Compilation - Side 1 of 2

TRACK 01 - WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

New Jericho Colony, Planet Scesity, Salem Sector:

The Proximity Alarm sounded, like a wailing wind over the community.

Kate Sternhagen had been hunched over her worktable, attempting to repair the combadge when the Alarm sounded. She set down her precision tools, closed the casing on the combadge, and tossed it back to her guest. “Sorry, Sport, I’ll finish it another time. It’ll chirp, though.”

On the woven rug near the stone fireplace, eight-year-old Thom Christopher caught his toy instinctively, fitting it onto his replica Starfleet jacket, though his attention was clearly on the sound outside. “They’re early. Why?”

“Dunno,” she lied, rising and reaching behind her to press her fists into the small of her back. Damn, she had hoped that it might have worked… “You’d better get back to your Mom. She’ll be worried about where you are now.”

“Yes, Captain.”

“I’m not a Captain,” she reminded him wearily for the thousandth time, a rote that never seemed to sink into the kid’s head. Thom had been a burr in her backside ever since he had learned of her past from someone here, had pestered her time and again for stories, souvenirs, repairs to his toy combadge, tricorder or phaser. Anything Starfleet related, and never mind her repeated denials or suggestions to go play in the hills or the mines rather than waste her time.

Thom rose, tapping his combadge until it chirped. “I’m gonna be Starfleet, like my Dad. Starfleet’s not afraid.”

“You should be. Get going.” As the boy departed, leaving the door open so Sternhagen could see the other colonists emerging from their habitat domes to venture out, she ran her arthritic fingers through her greying curly hair, and cleaned the lenses of her spectacles, a vintage compensation for her inability to more modern corrective measures.

She watched her breath ghost before her as she stepped out into the cold air of late afternoon, rubbing her hands before tucking them into her cardigan, as most of the rest of the colony emerged from their warm homes to pour like a half-frozen river down the slope of the main street to the foot of the open plain.

She looked around, noting the number, hoping they would be sufficient to not raise suspicions and trigger another raid on the houses. People inevitably died at such times, though these days they rarely gave any justification to do so. They had learned quickly the rules of the New Order.

As the Alarm finally died away as if exhausted by its efforts, Sternhagen took her customary place at the front of the assembly, the older members of the colony gravitating behind her. She was not the elected leader, had never even asked for any attention since arriving here years ago. She just wanted to be left alone to spend her remaining days in isolation. But the Universe had other plans, it seemed.

Thom was also nearby, as usual, despite Sternhagen’s orders; the boy had more loyalty than sense. He kept nervously tapping his combadge, as if the chirps it made could really work, and he could summon help.

The older youths, though, stayed silent and sullen near the edges. No more acts of rebellion again, Sternhagen silently urged. It’s not worth it.

Then the Wolf Pack’s Fleet appeared from the cloud-blanketed sky: shuttles, runabouts, fighters and flyers of all shapes, sizes and origin – bound together by the red and white striped war paint daubed on their hulls – led by the largest: an ancient, box-shaped Starfleet Galileo-type shuttlecraft, at least a century old but still somehow functioning almost despite itself. I know the feeling, Sternhagen thought.

The Fleet moved into a tight delta formation as they settled as one onto the grassy plain at the foot of the colony, their engines creating a massive symphony of power. Finally the engines died, doors and hatchways opened as one, and the Wolf Pack emerged: a motley collection of humanoids of many races, armed with a plethora of weapons and clothing, but like their vehicles bound together with the same red and white war stripes on their persons.

It was always the same ceremony, each time they returned. But they’re earlier than usual now, Kate. You know what probably means…

From speakers mounted on the Galileo shuttle, orchestral fanfare blared, and the doors on the starboard side extended and parted, and a small, hunched figure scurried out and ahead of the formation: a Ferengi male, dressed in furred robes, finer materials than the other Wolf Pack, as befitted his slightly elevated position in their food chain.

His huge ears seemed to twitch from excitement rather than the rising wind as he raised a loudspeaker to make his customary announcement following the fanfare. “Greetings from the Invincible! The War Chief of the Wolf Pack! The Conqueror of the Kzinti! The Scourge of Starfleet! The Master of Mayhem! The Warrior of the Wastelands! The Ayatollah of Rock and Rolla!”

His Toady is in fine form today, Sternhagen noted wryly, watching the Ferengi bow and scrape like a puppy around a second figure emerging from the shuttle: a huge, muscular humanoid male two metres tall, clad in leathers and furs, including the hide of an adult silver and black Terran wolf, probably replicated, worn like a cape. The Invincible’s face was covered in a leather wolf mask in the same red and white colours. Someone’s been to Mardi Gras, Sternhagen always thought.

He stepped forward, holding out his right hand, fully expecting the Ferengi to hand him the loudspeaker. He was not let down, though when he used it to address the colony, his voice was deep, deliberate. “I am greatly disappointed in you.” He spoke slowly, as if to ensure that the gravity of his words was not lost on the assembled colonists. “Here you are, alone in a dangerous war-torn Galaxy. And we come and offer our protection, asking for only a few meagre scraps of goods and services in return-”

His words sparked grumblings of disbelief and dissent among the group, but Sternhagen raised a hand to silence anything more vocal.

“And what do we get in return?” the Invincible continued. He signalled to his Toady; the Ferengi barked at some subordinates, who appeared from the shuttle, carrying out the black-charred remains of a metre-long cylinder, dropping into onto the grass beside their leader.

There were more sounds from the colonists. Sternhagen let them indulge this time, her own guts twisting in disappointment. She knew that converting the old orbiting probe into an interstellar distress beacon had been a major investment of much of their valuable, irreplaceable pieces of technology and resources. And she knew the risks if, as it turned out, it was discovered and destroyed by the Wolf Pack.

But she, they, had to do something. They couldn’t keep living like this, under the shadow of these barbarians.

The Invincible indicated the object. “A message in a bottle, thrown into the ocean of space, a desperate cry for help.” He shook his head in exaggerated tragedy. “How foolish.”

Now he raised his voice to them. “There is no help out there for you! The Federation has fallen! The Dominion has swept in, firebombed Earth, Vulcan, Rigel, Andor and Tellar as an example to the rest, and the remains of Starfleet are being hunted down and annihilated even as I speak!” He pointed to the sky. “The last thing you want to do is attract attention to yourselves from them!”

Then he lowered his gloved finger to the crowd. “Actually… the last thing you want to do is anger me.”

“You son of a bitch!”

Sternhagen and others turned to see Danny Trayne, one of the youngest in the colony, a copper-haired, freckled kid who just did not know when to shut up even at the best of times. He shook off the cautious hold his friends had on him to turn towards the Wolf Pack, his face ruddy with rage. “You come here, take what you want, leave us with almost nothing!“

The Invincible held out his arms, as if to embrace them. “Nothing? I give you life and security, the greatest gifts of all.”

“You’re all parasites!” Danny started towards him.

The Wolf Pack raised their weapons.

“NO!” Now Sternhagen stepped forward, capturing the attention. “Don’t kill him!”

Everyone, including thankfully Danny, stopped. And now the Pack’s leader regarded her, throwing aside the loudspeaker, no longer needing it. “Ah, our resident Engineering genius… and no doubt the one who helped make the beacon. Pray, tell me, why should I not cut you down for your actions? You and this disrespectful whelp? Will you appeal to my magnanimity? But I have already been more than generous to you ungrateful scum. Perhaps you shall stir my sense of mercy? Assuming I have any?”

“No,” Sternhagen replied. “I’ll appeal to your pragmatism. I’m the only one here who can keep your ships running. You need me.” He pointed to Danny. “And he’s young, strong. He can work down in the mines with the others, digging up duranium and fashioning it into replacement hull plating and other parts for your ships. You need him, too. And the rest of us run the hydroponic stations to provide you food, and the medical equipment to treat your wounds, the tools to mend your clothes, and a hundred other things.

You need all of us.”

The Invincible drew a disruptor pistol from his belt, aimed it at Sternhagen, the icy eyes behind the wolf mask fixed on the old woman. “I don’t need all of you.”

Then he turned abruptly and shot Danny in the chest.

The young man fell on the spot, his friends instinctively backing away, even as his mother rushed up to him, kneeling beside his body, cradling it, wailing in anguish.

Sternhagen gasped, her heart sinking, having seen enough wounds like that to know it was fatal. In the time since the Federation had shut down Salem One and departed the sector to focus on the Dominion War, and the New Jericho Colony lost contact with the rest of the Galaxy, the Invincible and his Wolf Pack had moved in, demanding tributes of goods and services in exchange for ‘protection’ e.g. not blowing the colony to bits.

It had kept them alive, and Sternhagen, like many others, had stomached it, in the hope that Starfleet would show up in just a few days to restore order.

But the days turned to weeks, and months, and years. The colony survived… just.

She faced the Wolf Pack’s leader. “That wasn’t necessary!”

The Invincible stared at the scene of grief on the grass, before turning back to face her as he holstered his weapon. “Forget the paltry rules of civilisation under which you once lived. This is the Jungle, and in this Jungle I am the King of Beasts. We shall return at the usual time for our usual tributes. And as a gesture of recompense on your part, you will also provide us with some warm company to take away with us. Make them young and virginal, none of the dregs I see assembled here. You may even get them back alive after we are sated… albeit a little worse for wear.”

Then he turned back towards his shuttle, signalling to his Ferengi to declare loudly and proudly to the colony, “Rejoice, Scum! You have been spared by the Invincible! Drop to your knees and give thanks, and pray his infinite mercy continues!” Then he was rushing into the shuttle before the doors shut again, as the other Wolf Pack stepped back into their respective vessels.

Sternhagen stood there and watched them leave, letting the others crowd around Danny’s body, raising him up to carry him back to his family’s home for eventual burial… with all the others who had been killed since this nightmare began. She watched the ships rise into the sky and pierce the ceiling of clouds, to wherever their base was in the sector.

She drew up to Thom, who stood detached, staring at the grieving group’s departure, his fantasies of imminent rescue from Starfleet cast away. She rested a hand on his shoulder. “Go home, Thom.” She gave him a gentle push to get him started.

Then she approached the remains of the beacon, kneeling and examining it, even as the older, more prominent members followed her, Dmitri sniping, “Well, there you go, Kate! Another one dead, needlessly! Because of your actions!”

Sternhagen shot him a look that was colder than winter on Scersity. “Go to Hell.”

“It wasn’t Kate’s fault!” Freya defended. “We all agreed it was worth the risk to launch it!”

“Tell that to Danny’s mother!”

“Danny was a hothead,” Sternhagen noted gruffly, turning back to the beacon, peeling back some twisted plating on the side and examining the insides. “He got himself killed. That doesn’t mean he deserved it.”

That silenced the group, until Freya asked, more tentatively, “Kate… you were in Starfleet… what the Invincible said about the Federation… about Starfleet… could it be true? Could they really be… gone?”

Sternhagen ground her teeth, hating being asked to give an opinion. Hating to be reminded that she had been in Starfleet, a lifetime ago. Hating wanting to indulge in her default cynical, self-destructive thoughts and confirm the worst. Because deep down she knew that, as proud and as strong and as long-serving as the Federation and Starfleet had been so far, they were not undefeatable, not immortal. Could they be gone now? Maybe.

But, she forced herself to tell them what they wanted to hear. “No, he’s all piss and wind.”

“Then where are they?” Dmitri asked. “And how are we going to save our young people from being brutalised by those monsters?”

“We can’t,” Freya pronounced sullenly. “We’re out of options.”

Sternhagen peered inside the casing, running a quick internal check of the logs… and confirming that the beacon did manage to get a signal out in the direction of Salem One’s automated relay. It might be forwarded back to Starfleet Command. If the signal was strong enough. If the onboard systems are still working. If the station hadn’t been destroyed, or taken over by the Wolf Pack or some other enemy. If the Federation hadn’t indeed fallen.

The Terrible Ifs accumulate. She couldn’t count on help coming.

She checked the ultritium-filled injectors she used in place of antimatter to fuel the beacon’s warp sled; there was still a substantial amount. Enough for her contingency plan. “No. There’s one more.”

“That’ll get more of us killed,” Dmitri groused.

“No,” Sternhagen countered, helping herself back to her feet, thinking ahead to what she would have to scavenge to put her plan into action. “Just me, along with as many of those murdering bastards as I can take with me.”

*

TRACK 02 - A HARD DAY’S NIGHT

USS Surefoot, Command Quarters, Deck 2:

The intercom chimed in the darkness, and Esek Hrelle had to force himself not to react too abruptly, and stir awake his family, sleeping around him: his wife Kami, nestled beside him, his daughter Sreen, in her adjacent crib, and his son Misha, between his parents, snoring away. They had only recently returned to the ship, following the End of the War, and traditionally they all slept together to reacquaint themselves with each other’s scents.

A lifetime of practice let him check the chrono on the wall – Ugh, 0312 Hours, an unholy time – as he slipped back into alertness, carefully extricating himself from his family on the bed… but not before Sreen awoke, the infant lying helpless without her exoframe on her, gurgling curiously up at him. He reached down and gently scooped her up, slipping his forearm beneath her diapered rear end to support her and play with her little curly tail as he carried her out of the bedroom and into the living room of their quarters, closing the door behind them as he made his way to the desk.

He was curious as to the reason for the late night call. Following the end of the War, they had parked near Deep Space Nine along with many others needing repairs of varying degrees, as well as crew replacements and downtime for those remaining assigned. Which was fine by Hrelle; he was in no rush to get back into active duty, after all he had been through, and just wanted to spend some quality time with his loved ones, and keep checking in on Weynik and see how he was coping following the loss of his leg. He sat down, adjusting his tail through the hole in the seat, as the chime sounded once more. “Yes?”

Commanding the Night Shift, Lt Bellator’s apologetic voice carried in the darkness. “Sorry to disturb you at this time of night, Captain, but there’s a Priority Transmission from Admiral Raner at Starfleet Command.”

That made Hrelle’s pulse quickened. Marija Raner, the Head of Starfleet Security? He had never met her or communicated directly with her before, but then he never expected to, being pretty far down the proverbial ladder compared to her. He readjusted the sleepy Sreen against his shoulder. “Put her through, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, Sir.” Seconds later – just as Hrelle realised he was still nude – the desktop viewscreen came to life, and a gaunt, olive-skinned woman with sunken cheekbones and sable hair pinned in a severe bun appeared, regarding him. “Greetings, Captain. Is it Casual Friday onboard?”

He felt his skin heat up beneath his sepia fur, and used an excuse of Sreen awakening to the voices to take time to adjust her again. “Excuse me, Admiral, it’s the middle of the night for us, and I wasn’t expecting any calls. If you want me to go get into uniform-”

“No need, I’ll be as quick as I can – but given the height of the camera on your desk I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stand up during the call. Captain, we’ve never met, but I’ve been reading up about you, and I’m most impressed. Your work during your previous command on the Furyk, your duties along the Cardassian border, the battle of Khavak, the Resistance you raised on Cait against the Ferasans. All very impressive.”

“Thank you, Admiral. But you didn’t have to call me just to tell me that. A card would have been just as nice.”

She offered a slight smirk. “Such talent and experience as you’ve shown needs to be rewarded. Effective immediately, you’re promoted to the rank of Commodore. I’m afraid under current conditions we can’t send anyone out for a formal ceremony, but I’m sure you can throw your own celebrations.”

Hrelle blinked, and Sreen, sensing his reaction, tried to move to see the source of his change of mood. Her father accommodated her. “Commodore? That- That can’t be right, Ma’am.”

“What, were you expecting to be made Admiral?”

“I- I wasn’t expecting anything, Ma’am!” Memories of just a couple of days ago, when he was present at his daughter Sasha receiving a promotion to Lieutenant Commander, flooded back to him. “It’s just all very- I mean, I’m not sure this isn’t all just a dream-”

Sreen scowled at the screen. “Seen Seepy Time! Yoo go!”

Raner looked with amusement at the infant. “Is that Caitian for ‘Congratulations’?”

Before he could respond, he heard the bedroom door slide open, and without looking could hear and smell Kami enter, approach after a moment and, staying out of view, take Sreen from his arms… but remain close, listening to the rest of the conversation, Hrelle tailoring his reply to help his wife catch up. “Well, Admiral Raner, I’m honoured that the Head of Starfleet Security herself would call to announce my promotion to Commodore, but like I said, it’s completely unexpected and…” Then it hit him. “Commodores don’t get to command ships as a rule anymore, do they?”

“Not directly, no; you have bigger responsibilities. Also effective immediately, your First Officer T’Varik is being permanently promoted to the rank of Captain of your ship. In fact, my Adjutant Commander Oh is speaking with her right now about it.”

Hrelle felt himself reel, and he glanced to Kami, who looked back in matching astonishment. The Surefoot had been his home, their home, for years. Not too long ago he had been commenting to T’Varik about how change was the nature of things. “So where are you going to assign me, Admiral? Starfleet Command?”

She made a sound. “You’d be wasted here, Commodore, it’s all staff meetings and unflattering dress uniforms. No, you’re being assigned to an outpost station in the Outer Rim. The War forced us to withdraw our presence, our influence, in many of the frontiers of the Federation, even as we were expanding those same frontiers in an effort to find allies and gain territory. Those areas have suffered, both from neglect, and from exploitation from criminal and terrorist parties and adjacent powers. But now that the War is over, we have a chance to repair and rebuild.”

He glanced again at Kami, who mouthed the word Where?, having also noted Raner’s avoidance of specific details. He turned back to the screen. “Where am I being assigned, Admiral?”

Now he saw her hesitate, and his curiosity multiplied. How bad could it be?

Then she responded. ”The Salem Sector. Station Salem One. You’ll remember it, of course.”

He tensed, his tail hitting one of the legs of his chair in alarm, as he felt like his heart would burst through his chest. No, no, no, no… He leaned in closer, his muscles tightening. “Yes, Admiral. How could I forget it? My first wife was murdered there. My crew on the Furyk was killed there. I was tortured and enslaved there! My daughter was left orphaned there!”

“Hrelle-”

“And you expect me to just toddle on back there and take up residence again?” he demanded, leaning in closer, raising his voice and baring his teeth. “Like nothing happened?”

Sreen began reacting to her father’s growing stress, and Kami quickly purred against her, even as she approached him again, still out of view, raising a cautionary open paw for him to calm down.

Onscreen, Raner looked wary, as if he could reach across the light-years and get in her face. “I’m not ignorant of the terrible events that ended your time in the Salem Sector, Commodore. But I also can’t ignore the familiarity you’ll have with the planets and systems, the allies and threats present.

And the reputation you made for yourself there; I believe you were referred to more than once as The Lion of Salem Sector.” She smiled, as if trying to lighten the situation. “It’s a lot more complimentary than some of the things I’ve been called.”

He didn’t smile back. “I have to turn this down, Admiral.”

Raner’s smile dropped. “We no longer have the luxury of choice in our career paths, Hrelle. This damn War has cost us just over a thousand vessels, stations and outposts… and nearly half a million personnel: dead, missing and presumed dead, medically incapacitated, deserted, or just simply resigned. And those numbers are increasing with each passing day.”

Hrelle leaned back again, more astonished by those cold, brutal statistics than this sudden change in his life. He knew the numbers had to be high, but still…

Raner continued. “If this is going to be a problem for you, and you won’t be available for this assignment – and therefore any other assignment – tender your resignation now, so I won’t waste your time or mine any further-”

Now Kami came into view, dropping down into a squat beside Hrelle’s chair, pressing Sreen against her muzzle as she interrupted. “Admiral, I’m Counselor Hrelle, his wife. Please excuse him, it’s the middle of the night for us, it’s been a traumatic couple of months, things are moving so quickly-”

“I’m aware of that, Counselor,” Raner cut her off, conceding but still sounding stressed. “Things have to move quickly. We still have enemies, ones who haven’t been devastated by War, and are taking advantage of our current depleted state. And we have citizens who have been deprived of security, of services and trade and the other benefits of the Federation, and left to fend for themselves all this time.”

She turned back to Hrelle. “I’m sending the mission pack now with all pertinent updated Security intel on the sector, Commodore… such as it is. You can recruit from the Starfleet ships and crews currently stationed around Deep Space Nine, subject to the restrictions detailed in the pack, and you will have the full authority of this office behind you.

But understand this: you need to be on your way to the Salem Sector within forty-eight hours, even if all you end up recruiting is a shuttlepod and a Crewman Third Class.

There are no alternatives to this assignment; if my office doesn’t receive your resignation within the hour, I’ll assume you have accepted the promotion and the mission.”

After a moment, her expression softened. “Commodore, you weren’t just chosen for this assignment because of your tactical skills or your connections to Salem. I’ve learned a lot about you: your patience, your compassion, your ability to motivate others, both cadets and crew. You’re one of the few in Starfleet who can make the impossible happen. We need you, now, more than ever, and I genuinely hope you remain with us. Raner out.”

The screen went dark, leaving the room in blackness. The Caitians could see in the dark, but Kami raised the lights to a low level, quietly taking Sreen back into the bedroom to settle her down, before returning clad in a dressing gown, throwing Hrelle his own as she moved to the replicator, conjuring up two tavaberry teas.

Hrelle left the dressing gown on his lap, his tea untouched on the desk, as he stared at the blank screen before him, his thoughts a turbulent storm.

After a moment, however, he looked up at her, frowning. “Well?”

She was reclining on the couch, cradling her tea, blowing on it and looking back. “Well, what?”

He shifted in his chair. “In the seven-plus years I’ve known you, you haven’t exactly been stingy with your opinions. But now, at this most critical time in my life, you go silent as a Hupryian.”

Kami sipped at her tea for a moment, before gently correcting, “This is not the most critical time in your life, Esek. Nor was it losing the crew of the Furyk. Or being captured and tortured by the Bel-Zon. Or even when you learned that Hannah had been killed in the raid on Salem One.

No, the most critical time in your life was after all of that, after you escaped. When you finally stopped just surviving, and fully comprehended how much you had lost… but you still decided to continue living. Not just for yourself, but for Sasha. I was there, I saw it in you.

And I’ve seen it in myself, after my first husband Rmorra died… after I pushed past the grief, the anger, the fear, and decided to continue living. Not just for myself, but for my firstborn Mirow.

True strength isn’t illustrated by what we can take without getting knocked down, Husband of Mine. True strength is illustrated by our rising again after we’re knocked down.”

He listened, regarding her reply, before reaching for his tea. “You’re not worried about what’ll happen if I go back to Salem One, and…?”

He let her finish. “And what? That you’ll feel some sorrow over the memories you shared there with Hannah and Sasha? If you didn’t, then I’d be worried for you. But you’ve learned – mostly from me – that memories, like an old song or book, never change, but the approach we take to them as we revisit them, and the meaning we attach to them, will change, with time and experience.

The Esek Hrelle who forged those memories of life on Salem One is different to the one who will return to it. He’s an older, more mature, stronger and resilient man.”

He grunted, noting her turn of phrase. “‘Will return’, huh? You’re that sure that I won’t just resign and take up a cushy position back on Cait working for your mother? You and the cubs can then have a nice, safe life living permanently on the Motherworld.”

She nodded in seeming contemplation. “Yeah. Yeah, we could do that.” She sipped at her tea again, leaving it at that… but leaving him with no doubt as to what she thought of that notion.

He drank his tea. “Hmph. ‘The Lion of Salem Sector’. I used to embrace that, back on the Furyk. Raner was right, my reputation used to do more than a fully charged phaser bank. But I’m not embracing that title, ever again.”

“Whatever works for you.” Their door chimed unexpectedly, and Kami set aside her brew and rose. “Put your dressing gown on, no one but me wants to see Little Esek.”

He rose and slipped quickly into the covering, as Kami opened the door, and T’Varik and C’Rash entered, dressed in casual clothing, the Vulcan regarding Hrelle. “There was a 99.7% probability that you would be still awake, having received a transmission of your own. Congratulations, Commodore.”

Hrelle nodded, drawing closer to shake her hand. “Congratulations, Captain. We’re definitely going to have a party about this. What are you like when you’re drunk?”

“Horny,” C’Rash muttered, moving to the replicator. “Coffee, Caitian Mnara Blend, blacker than my mood.”

Hrelle grunted with amusement at her demeanour. “What’s brushed your fur the wrong way?”

“She is disgruntled because Sasha now outranks her despite being younger and less experienced.”

C’Rash took the replicated coffee out of the alcove. “I told you, I don’t care. Who want all that extra admin work, the responsibility, having to be pleasant to people? It’s the same reason I won’t be T’Varik’s First Officer. I can serve her better as Chief of Security.”

“That, and Starfleet Regulations prevent partners from serving as Commanding and Executive Officers on the same ship,” Hrelle teased, looking to T’Varik. “Have you an idea about your XO? Bellator?”

“It would be logical; they were on a more direct Command Track before their court martial, and has shown great progress since boarding.” She took the coffee from C’Rash to sip at it, grimacing. “That is atrocious. Commodore, I was given no details as to the nature of your new assignment, and was logically curious.”

“Oh, he might not be taking it, T’Varik,” Kami informed her facetiously. “Just before you showed up he was considering throwing away thirty-plus years of Starfleet service, resigning and moving back to Cait permanently. And coincidentally, also sabotaging my career in Starfleet. Not that he gave a second thought to that.”

The other females looked to him, C’Rash asking, “Really, Uncle Esek? Is it that bad an assignment?”

Hrelle shot his wife a dirty look; she looked unapologetic. Finally he replied, “Your aunt is exaggerating; old age will do that. As a matter of fact, I will be taking it.” He turned to T’Varik. “But I haven’t much time to prepare and be on our way, so I need your help. I know you’ll want to focus on getting your command up and running and making this ship your own, but… I have some ideas which might help you as well.”

The Vulcan reached for a chair and drew it closer to the desk. “Let us begin.”

“That’s my coffee!” C’Rash protested.

“And I thank you for it, Wife of Mine,” T’Varik replied.

As Hrelle sat down and began accessing the mission pack, C’Rash looked to Kami. “I’ve seen that look on both of them before; we won’t be given a second thought for the rest of the night. Care for some company?”

“Yes, please. But the cubs are in there, so...” Kami brought a shushing finger to her snout as she opened the bedroom door.

Then burst out laughing and waking up the cubs as she heard T’Varik ask, “Commodore, please secure your dressing gown.”

*

TRACK 03 - GET THE PARTY STARTED

Quark’s Place, Promenade, Deep Space Nine:

The music was loud and raucous, and until Sasha experienced it sober, she never realised how annoying it was. But as her party was enjoying themselves too much, she said nothing.

The establishment was famous throughout the sector, and following the victory of the War, all of the surviving ships that remained in the area awaiting repairs or reassignments, all the off-duty crews from Starfleet, the Klingons and Romulans ventured her at some point; the eponymous owner had even been given permission to remain open 26 hours a day to accommodate the unprecedented demand. She wondered what would happen if they ran out of alcohol. Maybe another War will break out, she mused-

She saw her Captain lying there, his leg trapped under fallen bulkhead, certain to die if she didn’t take action. She saw herself bring her blade down to through muscle, sinew, bone, the smell of the inner flesh hitting her nostrils-

She shook it off and cradled her mug of root beer, a surprising offering among the few non-alcoholic choices available on the menu, as she grinned at her friends and crewmates around the large table: her friends from Alpha Squad Giles Arrington, Eydiir Daughter-of-Kaas, Kitirik, Jonas and Neraxis Ostrow, and her friends from the Ajax, Jim Madison and Mru Mori.

She was so glad to see them all here, alive. So many others weren’t-

She saw their First Officer Kohanim lying there, the Zakdorn’s chest opened up from where the energy feedback had exited after travelling up through his arms, his insides exposed obscenely, the face frozen as if in astonishment at the swiftness of his passing and his blood was on her hands her uniform the smell of his charred flesh-

Giles was raising his glass in her direction, grinning, his face pink with inebriation and his words slurring. “I wanna make a toes-”

“’Toes’?” teased Jonas across from him, shaking a finger at him as he nudged his wife. “Yeah, he’s hammered!”

The bald Bolian Neraxis chuckled, her skin a darker shade of blue than usual from the alcohol. “He was always a fricking lightweight, even back in the Academy!”

“I would defend Best Friend Giles,” Kitirik noted, the reptoid raising his voice over the laughter, “But I have helped carry him back to his quarters too many times!”

“Bite my ass, all of you,” Giles suggested, turning back towards Sasha. “As I was saying before I was rudely interrupted, I wanna make a toast, to our new Lieutenant Commander, who will no doubt make Captain before she’s twenty-five.”

“Which isn’t too far away,” Madison noted mischievously.

Sasha raised her middle finger in his direction, but drank from her mug along with the rest, hiding her embarrassment at being the centre of attention again, before rising to her feet. “My round. Same again?”

Mori frowned at her, the mahogany-furred Caitian male’s ears twitching. “Sash, no, you’ve been paying all night!”

“Hey, who’s on the highest pay grade here? One more round, and we’ll call it a night.” She rose to her feet and moved to the bar with her half-finished drink before anyone could argue further.

At the bar, the Ferengi who owned the establishment abandoned some other customers to approach her, smiling with jagged teeth. “And she’s back. Have you reconsidered my offer, Lieutenant Commander?”

She leaned against the bar. “No. Same order as before: one Bolian lager, one honey-flavoured Saurian brandy, four Terran beers, three Aldebaran whiskeys… and a Terran root beer.”

Quark leaned in as well, the lights from above reflecting off his large, bulbous, salmon-pink head. “Think about it: your heroic death dive towards the Dominion Battleship, commemorated for all time in a hologame where users can fight alongside you! And you could earn a lavish five percent of all profits from the sale and rental of Operation: Warhead, exclusive to Quark's Bar, Grill, Gaming House and Holosuite Arcade!”

She swallowed – her stomach twisted into knots as she drove the Warhead down, down, the Battleship filling up the cockpit screen – as she pressed her fingers down harder on the bartop. “No. Just get the orders.”

“Did I say five percent?” he leered. “I meant ten. And you know, I’d much rather have your endorsement and use your exact image for authenticity than, say, issue it myself with some generic hyooman female hologram-”

“Hey! It’s you!”

Sasha tensed, bracing herself for the boisterous smack on her back from another admirer, some hulking Bolian in a gold-banded Starfleet uniform with Commander’s pips. “It’s really you! Hellcat Hrelle!”

She frowned at him. “Excuse me?”

Quark drew closer, winking. “I made that up. Alliteration makes for good product recognition.”

“Let me buy you a drink!” The Bolian offered. “What are you having?”

“Root beer,” the Ferengi replied helpfully.

“What? Seriously?” He caught Sasha’s attention again. “That’s not good enough for a hero! Come on, really, what are you drinking?”

Go on, take a drink… you earned it… “Aldebaran whiskey, thanks.”

The Bolian slapped her back again as he turned to Quark’s. “Aldebaran whiskey for Hellcat Hrelle! Put it on my tab!”

“Oh, I will, Commander Parix.”

“Thanks,” Sasha repeated as the Bolian departed, before turning back to Quark. “Remove one of the whiskeys in my original order and let Commander Backsmacker there pay for the third.”

Quark regarded her bemusedly. “I don’t get it. No one would say you weren’t entitled to neck a few shots down, after all you’ve been through. Do you have some religious or medical reason for abstaining? If so, why hide it? It can’t be you actually like the sickly sweet taste of root beer?”

Sasha stared back, her expression taut. “Just get the damn order. Oh, and if you do release any hologame even remotely resembling what I did, you’ll end up the last casualty of the War.”

Quark chuckled. “I love a women with a sense of humour.”

Suddenly she slammed her fist down on the bartop, making a sound heard over the music and crowd and making the nearby glasses rattle. ”I’m not joking!”

Quark stepped back, hands raised in conciliatory fashion. “Okay, okay, Lieutenant Commander, no harm done. I’ll have it brought over.”

Sasha leaned back, in time to see Madison and Mori rush up, flanking either side of her in response to her outburst, Madison asking, “Everything okay, Sash? Is he giving you trouble?”

Mori rested a paw on her arm… more a gesture of exclusion to Madison than protection as he growled, “She doesn’t need your help, Lieutenant, she can handle anything without you!”

Madison leaned forward to meet the Caitian’s eye. “I never said she couldn’t, Lieutenant! I’ve known her a hell of a lot longer than you!”

Sasha shook off both their touches; she thought it would be awkward to be working with a former and current lover on the same ship since her return to active duty following the Caitian Occupation, but they had all been too busy with the War for any complications to arise.

Now, however, with both of them relaxed and inebriated, the rivalries were finally surfacing… though at least it’s kept them, or anyone else, from noting her recent sobriety. “Obviously not long enough for either of you to tell how annoyed I get at being talked about like I’m not here. Now come on, let’s get back to the table before I rope you two into a threesome…”

*

TRACK 04 - WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS

Mundulu Nature Reserve, Planet Bajor:

At the foot of a sheer wall of grey-white geiscite overlooking a narrow, olive-green valley, a portion of the rock began to smoulder, smoke, liquefy, and finally melt away, while a large rumbling object slithered out from the newly-created tunnel, the asymmetrical silicon hide reflecting the bright sunlight, the voder unit bolted one side beside the Starfleet insignia clearly translating delight. “What a marvellous repast! I do enjoy sampling new minerals!”

Nearby, the rest of Alpha Squad looked up with varying degrees of interest at Ensign Stalac’s proclamation, Tori Emoto, clad in hiking shirt, shorts and boots, grunting, “And leaving fricking holes in the side of the Bajoran mountains.”

Seven-year-old girl Abby Boone, busy being fussed over by Astrid Michel, looked over at her father. “Tori swore again!”

“Fricking’s not swearing!” the young Engineer insisted.

“It is!” The girl looked to her father. “Daddy! Scold her!”

Peter Boone sat on the blanket beside Zir Dassene, noting the Orion woman’s seeming lack of interest in the banter, even as he replied to Abby, “Buttercup, I get to tell you what you can say and not say, I don’t get to tell other people. And you don’t get to tell others, either. Now, are you sure you don’t want to go hiking with Tori and Urad?”

Behind Tori, the hulking gray figure of the pachydermoid Urad Kaldron loomed up, clad in similar clothing to Tori, clasping his massive hands together in eager anticipation. “Yes, Comrades! Both of you can join us in a healthy, brisk conquest of the nearest mountain! We shall sweat mightily indeed!”

Astrid made an amused sound as she rose and checked her more fashionable outfit. “As tempting as that sounds, I think we girls will have a better time sauntering to the town in the valley below, where I believe they have a redoubtable line of local fashions made to order, as well as delicious pastries.”

Abby made pleasing sounds and rubbed her belly. “Yeah! Let’s go!”

“Not too many pastries – or dresses,” Peter advised, waving them off, looking to Tori and Urad. “Be careful! If you get in trouble, use your combadges!”

As the others ventured in separate directions, Stalac rotated in place, the Horta seemingly focusing on Peter and Zir as he announced, “Well, I’m not sticking around here being a third nacelle. I detected some tasty variations of rhyolite a few hundred metres below here. If you’ll excuse me?”

Without further ado he returned to the tunnel he had made moments before, quickly disappearing again.

Zir stared out at the valley, just past their parked shuttle. “Not very subtle about following your instructions to give us some time alone, are they?”

Peter smiled, reaching for his canteen. “As long as it worked.” He drank, offering it to her. “I’m glad I’m back.”

She shook her head at the canteen, but replied, “I’m glad you’re back, too. You and Abby. I wanted… I wanted the chance to say goodbye.”

He set aside the canteen. “Goodbye? Where are you going?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Then why leave?”

She made a sound. “I’m not. I’ll be discharged.”

“Oh? And who’s told you that?”

She glanced in his direction, still seemingly unable to look at him fully. “No one, they haven’t had time with everything else going on. But it’s a sure thing, after everyone found out how I acted in the Shuttlebay during the battle.”

He rested his hand on hers. “You were under extreme stress, you’d been in pitched battle, forced to kill more than once, saw crewmembers wounded-”

“Pete, I was waving phasers around, shouting at the top of my lungs for the Enemy to keep coming so I could kill more of them!” She glanced away, looking and sounding distraught. “I let the ship down. I let him down.”

Peter leaned in. “Has Captain Hrelle said anything since it happened?”

Zir shook her head. “He’ll be disgusted with me. He’ll be glad to get rid of me.”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

She looked back at him angrily. “You haven’t been here! You’ve been away on Earth! You have no idea what I’ve been going through! What I’m feeling!”

He shifted to face her, his expression sober, attention grabbing. “You left behind your family, everyone you knew, in the Orion Empire to come live in the Federation. You faced suspicion and discrimination from elements within Starfleet when you joined. You relied on those friends you made for emotional support.

Now, with many of us serving or training elsewhere, you’ve felt isolated, unsure of yourself. This, coupled with the Hrelles having been trapped on their homeworld for months, with the lack of an established Counselor onboard until recently, with our accelerated promotions because of the War and with all the combat you’ve undergone… it’s no wonder you’re feeling so frayed.”

Zir swallowed, tears welling up, even as she wiped them away. “Sounds like you really paid attention in your Counselor training.”

He took her hand again. “I did my best. We all do, including you. But we’re not perfect. You have to accept that, Zir. You’d not let any of us be so self-critical. You’d be smacking the backs of our heads… or in Stal’s case, kicking him in the stones.”

She laughed, despite her obvious efforts to remain in the doldrums, before settling again. “We’re gonna be split up, aren’t we?”

Peter nodded, looking out again at a set of birds swooping and diving over the valley. “It’s the nature of Starfleet. Whatever the Surefoot ends up doing, they don’t need so many Ensigns onboard a ship as small as ours.”

Zir stare out at the clouds, and whatever was in her mind beyond. “Then what will I do?”

He leaned in, putting an arm around her. “You’ll make new connections, face challenges, impress new commanders… all the while knowing that we will always be your friends, no matter how far apart we might find ourselves.”

She leaned back, pressing against him, relaxing a little. “You know Abby will come back with about twenty outfits that Astrid will have brought for her?”

He chuckled. “Good – my taste in women’s fashion is not up to much.”

*

USS Surefoot, Deck 3 Mid, CMO’s Office:

Masterson poured another round of bourbon for his fellow doctors, raising his shotglass to them. “And here’s to our work during the Battle of Khavak. 218 operations performed in 72 hours.”

Dr Kline raised his glass, the Klingon’s swarthy features darkening with each successive drink. “A great triumph on my part… you two provided adequate support.” He guffawed at his own joke.

Between the men, the Andorian Dr Shyrik grunted. “You remain as amusing as a dose of Miradorn Pox. I won’t miss that.” But she lifted her own glass. “What we did, however, at Khavak and the rest of the War, is worthy of regard.” They drank as one, before she noted to Kline, “No doubt you will return to whatever flea-ridden cesspit passes for a Klingon hospital.”

Kline belched, before wiping his mouth with his forearm. “I have a commission with the Imperial Fleet Command. I will be taking what I have learned on this honoured ship and help improve our medical practices within our Fleet… after I go home and give my wife a long-overdue seeing to, of course!” He laughed uproariously.

“Take a bath first,” Shyrik suggested, enjoying his look of disgust. “After that business with the Virotics agent, I reopened some contacts with the Andorian Military Intelligence Agency; they are looking for a Chief Forensics Analyst in their headquarters back home. It will be a pleasure to return to some decent weather. And food. And normal blue faces.” She looked to Masterson. “And how about you, Zeke? Sticking around here now that things have quieted down?”

He breathed out. “Maybe. Might be nice to have a small crew, routine work, no 18-hour marathon operating sessions, no having the stench of blood in my clothes for days after, no having to fill out yet another death certificate…” He stared at his emptied shotglass. “And yet, at the same time… a part of me will miss all that. Plum loco, isn’t it?”

“We are warriors,” Kline informed him. “We grapple with Death. We do not easily set aside that rush in our blood.”

“Maybe,” Shyrik conceded, adding, “However, don’t take this personally, but I hope never to have to work with either of you two again like this.”

Masterson poured them all another shot. “I’ll drink to that.”

*

In Main Engineering, Chief Sakai sat quietly, smiled and listened to the youngsters talking; some have already received orders to transfer to other ships and facilities, or to Starfleet Engineering School for further training or specialisation.

Inwardly, however, he felt sad, forlorn. When they didn’t talk about the long futures they had ahead of them, they talked about new innovations and techniques in starship design, warpfield mechanics, transporter enhancements, cybernetics, holographic projection. Things that he probably could decipher and understand and follow along, given time and effort.

But he felt like he had neither. He was seventy-seven; he came out of retirement to help out for the War, and because one of his last assignments before he retired was in conceiving and designing Sabres like the Surefoot. But it seemed like a lifetime ago.

Now these kids were talking about things that had been science fiction to his generation. They were ready for what was to come in the next few decades. He wasn’t.

He served his purpose here. He should go home. And yet, there was nothing waiting for him there but an empty bungalow and a few little private projects restoring antique tricorders and transtator circuits.

Was there a place for him anywhere now?

*

Hrelle needed a break, and he needed to catch up with his best friend, and beamed over to Deep Space Nine, where Weynik was being billeted following his operation, along with Sasha and the rest of the survivors of the Ajax.

He had finally given in and changed to a flag officer’s uniform, with its adjusted colour scheme, quilted yoke, gold edges, and the belt with the oval buckle displaying the Seal of the United Federation of Planets. Now he was trying to keep from playing with all the bits and pieces, but as he made his way to the medical wing, he was determined not to just talk about himself, but to support Weynik at this time.

But as he arrived, and saw the diminutive Roylan on the biobed, dressed in pale-blue medical fatigues, Hrelle smelled the change in Weynik, and knew it wasn’t due to the biosynthetic leg. “Sasha’s told me that the doctors here have confirmed the replacement is a total success. It’s just a matter of using it now.”

Weynik lay there silently, staring upwards.

Hrelle stepped forward, nodding in understanding. “I know what you went through was traumatic beyond belief. But this isn’t something you can’t handle, Little Buddy. You’re one of the toughest fighters I’ve ever known.”

He made no response.

Hrelle breathed out. “Your father’s asked that Kami come by and speak with you. He thought that, as you don’t have access to the Ajax’s EMH with its Counseling program, and you don’t know any other Counselors-”

“Commodore,” Weynik muttered.

“Sorry?”

The Roylan’s eyestalks pointed upwards. “You’ve been promoted, transferred off the Surefoot and given a new assignment, and you haven’t bothered to mention it once. What’s wrong, Esek? Embarrassed?”

Hrelle felt his skin flush beneath his fur. “Me? No, no, I just didn’t want to come over here and talk about me. I didn’t want to-”

“You didn’t want to… what? Sound all so triumphant about it? Well, why not? You made it out of this War with a promotion. So did your daughter. Me? All I got from this War is a new limb.”

Hrelle started, hearing the pain, the bitterness, in his friend’s voice, a bitterness born not from any ostensible envy. “Weynik, I didn’t ask for this. Neither did Sasha. And I’m being sent back to manage Salem Sector, the place where Hannah was killed and I was taken captive-”

Weynik shrugged. “If it’s that bad, then resign.”

Hrelle swallowed, stunned by the response from his friend. “It’s not that simple-”

“Isn’t it? At least you have some place to go. I lost my ship as well as my leg.”

“They’ll get the Ajax repaired, get the Warhead replaced-”

Weynik shook his head. “No. It won’t be that high a priority. The Ajax was a Weapon of War, and the War is over, in case you missed out on it while you were celebrating.”

“Buddy-”

“You’re not a captive of the Bel-Zon anymore, Esek. You can quit. You just choose not to. I suppose the rank and the spiffy uniform helps ease the pain of returning to run the place where you let your first wife get killed.”

Hrelle stiffened, not quite believing what his friend had just said, regardless of the real reason behind it.

“No, Weynik,” he finally countered, his voice, his whole body taut and cold. “It doesn’t. But then you knew that anyway. I have too much to do in too little time, so I’ll make this quick: I am so sorry for what’s happened to you, and I will do everything I can to help you recover and move on, because I love you like a brother, and I can forgive you anything.”

He bared his teeth. “But don’t ever suggest I let Hannah get killed again.”

He saw the reaction, the shame and regret behind his best friend’s words, and knew he wasn’t too far gone. But Hrelle had been truthful; he had no time to deal with it, not now.

He turned and left, leaving Weynik to his own thoughts and feelings.

*

TRACK 05 - CHANGES

USS Surefoot, Deck 3 Mid – Enlisted Crew Lounge:

Bellator stood at the front of the room on a raised dais, formally addressing the assembled for the morning briefing. “As members of Starfleet’s Enlisted personnel, you are treated differently from the officers… and I do not mean strictly in terms of pay.

Many of you signed up during the course of the War, on short-term contracts for fixed-term durations… or until the formal conclusion of the War. Obviously the latter has been achieved – otherwise many of you have been egregiously intoxicated the last few nights for no good reason.” They paused, allowing laughter to run through the group, before continuing. “And now you need to consider your future in Starfleet.

To say that your continued service will still be welcome would be an understatement. We have suffered great losses of both personnel and resources, and in the coming days you will notice significant changes around you, as Starfleet reorganises. We remain vital, and the societal and emotional rewards of continuing to serve speak for themselves.

Should you still be on the proverbial fence as to whether or not to remain, I have been instructed to inform you that renewing your contracts will also reward you with a 25% increase in pay and credits guaranteed for the next two years, along with the usual benefits, such as Priority Booking with private transportation and accommodation on any Federation member world.”

They paused before continuing. “What is not guaranteed is where you may next be posted. The current numbers on the Surefoot will not be maintained, as we will no longer serve as an ambulance vessel, though our new assignment has yet to be announced. You may end up serving on other ships, stations, outposts, or planetbound facilities. We can no longer promise preferred choices, or that friends will serve together.

All that can be promised is that wherever you are assigned… you will be needed there.

Over the next 24 hours, I advise that you give your decision much considered reflection before submitting your decisions to me. I will be available on a limited basis should any of you require advice… and I promise not to be biased towards your continued career with us.” They offered a smile. “Not too biased, anyway. Are there any questions?”

Someone in the rear raised their hand. “Is it true that Captain Hrelle has been promoted to the C-in-C of Starfleet, and that Commander T’Varik will be taking over command of the ship permanently?”

That stirred sounds of interest, as the Nova Roman responded. “The second half of that is true; the first half is hyperbole, although Captain Hrelle has been promoted to Commodore, not the Commander in Chief of Starfleet. I have not been made privy as to where he will be posted… though I can say without reservation that, wherever it is, those under him will be most fortunate. Dismissed.”

Near the replicators, five individuals stood, taking in the news as they looked to each other. Valentin Dellaport ran a hand through his truculent blonde hair. “Well... they’re sure pushing to keep us signed up, aren’t they?”

Beside him, Alison Pagan crossed her arms. “Can you blame them, after all the losses they’ve suffered?”

“We’ve suffered,” Malala Jain corrected, the petite, slate-skinned Malurian tugging at the sleeves of her Crewman’s uniform. “We’re still part of Starfleet. I already put in my renewal.”

Hylore Waro, the Argoan clad in her water-filled exosuit allowing her to move about among the air breathers, turned, her voder translating her voice. “You haven’t exactly made your opinion on remaining to yourself, Mal. Me, as much as I’ve been happy to help serve during the War, having to wear this suit for 90% of my waking hours has been draining. How about you, Kev?”

Kevin O’Neill, the Gorn raised by a human family in Australia, looked around him with glittering eyes, the reptoid hissing as he replied, “Mum and Dad would be happy to sssee me sssafe back home… but I like being out here, meeting new racess…” He hissed again. “And ssshagging a few of the more delishiouss oness.”

Alison rolled her eyes. “You can’t keep it in your inguinal pouch, can you?”

“Sssorry, darling, it’ss bigger than both of uss!”

Malala smiled… then looked to Sre Gyver Timbrel, the Paladelian who until the last battle had seemed to be the most gentle, non-aggressive individual any of them had ever encountered. He had been even quieter than usual following the announcement of the end of the War. “What about you, Gyve? Do you think you’ve fulfilled your obligation coming out here to serve others?”

The tall, black-skinned, black-maned equinoid looked to her, his muscular arms crossed over his chest. “The obligation of a Knight of my people to serve others never ends, Friend Malala. However, our choice of who to serve can change.”

“What would make that change?” Valentin asked.

“Since our last battle, word has spread about my skills in combat, and I have been asked more than once about taking on Security duties. I have repeatedly, politely declined. I do not see myself as a warrior first, but rather last; it is the least of my skills. I have much more to offer.

As much as I appreciate the need for those in Security, if Starfleet can offer me nothing but a position as that, then I will reluctantly resign.”

*

Bellator had returned to the Bridge when Hrelle’s voice announced over the intercom, “Lt Bellator, Lt Arrington, please report to the Ready Room on the double.”

Bellator glanced over at the Helm, where Giles Arrington was rising to his feet, adjusting his jacket and looking at his fellow junior officer quizzically, before both of them proceeded to the adjacent room.

Hrelle, T’Varik, Kami, Kitirik and C’Rash were standing in a line facing them, Hrelle beckoning them closer. “Come along now, don’t keep us waiting. Bloody Lieutenants are as slow as Pakleds these days.”

At the end of the line, C’Rash hissed at her uncle, though Lt Kitirik just wheezed with laughter beside her.

Bellator and Arrington approached, as T’Varik took over. “As you are both well aware, we are undergoing significant changes in position and authority now. Many ordinary people would be ill-equipped to quickly adapt to such changes. However, we have proven to be far more than ordinary.

Lieutenant Sextilis Magna Bellator, you have repeatedly proven to be more than capable of successfully managing any responsibility given to you. As a result, I am proud to promote you to the rank of Lieutenant Commander, and the position of First Officer of the USS Surefoot.” She produced the additional pips, stepped forward, and proceeded to add them to the Nova Roman’s collar.

Bellator’s face turned scarlet, as they looked to the senior officers, clearly stunned by the announcement, but remaining cognisant enough to accept the Vulcan’s hand.

Then T’Varik moved to Giles. “Lieutenant Giles Arrington, you generously accepted the role of Chief Helmsman when you were needed, but I am aware that your main ambition has been to be on the Command track. Certainly your prior service on this ship, and the James Fenimore Cooper, has effectively demonstrated your acumen in this field, but until now you have had little opportunity to continue along these lines.

Until now. Effectively immediately you will act as the ship’s Second Officer, with Ensign Astrid Michel being made Chief Helmsman. Assuming, of course, that you are prepared to accept the role?”

Giles beamed. “I am, Captain… along with any promotion in rank you might like to throw my way.”

The Vulcan raised a wry eyebrow, along with her hand. “Don’t be greedy.”

The other officers applauded, and offered hand- and pawshakes, before Hrelle slapped his paws together. “Sorry, cubs, but the grownups have work to do! Go have juice and cake elsewhere!”

“And don’t save any for the Commodore,” Kami quipped, drawing closer to him. “Have you spoken with the Doctor and the Chief yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Shall I do it?”

“No, thank you, I can manage.”

“And what about that prospective Station Security Chief?”

“Still trying to track her down. I’ve got it all in paw.”

“Have you got a Station Chief in paw, too, Buster?”

“Is this necessary now in front of everyone?”

“And Zir? Don’t forget Zir, she needs to know what’s happening to her. And you have to warn Sasha about the new assignment, it’ll affect her as much as it did you. And have you considered the support crew for the station? There’ll be civilians, dependents who need help.”

Hrelle looked to T’Varik. “Captain, call Red Alert, I’m definitely under attack here.”

*

TRACK 06 - WHISKEY IN THE JAR

Deep Space Nine, Habitat Ring, Conference Room 9:

Bad news comes in threes, the old saying went. Usually Sasha dismissed such old sayings as bilge. “Salem Sector? Our Salem Sector?”

On the small viewscreen in the back of the conference room, her father’s sober visage answered before his words did. “Yes. Salem One was shut down and locked up two years ago when the War heated up. Now they’re sending me back to reopen it and restart normal business there. I just wanted you to hear it from me before scuttlebutt got around to you first.” He looked at her. “How do you feel about it?”

Feel? About you going back to the place where we once lived? Where Mom was once alive, where we were one big happy family before the Bel-Zon came along and blew all that to shit? “Okay, I think. And you?”

“Like I was punched in the gut. It wouldn’t have been my first choice of new assignment. Or even my tenth. But Admiral Raner was clear enough on the subject: it was this, or resignation, an act I almost considered, but one that would affect more than just myself, but the whole family. Kami assures me I can handle it. I hope you can, too.”

“Yeah. I’ll be okay.” She glanced over at the group assembling into the room. “I have to update the crew about the status of the Ajax, and about Weynik. Love you.”

“Love you too, Sash.” The screen went black.

She steeled herself. God damn it, she didn’t need to hear that, on top of having to reveal what she’d just learned about their ship and captain. If this was a First Officer’s life, then it can kiss her ass.

Sasha turned and drew up to the group, letting their talk die down before she finally spoke. “Thank you for coming to the briefing, all of you who could attend. As First Officer I’ll be conducting this in place of Captain Weynik, while he continues to recuperate-”

“And how is the Captain?” Chief Maryk, standing at the front of the group, asked, though it sounded more like a demand.

Sasha swallowed, wishing she’d had some water before starting this. “They’ve fitted a biosynthetic leg to him, all signs point toward the operation being a complete success. He should be up and running – well, walking at any rate – before you know it.”

“And his spirits?” Madison asked. “It can’t be easy to recover from such a trauma.”

Especially one I literally caused, she thought. “He’s been seeing the doctors, and Counselors, and… and I’m sure he’ll recover soon.”

“How soon?” Crewman Vanchez asked

As soon as someone shakes him out of his deep depression over what I did to him. “Soon. We all know how strong the Captain is.”

“In time for the Ajax to be repaired?” Nurse Craddy asked.

She breathed in. Here goes… “The Ajax, minus the Warhead of course, is being towed back to Starbase 375 for eventual repair and refitting. However, it’s the ‘eventual’ part that is the problem. I’ve received word from Starfleet Logistics: because of the specialised nature of the components like the Defiant-class Warheads, and the need to rebuild the Fleet, with its focus on general-purpose vessels, as quickly as possible, returning the Ajax to active duty will be delayed by about four to six months.”

That stirred up the group, as expected, Ensign Bump asking, “You mean we’re going to be hanging around here for almost half a year?”

“No, Spacehead,” Maryk answered before Sasha could, her crisp Russian accent lending weight to the portentous news. “They’ll have us all split up and assigned elsewhere long before then.”

“Wait! Listen!” Sasha raised her hands and spoke up, before the alarm could run away with the news. “We may not be on the Ajax, but that doesn’t mean we won’t be together on another ship! Even now, Captain Weynik and I are working towards making it happen!”

That seemed to mollify them a bit, Crewman Charleston asking, “Really? And suppose we get an offer to go somewhere else, Lieutenant Commander? What then?”

Her stomach was twisting; damn, she really needed something to drink.. “If something does come up for you, and you really want to take it, just bring it to me, I’ll authorise the transfer out, I promise! But in the meantime, enjoy the break while it lasts. Once the new ship is assigned over to us, I expect we’ll be on our way at short notice, and who knows when we’ll have shore leave again, am I right?”

Her words had the desired effect, letting her conclude with, “In the meantime, when I hear anything more, I’ll forward updates to your accounts… and the next time you’re getting hammered, think of us poor old senior officers too busy working for your benefit to stop and join you.”

That produced some good-natured jeers, and she slipped on a smile as she waved them off, turning and picking up her PADD as she made her escape through the rear entrance to the conference room, quickly making her way around the curved corridor and out of sight of the others. Nice one, Sasha. You’ve learned to shovel planet-sized amounts of bullshit. If they knew how fucked up the situation was, with their future, with their CO…

Lacking a ship of their own, they were being billeted on Deep Space Nine, in quarters that lacked replicators, forcing them to visit the commissaries and replimats. Sasha made her way to the Promenade… just not for a meal.

Quark’s was open, though at this time of morning even with the high occupancy here, there was only a fraction of the patrons that were here last night. She strode up to the bar, beside a hulking Lurian male perched on the same seat he occupied the night before.

Remembering how much of a talker the Lurian had been, she took a place at the opposite end of the bar. “Terran vodka, double shot.”

The Ferengi behind the bar turned and faced her, leering in recognition. “Ahhh, Hellcat Hrelle has come back! Have you changed your mind about the hologame?”

“No, just get me the drink.”

Quark leaned against his side of the bar. “But why the attitude? Why deny others the chance at some harmless entertainment?”

And you the chance at some profit… “Because what I did wasn’t entertainment. It was a nasty, necessary action. War isn’t a game.”

He smiled. “Tell that to all my customers who rent my Holosuites to fight at the Alamo, in the Battle of Narenda III, the Borg attack on Earth. Lots of people like to play at War.”

She grunted. “Lots of assholes. Drink.”

He shrugged and moved to the bottles.

“Sasha?”

She turned, frowning at the new arrivals. “How did you find me?”

Mori and Madison (I never see these two separately anymore, she mused, maybe they do want a threesome) entered the bar, both sharing a look of concern, but it was Mori who tapped his muzzle. “Your scent is easier for me to track than a sweaty shuris calf.”

“Thanks.” She felt her face burn as Quark returned with her drink, looking to the new arrivals expectantly. She thumbed to them. “Give them whatever they want.”

“Nothing for us,” Madison responded. “We’re on duty. All of us.”

“Why not opt for synthehol then?” Quark suggested.

“Because synthehol tastes like tail cheese,” Mori retorted, sitting down on Sasha’s left side, even as Madison took the place on her right. The Caitian nodded to the shotglass. “What’s going on, Sash?”

She glared at Quark, who was still standing there listening, until the Ferengi took the hint and walked away, leaving her to stare at her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. “Nothing. Just having a quiet drink, that’s all.”

“While on duty?” Madison asked, glancing outside, as if afraid of being found in here during the day. “Didn’t you get enough last night?”

“She didn’t drink at all last night,” Mori corrected. “She hasn’t had any alcohol in weeks.” When Sasha looked to him, the Caitian leaned in. “I’ve smelled a lot of horrible things on your breath, but liquor hasn’t been one of them for a long while.”

“So, apparently I have bad breath and stink worse than a wild shuris,” she muttered, staring down at her untouched drink. “Clearly you’re not looking to get some anytime soon.”

“Sasha,” Madison said gently. “We’re your friends. Talk to us.”

She continued to stare at the drink. Go on, have it… “I have an addictive personality. Alcohol. Sex. Combat exercise programs without the safety protocols. Pain from the exercises, and then painkillers from a personal medical kit. Rinse and repeat, but mostly it’s the alcohol. It was my way to distract me, numb me, help me avoid all the shit that’s piled on me over the years.

But after what I saw on Cait, what I went through, I had to face that part of me, or it would swallow me up and never let me go. So when I got back on the Ajax, from a suggestion from our medical EMH Counseling, I made a private pledge, to cut out all alcohol for thirty days. A simple, straightforward goal… but proof that if I can do it for thirty, I can do it for 300, or 3,000. I can change who I am, overcome my flaws.” She shrugged. “It’s Day 27. The other things are easier to abstain from… I simply don’t have time or energy to screw or go fighting holographic Ferasans and patch myself up afterwards.”

She felt the males look at each other, before Madison asked, “Why didn’t you tell anyone you were doing this?”

“Yes,” Mori agreed. “We would have supported you wholeheartedly, not brought you here last night, kept you from temptation-”

Now she looked to her lover. “That’s the point. I needed to keep myself from temptation, even in the midst of it, to know that I was the only one who’d judge me. Besides, in the absence of the Captain, the crew were looking to me for leadership. How would it look if the new First Officer admitted to having a problem with her liquor?”

“Synthehol is non-addictive,” Quark offered from several metres away, his huge ears obviously still picking up the conversation.

“It also tastes like a dead Nausicaan’s asscrack!” she snapped, reaching for the shotglass… and throwing it in the Ferengi’s direction, Quark dodging in time to let it strike the wall behind him and shatter. She rose to her feet. “I’m done here, I have too much to do.”

She marched out, taking Madison and Mori by the elbows to follow, ignoring Quark as he called after her, “I’m adding the damage to the wall to your tab! Unless of course you want it taken out of your future profits of Operation: Warhead!”

*

TRACK 07 - HERE THERE AND EVERYWHERE

USS Surefoot, Deck 1 Fore, Captain’s Ready Room:

Hrelle could focus. Really. He made a successful tactical career of it, making instant judgements… in battle. Now, despite the short deadline, he had to force himself to stay fixed on the job at hand, with T’Varik now behind his desk – his former desk, that is. “There’s the Cuchulain- Norway-class-”

“Major structural damage to the secondary hull,” the Vulcan noted. “It will not be warp-worthy for three weeks. And there is an ancillary report about it being earmarked following its repairs to help secure the Tholian border.”

“Another one?” He grunted, rubbing his eyes and reaching for his coffee. “Raner said I’d have the pick of whatever was left around Deep Space Nine. I’m beginning to think she sold me a sack of shuris shit.” He drank deeply, licking his muzzle.

“Starfleet Security is not the only branch of Starfleet, nor is Admiral Raner the only high-ranking officer looking to secure the surviving resources for their own purposes. Operations, Intelligence, Engineering, Tactical, Medical, Science-”

He made a sound. “Everyone wants a big ship. Something that looks impressive, representative of our scope, our ideals and abilities.”

“Size isn’t everything.” She reached for her tea. “Or so I have been told.”

Hrelle offered a smile… but then leaned back and grew thoughtful. “I never wanted to command a big ship. The biggest I ever had was the Furyk. Steamrunner-class, 150 crew. Even that seemed a lot to me. I always preferred smaller ships, smaller crews. You got to know the people who served under you better, more profoundly. And we still got things done- the Surefoot certainly did- T’Varik?”

She looked up at him, as he continued. “Maybe I’m going at this the wrong way. Traditionally, sector security in the outer regions of Federation territory has been managed by the medium-sized cruisers: The Akiras, Centaurs, Constellations, Nebulas, Norways, Springfields-”

She nodded. “Their size, speed, strength, firepower and multi-mission capabilities offer a high degree of long-range independence that smaller vessels lack.”

“Which is why smaller support vessels like Sabres, Oberths, Cyclones and Novas are typically assigned to short-range missions such as patrols along established borders, or planetary surveys.” He set aside his mug and leaned forward. “But what if instead of my selecting one large vessel, I take four or five smaller ones with me? All operating out of Salem One, whose maintenance facilities would be able to accommodate them better than one of the larger ships?”

T’Varik raised an eyebrow. “It would increase patrol coverage, and require fewer overall crew numbers. And allocation of identical ships would allow for a geometric increase in interchangability of crew members and components.”

She set aside her tea and returned to her monitor, as Hrelle did the same, beating him to the search results. “Of the 113 vessels in this sector awaiting repair and/or reassignment or decommissioning, I identify six that would be almost immediately suitable for your needs, Commodore, all Sabre-class, all having served as ambulance ships: the Ulyanov, the Tangshan, the Prospero, the al-Razi, the Katana... and the Surefoot. You may have heard of the last one in your travels, Sir.”

Hrelle smiled as he focused on calling up the records of the particular ships, thankful to have T’Varik on his side. “I like this idea. The Sabres may be small, but they’re tough and versatile, and can cover a lot of territory simultaneously. The Katana, Tangshan and al-Razi need Captains and senior officers, however… but I have some ideas on that, one of them involving Weynik and Sasha.”

“Indeed? They will not return to the Ajax?”

“No, it’s at the back of the line for repairs. The Sabre is very similar in size and function to the Defiant class vessels.”

“And do you believe Sasha will be accepting of returning to the Salem Sector?”

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. “She wasn’t pleased with hearing that I was going. She’ll be less pleased that she’ll be going there as well.” He looked up at her. “I wish I could spare her this.”

The Vulcan met his stare. “I believe you, Commodore. I also believe that Sasha is strong enough to overcome any emotional repercussions.”

“Thank you; I’ll speak to her when I have the time. Submit the appropriate requisition orders to Starfleet Command before anyone else grabs them.”

“Aye, Sir. The majority of the present complements will be superfluous, as we will no longer be requiring the medical staff typically necessary for ambulance ships.”

“We’ll pass the word on to their senior officers to begin transferring those ancillary staff to billets on Deep Space Nine until they can be reassigned, and get onto the Sector Quartermaster, I want our ships fully stocked, Priority One from Admiral Raner’s office.” When she looked up at him again, he explained, “I’m tired of being polite and letting other people jump ahead of me in line. Looks like you’ll be taking orders from me for a while longer, T’Varik.”

“So it would seem. And I must remind you that you have yet to solve the problem of staffing for the station-”

“I haven’t forgotten.” He stared at the image of Salem One: one of the older Masada-Class outpost models, with its top-shaped design, the central module with its airlocks and hangar bays for small craft, ventral array for the expandable Drydock mesh, and topped with a sensor/communications tower and weapons pods.

It was certainly tiny compared to Earth’s Spacedock or Deep Space Nine, but still requiring an absolute bare minimum of fifty specialised officers and crew to adequately function, and that didn’t count the additional crew that would be required to support a squadron of six Sabres. The Sabre crews could certainly help out, at least to a limited degree, but still… “Cadets.”

“Sir?”

Hrelle looked up again. “What if we had Salem One designated an Annex of Starfleet Academy? Set up a larger version of the Academy’s Advanced Work Experience program that we had on the Surefoot? The best and the brightest could be transferred to the station, living, studying and working both on Salem One and the Sabres on a rotating basis? Same deal as what we had for Sasha and all the others?”

She gave him a look of genuine regard. “It is feasible. We would still need to recruit qualified support staff to provide instruction.”

“Sure, but many senior officers and enlisted crewmembers already possess teaching qualifications as part of their career track requirements, don’t they? All we’ll really need then is an Annex Superintendent for the Station. And it’s certainly a safer environment than the battlefield has been. Assuming Admiral Goldstein goes for it.”

“The Academy Superintendent has been impressed with the results we have seen from the cadets who served onboard the Surefoot. I believe we-” She paused as an alert came though her desk monitor, and she paused to read it.

He frowned, seeing the expression on her face. “Problem?”

“A personal message from my brother Pedalk on Vulcan, regarding my nephew Srithik.”

Hrelle grew concerned the longer she remained silent. “Anything I can help you with?”

She didn’t answer right away. “Commodore, with my prior relationship with Admiral Goldstein and service at Starfleet Academy, I am best equipped to arrange the establishment of an Academy Annex on Salem One, and the rapid redeployment of cadets and possibly even instructors and necessary equipment, allowing you to focus on filling the requirements for the Sabres.

However, as you will remain my superior officer, I am obliged to inform you that I may exploit my command level status for personal reasons.”

The cryptic nature of her request intrigued him. “Does this have something to do with your nephew?”

“Yes, Sir; he requires my help to be extricated from a potentially harmful situation. However, I would not wish to jeopardise your standing with Starfleet Command through any actions on my part-”

“Carry on.”

“Commodore, you do not yet know-”

“I don’t need to know. I trust you. And if it involves helping a cub...”

She nodded, rising. “Thank you. If you will excuse me for a moment, I must consult my wife on this matter.”

He waved her off. “Fine, leave us poor working stiffs to do all the work.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You should know that I located and disposed of the second secret snack stash you had prepared and hidden behind the couch, in case you go seeking it in my absence.”

He told her what he thought of her actions.

She remained unfazed. “Clearly your promotion to flag officer has not improved the quality of your profanity.”

*

Sasha had been in her temporary quarters on DS9 with Mori when she received the incoming alert, and pushed aside her meal to read, expecting another enquiry or transfer request from one of the crew.

It wasn’t.

Mori had come from the sonic shower when he noticed her change of scent and mood. “What is it?”

She leaned back in her chair, rereading the text. “My Dad has secured us a ship: the USS Katana, Sabre-class, one of the former ambulance ships left behind.”

“That’s great.” Then he asked, “Isn’t it?”

“We’re apparently going to be part of a Squadron helping him in Salem Sector.” She kicked back her chair and rose to her feet, walking around the quarters like a caged animal, running her fingers through her short crop of dirty blonde hair.

“I’m not familiar with that part of space,” Mori admitted warily.

“I am… Salem was the place I told you about, where I grew up.”

“Mother’s Cubs,” the Caitian breathed out. “That’s the place? Oh Sash, I’m sorry!”

“Yeah. I remember every deck, every Jefferies Tube. I remember the people my Mom worked with. And I remember the day Mom died, and everyone was trying to find a way to break it to me. Now I get to be constantly reminded of that. Every. Single. Fucking. Day. I’m there.”

“What are you going to do?”

Get so drunk I could be legally classified as an alcohol-based lifeform… “I…”

She returned to her desk and sat down again.

She felt Mori’s eyes on her. “Your Dad- Captain Weynik-”

She opened one of the outstanding tasks: they needed a Counselor, preferably a organic one instead of the EMH they had relied on while on the Ajax. “I know my Dad, and he knows me; he wouldn’t have set this up if he could help it. And Weynik isn’t in any state of mind to deal with this... or anything else, right now.”

“Can I help in any way?”

Get a crate of whiskey in… “Yes, put some clothes on, go find Chief Maryk and Jim Madison, access the report I’m sending to your account on the state of the Katana, and plan a course of action to get our new ship up and running as soon as possible, as per Commodore Hrelle’s orders. I need a list of necessary parts and supplies within an hour.”

“Of course, Sash. Everything’s going to work out.”

She nodded absently without looking away from her work, not believing it.

Fuck me sideways, what the Hell am I doing, shouldering all this myself?

*

In the Command Quarters on the Surefoot, Sreen looked up at her favourite childminder with delight. “Giva! Giva Go Go!”

Gyver knelt down to her level, letting the infant reach out and pat the tip of his muzzle, while Misha clung to the equinoid’s back. “Yeah! Let’s go! Daventure awaits!”

Kami looked up from the desk. “Misha, Mr Timbrel is not a ride, show him some respect. Mr Timbrel, don’t let him take advantage of you.”

The Paladel secured Sreen in her chair. “Rest assured, Madame Counselor, I will be as strict with him as his father is.”

Kami smirked. “That doesn’t fill me with much confidence. Tell me, have you given any thought to remaining in Starfleet?”

Gyver straightened up, Misha still clinging to him. “I have… but I have reservations about the nature of the work I may be asked to perform.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I may be a proficient warrior, but I am also a most reluctant one.”

The Counselor turned to face him. “Something else you share in common with my husband. Do you like taking care of cubs?”

He smiled, adjusting the bag with the cubcare paraphernalia over his free shoulder. “I do indeed, Madame Counselor. To nurture and teach children is among the highest of services. And yours seem to like me.”

“So I’ve noticed. You’ll already be aware that my husband has been promoted, and is taking command of an outpost; I’m assisting him in personnel reassignment. There will inevitably be other young people besides mine there, in need of dedicated teachers and minders. If you’re willing to complete some required qualifications, do you think you might wish to work in that area?”

“Most assuredly, Madame Counselor.”

Kami smiled. “I’ll see what I can do for you, then. In the meantime, please help the furry little wart on your neck burn off some energy in the Holodeck.”

Misha leaned closer to Gyver’s pointed right ear and whispered, “I’m the wart.”

“So I gathered, my charge. I have designed a new holoprogram, full of climbing bars for you, and soothing music and colours for your sister. Let us go… and, thank you again, Counselor.”

She waved them off. “Many people are being assigned now to positions and places they wouldn’t necessarily choose if they can help it. I’m happy to help someone towards a desired role-” Her combadge chirped. “Counselor Hrelle.”

A crisp British accent responded. “Counselor, this is Dr Bashir on Deep Space Nine. One of your patients in our Recovery Centre is causing problems again.”

Kami’s tail twitched. “Captain Weynik?”

“Yes, the Roylan with the new leg. He’s fully recovered, but refuses to get up, refuses to eat, is abusive to his visitors. As you’re listed to be contacted at such times-”

She rose to her feet. “Thank you, Doctor. I’m on my way.”

*

TRACK 08 - I WILL SURVIVE

Deep Space Nine Medical Section:

He stared ahead, perfectly still. He knew how to do that. His people’s dermal flexibility was not as great as most other humanoids; they were said to be naturally deadpan, an evolutionary holdover from their piscine ancestry, when one had to blend into the surrounding reefs and avoid predators.

He wasn’t trying to avoid predators anymore. He wasn’t even enamoured with the drab Cardassian architecture around him.

His mother, Professor Tallus, stood there, looking furious – for a Roylan, anyway. “Weynik, you can’t keep lying here, ignoring everyone, and then yelling at anyone who tries to get too close! Your children are missing their father! Naida is old enough to know something’s wrong, she keeps asking questions!”

She drew closer.

He turned to her sharply, hissing, “Don’t.”

She paused, her eyestalks dipping to him. “Weynik, I know what happened to you took its toll on you… you need to open up, talk about it.”

He looked away again. “No. I don’t. Tired. Just want to lie here.”

“You’ve been lying here for days! You have a new leg, you can walk, you can resume duty-”

“Go away.”

“Your father is worried about you- he’s wanted to visit you again, but-”

“But he has affairs of Starfleet to consider, doesn’t he? Always busy. Always too busy.”

“That’s not fair-”

The door slid open, and Weynik turned just enough to see that it was Sasha, before he turned back again. She stopped as she saw Tallus. “Oh, sorry, Professor, I didn’t know Captain Weynik had company.”

The older Roylan female glanced in her son’s direction. “If you ask your Captain, I think he’ll tell you I’m more a source of discomfort than comfort. Assuming you can get a civil word out of him.” She turned and left.

Sasha watched her leave, before turning back to Weynik, clearly hesitant. He understood why, given his lack of response to her the last time she had come, trying to coax him out of this room. “Captain… how are you feeling?”

He stared ahead.

She drew a little closer. “Good news: my Dad’s found us a new ship, and a new mission. It’s the Katana: Sabre-class, one of the ambulance ships like the Surefoot. Its Captain had suffered plasma burns during an overload, and the crew are being reassigned to other ships, or will be supplementing ours.” She made a sound. “The Sabres have pretty much the same engines and infrastructures as the Defiants like the Ajax, so even Chief Maryk can’t complain about it. Though I’m sure she’ll try.” She smiled.

He stared ahead.

“Captain,” she continued, more soberly now. “I… I never did tell you how sorry I was about losing the Ajax… and about what I had to do to your leg-”

Now he looked at her. “Sorry? Why?”

She blinked, flushing in that revealing way humans do without realising it. “Well… you know- you know I didn’t have a choice-”

“Why are you sorry? Look what it’s earned you: a promotion from my father. Maybe if you’d found a way to take off my arm too, you could have made Full Commander.”

She swallowed, clearly not sure if he was joking or not. “Sir, I- I wanted to go over our basic mission parameters with you. Dad gave me the mission pack-”

“‘Dad’? Is that the correct way to address a superior officer when you’re discussing Starfleet business, Lieutenant Commander?” he snapped.

Sasha stiffened. “You’re right, of course, Sir. I mean Commodore Hrelle-”

“Commodore Hrelle,” he echoed, adding a tint of nasty derision. “I bet he’s really enjoying himself now. He can go to the Flag Officers’ Buffets with my father. Be pals. He’ll probably see more of my father than I ever have.”

She breathed in, visibly struggling to find a new approach with him – Good luck with that, kid, the doctors and nurses and Counselors and relatives they’ve sent me have all tried and failed – before she steeled herself. “Captain, as your First Officer I have a duty to the crew and to you-”

“MY FIRST OFFICER?” he shouted now, looking at her… in time to see the door open, and Kami enter. He ignored her, focusing on the young human. “That was a very temporary posting, under very temporary conditions! I did it because I had no choice! Do you honestly think I’d let some mentally unstable child, a reckless, homicidal, suicidal alcoholic, a pathetic Daddy’s Girl with delusions of being Caitian, hold any real position of authority on any command of mine if I can help it?”

Kami stepped up, resting a supportive paw on Sasha’s shoulder as she fixed a resolute gaze on Weynik. “That’s enough, Captain.” To Sasha she added softly, “He doesn’t mean any of this.”

“Yeah, go on,” he sneered, seeing the broken expression on Sasha’s face. “Listen to your new mother. The one you had replace your real, dead one. When was the last time you gave her a second thought? I wonder what she’d think of the pitiful emotional wreck her daughter’s become?”

Sasha was trembling now, but she reached up, removed Kami’s touch and told Weynik, “I’ll- I’ll come back later when you’re ready to discuss our next mission, Sir.”

“Take your time. Maybe there’s some crewmembers from the Ajax you haven’t screwed yet?”

She turned on her heels and stormed from the room. Kami stood there, staring hard, her tail still. “You’re going to regret lashing out at her like that.”

He looked away again. “Oh? Is she gonna sic Papa Cat on me? If she can’t fight her own battles without her Daddy in her corner, maybe she should quit Starfleet?”

“She would never tell Esek about this. Neither would I. I mean that once you’ve begun to see sense again, you’ll be kicking yourself over letting your pain express as venom against everyone around you.”

“Well, Counselor, thanks to this…” He reached down and slapped the thigh of his biosynthetic leg. “Maybe I can kick myself now. I hear it does amazing things. Some other time, perhaps.”

“When?”

“When it’s not hurting.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “It doesn’t hurt you.”

“Oh, an expert on pain now, are we?”

“Yes, actually; neurology plays a part in Counseling.”

He kept staring ahead. “I’m tired. I don’t need visitors, I don’t need doctors or therapists or do-gooders or well wishers. I just want…”

“You want to get busy dying,” she prompted.

“What?”

“From an old Terran Vivid I saw. ‘Get busy living, or get busy dying’. Wise words, even almost four centuries after they were spoken. As much you might want to let your trauma restrain you, keep you in this room, on that bed, safe and unlikely to be hurt again… you can’t. And the longer you listen to your trauma, the harder it’ll be for you to shake it off.”

“Get out.”

“You’re not alone, Weynik. Not in being someone who has been traumatised by this War, nor in being someone with people around him, loved ones who care for him-”

He looked at her again. “How dare you come in here and try to lecture me? You’re a sorry excuse for a Counselor, let alone a wife and mother! Esek’s gonna eat himself into an early grave, Sasha’s a self-destructive addict with race identity issues, Misha’s nearly been killed more than once because you couldn’t control him… and you couldn’t even produce an able-bodied daughter of your own!”

But Kami just stood there, regarding him, showing no reaction to his words, to his attempts to drive her away along with everyone else, and leave him to his pain. Damn her.

It only enraged him further. “What’s it going to take to get you the Hell out of my room?”

She shrugged. “When you get up and show me to the door like a gentleman. Make that first step. That first step is going to be the most difficult for you. Not physically, but mentally. Because it finally starts the chapter in your life when you must acknowledge that you lost your original leg and received a replacement. That through no fault of your own, your life as you knew it was over, and a new one has begun.

I told Esek yesterday that true strength isn’t illustrated by what we can take without getting knock down. True strength is illustrated by our rising again after we’re knocked down.”

He spat. “Esek was right about you: you are a smug, sanctimonious, insufferable, opinionated qanciq!”

“That last word didn’t translate, but I’ll assume it’s accurate.”

“You know he wishes he never married you, don’t you?”

She smirked. “I’m sure you’ve heard people say that your new leg will be just as good as the old one, that you’ll soon be back to your old self.” She shook her head. “You won’t be. There’s no turning back the clock. Forever more, you will be different to the Captain Weynik before the battle, before losing his leg. But that’s not a bad thing, either. We cannot control life changing us, only how we respond to those changes.”

He looked away. “Fuck off.”

He could practically hear her smile. “Now I’m getting through to you…”

*

Back on the Surefoot, T’Varik entered the Bridge and approached C’Rash, at her Tactical station supervising the receipt of quantum torpedoes. “Lieutenant, if I may speak with you privately?”

The coal-furred Caitian female shrugged and followed her partner into the Ready Room, noting, “What’s up, Captain Marmalade?”

T’Varik suppressed her initial reaction, audible to Ensign Thykrill on the bridge just before the doors slid shut. “A family crisis has arisen on Vulcan, which compels me to make a significant decision, one that will affect both of us. You recall my sister Nivor’s son, Shrithik?”

C’Rash leaned against the desk, folding her arms. “Sure. Nice cub. What about him?”

“My brother Pedalk has sent an urgent communiqué. Srithik ran away from home last week.”

The Caitian’s ears twitched. “I’d be shocked, if I hadn’t already met his kussik of a mother. Is he safe?”

“Yes… but after he was located and returned to her, Nivor has responded by arranging to take him to the Monastery of T’Klaas, to live and be trained in the discipline of Kolinahr.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It is an extreme, fringe practice, rarely sought out anymore by Vulcans. Those who successfully complete Kolinahr training are permanently purged of their emotions. Some believe it makes them quintessentially Vulcan. I believe it makes them little better than Borg drones. His curiosity, his compassion, his empathy, all of those qualities that make him who he is and more will be forcibly burned away from him.”

An almost subliminal growl escaped from C’Rash. “Can she really do that to her own cub? Can your brother do anything about it?”

“It is almost unheard of to submit minors to this, but Nivor is obviously using her political power to gain what she desires, and I fear Pedalk will not have the influence or authority to successfully challenge her actions. C’Rash… I wish to take custody of him, and have him live with us, or at least in our proximity, until he becomes an adult. I accept that this is an important decision that deserves thought, but time is critical-”

“Then you’d better shake your peachy ass and save the cub,” her partner replied.

T’Varik blinked. “Caitians are not known for long deliberations.”

C’Rash shrugged. “We have instinct. He won’t be sleeping in our bedroom with us, will he?”

The Vulcan frowned. “Of course not. He will have his own sleeping quarters.”

“You’d better make them soundproofed. You’re going to be busy making this up to me, Captain Marmalade, and I expect you to be making me howl.”

T’Varik reached up, pressing her fingertips against the side of C’Rash’s face and muzzle, opening up their psychic bond enough to provide graphic assurances of how grateful she will be.

*

It was slightly busier in Quark’s when Sasha stormed back in, not caring that it was a familiar Ferengi drawing up to her from behind the bar. “You’re infatuated with me. It’s the only possible reason you keep coming back and not drinking.”

She took a seat. “I’m drinking now. Romulan Ale, Double.”

“Coming right up.” He reached under the bar where she sat, never taking his gimlet eyes off of her. “Twelve percent, and that’s my final offer. I’m drawing the line, this far, no further.”

“No.”

“Okay, fifteen percent.”

She grunted; he was consistent, if nothing else. She felt herself shaking still from Weynik’s verbal assault on her. Yes, she was savvy enough to know that he was in pain, was striking out so as not to face what happened to him. But, FUCK, Captain, did you have to be so tactical in your strikes?

Jeez, Sash, it’s been relentless: the battle, amputating her commanding officer’s leg, her near death, her promotion, Dad being assigned back to Salem, her being assigned back to Salem, all of this… it was too much…

Quark produced a tall, thin bottle filled with electric blue liquid, and removed the stopper. “Okay, Lieutenant Commander, all joking aside: you obviously need someone to talk to. Who better than a bartender?”

She shrugged. “A Counselor, a doctor, a rabbi, a mugato, a brick…”

The Ferengi chuckled… but then seemed to sober up as he poured the ale into a tumbler. “You’ve seen and done things no one should ever have had to… and not just during this damn War either, I expect.

It feels like your whole life has been a trial, hasn’t it? And why you? What did you do to deserve this injustice? And the Universe expects you to keep taking it, without respite. It’s not fair.” He pushed the tumbler in her direction.

Sasha stared down into the liquid. He has a point, Sash. It’s Day 29 of a self-imposed thirty-day abstinence that few know about and even fewer care about. You can stop now, you’ve proved yourself.

“You’re shouldering far more than you should have to,” Quark continued, his voice soothing, almost mesmerising. “And all in the service of others. But you can’t neglect yourself, your own needs. And every cell in your body is telling you that you need this.” He pointed to her drink. “Tell you what: the first one is on the house, in recognition of all you’ve done to protect commerce in the Quadrant… oh, and freedom and liberty and all that other stuff. You need this.”

She reached for the drink, her fingertips touching the smooth, cool glass, feeling like she could almost absorb the contents osmotically. He’s right. You need this. You NEED this.

She pushed the glass back in his direction and rose to her feet. “I’ll come back for it when I want it, not when I need it.”

She turned and departed. Quark watched her leave, chuckling. “Pretty smart for a hyoo-man.”

Continue to Side 2