Cassie Granger

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Everlast Doesn’t

A Granger Log

 

At precisely 0630, Cass came to parade rest dead center, exactly three feet away from the desk of Major Souta Ishiiu, Commanding Officer, 2nd Platoon FORECON,* currently assigned to Border Patrol, USS Comanche Creek.

 

“Warrant Officer Granger reporting as ordered, Sir.”

 

His lips pursed slightly into a partial frown as he leaned back in the desk chair, hands clasped, arms on the arm rests. Even with eyes-front she could feel his stare, several rungs down from his normal casual business manner, but these weren’t exactly normal times and hadn’t been for weeks.

 

“At ease, Gunner. Siddown,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes as he rocked forward to lean his elbows on the desk. “Half hour into the day and already there’s more to do than any sane person can in a week. But who said we’re sane out here?”

 

One hand dropped to slide a slate in her direction. Cass caught it just short of the floor as she eased into the chair, forcing back a sigh of relief as she focused on him instead of the wall behind. His weariness had paled his olive skin, there were rings around his eyes from lack of sleep, and his uniform... looked like it might have been at least napped in. So much for relaxing at North Star while the Fleet took care of its own.

 

“Remember that, Sunny?” The major’s wave drew her attention to the slate. Headlined with the image of an Everlast 100-year, 100 lb. ‘indestructible’ punching bag split open, decorating the Marine gym floor, it was a list of repair/replacement charges from North Star Maintenance.

 

“Hell, Gunner, it’s not even their equipment,” he continued as he stood for a stretch before stepping around the desk, gesturing as he spoke. “Not even Fleet’s. They came in here and found every little thing they could to fix, tweak, or replace so they could charge us for it.” A final sigh accompanied his perch on the desk corner, arms crossed. “For that,” he pointed at the slate, “quartermaster says I have no options. It comes out of my budget... your budget... your team’s budget... and something has to be done to make it right. Follow me?”

 

“Aye, sir.”

 

“Question is, what.” He paused, his dangling foot bouncing a bit as his look forced hers back to the slate she cradled, not exactly hanging her head, but definitely not happy about the consequences of losing her temper.

 

“Finally found a solution, Gunner. And, as elementary as it may be, it’ll be effective in more ways than one.”

 

Cass placed the slate on his desk, waiting for the ax to fall.

 

“For the next month you’ll be in charge of equipment maintenance in the Marine gym. All the maintenance, from the floors and mats to the heavy and light equipment, to the ropes, guy-wires, and anything attached to the ceiling or walls. Understood?”

 

“Yes, sir,” she said, surprised there wasn’t more, like several trips through the obstacle course, fresh insect parts in the masterfully putrid-ified dunk beneath the unpredictable ropes - the ones often greased up for recruits and unsuspecting low-life.

 

The major’s mood lightened a bit as he watched her reaction. “Looks to me it comes from the genes, Sunny. Bear* did the same thing when she was your age, maybe a little younger. Take it easy next time. Dismissed.”

 

Outside the office she came face-to-face with Alpha team member GySgt Gleason Momoa, aka “Kahuna/Moa,” who seemed to know what the whole thing was about. Those damned radar again.

 

“Cat’s* out of the bag?” he asked, falling in step next to her.

 

“Hell, yeah. And the Bear’s up the tree this time, too.”

 

“You didn’t split it, Gunner.” He flashed a grin when she stopped to face him. “Just loosened the stitches a little. PFC Conroy took it down.”

 

Her brows shot to the hairline. “Five foot six raw recruit skinny-as-a-rail can-hardly-make-the-ropes Conroy?”

 

“The same.”

 

A broad grin erupted as she dropped her eyes to the deck, rubbing the back of her head. “Got footage?”

 

“Damn right.”

 

“Bring it on,” she said. Their Alpha recon huddle in the recesses of the locker room would be busy for a few. Might even be worth a month’s maintenance. Hell... a year’s.

 

====================

* FORECON - Force Reconnaissance Company, 1st Reconnaissance Battalion, 1st Marine Division, 1st Marine Expeditionary Force.

*Cat - code name for Frank Granger, Cassie’s dad

*Bear - code name for Samantha Granger, Cassie’s mom; usually used as the dominant code.

~You’re the only one here who seems to be aiming at everyone through a scope.You’re the one who thinks this whole thing’s some kind of twisted up metaphor for counter-snipping.

-Gage Silver, Flip Side of the Coin

 

 

One Shot, One Kill

 

Dusk came early on the Alaveris Plateau, and with it unpredictable gusts from Kane Mountain. At this time of year wind and rain usually came at a premium, but the proximity of the salt lake and the fickle atmospheric currents formed on the polar ice cap made them always unpredictable.

 

Tall savannah grass seldom moved without a breeze. Cass caught the movement: a few isolated ripening grain heads that bobbed. Taking deep, slow, even breaths, Cass reduced her heartbeat to 40, took careful aim, and spoke quietly to the man at her side.

 

“Target. Mid-ledge.” Short. Precise. Low-pitched, but not a whisper. The hiss of a whisper made for unclear instructions and the sound carried all too easily. Not a good idea.

 

“Range... seven three zero. Elevation two one. Wind at zero from zero three zero on target. Temperature variant five, gradient... three at five three zero.” Spotter info verified and quantified her visual. Range to target, elevation, wind speed and direction at the target, atmospheric variants from position to target, gradient indicating a heat pocket at a particular range. It was all the information Cass would need to compensate to make one shot, one kill. A miss would give her position away and they were both dead meat.

 

Without responding to the even, quiet voice, Cass shifted one hand to adjust her scope, then ran through her mental checklist. Rifle position. Body position. Focus on target. She settled her body for the shot.

 

Dried leaves on a stunted tree rustled, followed by those of a nearby shrub. Finally, grass heads close-by quivered in a breath of wind that washed over them, taking with it some of the sweat that had been drawing biting, stinging insects for the last two hours.

 

Deep, slow, even breathing continued several minutes more, waiting for another breeze. When it didn’t come, Cass began to time her pulse. Focus on target. Pulse. Atmosphere. Movement.

 

“Send it.”

 

Her breath steady, Cass slipped her finger to the trigger, held her breath in mid-exhale, waited for the ‘rest’ in her pulse, then squeezed off a round.

 

Seven hundred thirty yards away, a bright red light flashed as one sharp ping split the air.

 

“On target,” said Frank, in the smooth even tone of a sniper’s spotter.

 

Her eye still on the scope, Cass grinned as she watched the figure of a tall, broad-chested man rise from the grass beneath the ledge and begin a slow, methodical walk in their general direction, his expression determined, his eyes sharp, sweeping evenly as he advanced.

 

Fourteen-year-old Cass and her dad planted their faces in the dirt, using their grass-covered Ghillies to mask their position.

 

The figure advanced to within ten yards then stopped. They waited... thirty seconds... sixty seconds. Five minutes.... ten. The sound began again, coming up on their right.

 

Baseball sized rocks began to hit close by in random order as footsteps swooshed through the grass. Cass heard one hit between them as they hid; neither moved, not even a twitch.

 

Then came the sound of some object - Cass figured it was the laser receiver - sweeping back and forth like a scythe. Footsteps passed within a yard. Paused. Turned.

 

Cass felt a boot press against her leg. She figured they were had, but a surprised shout preceded the full weight of a hard-toned 6’2” Marine body sprawling on top of her, smashing her chest into the sun-baked dirt.

 

“Damn, Frank!” Major Craig Tigard rolled off of Cass, scrambled to right himself and quickly turned to her. “Cass! Buddy! You okay?” A firm grip on her arm flipped her over.

 

A few raspy gasps later, she nodded. “I’m good, sir. I’m good,” she lied, not about to admit her ribs hurt like hell. She’d seen her dad take worse, brush if off, and walk away. He was like that; she would be, too.

 

 

 

Docking at Starbase North Star hadn’t been all that relaxing for Warrant Officer Granger. Given the nature of the damage to the ship’s systems and the lack of knowledge of most of North Star’s engineers regarding the proprietary SPECOPS equipment for navigation, Cass had taken on most of that burden. Biggest problem she had? Strange communication with the navigation-fighter interface: what told her where each fighter was and calculated probable vectors in relation to the mission tasks assigned. She’d traced everything from navigation on the bridge down to the main engineering junction, and had ended up in the guts of several Tomcats and Hornets.

 

Defective isochips in hand, Cass paused to rest her forearms on the catwalk railing and watch the bay crews put the final touches on their charges before debarkation. Plane crews bonded with their planes and pilots. Cass understood that. Admired that. Why couldn’t she bond with this ship, this crew....?

 

“Got a good crew down there, Buddy.”

 

A glance aside found Brigadier General Tigard next to her, arms folded across his chest, eyes on the bay floor. “Good ship. Good crew. Can’t ask for more.”

 

“No, sir. Sure can’t.”

 

They continued to watch for several minutes. Tigard finally rested his arms on the railing as well, his eyes lifted from the bay floor to something beyond its boundaries.

 

“You dealing, Cass?”

 

She thought a minute before responding. “Aye, sir.”

 

He gave a slow nod, dropped his gaze and reached into his pocket. “Your dad said... if anything ever happened to him... I was to give you this.”

 

Cass turned to face him; her eyes darted from his to the outstretched hand as he handed her two pins, one worn with age, the other not so worn but definitely old. She’d seen them before.

 

“That one...” he pointed to the newest, “... his expert rifleman badge. First he ever got. He was so proud.” Tigard paused, lips pressed together. “That one... one-seven-one Guadalcanal. Passed down from your ancestor, Jonathan Wester Granger. Hell of a family you have, Cass. Your dad was so proud of you. Want you to know that. And if ever you need... anything. I’m here.”

 

Cass nodded, unable to respond. When she looked up he had gone. Tucking the pins into her pocket, she turned once more to stare at the teams, swarming over the fighters, bees to the honey.

Flip Side of the Coin

A Silver-Granger Log

 

“Whoa there.” Gage smirked as Cass chugged the last of the stout. “This ain't the glass of milk your mom pours.”

 

“Never did like milk,” she said, nailing the empty glass. “Colonel put me on to Guinness. Made me promise not to tell my dad.”

 

“Share one with him when you see him again.”

 

Cass shot him a glance, her mood darkened. “He’s MIA, sir. Mom, too. Both disappeared on the Ticonderoga after Vulcan. Probably never see ‘em again.”

 

“You’re a little ray of hope.”

 

“Yeah...,” she sighed. “...helps me keep my focus.” Her retort strained, she eyed her glass, then shoved it aside.

 

“You forget already, Cass? There’s a chance they might be alive.”

 

“Might be alive. Colonel says they found the transponder, no life signs but evidence of bivouac. That’s it. One transponder does not a recovery make. Hell, no telling how it got there.”

 

“Someone had to put it there; he taught you how to survive, right?”

 

There was a long pause and a quick glance in his direction before she responded. “Yeah... okay. He did.”

 

“If you’ve survived this long, Cass, gotta be a chance he has, too.”

 

“Yeah, maybe.” Cass flicked a finger toward the orderly, calling for a refill.

 

“He was good, sir,” she continued quietly, taking her time with the second glass. “Damn good. Call-sign Cat... for a couple reasons I’m sure you can figure out.” She forced a grin, trying to lighten up. “ I could tell stories, but you’d be bored.” The sip went down. Barely.

 

“So bore me.”

 

“Bore you?” She gave a snort. “Okay.” After a minute or two she shifted to lean an elbow on the table. “A lot of what he told me was just before they went down, and it’s classified...” she waved a dismissive hand. Most of what they did was classified anyway, so what the hell, “...of course. But I can tell you there wasn’t a one of his team that could spot him until he was right... there.” A rap on the table emphasized the point. “Footfall like a cat. Not a sound. He could slink through the grass and even the grass wouldn’t know he was there.

 

“From the time I could walk he took me out. Bertaria, where I was brought up? Has a real mix of terrain. Just outside the colony was this...” her fingers clawed the air “... scraggy rock face. Only about 200 feet, but straight up. One way up, one way down, his favorite place for ‘operations’, as he called ‘em. Scale the face and there’s a plateau covered with savanna grass, hiding one of the nastiest batches of wildlife you’d ever want to see - or not see. Planet’s mostly desert, so wherever there’s water, there’s food, and wherever there’s food there’re predators. That’s where I first learned to scale, hunt, snipe, and hide - pretty much everything.”

 

She fell silent, then an impish grin spread across her face. “Bored yet?”

 

“Nope, but got me wondering.”

 

“About?”

 

“If boring your enemies counts as a survival skill.”

 

“If the enemy’s a Fleeter....”

 

“We still out number you. It’ll be a war of attrition.”

 

“We aim for quality, not quantity.”

 

“So did the Germans in WWII.”

 

“And the First at Guadalcanal.”

 

“Your Pacific doesn’t equal my European Theater.”

 

“I’ll see your ET and raise you a question.”

 

“Shoot.”

 

“Why is it always a contest, talking to you, sir?” Cass tapped the table as she talked, a nervous tic brought on by irritation, though she tried to hide it in her expression. “I feel like we’re sniper on sniper here, each waiting for the crack-thump.”

 

“I dunno, Cass. You’re the only one here who seems to be aiming at everyone through a scope.”

 

Her head jerked up. “Really?”

 

“Cass, best I can figure it, we’re just a necessary inconvenience to you.”

 

She blinked. “How you figure that, sir?”

 

“It’s obvious you wanna be somewhere else. The punctilio. The way you treat your crewmates: keepin’ everyone at arm’s length and getting defensive when people get too friendly. You’re the one who thinks this whole thing’s some kind of twisted up metaphor for counter-snipping. But I came here unarmed, Cass. Been unarmed the whole time.”

 

“Punctilio?” A small grunt escaped. “How about professional courtesy? Decorum? Protocol and conducting yourself befitting the rank that’s ‘bestowed upon you’ by those who know you’ll bear it properly?

 

“And while we’re being honest here, sir... you’re unarmed? Hell, you defend yourself by putting up a wall of sarcasm and practical jokes so high not even the local shrink can get over it.”

 

“Shrink isn’t the word I’d use. He was 190 centimeters tall.”

 

“I rest my case, sir.” Suddenly her drink had a whole new meaning. She took a long pull, her eyes diverted, staring at anything but him.

 

“Relax, Cass. It’s just banter: good fun, stress relief. Everybody’s gotta let go once an’ awhile.”

 

“Once in a while, yeah. All the time? Not on your everlovin’,” she replied, still staring into space. “I’ll bet you couldn’t have a straight conversation without joking if your life depended on it.”

 

“That’s funny comin’ from the girl who doesn’t laugh enough. Surprised you haven’t blown a seal keepin’ all of it in like that.”

 

“And how do you know I don’t?” She cocked her head, copping an attitude to match.

 

“You don’t think I noticed earlier? You took a one-eighty, Cass.”

 

“Right. And when was that?”

 

“In the maintenance conduit an hour ago.”

 

“Let my guard down is all.”

 

“Guard. I call it gutless.”

 

“Yeah, well, it takes one... sir...” her jaw clenched, she set the glass down a little too precisely before lowering her voice to a cutting tone “...and I think this conversation is over.” Kicking back her chair, she stood at attention. “Permission to retire, Sir.”

 

“Sit. Down.”

 

“Yes, Sir.” The chair barely held together as she dropped.

 

“What’s it gonna take to crack that guard, Cass?”

 

She sat, eyes front, jaw clenched.

 

“Okay, fine,” Gage said. “You need a guinea pig, I’ll be your guinea pig. Ask me a question, something personal.”

 

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” Eyes still front, as attention as you can get in a chair.

 

“Geeze, Cass,” Gage groaned, “I just gave it.”

 

“Why the hell did you leave the Corps?”

 

“Wanted to try something different.”

 

“Bull sh*t, sir.”

 

“No bull. I met somebody.”

 

“And meeting someone made you leave the Corps? Your team? Your family?”

 

“It was my family, not hers.”

 

“And she wasn’t willing to accept that?”

 

“I didn’t ask her to. It wasn’t about me.”

 

“Can’t imagine that, sir. Our whole family is Corps. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 

“Why do you think the Corps exists, Cass? None of what we do is about us.”

 

“Damn right, sir. We stand in the gap. There’s a job to be done, we do it.”

 

“And then we go home.”

 

“The Corps is my home.”

 

“Well, I had a chance to give her the home she wanted and I took it.”

 

“And it didn’t work out.”

 

“It worked better than I’d imagined.”

 

“So you’re married and she’s deployed elsewhere? Or at home, waiting? What kind of life is that?”

 

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Gage said, beginning to smirk.

 

“So you never got married.”

 

Gage incongruously chuckled and replied dryly: “I don’t have a wife. In fact, none of my family had wives. My father didn't like wives. I mean, my mother didn't like my father's wives--”

 

His pitiful attempt at humor snapped her eyes to his; her expression dropped from angry to incredulous. She continued to stare, her mouth trying to form words, nothing coming out.

 

“Spit it out, Cass.”

 

“My dad had one wife.” Her whisper was forcefully restrained, her eyes fixed on his. “Lived 32 years with her. Died with her.”

 

“Meaning what?”

 

“Meaning that their marriage was no joke, sir. They lived together. They fought together. They died together.”

 

“Well, good for them, but you don’t have a monopoly on dead parents,” Gage replied.

 

“No, sir, I_do_not. But I sure as hell had parents who took their commitment seriously.

 

“Permission to retire. Sir.”

 

Gage’s jaw visibly tightened and diverting a hardened gaze to the table, he quietly and sharply waved her dismissal. Cass had just passed his flank when he spoke again, his voice embittered but scarcely heard above the background noise.

 

“She’s dead, Cass.”

 

Cass stopped mid-stride, her eyes still on the exit.

 

“Was on shore rotation when it happened. I could’ve gone home that weekend, but stayed on station,” he continued with his back to Cass and his shoulders visibly sagging. “Didn’t give her the home she wanted in the end.”

 

He stabbed a rigid finger into the challenge coin he’d left on the table, the asperity of his voice rising a bit. “Couldn’t let this go; tried to hide it, but she knew. And one day, out of the blue, she told me I was driving her crazy and had to go back. I let her down and she carried on like everything was okay.” Slipping the coin off the table, he tucked it away in his pocket with a dismissive gesture and stood.

 

Cass turned in time to see the brass challenge coin drop into his pocket. Marine Security Guard Detachment - Hergoyat, Zavijah encircled the Marine globe and anchor, the obverse reading Honor, Courage, Commitment.

 

“Not as strong as you are, Cass,” he said, fixing his gaze on her. “Can’t wake up everyday and take it as seriously as you do. I hit a wall and left pieces behind. Don’t want to think about reality every waking moment; don’t like how messed up and empty it is.”

 

“We all have an emptiness somewhere, sir,” she whispered. “And no one is as strong as they want you to believe.” She paused a beat. “Semper fi.”

 

Gage exhaled cynically at the motto and apparently couldn’t think of an adequate response; no err or taunting, fleeter’s hooyah like before. It seemed those two words had hit him with the subtlety of napalm, a searing reminder of how unfaithful he evidently felt.

 

“Wasn’t trying to look like something I’m not,” he spiritlessly replied and tucked his chair under the table, body language communicating a deeply exacerbated wound.

 

“Just trying to survive after losing it all. Humor got me through BUD/S,” he said and then briefly faltered. Then turning toward the opposite exit, he muttered as he walked away: “Thought it would get me through everything.”

No Big Deal

A Cass Log

 

<<This log takes place during the 20 minute TBS.>>

 

Cass was no engineer, but she did know a thing or three about the nav technology SOCCENT entrusted to her. The nonstop 48 hours on care and feeding last earth-fall spoke to that. But the thing with the isochips? It had her going long after her convo on the bridge with Shalin and Belo:

 

Cassie’s stylus stopped mid-flip with the thought that there was no account for time travel or universal shift built into the AI SPECOPS nav system. But hell, how could they account for that when they had nothing to base it on? Time travel and jumping universes wasn’t exactly an everyday occurrence.

 

“That's it,” she had said, not really quite sure what ‘it’ was. She was thinking aloud and the pieces were fitting together. Kind of.

 

“You're trying to account for ... what exactly?” Shalin had even stopped humming.

 

“The warped isochips,” she said to Shalin before turning to Belo at science. “Ma'am... the isochips? They overloaded on the universal shift. Dealing with vector analysis in nanoseconds, the universal shift created an overload that arced repeatedly in tandem with the analysis transducer.”

 

“Universal shift,” said Belo. “I had not considered that possibility.”

 

“The isochips couldn't handle the load. They're AI... or as close as we can get. It’s like us. When we’re trying to analyze a problem? If the parameters constantly shift then suddenly turn in on themselves? They twist around, like ropes in a flood tangling into a freakin’ mess? And that twist in the rift tunnel I accounted for made the feedback worse.”

 

“This could change the way we look at time travel,” said Belo.

 

“Fix that problem and there'd be no problem with time travel,” Cass tossed out, not quite sure. It just jumped out. Knee-jerk. Gut reaction. Not exactly Marine protocol, more like Cass in the raw.

 

“Right, but this doesn't lessen the complexities of time travel theory, it in fact expands them.”

 

Or that. Belo was right; she was the scientist.

 

Once again the stylus flipped, weaving in and out, one finger to the next. Left hand. Right hand. Finally she flipped it into its holder, draped an arm over the back of her chair and kicked back.

 

Why the hell was she worried about isochips? Enterprise, their high-dollar tugboat, loomed prominent on the viewscreen. Splitscreen aft showed venting plasma, just waiting for a few molecules of oxygen to pass by. Hell of a situation. But after what they’d been through? No big deal.

It was his dream, ma'am. I've been wonderin' the same thing.

Musker Ridge

Bertaria Colony

Stardate 2244.16

 

Coals faded to embers just warm enough to take the chill off the desert night air. One smoky tendril rose in the stillness, curled, and faded a few feet above the ground. Any higher and it would draw predators, especially the Krakra, named by the colonists after its rutting call. One of the planet’s nastiest reptiles, it’d just as soon tear you apart and leave your carcass for scavengers than eat it. Marine SSgt Frank Granger, Cassie’s dad, said it was the closest thing he’d seen to some would-be humans he’d come across in the filthiest recesses of the galaxy.

 

“Dad. Got a question.” At fourteen, Cass was tall and wiry, her skin had the perpetual ruddiness of frequenting the desert wilderness, and her attitude pretty much matched that of her dad - hard, rugged, no nonsense, bull-by-the-horns.

 

“Ask away.” Frank paused in cleaning his weapon and leaned against a rock, all ears.

 

From her perch near the dying fire, Cass put her KA-BAR aside and held up a partially-cleaned hide. Thick wiry hair covered the animal’s back, tapering in length as it merged with heavy claws at the end of each paw. The thick skull, still covered in hide, bore the pointed snout of a burrower. Teeth tapered to needle points. Upper canines curved like tusks.

 

“Burghrats are vicious, right?” She eyed the creature’s hide a moment before tilting her head towards Frank, the beginning of what could be a long conversation.

 

“Damn straight they are. Bite your finger clean off if you’re not careful. Those canines...” he waved a hand toward the meter-long hide, “....not only defend the lair but hold a victim while the claws tear it apart. ‘Course,” he continued in a more casual tone, “...they come in handy when challenging a rival, too. One swipe’ll gut just about anything.”

 

Cass gave a grunt, flopping the hide in the air between them. Her tone turned almost accusatory. “So why did this one posture, then turn and run?”

 

Clasping his hands behind his neck, Frank regarded his daughter a long minute, then jutted his chin in her direction. “Why do you think?”

 

Eyebrows bobbed as she shrugged and regarded the skull. “No lair to defend. Not rutting season. Stomach was full. Teeth say it wasn’t old - probably prime of life. Seen enough action, though, so it’s not like he didn’t ever fight.” She lifted one paw to reveal a long scar. “Bone was broken. Healed crooked.”

 

Frank nodded. “Saw that when we skinned it. What else?”

 

Cass dropped the hide, hair side up, on a rock and began to wash her hands in the sand.

 

“Come on...” Frank waved a beckoning hand, “what else? Why else would it run?” After a few minutes, Frank prompted, “Did we have it cornered?”

 

“No.” Cass looked up to his end-of-story face. “So, it’ll run if it’s not cornered.”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far, Cass. But it stands to reason if an animal has a way of getting out of danger it’ll take it if there’s nothing else at stake. Only animal that’s really contrary is humans; they have a nasty thing called... pride.” The word spat out like rancid meat. “Not that pride, in itself, is wrong, Buddy. But when it takes first place and gets in the way of reason....” he broke off into a disgusted sigh, grabbed a stick and tapped it on the ground. “Your mom can testify to that one.”

 

Cassie’s stare petered out. In a matter of seconds Marine Recon Specialist GySgt Samantha Ducharme’s team had been whittled from nine to three because of a rivalry between two commanding officers. They came to court martial, of course, but it didn’t mitigate the fact that Charlie team - and the Corps - had lost six of its finest. They could have lost the rest if they’d been in closer quarters. That they were divided into fire teams and approached the target in delta formation meant that Cass still had a mom, and Frank a wife.

 

“Bottom line? It’s all about survival.” Frank picked up the pace, shaking off the memory. “Anything does what it thinks it has to to survive. Posture, fight, or run. Sometimes it’s the right thing, sometimes....” a tick of his head indicated the hide, now drying on the rock. “That’s why we spend so much time out here, Buddy. Learning to survive. Learning when to fight, when to back off, and how to go with the flow when things go south, when there’s no damned thing you can do about it.”

 

 

USS Comanche Creek

Somewhen in Romulan Space

 

December 31, 2259. New Year’s Eve. Or it was supposed to be.

 

Staring at incessant readouts of the SpecOps nav/ops equipment diagnostic program had worked like a drug on Cassie’s brain. She felt numb, her mind wandering from past to present to this maybe-future and back. On top of all that, New Year’s carried its own baggage. Out with the old, in with the new? Hell of a lot of memories, mostly could’avs and should’avs - regrets and lost opportunities. New Year’s Eve, the ship-sucking rift on the main viewscreen and incessant repairs rolled into one retching garbage heap and worked itself into Cassie’s already stressed-out brain. Well, not stressed - mostly blown.

 

Go with the flow when things go south.

 

“Right,” she said under her breath, sneezing to excuse the mist that suddenly clouded her vision. Some 129 years ago her mom and dad had gone MIA after Vulcan. Just before the rift, Col Tigard had given her hope: her dad’s transponder detected by a passing ship. But now they were gone. All gone. Dead for over a hundred years. In another time... another place.

 

A shuddering breath brought Moa to her side. “Hey.”

 

His whispered baritone broke into her thoughts, jerking her up as effectively as a slap upside the head. A sharp head-turn and the deep, sympathetic eyes of the Gunny met hers. “You okay?”

 

Damn. Gunny Momoa’s eyes could melt the heart of a women or stop a tiger in its tracks. This look was somewhere in-between, and Cass cursed herself for almost falling apart in front of him, mostly because he could always see right through her.

 

“I’m good,” was her retort, sharper than she meant it to be. “Just... Damned dust inside those consoles,” she continued, rubbing her eyes to stop the flow. “Need to clean ‘em more often... or somethin’.”

 

“Hey,” he repeated, getting her full attention as his hand, heavy and muscular, closed gently around her forearm. “It will work. We will getback.”

 

Learn how to go with the flow when things go south, when there’s no damned thing you can do about it.

 

Cass straightened up, set her jaw. “Damned right we will,” she said. “Damn right.”

Inverse Reactive Current

A Silver/Granger Log

 

Resting her palms on the sides of the console, Cass hovered over the Gerweltz readout. Totally frustrated, she puffed her bangs out of the line of sight. “Damn.”

 

It just jumped out, causing heads to turn, followed by a half-apology and more mutters of frustration.

 

Passing by, Gage detoured toward her seat. “Pretty sure trouble starts with a ‘t’; you got trouble?”

 

“Right here in River City? Yeah,” she said, running a hand through her hair to the nape of her neck and waving a finger of the other at the consoles in general. “One of the isochips was in backwards and upside down after we came through. Forced the balance out of the Gerweltz so now it doesn’t read flux through the occipital frame and I can’t locate sh*t. Gets screwed up every time I try.” A half-turn to look at Gage brought them eye-to-eye. Too close for comfort, she backed off.

 

Gage didn’t feel the need to back up and smirked at her, maybe more than he should have given her apparent discomfort. “That’s because you gotta reset the modal hydrocoptic calibrator,” he said, pointing generally.

 

Cass stared a long minute, her eyes narrowed in thought. “So....” resting a hip against the console, she turned to face him straight on, arms folded. “...that means the calibrator must have been jostled. Probably out of position. Needs not only resetting but aligning with the a-modal ‘coptic cal, right?”

 

Gage nodded. “And resynchronizing the cardinal gram meters with the unilateral phase capacitors.”

 

“Got it.”

 

“Should also check the spurvings.”

 

Her stare more intense, she pushed off from the console. “What about the logarithmic casing?”

 

“No, you’re thinkin’ of the milfortrunions,” Gage returned.

 

“Gees, yeah,” she said, returning her attention to console. “So what I’m getting onscreen is really a reflection, not the real thing. Well... the real thing, but in reverse. Sort of.... And the unilateral phase detractors....”

 

“Interact with the compasitive duractants and generate the florescent score motion,” Gage finished.

 

Cass paused mid-tap, swiveled the screen and gave him a quizzical look. “The... florescent score motion?”

 

“Ya know, the thing that goes ‘bling’ across your screen,” he said, gesturing to imitate it.

 

She nodded, her brain still working through the entire effect of disfigured florescent score motion.

 

Gage smirked again as he watched her think it over. “Don’t forget the non-sinusoidal aulic deltoids can help.”

 

“Right,” she said slowly, her lips pursed. “...and the lateral pecs?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Gage droned on cue, grinning; “but I was thinkin more of the gluteal phantazesthai.”

 

“I’ll bet you were... Sir. And that’s something you best take care of in main engineering before you find a synchronized cardinal gram meter where the sun don’t shine.”

 

Gage chuckled, feigning nervous alarm. “Right,” he said and then turned and made way for the turbo lift.

 

“And don’t forget to watch out for the modial interaction of those magneto reluctants!” Cass shouted after him, ignoring looks from the rest of the bridge crew. “Damn engineers,” she muttered, turning back to the console. “Think they know everything.”

 

“No, but I do think I can get away with anything,” Gage loudly remarked from the lift as he held the door open.

 

Cass whipped around to give him a sharp look.

 

“Leaving,” Gage immediately chimed and let the door button go, smirking to himself. Territorial, the Granger fiercely guards her domain. The mustang had just been chased off the bridge by the Warrant.

<This log takes place a few days after the last sim.>

 

In Marine Warrant Officer Granger’s way of thinking, her injuries were minor, but the medical team didn’t seem to think so. She had no complaint about the several days of forced rest. It was the “observation and treatment” she took issue with. Measuring fluid intake and outflow, as important as it was with blood loss, was more than an inconvenience - it was downright invasion of privacy. But since when was there any privacy in sick bay?

 

Suck it up, Marine.

 

The strict cadence of a Marine footfall approached her bed. Though the latest copy of Leatherneck covered her face, Cassie’s left arm shot out to protect a vintage copy of Jane’s Gun Recognition Guide, the only one available in the ship’s library and coveted by every Marine aboard plus a few ‘Fleeters.

 

The screech of a chair being pulled up. Okay, so that’s different.

 

“Ah see your reflexes are as good as ever, Gunner.”

 

Two seconds before her eyebrows shot to her hairline, her right arm slid Leatherneck to the floor and she almost popped her stitches - figuratively speaking.

 

“Colonel Tigard, Sir!”

 

“As you were, Gunner. Wouldn’t want to disturb a... ‘seriously’ wounded Marine.” His tone was lighthearted, more easy-going than it had been for a while, and there was a slight twinkle in his eye. “How you doin’?”

 

“Oh, one foot in the grave, Colonel,” she began, a melodramatic expression accompanying a slip of one hand down her side. “One more glass of reconstituted juice and electrolyte replacement and I’ll be out the chute, bound for glory.”

 

“Ah figured as much,” he said, “so I guess that means you're up for a walk?”

 

Cass hazarded a glance at nearby medical personnel. “Guess it’s up to them, Colonel.”

 

“Already done. Looks like you’re due for discharge anyway,” he said with a handwave at her civilian sweats. “On your feet, Marine.”

 

“Sir, yes sir!” She grinned, ignoring the jealous look of her neighbor. Cass popped her legs over the edge of the bed and slipped on her boots. Less than a minute later they were out the door of sick bay and on their way to the officer’s lounge, where they eventually took a table well away from the other patrons. They ordered drinks - Tigard’s favorite vegetable/fruit concoction and a Coke. Cass’d had enough ‘bolstering of her metabolism’ for a while.

 

Several minutes passed, during which time Colonel Tigard’s expression slowly changed from lighthearted to serious. He twirled the glass in his hand and glanced out the observation port several times, taking slow sips, almost like he was trying to figure out how to say something. It made Cass a tad nervous, but she knew him well enough to wait, not to push. That he’d come in person said enough; whatever he had to say had to be important.

 

“I wanted to tell you before you heard anything on whatever feed you’re following now, Cass,” he began after checking the proximity of patrons nearby, then locking eyes with her.

 

First name? Damn... She froze.

 

“Thirty days ago a freighter passing through the Andorian system picked up a faint Federation transponder. They passed it on to Starfleet, who sent a recon team to investigate. They found the transponder, some depleted survival packs, and evidence of habitation. Nothing else. It was from the Ticonderoga, Cass. It was your dad’s.”

 

In total shock, she took a minute before saying, “My... dad’s.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The transponder," she repeated, the words barely audible. "Nothing else.”

 

Tigard nodded.

 

She stared at him for several minutes before looking away to wipe a hand over her face.

 

“When I know more, you’ll know. You okay, Cass?”

 

“Aye, Sir,” she said, turning back to face him, “I just need a few, sir?”

 

“Take all the time you need. The Captain is aware.” He stood. “I’m a comm away. Got that?”

 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

 

Cass watched him leave, but her mind was elsewhere. When she returned to sick bay, she knew it would take a while to get her head in the game. Knowing that her parents - or at least one - might be alive? Hard to ignore.

Join Starfleet. See the galaxy.

Right.

The slogan had a hell of a lot more truth than would enter the mind of the average pre-enlistee. And they waited until after basic - just when you felt like you could conquer the galaxy ‘cause you made it through - that made it clear. Sort of.

 

Oh, and by the way - there’s extra baggage out there. Every frakkin time you turn around. Rogue Romulans blowing up planets? You got it. Orion cartels? Got them, too. Ninjas? Hell, why not? In’nt that what we’re here for?

 

Ooorah, Chief Master Sergeant.

 

In this little bit of seeing the galaxy, Cass owed her life to Lieutenant Haruno for a well-placed kunai into a hovering ninja as she paused for a reload. And well-placed meant really well-placed - a perfect slice to the jugular. Goes without saying that blood soaked Cass’s tee, clinging it to her front. It dripped down her arms and sweats and covered the pistol, turning it into a glorified night-stick, but not half as effective.

 

Two seconds before Calestorm’s, “All crew, deploy phasers!” energy weapons fire caught her attention. Belo was up against the wall, phaser in hand, hostile bearing down. Her own phaser suddenly inoperable on approach, Cass dived for the hostile, catching her hand in a heavy necklace and jerking it back before getting a handhold to snap the ninja’s neck.

 

The necklace broke, scattering pieces in several directions. Their phasers worked.

 

Weird.

 

TBC in sim.

Down 'n' dirty is what we do, Ma'am.

 

Semper fi!

Dead Marines Wear Pink

 

Cold water, full force, cascaded from the crown of her head, over her face, and into the sink, washing away most of the mud and grime. Most being the operative word. The chill jerked her awake as Cass watched it splash into the common locker-room sink and swirl down the drain. Major Ishiiu, Marine battalion commander, had added a few special touches since Cassie’s last run through the combat course - insect infested mud pits, loose gravel in the live fire area, and a slew of blind corners rigged with booby traps loaded with dye.

 

She grabbed the lava soap, lathered up, and began to work it over her face and neck, hoping the red would wash away without taking off a dermal layer. Fat chance.

 

“The Fleeter’s right, you know. About the team.”

 

Cass gave a dismissive grunt as Moa elbowed in next to her. He had insisted on teaming up, despite her protests. She wanted to be alone, take out each target, negotiate every dung hole with the freedom to shout any profanity that came to mind and then some. But, hell, most of her team knew how she was anyway, so why the obsession?

 

“If you’d stayed with the team, you’d still have your head,” Moa continued, fighting her for the soap.

 

Even with her eyes closed, she could see him smirk. He’d watched from a distance as the red die took off her head and the monitor stepped out to tag her. It was a get it right mission. She’d have to do it all again.

 

“Leaving the team was unavoidable,” she spluttered, picking a roach wing from her teeth. “Part of the Major’s drill.”

 

“Bull, Sunny. You made that call.” His voice was serious now, up close and personal. “And he’s still right.”

 

She grabbed a towel, snapping it across his shoulder on her way to the showers. ‘Course he was right. It was the whole Boy Scout thing she couldn’t get past. Like the Marine ‘better than thou’ attitude that was drilled into her from Boot. Harder to get rid of than the dye from Major Ishiiu’s booby trap. Which now showed pink; not her favorite color, but at least it went with the purple streak from Operation Whiteout.

 

A full ten minutes later she appeared at her locker in a loose tee and sweats, a towel draped over her head where she’d been working the pink out of her hair. No dice. Whatever. After two full shifts he needed some serious rack time, and was headed in that direction...

 

...until red alert sounded.

 

A slam of the locker door and Cass joined the stampede, adrenaline rush clearing her brain, wiping away her previous double-shift weariness. Zero four ten as she slapped the bridge lift call button. What the hell was going on?

Captain’s Mast

A Joint Log by Captain Calestorm, Gage Silver, and Cassie Granger

 

Covert requisition of a flintlock on Neural had earned her a reprimand. Learning curve involved here - how far to go on her own during a covert op under Calestorm. Face the consequences, game over.

 

Operation Whiteout rated top shelf, miles above Neural. No learning curve involved. Consequences?

 

According to Colonel Tigard, she was up for an Article 15 for popping stims on the sly. Stims, used under supervision on covert operations and on the battle field, were commonplace - under supervision being the operative words. At nav on the bridge, without supervision? Slam the ship into an asteroid, clip another ship in orbit causing a cascade into the gravity well, make one slight miscalculation for an FTL jump and end up outside the green zone....

 

Possible results of her quote impropriety unquote ranged from damaging the ship to total destruction. Charges were conduct unbecoming and hazarding a vessel. She’d had it all under control, counting pills, watching their spacing... until everything went south with Commander Wesley. Last thing she remembered was an empty packet.

 

“Damn.” Tight-lipped under her breath, eyes front, as Colonel Tigard, Alpha Quadrant SOCCENT Commandant, took a seat across the room, glancing at her with that totally unreadable neutral expression she hated. Great. Just great.

 

“Could’ave been worse,” Moa’s baritone breathed into her ear. “Could’ave been a court martial.”

 

Reflexive jaw clenching and Tigard’s presence kept her from decking him, her edginess not only a reaction to the situation but a result of the stim withdrawal her body was still dealing with.

 

“Could’a got away with it,” Gage facetiously mumbled as he casually took the next seat and asked: “Start yet?”

 

Cass couldn’t decide if his presence added to her aggravation or calmed her down; ups and downs came with the territory. And with Tigard’s eyes averted, she whispered in Gage’s general direction.

 

“Come for the circus?”

 

“Naw, came for the food. Heard there’s shrimp cocktail.”

 

“There is,” she replied. “Fresh Chief sauce. Make sure you get your share.”

 

“That’ll be a problem: I don’t like to share,” he remarked off-hand.

 

She gave a snort. “Don’t worry. Plenty to go around. More in the wings, I imagine.” Her leg started to bounce, the way it used to outside the principal’s office.

 

Captain Calestorm had already taken her seat, coming in just ahead of Tigard. Admiral Coyote arrived seconds later, taking a seat on Cale’s opposite side from the Colonel.

 

Cale spared a glance at the Colonel and the Admiral in turn, then fixed her gaze on Warrant Officer Granger; her expression was unreadable, detached. The gaze didn’t linger, and Cale began speaking quietly to the administrative yeoman assigned to the informal proceedings; the young man jotted down notations on a digi-slate with a stylus pen.

 

After the short conversation, the yeoman picked up the mallet to ring the bell set on the main table.

 

Captain Calestorm stood. “The proceedings will now come to order. This is a Captains Mast concerning Chief Warrant Officer Cassidy Granger.” No inflection in the tone, no accent, nothing. “The charges are as follows: Improper Hazarding of Vessel, Conduct Unbecoming an Officer and a Gentlewoman, and General Article concerns...”

 

The captain cleared her throat and continued. “Is there anyone present who can provide additional information, witnesses or evidence regarding Warrant Officer Granger’s case. Mister Granger, would you like to present further defense in your case?”

 

Before Cass could answer, Gage immediately stood. “Captain. Permission to,” he flashed the hint of an incredulous smile, “provide information on Granger’s behalf?”

 

It took all Cassie’s concentration to not jerk around and glare him down.

 

Crash eyed the man. Her expression remained poker-faced, not offering any read on her feelings. “Granted.”

 

Gage nodded. “Sir, with all due respect, there’s been a mistake. As the superior officer, I’m responsible for any hazard to the ship. Granger met the regs for minimum sleep. Was using stims an error in judgement? Maybe, but it was my responsibility to act when it was obvious that she wasn’t getting enough sleep. I knew -- as a former Medic, I recognized -- Granger’s condition and failed to take steps to remedy it.”

 

Colonel Tigard’s eyebrows rose slightly. Shifting in his chair, he ticked his head towards the captain, then turned to Gage, his western accent heavy in every word. “Do you realize... Ensign... how this will affect your recent application?”

 

His recent application? Cassie’s brows shot up as her attention shifted abruptly to Silver.

 

Gage, aware of Cassie’s attention, steadily returned Tigard’s gaze. “Acutely, sir.”

 

“And yet you stand firm on your last statement?”

 

In seconds, Cass was on her feet. “Colonel. Captain. No,” she spit out, glancing from Gage to the two senior officers. She set her jaw to get a grip and continued in a more even tone. “The decision to remain at my post was mine and mine alone, Sir,” she addressed Tigard. “Circumstances on the bridge demanded it.”

 

“But it was my responsibility as a Watch Officer to maintain our section’s readiness. I should have relieved you,” Gage concluded firmly, but with significantly less force as he looked at Cassie. He returned to Tigard. “To answer your question, Colonel, let’s put it this way: Would I belong there if I didn’t? I stand firm on the truth and my responsibility.”

 

The colonel turned, deferring to Captain Calestorm, his head ticked, eyes narrowed, as though giving the situation a bit more consideration. If possible, her set jaw twanged tighter as she and the SPECOPS officer shared the look.

 

Taking the cue from Tigard, Cale posed a question to Cassie. “Mister Granger, you ever been with someone who OD’s on stims?”

 

“Yes, Ma’am.”

 

She posed another question, winging a quick look at Silver before her gaze again went back to Granger. “Mister Silver, you ever been with someone who OD’s on stims?”

 

“Yes, sir, I have,” he answered simply.

 

“Enlighten us, Mister.”

 

Gage looked momentarily surprised; he hadn’t expected to provide medical testimony. “Someone OD’d on stimulants can be restless, irritable, anxious, suffer from insomnia and psychmotor agitation; in extreme cases: disorientation, mania or depression, lapses in judgement, hallucinations, psychosis, and even death.”

 

The captain paused, letting the symptoms linger over the room. “I had a stim junkie EC* officer go psychosis on me. Slammed his head into the console and broke his nose and cheekbone. I thought he was okay for the hop, and next thing I know I’m tryin’ to land our bird with him bleedin’ all over the damn place...”

 

She let her gaze travel over the room. “So, now that we’re all aware that we’re all aware of the detrimental effects of overexposure to stims...it would seem that this little situation should and could have been avoided.”

 

As she had been for most of the proceedings, Admiral Coyote remained silent; she was letting Cale as the direct superior officer and Tigard as the ‘devils advocate’ run the ball. The Native American officer observed and took notations down on a personal data slate.

 

Calestorm half turned to swipe her data slate from the tabletop, quickly jabbing a thumb to queue up several internal medical documents. “Mister Granger, you were so far into withdrawal symptoms, there was a possibility that your system could’ve sent you into a reflexive deep sleep, with trouble waking...”

 

“...as it stands, you were incoherent. Could barely stand upright.” She carefully set the data device back down on the tabletop, her movements sure.

 

“Mister Silver, while your offer is noble, it don’t mean squat in the long run. Yes, you are Granger’s superior. Yes, you are responsible. However, last I checked, Ms. ‘Let Me Shoot Up’ over here is perfectly capable of making her own decisions. Therefore, unless you want to start constantly leading those under your command by the hand, your concerns are noted but the focus will remain on Mister Granger.”

 

“Mister Granger. First, you take it upon yourself to nick a flintlock on an undercover contact mission. Now, I find that you’re poppin’ stims to the point of nervous system collapse. Unacceptable.”

 

As she spoke, Calestorm had moved in on the Marine, getting directly into her personal space.

 

“Effective immediately, you are to re-familiarize yourself with mission-based usage of stimulants under controlled conditions. You will participate in a Starfleet webinar course and then submit the final written test results for grading...”

 

“In addition to your regular Navigation duties - and you are damn lucky I don’t feel like fillin’ out the paperwork for another Alpha shift grunt - you will also be occupied in your off hours with swing shift duty...”

 

“You are to report to Lieutenant Hicks* for additional training. Maybe some squad time’ll get you back on track.”

 

The captain wasn’t done. She didn’t enjoy coming down hard, and the regrets were there. But, she wanted to hit hard and fast so as to avoid a repeat performance; the pretty little silver stripes of hers weren’t there for flash.

 

“And finally, for the alternating 2nd shifts you will be working in the kitchens for KP duty. This gettin’ through that thick skull Warrant Officer Granger?”

 

“Yes, Ma’am.” Cass was eyes front, her voice was even and straight-forward, as no-nonsense as the captain’s.

 

Calestorm backed away to lean against the briefing table and cross her arms. She let silence descend over the room, broken by the occasional muted cough or faint sound of a stylus pen scraping across a data slate.

 

“We are Border Patrol. We are First Threat Response. We are the Federation’s first line of defense out here. I need sharks and squids* who are willing to go that extra parsec in order to get things done. I need a crew I can depend on. I need officers who are able to pull their weight.”

 

“Sundance. Look at me.”

 

The Marine’s eyes locked with hers.

 

“You’re good. Qualifications are off the charts. Got the smarts. Which makes this little issue even more of a Big Stupid. On a covert mission, no less.” Cale allowed a little smile to show, but it was tight. “If you wanna stay Border Patrol, you better lose the stupidity and re-learn yourself to handle stimulants according to controlled conditions, you hear me?”

 

“Mister Silver?” Calestorm’s best DI tone rang out in the room, the edge still there.

 

“Captain.”

 

“Next time? You make damn sure if you are in any sort of Section Lead position that your people stay coherent. We’re lucky that you two yahoos didn’t steer the damn ship into a cascade wave. We clear on this?”

 

“Crystal, Captain.”

 

“Fine. Proceedings are ended. All parties are dismissed...”

----

* Electronic Countermeasures

* NPC, Comanche Creek’s Marine Platoon Leader

* Slang reference to Marines (Sharks) and Navy (Squids).

In case you wondered...

 

Stims are great. Until they aren’t.

 

According to the package directions, stims increase blood flow, alertness, and endurance. They shorten reaction time and elevate mood. But the last sentence of the effects had that one word in it - temporarily. “Temporarily reduces fatigue.” And when the temporarily wears off, fatigue becomes an equal opportunity employer, face-planting you wherever you are, whatever you’re doing. She should have known better.

 

“Gunner.”

 

The voice, deep... masculine... insistent, broke through the clouded confusion of her semi-conscious meanderings, bringing her to full consciousness. As her eyes focused, the faint outline cleared and became more familiar. Deep-set gray eyes, silver hair cut Marine crew, biceps pushing the Starfleet uniform almost beyond its limits.

 

“Colonel?”

 

“Last time I looked,” he said. “You up to a conversation?”

 

Cassie shook her head to clear the cobwebs. No dice. A bout of nausea buried her head against the pillow. “Depends on how serious, Sir.”

 

“Damn serious, Gunner.”

 

Her eyes popped open to his, drawing a bead on her. “Sir. I’m awake, Sir.” She blinked several times while pulling herself to a sit, despite the head-throb of acute caffeine withdrawal.

 

“My time is limited here, Sunny, so I’ll cut to the chase. You’re up for an Article 15 for actions on the bridge that landed you here. I need to know what exactly was going through your mind -- if anything -- that led you to pull such a damned fool stunt.”

 

“Sir. Yes, Sir. Manning my post, Sir.” She stopped for a regroup to bring herself out of basic mode. “I was monitoring the new tech R&D slipped in on the fly, Colonel. Keeping track of personnel on the ground, receiving in-orbit communications, deciphering...”

 

“I did not ask you what you were doing, Marine.” Tigard’s forearms rested on his thighs, hands clenched, approaching white-knuckle, his face inches from hers, his tone intense, but quiet enough to keep the conversation, if not the overall mood, private. “I asked you what led you to pop stims on the bridge.”

 

“The nature of the mission, Colonel. Over a period of six days my presence was required on the bridge to monitor surveillance equipment, coordinate ground operations and bridge surveillance personnel.” Her tone took on a questioning air, as though this information was common knowledge and her actions were completely within regulations -- except for the overdose, of course.

 

“You remember the Callaghan Incident, Sunny?”

 

The unexpected question stopped her short; her expression darkened “Aye, Sir.”

 

“Corporal Callaghan OD’d on stims,” said Tigard. “The result?”

 

“He... emptied the weapons locker... and emptied most of it into his platoon, Sir.”

 

Tigard’s volume dropped dramatically. “And yet, you deliberately went beyond the recommended dosage.”

 

“No, Sir,” she replied, her tone mirroring his.

 

The colonel leaned back, his expression calling for more information.

 

“When the mission went south... when we lost track of the doc, the comm officer, and the commander... I lost track of the dose. When the packet was empty it was too late.”

 

“Damn right it was, Gunner,” he said, slowly nodding as he stood to leave. “As soon as you’re released I want you in my office for a review of the regulations concerning stimulant use and the reading of the charges. You’ll have time to gather witnesses in your favor and to formulate a defense... if you have one. See you there.”

The Making of Ra'gaar

 

For the past half hour Cass had thoroughly studied the bulletin board on the opposite wall of Doc Casein's office. She knew it from the push-pins in the upper right-hand corner down to the ink-splotch on the lower left-hand corner where, according to Doc Casein, his prized antique had slipped into a patch of tattoo dye. Becoming one with the board took her mind off the intense pain now shooting from her jawline through her temple to her scalp as she followed the doctor's orders to sit completely still, no flinching, no wincing - or he'd have to start all over again.

 

Joy.

 

"You could have chosen an easier design, Gunner," said Casein as he worked his way down her jaw. "This area of the body is particularly sensitive to the fixative. It's non-toxic, of course," which made her feel a hell of a lot better, "...but it does absorb, and a little too close to the trigeminal nerves... the ones that run right... along... where... I'm applying... it now."

 

Cass bit down hard as he dabbed the dye along the sketched outline. The fixative hit the nerve about five seconds after application, causing Cass to shift her concentration to another part of the bulletin board. "But that's probably more... than you need to know. Just for future reference, if you're assigned... another covert.... operation like this... choose another society." He stopped to check his work. "How y'doing?" He rolled forward to study her face.

 

"I'm... fine." Talking between breaths without parting your teeth or moving your facial skin wasn't exactly the easiest thing to do.

 

"Let me know if you want a break."

 

Cass didn't respond. The sooner it was over the better. Sooner, in this case, was two hours, give or take, including a very short break for the doc to check his mixture.

 

Doc Casein was somewhat of a legend around Coronado. Besides saving a life or two, he was a master of prosthetics and prosthetic implants, as well as a first-rate tattoo artist. He was also somewhat of a naturalist; didn't believe in anesthesia - local or otherwise - unless it was absolutely necessary, and he shied away from hyposprays. He'd worked on Cass a number of times, so she should have been used to it, but the extensive work needed for Operation Whiteout pushed her to the edge, made her wonder why he wasn't involved in SERE* training.

 

Hell, he probably is.

 

She figured he'd see most of the crew over the coming days, depending on the extent of their cover.

 

As for Cass, her operative name would be Ra'gaar, associated with the Zorathrian, a small little-known mercenary group she'd become acquainted with by chance. It was something she didn't want to remember but couldn't forget. Over the course of a few months she'd learned their language, their customs, and - most of all - their methods of torture. Again, not something she really wanted to remember, but perfect for the type of operation they were about to initiate.

 

The mark of valor among them was the black stylized wing of a raptor in flight, its sharp pin feathers splayed downward from the left temple to the jawline and upward toward the cheekbone. The dye had to be hand-mixed from certain ingredients so it would register authentic in a scan. The fixative was what burned like hell; it made the image durable and removable, but it bonded it to the skin as firmly as a real tattoo.

 

"You'll feel a little discomfort, but it should pass within the hour," Casein said as he finished up. "Let me know if it doesn't. And... you're good to go." Slapping a bottle of pills into her hand, he helped her stand from the chair and led her towards the door, releasing his hold when he was sure she wouldn't crater. "One every four hours as needed. And you can move your jaw now."

 

He grinned.

 

She didn't.

 

Half way down the hall she paused at a fountain, popped a pill, and shoved the container in her pocket. She'd wait a while before reporting for wardrobe and hair. For now all she wanted was to bury her face in a tub of ice water.

 

______________

*Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape

Same Vultures, Different Motive

 

That Colonel Tigard, Commandant of SOCCENT,* had left Aquiri Station, raised quite a few eyebrows. That he'd been at Coronado Special Operations Command for a few weeks raised even more. He was there for a specific purpose, and that purpose included Warrant Officer Cassidy Granger.

 

Fresh from the secluded training grounds of Coronado Island, Cass came to parade rest in front of Tigard's desk. "Warrant Officer Granger reporting as ordered, Sir."

 

The colonel took a few minutes to finish reading the padd before him, then slowly pushed it aside. His eyes had that damned if you do, damned if you don't look - not something often witnessed in the battle-hardened leatherneck. An extended, critical look at Cassie paused at the bruise on her cheek and patched cut over her left eye, both expected consequences of her latest maneuvers. One injury didn't show: a broken arm, courtesy of a teammate's stupid during AUD/S* recert. A modified cast, slim and flexible beneath her uniform, allowed her limited use in the final stages of healing.

 

"They cleaned you up pretty well, Gunner," he said finally. "How's the arm?"

 

"Getting there, Colonel. Doc says it should be ready by deploy."

 

The chair gave a creak as Tigard leaned back, elbow on the armrest, still giving Cass the once-over. Either he wasn't quite satisfied with her response or something was bothering him.

 

"Blow anything up this time?"

 

"Yes, Sir."

 

"Anything you shouldn't have?"

 

"No, Sir."

 

After a long pause he set his jaw. "Glad to hear it. Have a seat. You'll be here a while."

 

Cass bypassed her usual stiff sitting posture to ease into the chair. Despite keeping up daily PT, there was nothing like a trip to Coronado to make your body wonder what happened.

 

"You've made quite an impression on Creek, Sunny. And on her captain. Anything you care to fill me in on?"

 

"Sir?"

 

"Anything not in your file I should know about?"

 

"No, Sir." Nothing she could think of, anyway. So far she'd ruffled a few feathers, even earned a reprimand, but it was all there in black and white - some of it red.

 

"Good, because you're about to be scrutinized down to the Coronado sand still in your backside."

 

At that, Tigard shoved his chair back and left the room. Three plain clothes military personnel entered through the conference room door to the left of his desk. Their eyes sharp and their posture strict, the newcomers took up positions behind Tigard's desk, their padds giving a solid thunk on its polished surface just before they sat. It could have been a scene out of a cheap holovid, except it was real, and Cass knew for damn sure why they were here.

 

Several hours later they left to circle easier pickings. Cass couldn't decide which hurt more - her body or her brain. Only then did she realize she'd been sitting in the same position the entire time. It hurt to move, it hurt not to move, and it was the most intensive grilling she'd had since SERE* training.

 

They left a padd behind. In full view. On Tigard's desk.

 

She sat there, staring at it.

 

Tigard entered from behind and stepped around his desk. He seemed more relaxed as he gave the extra chairs a satisfying shove until they ricocheted off the far wall, then retrieved his own. "Pick it up, Sunny. It's your next assignment."

 

= = = = Official Communication = = = =

= = = = Encrypted LZT-5641 = = = =

 

To: Calestorm, CPT Ashton; Wesley, Audraya CDR; JoNs, CDR K. Vacer

From: Walking-Coyote, RADM Shauna; Tigard, COL Craig

Re: New Orders

 

The command and senior line crew of the USS Comanche Creek will be temporarily transferred to the USS Washington Crossing for duration of assignment to the Outland territories. Your primary orders are to arrest and remand into Federation custody the Black Kris leader known as 'Litasha'....

 

After reading through, Cass looked up. "I'm due for fighter quals on Monday, Colonel. Something I should know about, Sir?"

 

"Hell, Sunny. If you can pull a Tomcat out of a spin dive approaching 9 Gs at 2500 feet by the seat of your pants, there's no need for quals. What?" He leaned forward to rest his forearms on the desk, the glare in his eyes putting a check on the fire in hers. "You think those things happen randomly? That program on 'Creek was intentional. My orders."

 

It took all her training to bite back an all due respect, Sir. With a clench of her jaw, she backed down. Mostly.

 

"Now. Simmer down and listen," Tigard shifted into a change of pace.

 

"Washington Crossing has some touchy new R&D equipment. You will know that tech so well you can operate it in your sleep. You will know every inch of that ship, inside and out. You have six hours to relax, then report to Building G so the engineers can throw more at you than you've had in years.

 

"When you're done there, you'll receive the latest Intel on the cartel, the Black Kris, and this... Litasha. There's not much. What we do know comes from a few who were unfortunate enough to live through her torture. It's not pretty, Gunner, so if you want to ring the bell, now's the time to do it."

 

She stood her ground, resolute.

 

"Any questions?"

 

"No, Sir."

 

"Very well. Dismissed."

______________

*Special Operations Command CENTral

*Advanced Universal Demolition/SEAL

*Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape

2253 - Yosemite National Park

California, Earth

Half way up El Cap’s Salathe Wall, Cassie’s progress went from pretty damn good to I’m screwed.

She froze.

Her last handhold was far enough away to nix going back, and her next move, a foothold - the only one within reach, the only possible avenue she had - was a one-inch ledge four feet away that had gathered a thin coat of algae since their last free solo ascent.

Free soloing is climbing with nothing but strength, gymnastic ability, resin-coated fingers, climbing shoes, and a daredevil attitude. One false move and you're dead, so the worst case scenario for free solo is doubt. It puts you in the realm of I’m gonna die, and once you get there, it’s pretty damn close to the truth. No matter what your expertise, no matter what your real situation, it’s a struggle to maintain focus and overcome the fight-or-flight gut reaction hard-wired into your genes.

“Cass!” The voice of LaShae Belgeran, parallel to her on the rock face, set her jaw. Cass took a deep breath to slow her heart rate, but didn’t reply. “Cass! You’re good! Go for it!”

Right.

Over 3500 feet below, thermals spawned by the heat of mid-morning grew speckled with vultures as they dropped from their tree-top perches to circle through the clouds towards the summit. One minute passed. Another. And another. She waited, as though time would change her present position to one without that precarious, mocking foothold. Several minutes later the first of the flock passed her.

A slight shift in weight slipped one finger out of its crack. Cass fought back a gasp and repositioned her hand, flattening herself against the warmth of the wall, forcing the rest of her body to relax.

“Granger!” The longer Cassie waited, the harder LaShae’s tone became until it sharpened to command. “Focus! It will work.”

What it came down to was falling or not falling. Waiting on the rock face until her strength gave out meant falling. After a few more minutes she took the step...

...and her toe stayed put. Solid. On that one inch of ledge coated with algae.

The vultures disappeared in the distance, dipping around the south face towards Sentinel Rock.

USS Comanche Creek Gymnasium

Present Day - 18 Hours from Earth Orbit

Slowly, methodically, Warrant Officer Granger wiped the resin from her hands. The climbing wall in Creek’s gym was no El Capitan, but their proximity to earth had triggered the memory. ‘Course they wouldn’t have time for R&R when they arrived. Word was they were in for a Fleet grilling.

Different vultures, same motive.

Sunny was also due for a PT and AUD/S eval. She’d been in the field two years without one. If she survived the trip to Coronado Island and didn’t demolish anything she wasn’t supposed to, she’d be good for another two. She’d also get an intensive course in the latest toys, maybe bring some back to Creek.

The last of the resin gone, she hooked up her gym gear and headed for the showers. Coronado? Fleet HQ? They were both just as deadly, both career-changers, life-changers.

What the hell. Semper fi.

Evenin' Ma'am. Enjoyed your play last Monday. Come on over and take another look at Creek. We could always use another 14S.

Communications Outpost

2255 - Just Outside the RNZ

 

"Medic!" A loud crack in her helmet com interrupted the call as a weapons fire duck-and-tumble slid her down the steep incline. "Perry! Ducon! What's your twenty?"

 

"Two thirty your location, Staff Sergeant! Below the ridge."

 

"Take two and three. Circle behind the ridge and take out that emplacement! Zap!" She skid to a halt, flipped over the writhing lieutenant and pressed a hand onto his belly.

 

"Here, Staff Sergeant!"

 

"Hightail it out of this canyon and put in a call to command. 'Opposition hot. Lieutenant's down.'"

 

Another round drowned out Zap's reply, but Cass saw her scrambling down the gully towards the shuttle. "Kato!"

 

"Yo, Staff!"

 

"Get over here and give me a hand. Medic!"

 

"Doc's down too, Staff," Sergeant Kato slid in behind. Cass grabbed his hand and thrust it under hers as she reached for the limited medical supplies in her combat vest.

 

"Press hard and don't let up," she said, slapping a wad of septic cloth into the wound. Lieutenant I'm in charge here and you'll obey my command screamed in agony. She saw it coming, should have said something to the Major, but Lt Hotshot made his decision and dashed towards the bunker. Ben tyen shung! "Press! Hard!"

 

Kato nearly buckled as Hotshot's scream cut through the comm, but he leaned into the wound as the blood oozed between his fingers. Cass reached into the lieutenant's helmet and tripped the switch. No sense in demoralizing the squad any more than it was already.

 

It should have been a routine extraction. Two teams on a small planet just outside the RNZ setting up communications equipment, bushwhacked by unknowns, had sent out the call. The USS Kearsarge was supposed to be covert intel and wasn't really set up for heavy extraction, but routine Marine MO was combat gear, thank the higher power, so at least the squad was semi-prepared. The perps used modified projectile weapons rigged to do the most damage and didn't operate like military. They sure as shin-Li weren't Romulans. Pirates? Small time smugglers? Who cared. They just needed off this rock, and it wasn't going to happen any time soon.

 

Evasive Maneuvers

Dips in the river over the last thirty days barely kept her presentable, and the dunking she’d taken in the local open-hole cesspool gave her tribal garb a permanent odor to make any Marine sniper envious. The cesspool was a total accident, mind you, a misstep and a slip while getting her bearings. It gave the Hill Tribe team she was working with a chance to hoot - a real ice breaker for them, a “glad I had my mouth closed” for her. Wasn’t the first time; wouldn’t be the last.

Add to that her “evasive maneuver” training - teaching the warriors how to mask their scent and blend in with the environment - which incorporated a hell of a lot of her basic recon/sniper training and not a little dung-plastering around the torso - and she fairly reeked when she stepped aboard the shuttle, her brief wash in the creek beforehand notwithstanding.

The expression from the pilot as she stepped aboard said “you’re ridin’ on the wing,” but he was enlisted and she was warrant. No contest. Couldn’t say the same for the lieutenant, but Sakura didn’t seem to mind.

To her credit, Cass did take time to grab a ground cover from the locker and drape it over the seat. No sense in getting maintenance riled. She put a paper under her boots as well, even though they would become one with the recycler as soon as possible. She figured the “shoes and shirt required” reg in the bays might change after her trek through, but as it was she’d have to wear those rank boots all the way to her quarters and ignore the looks and comments.

But she wasn’t exactly embarrassed. It was her little bit of payback for a month-long pseudo-recon-type assignment on-planet, and she was enjoying every minute of it.

It’s a Marine thing.

Then there was the tattoo, something the tribe decided should cover the scar on her left arm. It wasn’t exactly regulation, but the team she was working with seemed to think it necessary to her very existence so she couldn’t very well refuse. The stylized mugato horn and fang represented valor. It was woven throughout with kearnah leaves, worn by victorious warriors much like laurel wreaths were worn by the Greeks, and Cass had to admit it didn’t look half bad. The only thing she had a problem with was the tiny splotch they insisted the artist put in the middle. It looked suspiciously like a turd and their hearty laughter as he plied his trade tested her diplomatic skills big time. Then there was the sanitation issue. She planned to visit medical asap after extraction, figuring she’d have to round off her month of duty with a month of antibiotics.

Upon returning to the ship, Cass decided that despite the yellow alert no one would appreciate her presence on the bridge in her present condition, so she bolted for her quarters and a quick but thorough shower and uniform. All-in-all, she counted her Neural experience a plus, but still a hell of a thing.

Crash & Burn

 

"Can it, Granger! You got your head so far up your backside it's comin' out the other end!" The rest her DI said didn't bear repeating in polite company... or impolite company, for that matter. But it sure as hell played back in her mind as Captain Calestorm purposely ignored her in the conference room. What the hell was she on this bucket for, anyway?

 

"You know how close you are to crash and burn, Recruit?" His face was so close she tried not to breathe, remnants of his garlic and onion snack rank on the air. "Drop and give me fifty and then through the course five times before I kick your ass across the sector and back again!"

 

Cass repeatedly clenched her jaw to shake off the memory, but she couldn't shake the feeling. Here she had the Crash, and she was -that- close to burn. So she stood behind the conference table, clenching... clenching... clenching..., her gut fairly bursting as the good Captain Calestorm poignantly ignored her.

 

"Granger?"

 

Her attention jerked toward the commander. Only then did she realize the Orion second had been watching her the whole time, probably taking in her reaction with inward glee. So she canned it and did the best she could to make her point. Point made, she still didn't feel much better.

 

Then came the burn, and a well-deserved one at that. She'd made a stupid call, one that could have cost the lives of the team. The captain had cause to ream her out, and more. Hell, if someone had pulled a stupid like that on her watch, she'd have 'em on a pike with no quarter. But not Calestorm. She had better things in mind.

 

Clamoring up one of the steepest inclines on Neural, hill tribesmen behind her, Cass had been tasked with what the captain called "evasive maneuvers." How to hide, how to hit and run, where to go, where not to go, gauging range and staying beyond it, spotting snipers - though a sniper using a flintlock was more than absurd, it was downright laughable.

 

Not so strangely, it involved a hell of a lot of PT. So her assignment was half training the hill tribe - following through with her idea voiced in the conference room - and half "Drop and give me fifty, then five times around the course, Recruit!"

 

But it worked. When she was finished with them she could truthfully say they were trained the best they could be under the circumstances. On top of that, she was worn out, down a few pounds, and not about to pull any more stupids.

Watching the Watchers

Cass moved through the jostling midday crowd, mindful of the positions of the rest of Away Team Bravo. Tribal societies tended to be wary of strangers, but that didn’t seem to be the case here. Two possibilities cropped up immediately: the team was doing a darned good job blending in or the villagers were not as skittish about strangers as they should be - which meant they were probably used to strangers, which in turn led to all kinds of other possibilities, most of which didn’t sound good.

Slipping that information into watch your six, Cass moved to the crowd’s periphery. Close quarters made her antsy and the dynamics of the crowd was changing rapidly from casual to curious and excited.

A scouting party emerged from the brush, shouting as they shoved a bound hill tribe man toward a stone wall. He was bloody and weak but still very much alive. Stepping onto a boulder for a better look, Cass matched her reactions to those of the crowd. After brief eye-contact with Jed, a glint of sunlight off a metal object caught her attention. Big time.

The crowd grew silent as an older man emerged from a low stone building, his left hand holding a shiny new flintlock. Before its sharp report faded in the distance the hill man lay lifeless, a thick, dark puddle soaking the ground beneath his head.

Masking her gut reaction, Cass pushed on to analysis. It was a pretty far cry from bows and arrows. Several thousand years, in fact. So how the hell...?

With the exception of a few gawkers, the crowd began to disperse. Around the returning hunting party, a group of warriors formed, admiring the weapons.

In the time they’d spent on-planet, Cass had made a pretty good assessment of the culture. Societal levels tiered down from warriors to farmers with varying degrees of merchants and storekeepers between, menial laborers at rock bottom. Most of the warriors were male, but there were a few females, taller and more conditioned than the domestic type. The villagers also depended a great deal on body language - a good thing for the away team, and especially good for Cass.

She joined the group, openly admiring the flintlocks, receiving one for trial when it was handed to her. A burly male from the hunting party approached her, gave her the once-over, and jutted out his chin in a mix of admiration and who the hell are you?

She returned the gesture, her chin thrust proudly in borderline defiance, the flintlock held to the side. Pounding her chest with her free hand, she gave a grunt followed by, “Spasar Thach,” supposedly the name of her distant village. Slowly, deliberately, the male’s glare spread into a broad grin.

“Dagh,” he exclaimed, pounding her on the back. “Dach!” He grabbed her shoulder and turned to the group as though in introduction. “Dach!” he called again, pointing to Cass. Then he moved on to his next recruit.

Clutching the flintlock, she disappeared into the crowd.

TBC in sim...

 

The Best Defense

Cale-Granger Joint Log

Captain Calestorm entered the main gym, tying her regulation length silvering blond hair up in a ponytail as she walked. She had finally gotten some sleep, putting the travel time to Neural to good use, and felt refreshed and ready for whatever awaited the crew on their unsanctioned mission.

For right now though, she was more interested in some one on one self defense time with Warrant Officer Cassidy Granger. The enlisted SPECOPS officer had offered to show the captain a thing or three regarding some of the more refined defenses, and Calestorm had been open to the exchange. Cale wore a charcoal colored tee shirt emblazoned with the crest of the 'Creek's 214 Black Sheep aero group on the front, and a pair of black lounge pants. Sneakers completed the look.

At the later afternoon hour, the deck had a few crewmembers and officers working out or sparring with one another, but the volume wasn't near as many as it usually was in the early morning and early evenings. Enlisted, commissioned and non commissioned officers worked out alongside one another.

The captain spotted Warrant Officer Granger, already in the process of squaring away a section of sparring mat. Calestorm hid a gentle smile: Marines, first in and last out, indeed.

Crash wasn't cocky, exactly, but she felt pretty confident that she would be able to handle whatever Granger had in mind for the training session. She'd been a lightweight boxer in her academy days, competed on the cadet team, and had kept up the training with a secondary concentration in kickboxing over the years.

Noticing the captain striding towards her, Sunny lay the last series of mats, kicking them into place with one bare foot. As she adjusted the straps of a black form-fitting jump suit, she turned to meet Calestorm. "Afternoon, ma'am. Feeling confident?" She gave a light-hearted grin.

"Aye, I'll admit a do feel a bit confident." Crash's answer was honest. She as well removed her sneakers, placing them off to the side of the mat area.

"Confident is good, ma'am. Cautious is better." Signaling eyes-on-me, Cass continued in a slightly more serious but still casual vein. "Without looking around, ma'am... how many are in the gym right now?"

"At least a dozen, mixed ranks."

"And how many are directly behind you?"

Calestorm quirked an eyebrow in some amusement. "Uh oh. I spotted three personnel, two male, one female. Have to admit I'm not just sure though."

"Focus, Captain." Cass continued, locking her eyes on Calestorm's, her tone a bit more commanding. "How many are behind you? What genders? How close? How do you know? Take your time."

After years of service, it was easy to fall into the automatic verbal report, as if Granger were a drill instructor and Calestorm a trainee....which she was, at this moment. She kept her attention on the Marine and her expression went a bit more serious.

"Three personnel. One female, two male. The males are about fifteen feet behind, sparring match. Female is twenty to twenty five feet, solo workout on the treadmills."

Cass relaxed. "Check your accuracy," she said, motioning for the captain to look. Calestorm had made a good assessment, which was encouraging. At least they weren't starting at square one, but Cassie didn't exactly expect to.

Cale half turned and gave the immediate area behind her the once over; she had been mostly accurate, though had missed at least one person in the initial assessment. She nodded once, to herself, and then turned her attention back to Sundance.

"Seems I could use a bit of a refresher on assessment tactics." Her tone held no rancor.

"We all need refreshers, ma'am. This is good for me as well. And the best part? I get to do it with the captain." She flashed an impish grin to take any awkwardness out of the moment. After a quick check of those close by, Cass dropped her volume to confidential.

"Moving on, ma'am. As soon as Stone entered your quarters you knew something was wrong. You've probably kicked yourself too much already about coming around your desk, so we'll forget that and cut to the chase. Approach me the way he approached you." Cass backed off and took a confrontational stance.

The captain nodded, and did as instructed, walking a couple of steps towards Granger and stopping. "He did not invade my personal space; he stopped just shy of doing so, letting me come to him...which I did." Cale trailed off, and a bit of chagrin flitted across her features.

"...short version is I rushed him. Once I surmised his true intentions, I reacted. Used a data slate, flung it at him for a distraction while I went for him."

Cass nodded. "First, relax. Tension slows you down. Then watch your attacker. Check out his method. Let him come to you; let him make the first move." Cass waved a come-on as she took an easy stance. Within seconds of Calestorm closing in, Cass had the captain on her knees.

A quick side-step had brought her 'round behind, grabbing the back of the captain's right hand on the way, her thumb pressing into the median nerve on the back of the hand just to the right of the thumb. A quick tug and twist brought the arm straight behind her back and above her head. Pushing her left fist into the captains' right shoulder, Cassie dug in her thumb and bent the captain's hand forward, just to the point of pain. Having drawn the attention of the two officers sparring behind them, bringing the captain to a faint just didn't seem appropriate.

Cale didn't have much time to react; one second she'd been upright, the next she was effectively hog tied for lack of a better term. The older woman automatically struggled, attempting to break away in reaction and grunted a little with the sudden onset of pain from the pressure point. It only left her gasping.

Cassie released the hold quickly and waited for the captain to recover before continuing. "That particular move, when executed correctly, will disable an attacker twice your size, Captain," she said quietly. "There are several pressure points on the human body that can be used effectively in a similar manner for self defense, with little effort on your part. When you're ready, I can show you the points and moves. Then you can try them out. On me," she added, clear payback opportunity in her expression.

Once the quick moment of pain had passed, the captains expression could best be described as a 'wow, that was pretty cool' mixed in with some embarrassment. "I think Grasshopper has much to learn."

 

A couple hours later, winded and freely sweating, the captain stood with hands on hips and chuckled openly. "Well damn Gunner, that was a hell of a wake up call." She extended a hand to shake with her Marine trainer.

Cass wasn't exactly dry as she received the captain's firm shake. Damn, that girl's got a grip. Calestorm had given her a nasty press a few minutes before; the bruise was just now emerging on her forearm - an expected consequence of the game. "Glad I got to put 'that type of assistance' to good use, Captain. Hope we can do it again. Give me a chance to redeem myself?" She gave her arm a gentle rub.

The captain nodded firmly, her grin welcoming. "You got it Gunner."

Those Who Live In Glass Houses

Cale-Granger Joint Log

Warrant Officer Cassidy Granger had taken the NAV console directly after the meeting. Approaching Neural on the sly was no easy task, but doable. She didn’t like transport; too easily redirected; too much could go wrong. She didn’t like shuttle, either; too easily seen. But hell - if that’s what the captain wants, that’s what she gets.

Word was that PD had already been compromised, but it wasn’t a given, and what had actually happened to the scientists was still pretty much unknown. As far as Cassie was concerned they were at square one and she’d treat it as such. But a covert mission - unsanctioned - and some kind of power play? She shook off the thoughts in favor of gathering data on the planet for a smooth, uneventful creep up their backside.

Captain Calestorm had retired to her ready room, intending to draw up reports pertaining to the ‘Mr. Toads Wild Ride’ adventure that she had experienced. Making a verbal report to her commanding officer was one thing, but word from Admiral Coyote had it that Fleet Command offices at San Fran wanted an actual digital hard copy report directly from Cale.

Hell, that was fine with her; maybe something would actually get done about the rogue element.

And, she had given a final perusal the recent personnel transfer reports for Ensign Shan Shalin and Warrant Officer Cassidy Granger, Helm and Navigation respectively. Both officers appeared promising, and the border patrol could always use good officers.

Crash stretched, letting her attention wander about the office, glancing at the spartan collection of medals, awards, and starfighter models that she displayed on a shelving unit and her desk. Unlike her quarters, which housed her more personal mementos, the displays were of a more business oriented nature.

She rolled her neck, feeling much better after the ministrations of the CMO, but fatigue was starting to overwhelm her again. She needed sleep. The ship was currently heading at a good clip towards the Neural sectors, and they still had about two days travel time before the final destination. She could use some of that time to grab some rack time, and it would do her no good to fall flat on her face.

Speaking of personnel transfers, she had one particular matter to attend to before she grabbed a few hours sleep.

Unfolding her long and lean frame from the desk chair, she walked the few strides to the entry door that accessed the main bridge; half stepping out when the entry whooshed open, she spoke in a matter of fact tone towards the Navigation officer in question.

Cale schooled her expression to one of neutrality, the command poker face. It was usually hard to disconcert a marine, but she was going to damn well try - in good fun of course. “Warrant Officer Granger. Would you mind stepping into my ready room for one moment?”

Granger snapped around and gave a crisp, “Yes, ma’am,” while nodding to a subordinate to take NAV as she passed by.

When the doorway had hissed closed, the captain indicated the guest chair with a gentle sweep of one hand, and perched one hip on the edge of her desk, careful not to invade the officers personal space. “Take a load off Mister Granger.”

Cassie eased into the chair and gave the captain her full attention, keeping her head clear, trying to ignore the legends that rolled around inside. She’s good stock. Good breed. Remember that.

“I understand that the Corps is a big outfit, but I’m curious; you ever encounter an Ashton Marie Killian during your service tenure?”

“Can’t say that I have, Captain,” she said, her tone slipping toward her superior’s casual cadence. “I would’ve remembered that, you being the first Ashton Marie I’ve ever come across.”

Cale smiled. “You would indeed recall this Ashton Marie. My namesake, served on the USS Gettysburg, 56th Battalion Command. She retired from active service a few years back, started teaching at the cadet academy. Probably started instructing about the time you went through.”

“Well, much as I’d like to have been, I’m not academy, ma’am,” said the warrant half-apologetically. “Coming from the 56th, though, she must be one of the best. They’ve built themselves quite a rep. The stuff of legends, you might say.”

“My mistake, should’ve fully familiarize myself with your service jacket before making assumptions.” Calestorm’s gentle smile turned sly. “Though it is my understanding that you’re our new watchdog, correct?”

“Watchdog, ma’am?”

“Special Operations. Marine Intelligence Division. From what I’ve been able to ascertain within the last 24 hours, we’ve had a bit of a dust up going on within Command Fleet Intel at San Francisco. The SPECs and your division have been assisting with the issue for these past months.”

Crash cocked her head to one side, her expression open, the few age lines that she possessed becoming a bit prominent. “Not trying to make you uncomfortable, just want to get a sense of where we stand.”

Cassie’s expression sobered. Meeting the captain’s gaze, she took a moment to scope out the possible concerns, then adopted a more formal tone. “Yes, ma’am. Totally understand that you might have concerns, so I’ll be plain an’ clear about where I stand in relation to you, the ship, and this mission.

“First and foremost, I come directly under your command, Captain. Orders from SPECOPS* made that very clear. My MOS* aboard this ship is navigational officer. I am here to assist you in your mission, whatever it may be. As for my affiliation with the Corps, besides my training and my paycheck? I come under Starfleet Intelligence, Division 6, Special Operations dealing with external threats and intervention. SPECOPS liaison is this officer’s secondary operational designation should you need that type of assistance, especially for the dust up.”

The captain appreciated the honesty from the enlisted officer. The Sharks and Squids* had always had a healthy competition between the two service branches, and when you got into the whole Intel/SPECOPS thing it could get twitchy.

“We certainly encounter external threats in our service with the border patrol, and it would appear we need to start minding recent internal threats as well. Your expertise will be welcome Granger. And just so you know, we’re a little rough and ready around here.” She paused and pointed a finger to the rather un-captainly shiner that she sported. “You don’t mind a little action?” Calestorm’s grin had gone mischievous.

Which Cassie picked up on immediately. If she’s a renegade, hell! We need more renegades like her out here. She allowed herself a semi-grin, but kept her tone sincere. “Captain, I was assigned to ‘Creek because this is where the action is. Don’t mind it at all, so long as it furthers the mission.”

Cale nodded. “The short version is that the First Threat Response program was fast tracked because of that bastard Nero, pardon my French. I’ve served within the BP for most of my adult life in one capacity or another. We’ve always been active on the frontier, the front line against external threats to the Federation, and the FTR program is a specialized endeavor.”

The captain crossed her arms over her chest. “Opinion wise, some people consider officers of the Border Patrol throwbacks to Earth’s Frontier age. With all that said, we do a lot of good out here.”

“If I may, ma’am? What goes on out here does bear a resemblance.” The captain’s expression seemed to call for an explanation, so Cass continued.

“Earth’s frontier age - if I remember my history correctly - was pretty rough and tumble, a mix of city folks looking for greener pastures, explorers...” her head-tick towards the briefing room recalled the scientists on Neural, “... treasure seekers, and a lot of riffraff looking to take advantage of ‘em all. They had ‘lawmen’ to keep the peace. But those rough days defined what the land became and made it stronger. There’s bound to be rocky parts before this space frontier smooths out, ma’am, and if they want to call us throwbacks? Hell, bring it on.”

Crash was silent a moment, studying her new alpha shift navigator. Her eyebrows drew together in a frown, but the expression remained thoughtful. She nodded once, a quick jerk of the chin as if making a decision. “Good to hear.”

Then she fixed Granger with that mischievous smile again, all teeth. “Now, where were you when I needed you?”

“Ma’am?”

The captain allowed a slight expression of distaste to crease her features. “This unsanctioned mission we’re undertaking? I was escorted to the initial briefing by Ensign Karl Stone, formerly of my security department. He was not gentle, and employed some fancy razzle dazzle martial arts that are a bit beyond my purview. Granted, I may have aggravated him a little bit...” Her tone had gone deadpan.

Stone. An alias in the Corps, a favorite of over-the-top Semper fi, Do or Die types used by covert ops to get the attention of unsuspecting ‘fleet captains like Ashton Marie Calestorm. Instead of letting her disgust get the best of her, Cass boxed it up for later and addressed the issue at hand. “Sounds like a blind-side attack, ma’am. If you’re of a mind, it might fall into the category of ‘that type of assistance’ I could provide.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I have a few skills I could pass on to you in case you have to duck another Stone.” She let the double-entendre hang as she watched the captain for a yea or nay. “That would be gym-type skills, ma’am,” she clarified, realizing it could be taken several ways.

Crash gave a gentle chuckle at the little play on words. “Well, thank you for the offer, and I’m inclined to take you up on it Granger.”

“You name the time and place, ma’am. I’ll be there.”

“Well, I need sleep as Mister Stone kept me out way past my bedtime on our date. As we’ll be traveling for a few days to Neural - let’s say tomorrow afternoon, main gym deck?”

“Beginning beta shift, ma’am?”

The captain nodded once in affirmation.

“Fourteen hundred, main gym deck. Yes, ma’am.” Cassie stood, came to attention, then spun on one heel for a sharp exit after the captain’s nod of dismissal.

__________

*SPECOPS - Special Operations

*MOS - Military Occupational Specialty

Sharks - Marines

Squids - Sailors

"Body, Mind, Spirit"

A T’Aral-Granger Log

“Thank you crewman - that will be all.” A momentary lull in the ship’s readiness status had allowed Lieutenant T’Aral to process new crew members through their introductory physicals. A few notations and some record editing was needed, but nothing so far was out of the ordinary. Checking her list, she walked to a com panel and contacted Communications. “Please page Warrant Officer Cassidy Granger; she is to report to the Medical Bay for her physical.”

Cass was half way through her morning run - which put her on deck eight, aft, J-tube 8-E hauling ass up the ladder to the access port for deck seven - when her wrist band alerted her to incoming from comm control.

Prowling the ship’s guts might not be the easiest way, but it was the fastest way Cassie knew of getting to know its complete internal layout - and its quirks, of which this one had a few. She’d made mental note of unexpected dead-ends from ongoing repairs, loose gratings, missing rungs - anything that might trap or injure. But any ship that wasn’t quirky sure as shinLi hadn’t seen much action, and if anyone had seen action it was Border Patrol. Cassie wasn’t playing inspector; she wanted to know where to go and - especially - where not to go in an emergency. Where to stash weapons or plan an alternate escape route in case of... well, anything.

It’s a Marine thing.

“Granger here,” she replied into the first comm on deck seven.

The comm officer came back with and end-of-shift groggy, “Report to medical bay for entry physical.”

Left hand against the bulkhead, right hand on her hip, Cass watched her sweat bead on the deck for a second before acknowledging, then wondered if she should go as is or shower and change. Hell. They’ve seen their share of blood and guts. A little sweat’s not going to make much difference. And it’ll most likely be a corpsman at oh dark thirty.

Two minutes later, clad in combat boots, camo warmups, and tank top so sopped it looked like wet T-shirt night at the club, she entered the medical bay and presented herself to the duty corpsman...

...which just happened to be Dr. T’Aral, Chief Medical Officer. Biting back an oh ######, she came to attention.

At this particular hour, the duty officer of the Medical bay was also the CMO. T’Aral wasn’t getting much sleep of late - at least not much formal sleep. She rested her body during meditations to keep up her strength, but she knew this could not go indefinitely. Fortunately the month was almost up, which would mean the Captain’s disciplinary action would have run its course. That left the Vulcan elders, who would need evidence of her reform or of a dire need for her to rest before they would relent. Hopefully an emissary would be sent soon …

Her thoughts were shifted the moment someone stepped into the bay. T’Aral straightened as W.O. Granger entered. Recognizing her from her datafile, the lieutenant gestured for Cassidy to follow. Approaching a biobed, she activated a number of scanners while starting up her tricorder. “Please lie back on the bed and relax. Your continued co-operation will make your examination a brief one.”

Cassie gave a crisp, “Yes, ma’am,” doing as instructed. Future reference: department chiefs work around the clock on ‘Creek.

T’Aral began her examination, noting various scars and remnants of old injuries. “How shall I refer to you, Warrant Officer Granger?” She paused to detail a note on a datapad. “Humans have a curious inconsistency in their social standards. The Captain, for example, is most informal.”

“I imagine Cassie will do, ma’am. Call sign is Sundance, if you prefer. Or, Warrant Officer Granger if you’re of a formal leaning.”

T’Aral arched an eyebrow slightly, internally unsatisfied with her options. “Perhaps ‘Ms. Granger’ will suffice. Now: are there any specific conditions that I need to be aware of? Do you have any allergies, re-occurring conditions, or unhealed injuries?” She paused for a moment, then turned her gaze directly to her patient. “And … how do you feel?”

“Well, ma’am... that would be no, no, no, and no. And I feel fine.”

T’Aral set down her tricorder and datapad, leaning back slightly on the medical bay wall. “Indeed? I find that curious. You are a Marine with a history of field operations. You have been assigned as a ship’s navigator - an assignment which deviates considerably from your experience. You have … no apprehensions or misgivings about this assignment?”

Cassie met the doctor’s gaze with feigned innocence. “Apprehensions, Ma’am? Should I be apprehensive? Is there something I should know? Something they didn’t tell me when I received this assignment?” The doctor was either curious or playing mind games. Cassie placed her bet on mind games.

“The ship is a standard assignment - there are no unusual conditions that you need to be aware of. My interest is the examination of a Warrant Officer taking a position usually reserved for those with commissions. Typically the only non-commissioned bridge personnel are security officers. That is actually another consideration: with your experience I would’ve expected your transfer to be part of Security, rather than a bridge assignment.”

Cass bristled at the comment, but she kept it in check. Every stripe, every hook on the way up was sorely earned, and some at great cost to her unit, the Corps, and the Federation.

Slowly, deliberately, she sat up to meet the doctor’s gaze straight-on. “All due respect Ma’am... I’m damn good at what I do. Navigating in this area of space is dangerous at best, deadly at worst. I would think the last mission would have told you that.” She had kept her tone even and stopped there. Showing up in the brig right out of the gate wasn’t exactly in her plans.

T’Aral nodded while picking up her datapad and making a few notes. “You are correct, Ms. Granger … however - bridge officers are expected to maintain their composure under difficult situations. You seem to take offense quickly - has that been noted in your evaluations before?” She moved to an adjacent bio-bed; no longer standing above Cassidy, but now settling to match her level.

“Take offense, ma’am? Just stating it like it is. No offense meant. Just facts, plain and simple.” And believe me, you don’t want to see me when I’ve taken offense.

T’Aral raised a gentle eyebrow. The fact that Cassidy didn’t answer her question regarding previous evaluations wasn’t overlooked, but she let it go. Pursuing the inquiry would probably elicit a further emotional response, which wasn’t T’Aral’s intent. “Then, you are stating for the record that nothing I said disturbed you?” She gazed intently at her patient, her expression one of pure curiosity.

“Oh, no, ma’am. What you said disturbed me. I wouldn’t be human if it didn’t, and I for sure wouldn’t be truthful. But as for being disturbed and taking offense? Two different sides of the coin. Just setting the record straight.”

T’Aral straightened slightly and paused - there was no need to continue, but Cassidy’s particular ways had caught her curiosity. There was no question that she was fit for duty, but if T’Aral released her now she would never have another chance to understand Cassidy properly. “Elaborate, if you would: what would be the difference between being disturbed and taking offense?”

She rubbed a hand around the back of her neck and across her hair, now plastered dry against her forehead. “Elaborate.” She nodded with a purse of her lips. “Disturbed is just what you saw, Ma’am. Just a little bit riled, a bit angry maybe, but in control. Taking offense?” She gave a half-grin. “Your head’d be through the bulkhead before you knew what hit you.”

“So: it is not a matter of difference, but rather a question of degree.” Unlike many other species, T’Aral saw no logic in disputing the Warrant Officer’s claim, despite her own familiarity with the various techniques of Suus Mahnna and the number of times she had to demonstrate her abilities in front of the Captain. For the purposes of this conversation, it was irrelevant. “Ms Granger: I am here to help you. I am to provide care to the best of my ability, and to do so I require accurate information. To say ‘no offense taken’ would not be accurate, and would offer the wrong impression to those you are speaking to. While civil courtesy is a fine thing, it is a hindrance to social interaction if taken too far - resulting in buried resentments.”

Cassie listened attentively to the ‘new patient lecture,’ knowing that if she didn’t it would most likely cut into alpha shift and she’d be late for duty on her first day. In any case, if there were resentments, she for sure wouldn’t bury them. They’d be right out in the open. No sense in disturbing the doctor with it, letting her believe the new Marine had a hair trigger.

T’Aral continued. “While it is not uncommon for members of an emotionally guided species to take offense at statements made by others, this should be discouraged. Other beings can make any number of statements for any number of reasons. Unless it is clear that something is stated in a manner deliberately meant to hurt, it is always best to put it aside while choosing to consider any perceived slight as simply a matter of ignorance.” She wrote a final note on her datapad. “With that said you are cleared for duty, Officer Granger. Do you have any questions?”

“No, ma’am.”

The Vulcan closed her tricorder an de-activated the biobed. “In that case, may you find your assignment fulfilling. You are dismissed.” T’Aral nodded politely to Cassie before crossing the medical bay, entering her office. There were reports to file and notes to transfer. It was all routine, but that was the nature of her duties.