But the one about our having superior hearing is true. It’s as good as Vulcans, I expect. Did you hear what Mr Arrington said about me, Commander?”

“Yes, Sir,” T’Varik confirmed. “And I will of course initiate formal disciplinary proceedings-”

Hrelle held up a hand in her direction, stopping her from continuing, though he continued to speak with a russet-faced Giles. “You had a long and tiring journey here, so I’ll overlook you lying to a superior officer just now. The joke, however, is harder to overlook.” Now he turned to the assembled group, speaking more loudly and clearly. “It always was. When I was your age, a group of upperclassmen made my life Hell, and with the open support of the Superintendent at the time too - Mr Arrington’s grandfather, as a matter of fact.

But as far as I’m concerned, the moment you put on those uniforms, you earned more respect than that. So while you’re on my ship, though you will still be cadets, still be taking classes and exams, you will also be working, earning pay, earning service time and leave time, and learning the practical side of your various majors and minors. Your rank will not be ‘Cadet’ but ‘Crewman’. If you are prepared to act like adults, I am prepared to treat you like adults.”

“However,” Hrelle added, looking at Giles again. “If you’re prepared to act like a child…” He indicated the steps to the platform. “Sit on the bottom step, Mr Arrington.”

Giles glanced behind him, bemused. “Excuse me, Sir?”

“The bottom step. That’s our Naughty Step. That’s where children go to sit until they’ve learned their lesson.”

Titters ran through the cadets. Giles stared back in disbelief. “Sir-” As if driven by the responses from his friends, he straightened up further and declared, “Captain, with- with all due respect, you can’t make me do that!”

T’Varik stepped closer. “Mr Arrington is correct, Sir. This is not an approved punishment.”

“No, it isn’t,” Hrelle conceded. “But if we did follow regulations, Mr Arrington would be facing a permanent note on his record. Now, my option would allow him to sit on a step and be humiliated for a few moments, and nothing more will be said about it.” He looked to the group again. “Hands up how many of you would choose to take the Step?”

All hands, or appropriate appendages, rose.

Hrelle looked back to Giles. “So… what’s your choice, Mr Arrington?”

Giles looked as if he would have given his soul to be able to beam out of there and not come back. Turning redder than it should be possible for a human, he faltered as he replied, “I’ll, ah, I’ll take the Step, Sir.”

“Excellent. Oh, and for the record: I don’t use a litter box, I don’t chase mice, I don’t drink milk from a saucer, and I don’t lick myself.” To the group he added, “Though not for lack of trying.” As they laughed aloud, he returned to Giles, waving him towards the step. The laughter grew as Giles descended, his gangly legs looking ridiculous as he sat down on the bottom step, finding an excuse to look anywhere else but at the group.

As everyone quieted down again, Hrelle faced the group again. “So… welcome aboard. For those not in the know, the original Surefoot was a historical naval vessel on my homeworld. It was a little ship, one that delivered supplies, medicine and communications to the people of the islands of the R’Trerah Archipelago. It was not a warship, it was not a flagship, and it never carried anyone famous. The work was never glamorous, ballads were never sung for its crew. But it saved lives. It was essential.

And our work here is essential, too. There are colonies, outposts, research stations, observation stations, navigation and subspace communication buoys in this sector, all in need of our presence. The majority of Starfleet personnel will never explore strange new worlds, will never seek out new life and new civilisations. They will most likely boldly go where others have already gone before. But they will still make a difference. And if you still want to grumble about the lack of glamour, imagine all of your planetbound ancestors who dreamed of going to the stars, and would give up their right arms, or more, to have the chance that you have here and now.

Your time here will be divided between the continuation of your studies and actual work experience. Your academic side will be supervised by Commander T’Varik, and your work side by appropriate crew. Although our mission objectives do not normally include scientific or security-related aspects, those of you majoring in those fields will still get an ample opportunity at practical experience.

There is a permanent crew of twelve, including the Commander and myself; you’ll get the opportunity to meet everyone tonight at 2000 hours, at a mixer we’re throwing in our rec room/mess hall/meeting room. Your quarters have been assigned, and from there you can access further information on your work and academic schedules, crew roster, deck plans, Starfleet regulations, and information about our sector of operations.

Now, perhaps we should get you to your quarters and-” He paused, rubbing his jaw. “Wait, I forgot something. Oh yes: I need to speak with a cadet here. What’s her name?” He snapped his fingers repeatedly. “I think it’s, uh, Sassy? Sassy Hurrah? Am I getting that right?” Louder now, he called out, “Is there a Sassy Hurrah here? Report, please.”

The dismay she was feeling on seemingly going unnoticed or unmentioned by him fled from her like snowflakes in a fusion reactor, and she fought to stay deadpan as she broke ranks and walked around to the platform.

“A little hurry up, if you would, Ms Hurrah, some of us are old and decrepit and not long for this life.”

She quickened her pace, stepping around Giles as she strode up and stood at attention. “Crewman Sasha Hrelle reporting as ordered, Sir.”

He seemed stunned by her appearance, looking her over. “Is this it? Is this all there is of you?”

“I think you’ll find it’s more than enough, Sir.”

“Really? You seem like the Runt of the Litter.”

“I was, Sir.”

“Oh? And where are all your brothers and sisters?”

A smirk was breaking through her demeanour. “I ate them, Sir.”

But Hrelle cracked first, laughing as he reached in and embraced her, lifting her up and spinning her around before setting her down again, though he still gripped her upper arms. “Look at you! It’s incredible how much you’ve grown since I last saw you! You look amazing!” He glanced down at her chest. “Where’d you get those things from?”

She blushed as she heard laughter from the cadets. “Got them from Mom.”

He laughed and hugged her again, then turned to T’Varik. “Commander, I have such stories to tell you about my baby! And they’re all guaranteed completely embarrassing for her!”

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “I have no doubt. Perhaps in the meantime the crewmen can escort the cadets to their assigned quarters?”

“Excellent idea!” He turned around. “Mr Arrington! Stop lounging about down there, go join the others!” To Sasha he added, “You go get unpacked, meet your squad members, and I’ll see you at the party later.”

She grinned. “Yes, Sir!”

As she departed, she heard T’Varik asked, “Captain, if I may speak with you at your earliest convenience?”

Sasha practically bounced back to her friends. This was going to be wonderful!

Hrelle indicated a seat near his desk, only after taking his own noting that T’Varik remained standing. His quarters and adjoining office were smaller than what he had on the Furyk – but was a palace compared to how he had lived for so many years after. “Can I get you a drink, Commander?”

“Thank you, no.”

“Well, then, what can I do for you?”

She remained at attention. “Firstly, I wish to formally request permission to come aboard, Sir.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Oh, I don’t know, you look very suspicious…“ When she didn’t react, he added, “Permission granted – but only if you stand at ease, you’re making my back ache.”

T’Varik did relax – a little. “Secondly, I wish to formally protest your treatment of Cadet Arrington.”

He raised an eyebrow, then dropped it in case she thought he was mocking her. “Oh? You think it was cruel and unusual punishment?”

“On the contrary, I believed it lenient. Mr Arrington displayed an openly racist sentiment, not to mention his lying to a superior officer. Both warrant at least a note on his permanent record.”

He folded his hands on his belly and leaned back further. “If he had a genuine issue with dealing with other races, I doubt if he would have made it past the entrance exams – even if he is one the Mighty Arringtons. However, let the Counselor know so she can discuss it with him. As for the open disrespect, I was willing to let it slide - this once. Well, if that’s all-”

“I have a further objection: My role as First Officer is to support and enforce your decisions in front of the crew. However, when I persuaded you to take this position and join the AWE Program – and to allow Sasha to serve onboard with you – it was with the understanding that I would be in charge of the cadets.”

“Oh? And what’s my role here? Just sit in the Captain’s chair and stay handsome and quiet?”

T’Varik tilted her head. “I cannot vouch for your attractiveness. As for your quietude... you have already amply demonstrated to me your capacity for this during our meeting with the Superintendent.”

*

Starfleet Academy, Two Months Ago:

Hrelle sat quietly, allowing T’Varik to carry the conversation. She seemed as pleased to do so as any Vulcan can be pleased to do anything. “And a non-Terran commanding officer can also provide a positive role model for the cadets. Particularly one with Captain Hrelle’s considerable experience.”

Across the table, the Superintendent was nodding, but beside her, her predecessor, Admiral Jeffrey Arrington, had remained dubious throughout, without ever once looking at the object of his derision.

“I can also confirm that Captain Hrelle has completed the required instructions certification to allow him to act as the supervisor for those cadets majoring in Command.”

Admiral Arrington made a sound. The Superintendent and T’Varik glanced at him curiously, but Hrelle just tugged at the sleeves of his uniform. He was still getting used to the new designs.

“The Surefoot’s size and mission fits the required parameters for the cadets’ training,” T’Varik continued. “And can be quickly adapted for their use. And its sector of operations is well within Federation space.”

“You’ve done your research with the expected thoroughness, Commander,” the Superintendent, looking to Arrington. “Well, Admiral? Are you satisfied?”

Arrington was a callow, balding man with a pointed, dimpled chin and sunken eyes, eyes now moving from officer to officer. “That the requirements have been fulfilled in this instance? Reluctantly, yes.” Now he settled his glare on Hrelle. “But I want the chance to speak my mind.”

He pointed a spindly finger at the Caitian. “You’re a malcontent, Hrelle. You always have been, you always will be. I recognised you as such from the moment I first set eyes on you thirty years ago, on these very grounds. You’re rude, irreverent, licentious, facetious, corruptive, and from what I hear, you’ve inflicted those same bad traits on your stepdaughter.

And though you may have deceived everyone else in Starfleet, as far as I and many others are concerned, you remain a coward and a traitor. You’re responsible for the deaths of the crew of the Furyk, as well as those on Station Salem One. Including your wife.” His already-wrinkled face somehow creased further. “There, I’ve said my piece, you can say what you want now.”

Hrelle felt the room tense. Even T’Varik seemed taken aback by the venom; the Admiral was retired, but had managed to get himself reinstated and wrangle his way into becoming an adviser for the AWE Program, though he refused to wear the new uniforms.

For his part, Hrelle could have asked what he had done all those years ago to warrant Arrington’s ire, enough to have his nieces and nephews, upperclassmen all, give Hrelle hell for four years. He could have reminded the Admiral of all the years of exemplary service he had given to Starfleet, of his confirmed innocence, of the grief and trauma he was still undergoing because of his terrible experiences, and appealed to the man to put the past behind them and move on.

He could have said all that, and more.

Instead, he settled for, “Kiss my furry ass.”

Arrington blinked. “What did you say?”

“I said kiss my furry ass.” Hrelle’s tone was soft, even mild. “Pucker up those cracked, colourless slugs you call lips and kiss it. Bring your whole miserable, rotten family along, too, you old bastard, and make a feast of it. It shouldn’t be too difficult, now I don’t have a tail in the way. And if you can’t bend down, I’ll raise my hindquarters for you. Be quick, though, I had a curry for lunch-”

Arrington slammed his fist down on the table. “I hope you enjoyed that, Hrelle, because your words have finished you now! I’ll see to that!”

“Admiral,” T’Varik interrupted calmly, drawing his attention. “You invited us to say what we wanted. That statement constitutes granting us permission to do so. Captain Hrelle was within his rights to make his… suggestion.”

Arrington frowned so much he looked like his face would implode.

“They got you there, Jeff,” the Superintendent admitted, looking like she was struggling to keep a straight face.

*

USS Surefoot, Today:

“What is it, Commander? You looked lost in thought.”

“Vulcans do not get ‘lost in thought’. I was merely comprehending how much of an influence you have been on Sasha.”

“For the good, I hope.”

“Yes... when neither of you is being provoked by a member of the Arrington family, that is.”

Hrelle chuckled, but then sat up and grew serious. “Commander... you are correct to raise an objection to my handling of the cub. I will endeavour not to repeat that mistake, at least not without discussing it with you first.”

“Thank you, Captain. I should inform you of an incident that occurred on the transport here, between Mr Arrington and Ms Hrelle.”

He grunted. “I’m not surprised. I think our families are gonna end up the Twenty-Fourth Century version of the Montagues and the Capulets. Still, we don’t always get to serve with people we like, and as long as they’re on different shifts, their interaction time will be limited.”

T’Varik paused, before replying with, “About that…”

*

USS Surefoot, Deck 2 - Cadets’ Quarters

Alpha Squad’s quarters were unevenly bisected, with the smaller side taken up by three sets of bunk beds and storage spaces for each occupant, and the larger side side by a desks, chairs, information and entertainment wall screens, and the door to the corridor, and the door to the twin toilets, sinks and sonic showers.

“I only had to share with one person back at the Academy,” Neraxis groused, sitting on a bean bag on the floor, her boots and socks removed, rubbing her toes. “Now it’s six?”

“The Academy is planetbound, spread out over many hectares of area in San Francisco,” Jonas reminded her, sitting nearby perusing the files on the desk terminal. “Space is at a premium on these older, smaller vessels.”

“And it promotes teamwork,” Sasha added distractedly, glancing through the entrance to the sleeping area, where Eydiir was occupying herself. She had been distant, silent, even more so than usual, since their arrival, and Sasha couldn’t figure out why. “We work the same shifts, learn to compromise, not hog the sonic showers, all that.”

“Hey, I’m not complaining,” the Bolian assured them. “I grew up with a ton of brothers and sisters. I just hope the Head in there can handle what I have to offer.” She straightened out one blue foot and nudged Jonas in the rear. “Hey, you want to share a bunk with me, Scrappy?”

“Me? Why me?”

“You’re lighter, you’re less likely to rock the framework at night when you’re having a good hard think about Commander T’Varik.”

“What? Why would the bunk rock if I was-” He blushed beetroot and looked away again. “Don’t know what that means.”

Neraxis grinned. “Like I said, six brothers.”

“This isn’t right.”

Sasha’s attention turned to Giles as he spoke again, still sitting in the other side of the room, face still abject as it had been since he arrived and found out not only he was bunking with her - but that she was the Squad Leader. “To be fair, T’Varik warned you.”

“But my Major’s Command.”

“And your Minor is Flight Control, like you told us when you were peacocking about on the transport. Every squad needs a member from one of the six Majors. And we needed a pilot on our squad for Away Team missions and simulations.”

He looked up at her, sneering. “I bet you’re loving this. Being on Daddy’s ship, being made Squad Leader.”

“Weren’t you the one walking around before crowing about how you’d be made Squad Leader and get posted on your aunt’s ship?”

“That was different! It’s clear who would make the better leader!”

“Watch your attitude there, Giles,” Neraxis warned mildly, “Or you’ll end up on the Naughty Step again.”

“Stay out of this! What would someone in Security know about career progression? Your job is to give up your life for everyone else around you!”

“I can make exceptions,” she assured him, grinning.

There was a loud, deliberate snapping of a case being shut from the other room. Sasha and Neraxis exchanged glances, before Sasha bit the proverbial bullet and entered. The tall, dark-skinned Capellan kept her back to everyone, standing there, doing nothing but holding her kleegat, a wicked three-bladed throwing weapon from her homeworld; though the girl was studying medicine, she remained as formidable as any other member of her people.

“What’s wrong, Eydiir? What did I do?”

“Nothing.” She set the weapon down on an adjacent table.

“Come on. Dishonesty is not your way.”

Now she spun around, her face one of taut anger. “I told Giles Arrington that I would not abide nepotism or favouritism for him. Do you think I will abide it for you?”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“This ship! Your father’s ship! And your position in the squad! Do not tell me it is a coincidence! Even that fool Giles realises it!”

From the other room, Giles’ voice called out, “You know I can hear you in there?”

Sasha ignored him. “You think I knew about this? It was as much a surprise to me as to the rest of us!”

“Are you saying you don’t want to be here?”

“Of course I want to be here! I want to be with my father! Is that so wrong? I spent six terrible years thinking he was dead along with my Mom! And then the Universe gave him back to me! As for my position, I earned it! You know I earned it before anyone even knew he was still alive, before he ever got this command! You can’t compare me to that idiot out there!”

“I can still hear you!” Giles reminded them.

Sasha couldn’t believe this was a conversation she was having with her best friend. After all they had gone through to get here! She wanted to cry. She chose to fuel her anger instead. “Look, you can believe me or not, but I swear, you continue to stomp about in here and spoil it for the rest of us, I’ll hit you that many times you’ll swear you’re surrounded!”

Eydiir scowled, hands balled into fists - but then, just as quickly as it had started, it ended, with her offering a relaxed posture. “I believe you.”

“And another- wait, what?”

The Capellan embraced her warmly and roughly. “I needed to see the truth in the fire of your eyes. I have done so. Forgive my doubts.” She straightened up formally. “If you wish, you may strike me, and I promise not to kill you for it.”

Sasha stared, feeling her temper settle again. “Maybe later.”

“If you two have kissed and made up,” Neraxis called in, “You’d better get back in here.”

Curious, the girls returned, to see Giles halfway out the door, leaving it open as he looked back at them. “I’m not putting up with this. I’m getting this straightened out once and for all.”

“Giles-”

“This isn’t right, and this isn’t fair.”

“I agree,” Sasha said, taking him and some of the others by surprise. And herself, too; but he was a member of her squad, like it or not, and she felt a responsibility towards him. “And I’d probably be feeling the same way as you do. But think about it: how will Commander T’Varik react if you storm up to her now and tell her she made a mistake? She’s not exactly a fan of impulsive behaviour.”

That gave him pause, though he still asked challengingly, “And what would you do?”

“Me? I’d do everything by the book. Make a formal, respectful query about the reasons why I got it and you didn’t. It will also demonstrate your professionalism.”

That actually seemed to sink into his brain. He pursed his lips and nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”

“And…” she added, though she didn’t expect to hear herself saying it, “I can accompany you and support your request for answers.”

He blinked, paling. “You’d do that?”

“Sure. You’re on my team. I support my teammates.”

Just then, a newcomer announced, “Excuse me, please.”

All eyes turned to the new arrival in the still-open doorway: a slender, hairless humanoid with mottled lime-green skin patched in blues and purples within the wattles under his extended face, wattles extending down to his flat chest, necessitating a cosmetic adjustment to his uniform. He had large red eyes with black vertical slits, open nostrils that flexed with each breath, and webbing on his long, slender fingers, which he now brought together in a self-clasp after setting down his bag. His voice was mild, like someone always commenting on the lovely weather. “Forgive my lateness in arriving, I was required to visit the Chief Medical Officer first.”

Sasha smiled; she’d been reading up about the last member of their squad, and in fact had seen him onboard the transport, but never approached him. Now she did, imitating the clasping gesture. “We Stand Together, Kitirik Abyss Zuinthinem, uh... Emijiz.” She hoped she’d said it correctly, not having had much time to memorise it after reading his biofile in the squad roster.

The newcomers throat rapidly shifted in colour, and his eyes brightened as he lowered his arms. “We Stand Together. You honour me! Thank you! I am filled with delight!”

Sasha lowered her hands as well, grinning; he was like a puppy out on its first walk. “Did I get the name right? I was practising it in my head but wasn’t sure.”

“Very much so! Although if it is easier, I accede to answer to Kitirik alone, or even Kit. I am told that Kit is very charming.” He beamed at the very notion.

“It is, Kit. I’m Sasha Hrelle, Squad Leader.” She ignored the reaction from Giles as she introduced the others; as she proceeded, Kit clasped his hands together again and nodded to all of them.

“Bring any brandy with you?” Giles asked ruefully. “Could do with some.”

Kit looked to him, confused. “Forgive me, Respected Colleague, I did not know I was supposed to.”

“You know he’s not Saurian, don’t you?” Sasha pointed out.

Giles flushed. “Oh, uh, sorry.”

“Way to be racist there, Sport,” Neraxis chuckled. “Do all reptoids look alike to you?”

Kit turned to him. “No offence is received, I can assure you. I am Qarari.”

“They’re a non-Federation world,” Sasha noted to the others. “First contacted ten years ago; talks are ongoing now about their joining the Federation. And Kit is the first of his people to join Starfleet.”

“Yes, indeed, Respected Squad Leader. Thank you for honouring me in this way.”

She smiled. “I’m a quick learner. Guys, the party is in an hour; I figure that’ll give us time to choose our beds, unpack and unwind, maybe even get a look at a map so we don’t get lost.” She looked to Eydiir. “You want the top or the bottom?”

“The top; I can watch for enemies better.”

“Right. And I believe Neraxis has claimed the second one with Jonas.”

The Bolian grinned at Kit, nudging Jonas again as she joked, “He’s my husband.”

“Not really,” Sasha clarified, seeing Kit’s - and Jonas’ - reaction. “So that leaves you and Giles.”

Kit turned to Giles. “I will gladly accept either bunk, Respected Colleague.”

Giles, for his part, shrugged and picked up his bag. “It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t think this day could get worse.”

Neraxis chuckled. “Giles, you gotta stop saying things like that. The Universe loves a challenge.”

Sasha tended to agree, but kept silent. Giles was already worked up without her adding to it.

*

Deck 1, Mess Hall/Lounge:

“Oh, I don’t think I like the look of you.”

T’Varik paused, while Hrelle just looked amused. The gathering wasn’t just a chance for the cadets to meet and greet the officers and crew of their new ship, but also for T’Varik. She had never served onboard a starship before, her entire career having been centred around the Academy.

He probably should have warned her beforehand about Chief Petty Officer Grev, in charge of Engineering. He was a Tellarite, a short humanoid with a snout, fur, hoof-like hands with just three fingers each, and deep-set eyes surrounded by rough skin. And for Tellarites, arguing was a sport; when meeting a new person they would start off by complaining to them, but if there was nothing to complain about they would simply resort to insulting the other - as he just did to T’Varik.

But before he could mollify the situation, the Vulcan straightened up a little more and replied with, “Were you assigned to this vessel because you are as old and decrepit as it, and Starfleet thought you would feel at home?”

Grev grunted, approving. “Pleasure to meet you, Commander.”

“And you, Chief.” She turned as she noticed members of Alpha Squad mingling, and motioned for one of them to draw closer. “Mr Ostrow, this is CPO Grev, who will be your supervisor and instructor. Chief Grev, this is Engineering Crewman Jonas Ostrow. Mr Ostrow, I should warn you that Tellarites-”

Jonas stared directly at the Tellarite and finished with, “-Stink like a zertith pelt left in the sun too long. The smell must be awful in Engineering.”

Grev laughed uproariously, clamping a thick hand on Ostrow’s shoulder. “He understands the Banter!”

Jonas beamed. “My Mom works with Tellarites in her salvage company. I grew up around them. Despite that, somehow I still managed to learn something.”

Grev’s beady black eyes fixed on Hrelle. “Ooh, I like him!” Guiding Ostrow away, he promised, “Come on, meet the others.”

Hrelle tried not to laugh as they departed. Elsewhere, he saw Neraxis Nemm with Security Chief Lt. Abed, a tall, robust-looking Terran with bronzed skin, short sable hair and beard, and a love for a lamb phall dish that the Bolian was currently spicing up with chilli sauce.

Then there was the Chief Medical Officer Dr Ling, a Terran woman of Asian descent, with a flat face, narrow chin, old-fashioned spectacles, and a stony demeanour that could put a Horta to shame. But her meeting with the equally implacable Eydiir Daughter-of-Kaas took both women to a corner of the room to bask in their mutual taciturnity.

And the Qarari Science cadet, Kitirik, was chatting excitedly to her supervisor and instructor, the ship’s Counselor, Kami Shall, who seemed equally charmed by the newcomer.

Hrelle frowned to himself as he looked at Kami. In the weeks since taking command of the Surefoot, he found himself getting along well with all of his small crew, just as he was getting used to being a Captain again, and just about everything else.

But Kami was different... they didn’t have Counselors onboard ships back in his day, though it was understandable that given his circumstances he would have to see her as a patient on a regular basis, just as she was there for the cadets, monitoring their mental and emotional health while they were participating in the AWE Program.

She was Caitian, too, the first one he’d seen in years: middle-aged, with distracting curves and a full mane of honey-blonde hair and darker fur, who preferred the minidress version of the uniforms to allow her tail free access, as well as going barefoot to accommodate their people’s particular foot structure. As for her scent...

“Is there a problem, Captain?” T’Varik asked.

He pulled himself from the distraction. “Mmm? Oh, uh, I think something’s up between Sasha and Giles.”

“‘Up’? For good or ill?”

“I’m... not sure yet. They don’t seem to be at each other’s throats.”

“Indeed? I must confess to the notion that I might have erred in assigning him to Alpha Squad.”

“Erred? You?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I believe I stated ‘might’.”

As if hearing them, the two cadets approached. Hrelle couldn’t contain his delight at seeing her, though this time he did manage not to reach out and pull her in for another fatherly embrace. He did offer a nod at Giles, when Sasha spoke. “Sir, Ma’am, Mr Arrington and I would respectfully request clarification as to why I was selected for Squad Leader and he wasn’t.”

“Crewmen,” T’Varik replied. “This social gathering is an inappropriate venue for this discussion-”

“Commander,” Sasha interrupted. “With all due respect, Alpha Squad is scheduled to start our first work shift at 0800 tomorrow. It would be logical to settle any outstanding matters in order to maximise efficiency.”

T’Varik gave her a look that Hrelle would have called amused derision at anyone trying to apply logic against a Vulcan – that is, if any Vulcan would ever admit to expressing such emotion. “Very well. If you are comfortable discussing this here…”

She turned to Giles, folding her hands behind her back. “Mr Arrington, your Leadership scores are indeed high, as are Ms Hrelle’s. However, she exceeds your scores in terms of Maturity, Empathy, Interspecies Relations and Teamwork. Your own scores in these fields may improve in time, with remedial courses and general life experience, but at the moment, she is overall a more qualified Squad Leader than you.”

He was clearly taken aback by the bald assessment. “That- That can’t be true- It’s her father’s doing-”

“Before you make any claims involving favouritism on the part of the Captain, you should be made aware that under the terms that allow Sasha to serve onboard with her stepfather, it was agreed that I would manage all decisions regarding the cadets, in order to avoid any such notions. The decision is mine, made logically and impartially. You will still study on the Command track, but your practical work will be based in Flight Operations.”

Giles face reddened, and for the first time, Hrelle felt sorry for him. He reached for a flute of champagne, his whiskers twitching as he brought the rim of the glass to his muzzle, hoping that the kid would take the hint and accept it.

But he didn’t. “Perhaps... Perhaps I can exchange places with someone on one of the other squads?”

“The selection of cadets for this vessel was carefully chosen; I will not create further inconvenience to satisfy your personal desires.”

Now he raised his voice. “No, but you don’t mind inconveniencing me, do you?”

Sasha looked to him. “Giles-”

“Sash,” her stepfather said softly. “Go mingle.”

She looked to him, and then nodded and departed. Alone with T’Varik and Giles, Hrelle focused on not letting his prior history with the boy and his family colour his words or tone. “Mr Arrington, when you’ve been in Starfleet long enough, rest assured you’ll be inconvenienced. You’ll miss shore leave, you’ll miss promotions, you’ll get transfers to places and positions that aren’t even your third choice much less your first or second. Holidays, birthdays, anniversaries… all get rescheduled, because the needs of the Service come first. And rank will mean nothing; in fact, the higher your rank, the more likely it will happen.”

Giles tensed further. “Sir, I must request permission to send a message to my father immediately-”

“Denied,” T’Varik said flatly. “Submit your request through the prescribed channels, as already explained to you, and a response will be made in due course.”

“Giles,” Hrelle said, drawing closer, resting a hand on his shoulder. “I remember being your age, planning on being Captain at age thirty, Admiral at age forty, and Ruler of the Universe by the time I died at the the ancient age of fifty. And I hated anyone and anything I thought was getting in my way. I had to set aside the Command track myself as a midshipman and work up through the ranks of Security.

And you know what? It made me a better leader. I learned what it meant to swallow my pride and take orders, to serve, to help me see the responsibilities I had to those who would eventually be under my command. And I think this will make you a better leader, too.

In the meantime…” He pointed to a tall, thin Nordic woman with platinum blonde ponytailed hair. “That is Chief Helmsman Lt. Irina Velkovsky, your supervisor. Go introduce yourself. She’s had a fascinating career, and has even participated in the Delos 5000 Solar Race. I think you’ll get along well with her.”

But Giles continued to stand there, face reddening even more, until T’Varik added, ”I do not believe that was a suggestion, Cadet.”

He turned and departed, and T’Varik turned to Hrelle as if to speak to him.

But not before both of them heard Giles mutter under his breath, “The Bel-Zon must have neutered him when they cut off his tail-”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY, BOY?”

Hrelle’s vision had gone red as he stormed up to a frozen Giles, roughly spinning him around, relishing the terrified look in the boy’s expression as the Caitian was in his face, teeth bared, nostrils flaring, voice still loud as he snarled, “Say that to my face! Go on, you little runt! Say it!”

T’Varik was at his side, “Captain, allow me to deal with this-”

Hrelle ignored her. “You think that’s funny? You think it’s a joke what they did to me? DO YOU, YOU LITTLE BASTARD?”

Giles had paled, looking like he would faint at any moment. He was terrified.

Good.

“Captain,” T’Varik repeated, more forcefully.

Suddenly Hrelle was aware of everything again. Aware of everyone in the room starting at him. Aware of the smell of urine from Giles. Aware of the broken champagne glass in his hand, the blood now pooling into his fist. Aware of the fear he saw in Sasha’s eyes.

He glanced at his First Officer, snapping, “Deal with this. I’ll be in my quarters. I don’t want to be disturbed by anyone, understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

He couldn’t flee quickly enough without actually running.

*

He was in his bathroom in his quarters, removing the shards of glass from his palm and washing the blood away – Mother’s Cubs, just how many litres did he have left in him? – when he heard his door slide open, despite his ordering a lock on it. He called out, “I said I didn’t want to be disturbed.”

“I heard,” came a cheery, familiar, unwelcome female reply.

He poked his head out. “That includes you, Counselor.”

“I know,” she admitted, “And it’s adorable that you think that’s going to stop me.” Kami stood there, carrying a black medical kit on a sling under her arm, her tail swishing behind her. “I smelled the blood and saw the broken glass, and I knew a Big Proud Male like you wouldn’t be smart and go to Sickbay to get fixed up, so…” She indicated the kit. “Thought you’d like to play Doctor.”

“I’m not interested. Get out.”

She set the kit down on his desk, regarded him and smiled.

“What’s so amusing?”

“That expression of yours, that tone – it reminds me of my cub.”

“Your... cub?”

She nodded, opening the kit. “I told you he was all grown up. But when he was only knee-high, and refused to get in the bath, he’d stand there by the tub, arms crossed, scowl on his face as he declared, ‘No! No Bath!’ And he’d try to be fierce, but all I could see was this beautiful little naked cub that I made and carried inside me. And I’d sweep him up in my arms, spin him around and hug him and tell him how much I loved him… and then I’d put him in the bath.”

He approached her, still clutching his cut hand. He wasn’t in the mood for her. “I’m not your cub, Counselor.”

“I’m glad to hear it, given all the filthy fantasies I have of you.”

“Get out!” he growled - baring his teeth in her face for good measure, knowing how wrong he was for doing so, even as he did it.

Swifter than he expected, her hand shot out, claws raking the left side of his muzzle, making him gasp, stagger back and clutch his face with his good hand.

She stood there, claws still extended from the tips of her fingers, no longer the facetious, flirtatious woman he knew, her eyes narrow, her face taut, her growl low and dangerous. “Listen carefully, Captain Esek Hrelle: I’m your Counselor, and I’m your friend. But don’t ever bare your teeth at me unless you mean it. Do you understand me?”

He shook. He physically shook, as shocked by his own unforgivable action as he was by her reaction. Too long he had lived among humans, who bared their teeth to show pleasure rather than threat. He had forgotten what it meant to his people-

No. He knew what he was doing. And he was ashamed of it.

“I’m sorry,” he finally offered. “That was uncalled for. And I knew it as I did it. I’m... ashamed of myself. And I need your help.” He held his hand. “With this, as well as what happened with Giles.”

She regarded him, lowering her striking arm and retracting her claws. “Well: six open, honest statements at once. If I knew I could get that from you I would have scratched you from the start.” She indicated his chair at the desk, her demeanour calm again. “Sit down, I’ll take care of the face as well as the hand.”

Too chagrined and defeated to argue any further, he complied, setting the wounded hand palm up on the desk while she withdrew the sterilisers, tricorder and autosuture from the kit. He watched for a moment, before looking away again. “What happened after I left?”

Kami ran the tricorder over his palm, confirming no glass remained in the cuts, though the bleeding continued. ”Well, Sasha demanded to know what Giles had said to get that reaction from you. She was ready to finish what you started, almost to the point of insubordination with T’Varik.” She snorted as she began cleaning the cuts. “Seven Hells, she may not look Caitian, but she certainly has our spirit.” She smiled. “Anyway, her squad convinced her to back off and return to their quarters. Your First Officer then sent Giles to the Brig.”

“The Brig? Seriously?”

She nodded. “Article 89: Disrespect Towards a Superior Commissioned Officer. To be fair, I think her first choice might have been confining him to his quarters, but since he shares them with Sasha, that might have constituted capital punishment.” She paused and added, “The party fizzled out after that, so I guess we’re all eating leftover vol-au-vants and Andorian bhajis for breakfast. So… want to tell me what he said?”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter, I didn’t have any right to get angry about it like I did- Oww!”

He almost pulled his hand away. Kami, still holding the autosuture, looked up innocently. “What? Oh, sorry, it’s the device. It not only repairs cellular damage, it also delivers a painful charge whenever you talk crap.” She shrugged as she resumed her work. “It’s probably best not to talk crap.”

He stared in disbelief. How had this woman managed to get a medical licence? “You can’t really believe I had a right to lose my temper over a stupid remark?”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m the Captain. I have to be held up to the highest standards- Owww! Stop that!”

She indicated the autosuture. “Warned you about talking crap. And you can drop that ‘highest standards’ garbage. How can anyone aspire to that? How can anyone relate? Nobody wants to serve under Captain Perfect, he sounds like a massive tool. So I’ll ask again: what did he say?”

He breathed out, wishing he’d had some liquor in his quarters. “He... made a remark about my losing my tail, that’s all.”

“Oh? What about when he mentioned you getting neutered?”

“You already knew he said that?”

“Of course, I was there, I heard.”

“Then why bother asking me?”

“To catch you lying, of course. So… you were outraged, you got into his face and made him wet himself.” She nodded. “Good.”

“What do you mean, ‘Good’? It’s good that I scared some kid into wetting his pants?”

His hand was numbing as she continued to repair the cuts. “Well, it might not have been textbook Starfleet behaviour, but it wasn’t as if you went Full Klingon and gutted him, either. You never even touched him, just shook him up; if he was Caitian, he would have had his snout smacked, and bore a few scars. And I’d have been more worried about you if you did all that and didn’t come back here to mope around like you were ready to join the First Martyr on the Wheel.”

He grunted. The woman was unbelievable.

Not that he didn’t like what she had to say. Then he straightened up. “Oh no... Sasha...”

“What about Sasha?”

“In all the years I was a part of her life, I never so much as raised my voice in her presence!”

“So?”

“So now, tonight…” He shook his head to try and dispel the memory. “I don’t- I don’t want her to end up afraid of me- Arrgh!” Now he pulled his hand away completely. “Mother’s Cubs, stop that!”

Kami looked up at him unapologetically. “You know, if you keep this up, I might have to find a Klingon pain stick to use on you.” She pulled his hand back for a final check. “Let’s get one thing clear: you can’t do wrong as far as that girl’s concerned. She’s defended you time and again when others thought you had betrayed her and your wife and your oath to Starfleet and was living the high life on Orion. She’s stood up to the media, to upperclassmen, to senior officers, and she’d probably bare her teeth to the Great Mother Herself to protect you. You have no fear of losing her.”

She tilted her head as she looked at him. “Your hand’s done. Now, let’s see about that face.” She leaned in with the autosuture from where she sat, but seemed to find the position awkward. “Wait.”

She rose, drew closer, and lifted up the hem of her uniform to straddle him without preamble, her legs wrapping around him, her tail snaking around one of his legs. “Yes, this is better.”

He gasped. “What the- Get off me!”

“Stay still, I won’t be long.” She shifted slightly, smiling. “Think clean thoughts, Captain, or I’ll be the first to know otherwise.”

He tried not to react, but the heat from her on his lap was... Mother’s Cubs… “Are you usually this outrageous with all your patients?”

She leaned into the scratched side of his face, her voice a teasing murmur. “Most people are actually easy to communicate with. Then there are sodboxes like you who always come in with their shields raised. They need to be constantly thrown off-guard, whether it’s with a flirt or a swipe across the snout. And it works.”

She moved the tip of the autosuture over the scratches she gave him on his muzzle, as her voice took on a gentler, more sympathetic tone. “Esek… I know you feel guilty about frightening the boy, no matter how justified everyone else thinks you were for doing so; that’s part of what makes you such a decent man.

So... go to him. Don’t apologise - that will only let him off the hook for what he said - but explain why you reacted the way you did. Cubs Giles’ age tend to say and do things out of ignorance. You two might even reach an understanding.”

He considered her advice, having had similar thoughts already. “Assuming our First Officer hasn’t already arranged to ship him off to a penal colony.” He breathed out. “I don’t care what all the other Arringtons have done to me, I don’t have any desire to punish this kid.”

“There’s more of that decency.” She smiled. “You can always go to T’Varik and appeal to the logic in minimising overall disruption to the Program by not punishing him.”

He thought about it, finally nodding in agreement. It made sense. “And the rest of the cadets, our crew? After my outburst, what are they going to think about me?”

She leaned back. “They’re probably going to thank you for making this very routine assignment a little less routine.” She switched off the autosuture, resting her hands on his shoulders. “There, all done, and you went a whole minute without getting shocked. I should get you a lollipop as a reward for being a good cub.”

“No thank you. You can get off me now.”

Kami purred, moving teasingly on him. “But I’ve just got comfy.”

He rolled his eyes. “Go, I have work to do.” With her still not budging, he reached up between them to tap his combadge. “Captain Hrelle to Commander T’Varik.”

A second later, the Vulcan’s voice joined the room. “T’Varik here.”

“Report to my office, please, I’d like to discuss what happened tonight.”

“On my way.”

Kami smiled, saying aloud, “Take your time, Commander.”

“Excuse me, Sir?” T’Varik asked.

He screwed up his face. “Never mind, Number One. Hrelle out.” He tapped his combadge once more to end the link. “Damn, I’ll never get used to the protocols on these. Vacate my lap, Counselor, immediately!”

She was sniggering as she rose and straightened herself up. His eyes wandered - and then he looked away again. “And perhaps next time you can act more professionally!”

“Oh, yes, Sir, Captain Sir, absolutely.” She didn’t sound too convincing, though. She packed up the medical kit and slung it under her arm. “Nighty night!” She winked at him as she departed, her tail swishing behind her.

Mother’s Cubs…

He hoped he would be more composed when his First Officer arrived.

*

USS Surefoot, Deck 5, Brig:

“Not very palatial in here, is it?”

Giles had been lying in his bunk in the brig, staring at the blank wall opposite. Now, at the sight of Captain Hrelle standing on the other side of the force field door, he rose to attention.

“At ease.” As Giles relaxed a little, Hrelle nodded to the Security Officer at the brig control panel nearby, who turned off the energy screen long enough to allow the Captain to step inside. “Leave the screen down and go get yourself a coffee, Mr Gorman.”

The crewman, a fresh-faced, ginger-haired Terran not much older than the cadet he was now supervising, blanched. “Sir? Um, the prisoner-”

“He’s formidable, I know, but I think I can handle him. I’ll call you when I want you back.” As the crewman nodded and departed, Hrelle examined the stark interior, trying the retractable sink and toilet. “I don’t think this brig was ever used. The ship was built sixty years ago, originally named the USS Martin Fettman and did mostly planetary surveys, but I think you might actually be the first occupant in here.” As he stared, his nose picked up the fact that Giles still wore the clothes he’d wet after his accident at the party. The boy was probably too proud to ask for replacements.

Giles flinched. “Sir, I- I wanted to apologise for my remarks, both in the cargo bay and then later. They were offensive and uncalled for.”

“Yes, they were,” Hrelle agreed, facing the boy, his own hands clasped behind his back as if mirroring him. “You do realise how seriously Starfleet takes racist attitudes, in light of the nature of the Federation and the role we play within it? Now, admittedly I’ve let some people make jokes about Caitians over the years, but those people have been family and close friends - and you’re definitely neither of those. As for the remarks about my time with the Bel-Zon-”

“Sir, I didn’t mean to-”

“Of course you did, and the fact that you did it twice, the second time knowing full well that your Captain and First Officer could hear you, strikes you as immature, reckless, stupid, or a combination of all three.”

Giles was sweating now. “Sir, with all due respect, I said I was sorry-”

“Apologies do not automatically earn forgiveness. Hasn’t anyone taught you that? Apologies are not the end of a matter, but the beginning. Especially when it seems like you’ve only apologised because you’ve been confronted with what you’ve done.” He paused, watching the boy begin to tremble. “I’ve spoken with Commander T’Varik. It is her recommendation that you be returned to Starfleet Academy, removed from the Program and have the Article 89 Violation a permanent mark on your record.

Of course, your family’s combined influence may overturn all that; it happens, despite efforts by Starfleet to maintain a meritocracy…” He looked at Giles. “Do you like that?”

“Sir?”

“Do you like going through life knowing that your family will pull you out of whatever trouble you get yourself into, that your connections will get you what you want, without honestly earning it yourself? Because you don’t seem the type. You seem more like a decent young man who takes pride in his own achievements.” He paused and asked. “Am I right?”

Giles swallowed, looking as if he was afraid he was being tricked in some way. But then he nodded slightly and replied, “Yes, Sir. I like to think I am.”

Hrelle’s eyes narrowed. “Then I have a deal to offer you. I will persuade my First Officer to drop the charges and start over with you.”

The boy frowned. “You’d- You’d do that? Why?”

“T’Varik asked the same question. She doesn’t believe it’s logical to give you a second chance - or in this case, a third, counting the Naughty Step. But, fortunately for you, I have been called many things in my life, but logical was rarely one of them.”

Now he was confused. “But you- you hate my family.”

The Caitian’s expression furrowed. “Hate? I wouldn’t say that. I mean, yes, your grandfather Jeffrey took an instant dislike to me when I was your age at the Academy, without ever telling me why. And he had your father and your uncles and aunts bully me during my time there. And your older brother accused me of treason and then harassed my child. And then you repeatedly insulted me...” He smirked. “Well, I’m sure you have some distant second cousin somewhere I might almost like. But I’m not here about them, I’m here about you. Are you interested?”

Now it was Giles’ turn to frown. “What do I have to do?”

“You have to look, and you have to listen.”

“Look? Listen? To what?”

“You have to look at me. You have to listen to my story. Not what you might have heard from your family, or the sensationalist media. My story.”

The boy blinked. “And that’s it? That’s all I have to do?”

Hrelle’s gaze darkened. “It may not be as easy as you think. Sit down.”

He did, his hands gripping the side of the bunk. Then he tensed as he watched Hrelle undress, running his fingertip along the fastener to the back of his uniform. “Um, Sir… what are you doing?”

Hrelle grunted. “Relax, Giles, nothing inappropriate is going to happen between us; you’re definitely not my type. You’re not going to get to see all of your Commanding Officer. Just enough.” He slid his uniform off his shoulders, removed his arms from the sleeves and let the material drape over the lower half of his body like a makeshift apron, before straightening up. “My people are casual about nudity; we do wear fur, after all. In fact, if you visit Cait on the hottest months, you’ll see most of us running around with nothing on but smiles. But lately, I’ve grown... reluctant to disrobe in front of others.”

Giles looked at him, and paled, eyes wide and yet focused. Hrelle had seen that look before, on older, more professional people who had examined him. He understood it. The thin coating of fur on his upper body was threadbare where there were scars.

And there were scars everywhere: his chest, abdomen, biceps, forearms – and when he turned around, he displayed the ones on his shoulders, and back, the scars all of many sizes and shapes, scars from cuts and scars from burns.

“They extend all over me,” Hrelle informed him. “The worst is around the base of my spine, where my tail had been cut off and the wound crudely cauterised.” He slipped back into his uniform quickly. “I trust I don’t have to show that much?”

The boy shook his head; he looked like he was going to faint.

Once he was dressed again, Hrelle moved to the place on the wall where the retractable sink was hidden, drew it out, and filled up a paper cup with water from the tap, handing it to him. Then he sat down on the bunk beside the boy. “Not very pretty, am I? I used to be considered quite attractive when I was your age.”

They went silent. Hrelle looked around, wondering if it would hurt to put in some colours in these cells. Beige was so soul-destroying.

Enough delays… “Seven years ago, I left my family in the middle of Sasha’s tenth birthday and flew off in the Furyk in response to a distress call from a research station on Banaris IX; ours was the only ship in the area at the time. Along the way, we found what appeared to be the wreckage of a starship. Within the wreckage were spatial charges, disrupting our engines and shields. We tried to call for help, but local subspace was being jammed.

Then the ships came, launching aceton assimilators that attached themselves to the hull, draining our power, including life support, even from our hand phasers, and converting it all into hard radiation directed back at us. I was on the bridge, trying to move the crew to the centre of the ship, as far from the radiation bursts as possible, urging them to pick up blades, improvised clubs, anything to help repel boarders.

But boarders weren’t coming…”

*

Seven Years Ago, Banaris Sector:

Hrelle’s eyes and ears filled with an orange-yellow transporter beam, and he could feel himself being pulled out of his chair on the bridge of the Furyk. It was unexpected, but he knew he would be ready for it.

Until he found himself materialising in mid-air.

His eyes adjusted quickly enough to realise he was some three metres above the ground, panic making him flail about for a moment as gravity reasserted itself and dragged him down. But he recovered enough to twist about - memories of bad cat jokes about always landing on his feet returning - and draw his limbs and tail into himself, protecting his head and neck at the expense of-

It was like a spike was driven through his right foot as he struck and rolled on a cold, hard metal floor. He cried out, but unfurled his arms and legs in an effort to rise and face their attackers-

Screams filled the thin, cool air.

Bodies were hitting the floor around him.

It was dark, dark enough to make even his senses strain, but he knew who was here: his First Officer Labine, Communications Officer O’Reilly, Navigator Shekrev, Tactical Officer Ellerton, Science Officer Rabin.

But there were others, too: strange scents, heavy boots, rapid approach. He started to call out, “Ellerton, there’s eight of them, three near you-”

An electric jolt shot through Hrelle, sending him sprawling backwards. He heard more jolts around him, more cries from his crew. Hrelle fought with his numbed, trembling body, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, could do nothing but listen. And scent the attackers: human, maybe Terrans, Klingons, Yridians, Orions, Nausicaans… this was no foreign power, but some terrorist or criminal organisation. But there had been no recent reports from Starfleet Intelligence about this threat…

A male spoke first, the accent definitely Terran. “What’s this one?”

A pause, then someone else replied with an unknown accent. “Her name’s Rabin. Abigail Rabin-”

“I want her position, not her name.”

“Oh… Science Officer.”

“We don’t need her.”

An energy blast. A Klingon disruptor, set on maximum.

No.

“And this one?”

“Tactical Officer.”

“Take him along.”

“And this one?”

“Navigator.”

“We don’t need him.”

Mother’s Cubs, no- no, please-

Another disruptor blast.

Hrelle struggled to rise, to speak, to plead, to distract them from their work. He had to stop them! He had to do something!

“And this pretty thing?”

“Mmm… Communications Officer.”

A pause. “Take her along.”

“And him?”

“He’s dead, whoever he is. Neck’s broken.”

Labine.

A strangled gasp escaped Hrelle. Labine… Seven Hells, Labine was getting married later this year. And Rabin just had a child. And Shekrev was planning on returning to Andor and running his own iceship business.

He was staring upwards, and the attackers had to step around him for him to see: a slim, pale-skinned Terran male with a bald head, ashen beard and a sober black suit; a tall, burly Klingon male with a disruptor in hand; and an unknown sentient, a tall, gaunt, pale-skinned, white-haired humanoid with pronounced bulges on the side of its skull.

The Unknown sentient tilted its head. “This one is-”

The Terran regarded Hrelle. “No need. I know who he is and what he is. Take him along.”

*

“They spared you,” Giles noted, clearly distraught but unable to resist wanting to hear more.

“And my Tactical and Communication Officers. We had the information they needed about Salem One’s security systems, in order to steal the trilithium being stored there - though they never told me that at the time.” Hrelle wouldn’t take his gaze from the cell wall opposite. “The rest of the crew weren’t… useful to them.” He leaned back. He had told the story, many times before, in debriefings and during his court martial. It should grow easier with each new retelling. It didn’t. “I never saw Ellerton or O’Reilly again.” He averted his eyes. “I like to hope that they didn’t suffer too much, for too long. But that was a slim hope at best…”

*

“There is no such thing as a harmless setting on an energy weapon,” his Academy arms instructor, a squat but formidable-looking Rigellian, once taught him. “Even the lowest setting of one of our phasers causes cellular and neural disruption. And multiple bursts over a short period of time accumulate, and can end up being as lethal as a point blank Klingon disruptor blast.”

She was right. Hrelle had been hit when he first arrived among his captors. He had been hit again when they began stripping him, and he used his claws to open the carotid artery of some fool who got too close and too careless. He awoke hours later in a cell, naked… and the tips of his fingers bleeding after they had forcibly removed his claws. Mother’s Cubs… to take a Caitian’s claws from them like that was…

The next time a beam hit him was when his captors visited: the Terran, the Klingon and the Unknown sentient. He had pretended to still be groggy, until he attacked. But the Klingon was ready for him with a painstick, and used it liberally. When he woke after that, he was alone again, nursing a tremor that wouldn’t leave, and an inability to rise to his feet without getting dizzy.

He really had to avoid another one of those any time soon.

His cell was freezing, constantly lit, and the silence was randomly broken by high-pitched sonics that made him howl in pain. He could only measure time by how hungry he was. He was exhausted.

When the trio returned, he stayed on the ground, his back against the wall, glaring up at them, trying to gain some clue as to who they were and what they wanted with him. No doubt they would begin his interrogation in earnest; that was fine by him, because he could learn almost as much from their questions as they would from his answers - that is, if he was of a mind to give them any.

For now, he just had to hold out until help came, and give them only what was expected. “Name: Esek Hrelle. Rank: Captain. Serial Number: FSN 066-44-7789. Birthdate: Stardate 8479.51.”

The Terran nodded at this, then asked genially, “What’s the best restaurant on Salem One, Captain? I’ve heard it was the sushi place on the Lower Promenade, but there have also been good reviews of the Tellarite Grill on the Upper Promenade, Section 3. Have you and Hannah and Sasha eaten at either of them?”

Hrelle started, and not just because he mentioned his wife and stepdaughter. What was the point of asking him that, except to possibly put him at ease? If so, it was a wasted effort, after all they’ve done to his crew and himself. “Name: Esek Hrelle. Rank: Captain. Serial-”

“I read that there was an infestation of leopard spiders in the Operations Centre last year.” the Terran continued, smiling slightly as Hrelle stopped his rote. “They would accidentally drop down on people in Security, in Stores, even in the Vaults where the trilithium resin was stored. Can you imagine the look on people’s faces when they’re going along, doing their jobs or visiting their possessions, and suddenly a spider the size of their hand lands on their heads?”

Hrelle tensed. What was he doing? What was the point of these questions? His teeth clenched and bared, he repeated, “Name: Esek Hrelle-”

“Speaking of which, how many Romulans does it take to clear the trilithium resin from a warp core? Two: one to do the work, the other to kill him and assume the praise.”

Hrelle looked up. He was telling jokes? What the hell was going on?

Then he looked up to see the Terran and the Unknown exchange expressions, before both departed, leaving the Klingon behind.

Then the Klingon was upon him, punching and kicking him…

*

“That’s it?” Giles asked. “They just left you to get beat up?”

Hrelle grunted. “That sounds so… cute: ‘beat up’. Funny, it didn’t feel so cute at the time. I figured they had changed tactics, from the psychological to the physical, in order to get the information they needed.”

He looked at Giles again. “The problem was… they never came out and asked me anything of importance. Certainly nothing warranting all the death and pain they’d committed to get me there…”

*

Hrelle had never felt such pain. He couldn’t move anything without feeling it. Not even just lying there on the cell floor relieved him of it. Some bones were broken, or just fractured; he tried to count them, but couldn’t get past a dozen. Even in his tail, which hung limp against his leg after a Nausicaan repeatedly stamped on it.

And where he hadn’t been broken, he’d been beaten, burned… assaulted in places best left untouched. They had injected him with drugs that made him feel like he was suffocating, and drugs that induced terrible hallucinations. One eye was sealed shut. His lips were cracked; he’d had no food in a long time, though at least his stomach had stopped rumbling, and what little liquids they fed him tasted like they had passed through someone already. If Hannah saw him now…

Hannah…

He would never see her again. He knew this. He would never see her, smell her hair and skin, hold her in his arms, make love with her.

And Sasha… he would never see her grow up, become the remarkable young woman he knew she as destined to be. Maybe she would join Starfleet, maybe not, but regardless, she would be amazing at anything and everything she did.

Agony shot through him, as the Terran activated the pain implants they put in places along his spine. He spasmed and howled incoherently, as it felt like spikes were driven into him. Mother’s Cubs, he couldn’t bear it!

But he had to. He had no choice. But he did have a chance. He was still alive, which meant that they hadn’t broken him yet, they hadn’t obtained the information they wanted. He could hold out. He could hold out as long as necessary. There was probably a ship on its way here now to rescue him. Any hour now, he’d be beamed away-

“You’ve resisted quite well, Captain,” the Terran taunted. “I wonder where your strength lies? It wasn’t in your claws, since we removed them. Your fangs? Perhaps we shall remove them next.”

“F-F-F-Fuc-” Hrelle screamed again from another wave of pain, biting down and drawing blood from his tongue and inner cheek, coughing and sputtering, his stomach twisting so hard, wanting to bring up contents that weren’t there. His brain was on fire, his eyes veiled with red.

The pain stopped, but the pounding in his ears continued. Dimly he became aware of the Terran rising and approaching, dropping to one knee, offering a smile that never reflected in his eyes. “Your tail, perhaps? I understand it helps with your balance, but maybe it’s more? Let’s see, shall we?”

No. NO.

Several Nausicaans who had been standing nearby, witnessing the torture, approached, pinning him face down. Hrelle looked up to see the Klingon brandishing a mek’leth, one of his people’s shorter blade weapons, and shook his head. “N-No- No, please, no-”

The Terran drew back. “Make sure someone has a heat beam to cauterise the wound, we don’t want him bleeding to death.”

Hrelle felt one of the Nausicaans grabbing his tail and roughly holding it up. He cried out, his cracked, ragged voice even more pitiful. “No! Please! I’ll tell you anything! Anything!”

The Terran regarded him now, looking coldly amused now. “And what do you think we would want from you that we haven’t already taken, Captain?” He leaned in again, as if to make sure Hrelle understood. “We accomplished that days ago. What we’re doing now is for someone else.

A year ago, the Furyk fought and destroyed a smuggler ship owned by the Orion Syndicate. The father of the captain of that ship never forgot what you did, and was wealthy enough to employ us for revenge. He wanted your ship and crew dead - but not you. You are meant to stay alive as long as possible, and to make you suffer for as long as possible. And the Bel-Zon always honour a contract.” He nodded to the Klingon. “Do it.”

Hrelle was screaming, and kept screaming when he felt the blade at the base of his tail, cutting into his flesh…

*

Hrelle found himself gripping the sides of Giles’ bunk, shaking, and fought to control it.

“I- I-” Giles couldn’t finish whatever he wanted to say.

Hrelle left him at that. He wouldn’t know what to say either. Being mutilated by having his claws removed had been bad enough, but to remove a Caitian’s tail… 

“I… I don’t understand,” Giles finally admitted, confused. “What did they mean, Sir? That they already got what they wanted from you?”

Hrelle breathed out, realising he had tensed up with the memory of that day, as if he was ready to spring from the bunk and run away. “The third alien that always accompanied the other two, the one I didn’t recognise. I learned later that he was an Ullian.”

“An… Ullian? I don’t know them.”

“I’m not surprised, with all the known sentient species out there. They’re mnemopaths, able to read not other people’s thoughts but their memories. I’m told that they go out into the Galaxy to collect interesting, powerful memories for sharing with their race, and that the majority of their people are peaceful, and would never forcibly extract memories.

The Ullian who worked for the Bel-Zon, however, was not so ethical, and his methods proved quicker and more efficacious than drugs or assault. The Terran who asked those strange questions about the station, and made the joke, triggered my own memories, allowing the Ullian to reach in and gain the security codes and other information needed to raid Salem One. I suspect my Tactical and Communications Officer was given the same treatment, and then… killed.”

Giles looked to him, paled by the realisation. “There wasn’t… You couldn’t have helped them. And you couldn’t have stopped the Bel-Zon from taking the information.”

Hrelle nodded. “That was also the finding of the second court martial when I returned.”

“But- But why wasn’t this made more clear when the findings were released?”

“That aspect was deliberately downplayed. There has always been a general unease regarding telepathy within the Federation, and how secure our own thoughts are against those who possess the ability. But the telepathic races we know about - the Vulcans, Betazoids, Melkotians, among others - tend to be regulated by ethics and morality, or at the very least an isolationism from the rest of us. Starfleet didn’t want an unwarranted fear of telepaths to spread - or for other organisations like the Bel-Zon to be inspired to exploit them in similar crimes.”

Giles looked to him. “You didn’t do anything, Sir. You weren’t guilty.”

He stared ahead breathing out deliberately slowly. “Oh, but I was guilty. I am guilty.”

“What? I don’t-”

Hrelle fought to end his trembling, barely able to look at Giles. “Have you ever felt pain, Giles? I mean, actual, enduring pain?”

The young man’s face furrowed in thought, though it seemed as if he already had an answer for him. “Once, when I was in my solar yacht, on a solo voyage. One of the mechanical moorings had jammed, and I was going off-course.” He opened his right hand in his lap, stared down at it blankly. “The mechanisms tended to jam because of the constant shifts in temperature between light and shadow, even with the carbon aramid materials used. I needed to free it, quickly, and didn’t want to waste time looking for the extension tool. So…” 

His fingers curled around a memory, making him wince. “I was stupid. It was so hot… I only held onto it for a few seconds… they repaired the burns fully, of course, but…”

“But you still remember the pain.” Hrelle nodded. “Now, imagine someone holding down your hand, preventing you from letting go. The pain shoots through you, ongoing, for a minute. Then an hour. A day. Your whole body is protesting, demanding, pleading with you: Do something! Do anything! Just make it stop!

I was… I was at the end of my proverbial tether. I was sobbing. Sobbing like a cub. Begging them not to cut off my tail. All the bravado I had shown when I had first been captured had been brutally, systematically ripped from me. Thoughts of being a hero had fled at Warp Ten. I had been broken. They had imbrutened me, reduced me to the level of an animal driven by self-preservation.

I know that they had taken what they wanted from me without my even knowing it. But… if they had asked me for the security codes for Salem One then, I would have given them up. I would have betrayed Starfleet, the Federation… my family. Anything. That I didn’t actually end up doing that is immaterial to my guilt. And now, every time I look at my lovely, wonderful daughter, a little voice inside me reminds me of how far I would have gone, just to stop the pain.”

After a moment of heavy silence, he continued. “They let me live, as planned, sold me into slavery, first mining pergium on an asteroid somewhere for the Breen, then as a gladiator for the Orion Deathmatches, and finally onboard a Corvallen ship keeping the theta waste systems clear. And I kept myself alive - not out of any sense of heroism, but only because I didn’t deserve the release of a quick death. I needed to suffer, just like they wanted me to suffer.”

The cell grew quiet again, until Giles asked, “You… you don’t feel that way now, do you, Sir?”

Hrelle considered his answer before replying. “No. With time, and the help of counseling, I learned to accept that what happened to me was a dark, terrible chapter in my life. But that’s all it was: a chapter. It wasn’t my life.

Your brother Matthew attended my last hearing, and there he stated for the record that I was no hero. I agreed with him. I avoided giving interviews or compiling accounts of my so-called heroism. I did nothing heroic; survival is not heroism.

A part of me will never forgive myself for all those who died because of my actions. But that part of me is small now and usually sits in the corner and behaves itself, because the Bel-Zon took too much of me already, it doesn’t need any more.”

He looked to the boy. “When I left Salem One, my wife and I were working towards having a child of our own, a baby brother for Sasha. But as the old saying goes, ‘Sometimes the Universe Has Other Plans’. I could be bitter about that. But that would be a waste.

I’m alive, Giles - even if I’ve lost a lot of years off the back end of it because of what I went through. My daughter lives, and has grown up to be a remarkable young woman, one whom I couldn’t be more proud of if you put a phaser to my head.”

Giles offered a slight smile. “You… You have… a right to be proud of her, Sir.”

“Thank you. And of course, I’m captaining a ship again, the one thing I’ve always wanted to do. You’ll get that chance too someday.”

“Sir, why-” Giles started, frowning, then stopped himself.

“Go on,” Hrelle urged. “At this stage, I think you can ask anything.”

“Why- Sir, you can have your tail regrown now, your claws, you can get rid of the scars-”

“Yes, I can. So why don’t I?” His gaze narrowed. “Because that would be too easy, like pressing a button to reset the status quo. I don’t want to forget what happened to me. And I don’t want others to forget. I don’t want them to forget that we live in a Universe where things like this can happen. The slave trafficking network was aided and abetted not only by those who profited from it, but those who refused to believe something terrible like that could exist in their midst. Our lives are mostly good, Giles, as are the people we'll encounter. But we cannot forget what can happen.”

Hrelle rose, walked about the cell, stretching his legs. “This is a rotten place to spend your first night on your first starship. Get up.” He faced Giles again as the boy returned to his feet. “If you still want to leave and find another posting after you’ve heard my story, I’ll persuade Commander T’Varik to make the appropriate arrangements. However, if you decide to stay, we can start fresh, again, and I promise you’ll still be on your way to Command. I’ll even teach you things you won’t read about in your books.”

He held out his hand to Giles.

Giles looked to him, and took it.

“Thank you, Sir. I’d be honoured to stay.”

That pleased Hrelle, more than he imagined.

Alpha Squad were still awake, sitting in chairs or on the floor of the living area, exhausted from talking about the events of the evening but unwilling to finally go to bed, when the door chime sounded. Startled, Sasha called out, “Come.”

Everyone rose to their feet when Hrelle entered, followed by Giles. “At ease.”

Sasha relaxed, but only a little, unable to take her eyes off of a red-faced Giles even as she addressed the Captain. “Sir, is everything okay?”

Hrelle put his hands behind his back, adopting an equally formal tone. “Crewman Hrelle, I am here to let you and Alpha Squad know that as far as this evening’s events are concerned, the incident between Mr Arrington and myself has been settled amicably. You and the others are not to question him about what was said, or treat him differently in any way because of it. Is that understood?”

Clearly it wasn’t, to judge from her expression, but she went taut and replied, “Yes, Sir.”

“Mr Arrington has agreed to stay onboard the Surefoot for the time being, and will serve in the capacity expected of him. And I expect him to receive the same courtesy you would give to any other member of our crew. Is that understood as well?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” Hrelle nodded, looking at the others - and the glasses of alcohol and snacks strewn about, suddenly feeling nostalgic for his own days when he was their age, a thousand years ago. Then he caught the collective scent of multi-species adolescent body odours, and thought again. “It’s 0130 hours! What the hell are you all doing still awake? You have a shift starting at 0800. Get to bed.”

“Yes, Sir, we will.”

Hrelle started to depart, but then stopped and asked, “Do any of you need a bedtime story? I think I still remember some of the Flotter ones Sasha liked, though she always got scared whenever I told the one about Flotter and the Red Ogre.”

Sasha’s face reddened. “No, Sir. No story is necessary.”

“I could do with one, Sir,” Neraxis confessed, grinning at the look Sasha shot her.

Hrelle smirked, nodding to each of them in turn. “Another time, maybe. Good night, Alpha Squad. And… Welcome aboard.”

He departed, feeling much lighter than he expected given the events of the evening.

He hoped it would last…