Surefoot 74: Compilation

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.