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| Stories → Bait and Switch → Chapter 8: A Captain's Hardest Job |
| Chapter 8: A Captain's Hardest Job | |
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27 January 2014 |
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Stardate: |
December 2409 Earth Standard |
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We transferred the two villagers we rescued over to the Jadzia Dax before leaving and the Bajor is on course for the rendezvous point in an uninhabited star system about two light-years from the Rolor Nebula, coreward of Deep Space 9. We're six hours into a 45-hour flight, give or take fifteen minutes.
I'm in the morgue, looking at the wall of sealed stasis chambers. Five of the indicator panels are lit. I try to remember something, anything about the names on the panels. Chief Botany Specialist Nathan Rutgers. Security Officer Thara Jhehl. Crewman Recruit Telos. Geology Specialist Juno Ichigaki. Crewman Cdebaat. I know their names, and I knew Cdebaat well enough—I'd brought him on away missions before—to know he was the kind of Tellarite who fully lived up to their stereotype of stubborn and argumentative and fully enjoyed that he did so.
But I didn't know him beyond that. It's something I miss about those early days on the Kagoshima: I knew at least the names and faces of everyone on my crew. But it's impossible to know every member when your crew numbers a thousand-plus. The shrinks tell me it affects me more it does other COs, something they blame on the fact that I came up from the ranks and then got fast-tracked to captain after Vega. Something like, it wasn't so long ago I was on the other side of the fact that sometimes a captain has to order good people to their deaths for no adequately explained reason, and then I feel guilty when bodies inevitably start dropping. I don't know if it's true or not; all I know is, it hurts to have people I don't know die because of my orders.
I curse under my breath and leave the room, heading to the turbolift. "Sickbay." The car hums and drops several decks, then rushes sideways for fifty meters or so and the door slides open. I turn right out of the door and stroll down the corridor, passing an ops warrant officer who snaps to attention as I pass. I absently wave him off and keep walking to the door of sickbay.
The mood is subdued. There's a Vulcan geology specialist, Sebod, I think his name is, out cold on one gurney and stuffed full of tubes. Warragul is standing next to him writing something on a PADD. He sees me and says, "Cap'n."
"Doctor. How is he?"
Warragul lowers the PADD and scratches his bushy black mustache. He's the only human on my command staff, with narrow, deep-set eyes, puffy cheeks, short coal-black hair, and very dark brown skin. He's also the youngest and lowest-ranked member of my staff, 26 as of two weeks ago and only a lieutenant junior grade. He speaks with an accent. I'm told it's Austrian—no, Australian, sorry, but in any case he wasn't born on Earth. "Sucking chest wound. Shrapnel injuries. Sebod's not out of the woods yet, but his vitals are strong."
He steps across the aisle to another gurney, where a young Denobulan woman, a science-track cadet on her midshipman cruise, has had part of her head shaved, and heavy bandages wrap around her right upper arm. She's breathing but out cold. Warragul explains, "Cadet Threx lost that arm but we were able to reattach it. The head injury was worse. Had to replicate and replace part of her skull."
"Will she recover?" I ask.
"We'll have to wait and see how bad the brain trauma was but early diagnostics say she got lucky. She's probably lost at least the last couple of weeks, though. I've got her an induced coma until the swelling goes down." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "I always find the humanoid brain fascinating, Cap'n. We know so much about how it works now but there's always something new, and that's without mentioning that … spark that you can never get out of a replicator."
"I'm sure. How are the others from Deck Ten?"
"Stable. I discharged Lieutenant Jeffreys and Gunner's Mate T'Sarn before you got here, and Specialist Ballug will be out of here in a day or so."
"What about Specialist Rodis from the bridge?"
"Flash burns from his console, and a cracked rib from bouncing off Commander Riyannis's console. I sent him home already. Oh, and, uh, Chief Athezra's armor stopped most of that disruptor blast. Corpsman Watkins should be finishing up with him by now."
"Can I see him?
Warragul nods and gestures to the door to the next chamber. I walk over and look in. There's a dozen or so assorted blue-shirts from Deck Ten, and Chief Athezra is sitting on the edge of the bed nearest the door in his underwear as a blue-shirted corpsman runs a protoplaser over his chest. He moves to salute but Watkins, a blonde of indeterminate age whom I'm told has some Betazoid blood, slaps his hand back down and tells him to hold still or she'll knock him out. I chuckle. "How you doing, Chief?"
"Could be worse, ma'am. Doc says I'll be out of here in about an hour. Um, if you'll pardon my asking, do you happen to know what happened to my earring?"
I glance around the room. "No, no idea. I'll check with Warragul on my way out."
"Thank you, Captain. What happened to Cdebaat? He's not here and nobody'll tell me anything."
I let out a breath. "He's dead. Orion matron got the drop on him and broke his neck."
"Damn it," he says in Dakhuri dialect. "Ahn-kay ya, ay-ya vasu. Coh-ma-ra, di-nay-ya." I sniff and join him in the death chant, not really knowing why we're praying for someone whom I don't even know if he was even religious, never mind an adherent to the Prophets.
I guess Athezra and I are just hoping for the Prophets to pass the word to whichever gods the Tellarites worship.
The chief's quiet for a long moment afterwards. "This your first time losing a subordinate?" I ask.
"No, ma'am. I was working security at the outpost on Korvat when the Klinks invaded in '05. Lost a third of my squad, and if the Lincoln hadn't sent in some Peregrines for close air support we'd've been overrun. It's just … It never gets any easier, ma'am."
I shake my head. "No, it doesn't."
I hear a soft rapping on the door from the entryway. I look over my shoulder; it's Dul'krah, with a small duffel hanging at his side. He starts to salute but I wave him off. "Checking on your man?" I ask.
"He is clan," he says by way of explanation. Pe'khdar are all about clan, and he's sort of adopted my crew as his clan away from home.
"Your clan, my away team," I say, explaining my own presence.
He nods, then steps over to Athezra and hands him something held in his fist. It's the chief's earring. He gives his boss a grateful smile and clips it on. Our earrings are incredibly important to us: They're not just symbols of our devotion to the Prophets, they're also symbols of devotion to each other, especially our families.
I query Dul'krah about the duffel. "My vodchakh," he explains, unzipping the bag. I nod in comprehension: He brought his instrument to play for the wounded. He pulls out the instrument, a bell-shaped piece of hollow, dark wood stained almost black, with seven strings running from the base of the chamber to the end of a narrow neck. He then pulls out the bow.
"I'm assuming you checked with the doctor," I say.
"Doctor Wirrpanda said something to the effect that after performing two major surgeries today he'd appreciate the distraction." He nestles the vodchakh under his chin and puts bow to strings.
I've seen vids of professional vodchakhim on the extranet, and while I'm sure Dul'krah isn't that good, he's good enough. I'm a little surprised by his selection, though. The third movement of Tor Jolan's Fourth Concerto is challenging enough on a Bajoran harp. I've never even heard of anybody trying to carry it off on an offworld instrument. He's clearly been practicing and Chief Athezra gives an appreciative smile as I walk back to the door.
I walk out the door and straight into a wall of yellow-shouldered black-jacketed muscle. After rubbing my nose a bit I look down to see Gaarra stooping to pick up a PADD he dropped. "Sorry, I didn't mean to—Captain! Sorry, ma'am."
"Don't worry about it," I say in Kendran, "I should've been paying more attention."
"I was coming to check on … wait a minute, who's playing Tor's Fourth?"
"Dul'krah's showing off, I think."
His head rocks backward in surprise. "Dul'krah? What in the world is he playing it on?"
"Vodchakh." Off his look, "It's a Pe'khdar stringed instrument kind of like a violin, only different."
"Sorry, what's a violin?"
"Oh, uh, human stringed instrument about this long"—I gesture its length with my hands—"with four strings that you play with a bow."
He whistles. "Impressive he managed to translate the chords that well."
I tilt my head in agreement. "I'm sorry, what were you saying a minute ago?"
"I wanted to check on Systems Specialist Rodis. He's in my department, after all."
"Warragul discharged him already. Compared to Sebod, Threx, and Cdebaat he got off easy, just some burns and a cracked rib."
His mouth twists. "I heard one of your away team was killed."
I turn and move down the corridor and hear him padding along behind me. I mentally shrug. "I can't exactly say I miss him; I barely knew the poor bastard." I come to a turbolift and palm the access. "Ten Forward." I lean against the wall and wait for him to request a destination, but he doesn't. "Are you following me, Commander?"
"No, ma'am. But I do owe you a drink from back at Quark's, and if you'll pardon my impertinence you look like you need to talk to someone anyway."
I snort. "Dr. Shree thinks I need to talk to her, sure. But I'll take you up on that drink."
The turbolift slides open and we walk down the hall to compartment Ten Forward, which like on most Galaxy-class ships is the main crew lounge. My head bartender, Nalak Lang, dubbed it Red Sky at Night. I walk in the door and somebody hollers, "Captain on deck!"
There's a commotion as a couple dozen crewmen scramble to attention, and one particularly inebriated Bolian trips over himself and faceplants. I roll my eyes at that and say, "As you were." I catch sight of Lieutenant K'lak helping the Bolian back into his chair and chuckle as I take a seat near the viewport where I can survey the whole bar.
Gray-haired old Nalak Lang steps up to my table. He's Cardassian, of all things, which visibly startles Gaarra. But I know Lang. I know he's never touched a Cardie military uniform. He raises one scaly eyebrow at Gaarra and says, "Vole got your tongue, Commander Reshek?"
"I, uh—"
"Never mind. Usual for you, Captain?"
"Please."
"And what'll you have, Commander?"
"Uh, glass of spring wine, if you have it."
"Not by the glass, by the bottle."
"What the hell, I'll take the whole bottle." Lang nods and slinks back to the bar and I see him pulling out the ingredients for a Hathon hammer.
"Your bartender's a Cardassian?"
"You noticed?" I smile and he shakes his head.
"So what's his story? There's something a little … haunted about him. About his eyes, and the way he carries himself. Like he's lost someone."
I take a breath and let it out. "He lived through the Dominion holocaust on Cardassia, at the end of the war. His first wife and his children didn't. How'd you know?"
He leans back in his chair. "Growing up on a colony in the Gamma Quadrant teaches you a few things. What with the Dominion and all you never know who's going to turn up at the port so it pays to be able to size people up quickly. Take the Klingon over there, for example."
"K'lak? What about him?"
"He's waiting for someone. Keeps glancing at the door. She—okay, I'm guessing it's a she; could be wrong—she's late. But he's … not worried, like he knows she'll be here but she's running late."
Right on cue I spot Ensign McMillan's short-cropped flaming red hair come around the corner and into the room. She looks around, then sees K'lak and dashes over, giving him a peck on the cheek that looks a lot more than just friendly. "That I did not see coming."
"Didn't see what coming, ma'am?"
"Well, K'lak's McMillan's direct superior." What the two of them were talking about back on Dreon VII is starting to make a lot more sense…
His eyes widen and he looks me in the eye. "And you're okay with that?"
"No, not really. I'll mention it to Dul'krah and have McMillan assigned to another supervisor. Oh, thank you," I say to Lang as he comes back with a tray of drinks. He sets down my martini glass of Hathon hammer, a bottle of garnet-colored spring wine, and two wine glasses. Wait. "Two glasses?"
"Just in case."
"How thoughtful, Mr. Lang." He shrugs noncommittally and goes back to the bar.
I start to reach for my cocktail, but then I look closer at the bottle of spring wine. It's 2405 Klatha Reserve, from Lang's stash of real, non-synthehol, underline, booze. "He's really pampering us," I remark, twisting off the screw-cap and pouring a glass for each of us. "Terga yan," I say. He returns the toast and we clink glasses and sip. I taste the dark, fruity tang of zumba berries with a hint of chocolate, and there's a light smoky finish. Very different from the Kendran aquamarines I grew up with, but very good. I smile appreciatively.
We end up spending the next hour just sitting, drinking wine and talking about nothing particularly important. Like family. I tell him about my mother Shora, my father Torvo, and my little sister Teran who's marrying a vedek in two months. He tells me he's an only child and his father's in the Militia.
"What about your mother?"
"Died when I was two. I was mostly raised by my Aunt Nefris, Dad's sister."
"Guessing your father was away a lot?" I ask as I pour another glass.
"No, fortunately he was at the Militia station right there in Chamba City. Only had to go out on maneuvers for a week or so every local month. And now he's the garrison commander."
"Sounds like he had an easier time than I did. I was out for four weeks at a time, minimum, and that was when they had the Kira assigned to the Bajoran System."
"You were, what, ship's security?"
"Energy weapons."
"Yeah, see, Dad's a ground-pounder. Furthest he ever got from the ground was when he was posted to New Bajor in the first place. He was in the first wave to go back there in '76 after the Dominion pulled out. Nefris and Mom followed him after they were sure the Jems hadn't left any surprises behind…"
When we come up for air we've killed a second bottle of Klatha Reserve and my head is pleasantly buzzing. My Hathon hammer sits untouched on the table. I glance at the clock on the wall over the bar. Takes me a second to focus on it but we're still 35 hours from rendezvous.
I stand, carefully, then offer an assist to Gaarra. "I'm gonna regret this tomorrow," I say, then I stumble and he catches me. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it, Captain," he says, grinning. He hunches over and I lay my arm across his shoulders and we walk to the door.
We shamble our way to the turbolift and I say, "Tram." The turbolift thrums and brings us to the tram on Deck 13, which we take 200 meters aft. We catch a turbolift up five decks to the senior officers' quarters, which deposits us just down the hall from my room. "Are you going to escort me the whole way?" I wonder aloud. We shuffle to my door and I manage to palm the access panel on my second try.
We enter a room that seems somehow larger than it usually does. "Lights." Gaarra leans forward and dislodges my arm, dropping me on the bed. I roll over and make a grab at the front of his uniform jacket, pulling him down on top of me and catching him in a clumsy kiss. "Dammit, Captain," he murmurs against my mouth.
"What?"
"This is a mistake," he mutters in between kisses.
"Mmm. Maybe. Fun mistake, though." I let his tongue pass my lips and trap his body with my legs.
He leans back, pulls down the zipper on my jacket and I arch my back to let it fall open. He strokes the ridges on my nose. I gasp. "You taste like spiced moba fruit," he tells me, ice blue eyes gleaming. I pull him back down and my hands look for his zipper.
Author's Notes[]
This was sort of a breather episode after three actiony chapters in a row. Also, I wanted to introduce Warragul, the Bajor's Australian Aboriginal-descended CMO, and do some characterization work for Eleya, Gaarra, and Dul'krah. But beyond that I don't really plan out my chapters a whole lot: I write what comes to me. When I started out I figured "Captain's Hardest Job" referred to Eleya's after-action visit to the morgue and sickbay, but now I'm wondering if it didn't end up being a bad sex pun instead.
"Klinks" is STO fan slang for "Klingons" if you didn't know already. I just lifted it and made it in-universe.
Tor Jolan was a Bajoran composer who was mentioned briefly in DS9: "Crossover".
| Main Series | ||
| Chapter | Title | Published |
|---|---|---|
| 1 | Nebula Surveys are Boring. Film at Eleven. | 29 September 2013 |
| 2 | Reporting as Ordered | 2 October 2013 |
| 3 | Arrivals and Departures | 3 October 2013 |
| 4 | Civil Defense Patrol Is Boring, Too | 6 October 2013 |
| 5 | No, It's Not, Either | 7 October 2013 |
| 6 | Asymptotic to Death | 17 October 2013 |
| 7 | A Nightmarish Rage | 20 November 2013 |
| 8 | A Captain's Hardest Job | 27 January 2014 |
| 9 | The Cardassian and the Trill | 2 February 2014 |
| 10 | Par for the Course | |
| Side Stories | ||
| Red Fire, Red Planet | 24 March 2014 | |
| "An Anomalous Nightmare" | 12 May 2014 | |
| Legacy of ch'Rihan | 10 June 2014 | |
| Reality Is Fluid | 15 June 2014 | |