"Before and After"

[Col. C.E. Harper 0]

“Before and After”

Harper Log 03.08.06

June 3, 2397

Departing Starbase 621

 

Colonel's Personal Log, Stardate 74422.1...

 

Shoreleave again.

 

Was it always so empty? The only bright spot was chocolate and velocity with Day, Rieve, and the new doctor. I don’t remember struggling to fill the hours before. Before…

 

But that’s it, I suppose. Shoreleave was fun Before. This is After.

 

The bar door swung open, spilling light and patrons into the street. “– and the moral of the story is: you can't drink liquor on the house!,” warbled a pair of women, arms slung companionably across one another’s shoulders.

 

“Shurrup, Target, Trike,” growled the man behind them, giving them a shove out of the doorway. “Y’r drunk.”

 

“So’re you,” returned one of the singers, leaning heavily against her partner. “So’s Bird, so’s Medusa. We’re all drunk off our arse! ‘My guy ran away with the army—’”

 

“Drunk an’ disorderly,” laughed Harper, grinning widely at her squadmates. “We’ll all wind up spendin’ the rest o’leave in the brig.”

 

The fifth Marine scowled at her. “I’m no’ drunk,” he informed them with great dignity. “You lot can’t hold tha’ Ferengi swill – ” He broke off as everyone else began laughing uncontrollably.

 

“Tha’ was the good stuff, Bird!” Trike gasped out, before surrendering to hilarity again.

 

The shape of After is different. Sometimes I don’t know which changed more: the universe or me. I know I feel older – though that could just be that I’m surrounded by children. Sometimes it gives me a chill to look at personnel records and see my Academy year under ‘Date of Birth’. It shouldn’t be possible to be so removed from one’s age-mates – but there aren’t as many of us as there were Before. Even fewer of the years right behind us… If the ships are crewed with infants, it’s because there are no adolescents left.

 

Markos was here, and D’nu. Kelsham lay sprawled across the corpse of a Romulan, fingers still wrapped tight around the hilt of a knife in the stiffness of death. Bellaros, Surel, Pa’asli, eyes too dull to reflect the sky staring at it unblinkingly. All of the Laughing Jackals lay silent near the ridgeline, though the far slope was littered with their prey.

 

The search team fanned out, frozen ground crunching beneath their boots. Evidence of the battle’s ferocity was everywhere, from the knives to the deep crater blasted in the turf. As much green blood as red stained the grey-frosted grass. The complex behind the searchers was laughingly pristine; its walls unscorched, its flag still flying bravely untattered. Only a handful of the enemy had passed this field.

 

And we adults are getting old before our time. So many friends retired, though they’re no older than I am, and had promising careers yet. I think they might have left sooner, but for duty. A crotchety lot, the rest of us, with thin patience for these cocksure children unaware of what price the job extracts.

 

The bars stretched before her. She eyed the distance – two meters, perhaps two and half. Two steps on a normal day.

 

Today was not a normal day.

 

“Up you come,” said the aide cheerfully, reaching out to lift her from the chair. Harper scowled at him, batting the hand away. Reaching up, she grabbed the bars and pulled, hauling herself upright by pure arm strength. At least she still had that, even if her left shoulder twinged from time to time. She balanced on her good leg while she reversed her grip on the bars.

 

“Good!” the aide exclaimed. “You’re doing so well! Now, just –“

 

She shot him a fierce glare over bared teeth, and he fell silent. Five days they’d been putting her through this form of rehabilative torture. Five days of infinitesimal gains and painful setbacks. Five days of cheery, helpful aides who fluttered over her, as though she were a helpless, fragile nestling.

 

Carefully she shifted her weight, trying to stand evenly. Her leg protested, but she gritted her teeth against the pain and forced herself straight. Then the leg folded beneath her.

 

Only her grip on the support rails saved her, though her right elbow slammed painfully into the bar. The aide jumped forward to help her; she freed her left hand to wave him off. “I’ll do it,” she snapped, taking the rail again and heaving herself up.

 

Favoring her right leg this time, she stepped forward with the left, then slowly dragged the other up to it and a little beyond. That was one. Slide her hands forward, step, drag again. Two steps. She eyed the distance remaining – five more of these shuffling paces, she estimated, and then she could rest a moment before the long walk back.

 

Three steps.

 

I must be feeling that age tonight. Feeling old and self-indulgent, whining to the computer. Energy better spent on the shooting range or in the gym.

 

Shoreleave again. Enjoy it while you can, mes enfants, and hoist a glass to those who can’t.