What are you worth: the things you love or the people you hurt?

[Ethan Neufeld 0]

Somewhere out there, it was early morning in Tennessee, Ethan mused in passing at a porthole near the airlock. Somewhere out there buried in black space that vibrant globe called Earth marched on without a thought to the hardship that lapped against the Federation's distant shores. There had been a time – once upon a time – when the Federation was regarded as a great bastion of compassion, peace and social progress.

 

Before his time, Ethan thought as he boarded the Qob. The Federation he'd left was too concerned with stockpiling resources and winning arms races to think of generosity.

 

Ethan immediately turned astern upon entering the Qob's central passageway. The heavy sound of his boots carried across the barren bulkheads; a long, black soft case faintly swayed at his side as he walked. Reaching the stern hatchway, he gripped an upper rung on the ladder and leaned, glancing to the lower deck to check that it was clear. Then, angling the long case through the hatchway, with his free hand he negotiated his way down the ladder. Calmly, he touched down on the next deck and continued in an unfaltering rhythm to his quarters.

 

Pher and Byblos had been wounded and purview of remaining security matters on the Verbistul had defaulted to Ethan; left him with thinning resources and possibly the most daunting task of sorting out the hostages and prisoners. Restoration of the Verbistul's four-man security team barely filled in their numbers and most of the details had to be dealt with in phases to prevent gaping holes in their AOR. Once Holstrum had been secured, the suspected raiders had been quickly separated and placed in the makeshift brig prepared by the Verbistul's Security Chief. Ethan had expressed reservations on their manpower, but Captain Manning wanted to conduct interrogations and had taken responsibility for their security. Their leader dead, several more injured and their will broken by hunger or failure; the Captain was convinced the raiders weren't eager to put up much of a fight. Those who couldn't be kept in the storage-brig due to medical reasons remained in sickbay under a sparse two-man guard posted by Neufeld.

 

From there, the security responsibility for the hostages had been transferred to Ethan. The hostages were rounded up from around Engineering and the crew quarters that Ethan had locked a few in earlier, and placed in the Verbistul's mess with instructions not to leave. Doctor Robert Long was called on to medically clear each hostage as they waited. Two more security personnel were posted behind in the mess with the Verbistul's Captain, who Ethan advised to delay the next step until his return. Then Ethan and Security Chief Alex began the time-consuming process of sweeping for potential stragglers and securing the rest of the science ship. By the time they finished, the ship's skipper had become impatient with Ethan's methods. He'd thrown caution to the wind; had vetted and released nearly half of the hostages.

 

The work was tedious and unpleasant for all involved. The hostages were tired, terrorized or angry and the identity of each had to be confirmed by their Captain or Security Chief before they were allowed to return to their jobs. The Verbistul's Captain had protested the necessity, but relented to a persuasive argument. In the end, the reality of what happened didn't stop him from smugly pointing out that no raiders or unknown persons had turned up among his crew. He'd criticized Ethan's caution post-incident, but Ethan only dismissively shrugged in reply. He didn't operate carelessly and knew that suspicions hadn't been put to rest yet. Beneath murmuring voices some were asking themselves: who would be the next turncoat? They were either acting prudently or paranoid: the conclusion depended on each individual point of view. But knowing Holstrum had betrayed them left trust among the expedition's members frayed and it would either take the excitement of Zoalus or time to repair.

 

Ethan looked wearier than he felt as he returned to the Qob. At least he'd managed a short visit to check on Pher and Byblos and the others before calling it. But once inside his berth, it was over. He knew within minutes the lingering adrenaline would wear off and uppercut him; brutally drop him like a fierce rollercoaster; kick him from the plane at high altitude without a parachute. Unless motivated into a new task, his mind would yield to detachment and his body to fatigue. A full night's sleep would answer the fatigue, but mental recovery could take days. Very few outside combat and law enforcement units were intimate with the experience; it was linked to the combat fatigue and long-term stress disorders suffered by both alike. Being on the job meant being incessantly vigilant – a significant mental task that manifested physically and often didn't leave anything for later when the job was over. The repeated, punishing swings between highs and lows took their toll on even the best. Some burned out early and changed careers; others gave into cynicism, alcoholism, despair or even spiraled into suicide. Social isolation and becoming defined by the job were common side-effects – only those who'd been through the same things could relate to each other or understand. Those who could stick to it until retirement intact were a rare breed and those who could redefine themselves after were rarer still.

 

Ethan had left two years early, but his methods and sense of identity hadn't changed. He set the soft weapons case down on the unoccupied bunk. It contained the bulk of his personal, portable arsenal and had been in Alex's custody until the raiders attacked. Showing up with them on Xorax would have turned too many heads, but now they were back in his hands and he no longer felt naked.

 

He unzipped the first compartment. The blued metal faintly glinted in the dim lighting as he pulled out a refurbished M87A2 phaser pistol, circa 2291. He briefly pushed the cowl forward to visually check the internal components and charge of the inserted magazine. Then, opening the Klingon weapons locker, he set the inactive pistol down on the shelf with an additional charge next to another outdated Type-I cricket. Operating on a higher frequency and boasting a bit of a kick, it was the primary Starfleet-issue Type-II phaser of the late 2200s. A piece from the cowboy days and, ironically, also one of the Federation's brightest decades in exploration, peace and diplomacy. But it had a history of negative reception among the softer minds of the Federation. Dubbed the 'assault phaser' by detractors, it was eventually replaced by the lesser-menacing 'dust-buster' remotes of the mid-twenty-fourth century. Ethan preferred its conventional ergonomics to those of modern designs – it pointed instinctively, aligned with the natural pointing index of the arm and fingers; provided better weapon retention and trigger-control. But it wasn't just ergonomics. There was tradition and muscle memory; Starfleet had fielded an updated pistol design through his unit that wasn't available on civilian markets. He could have purchased any number of new, black market disruptors to replace it when he'd entered Bull's Head, but he'd settled on the older Starfleet pistol.

 

Unzipping the second compartment in the soft case, Ethan followed up with a M7X pulse-phaser carbine. It was a civilian copy of the latest Starfleet-issued Type-IIIc Ethan had used in the service, built by Cyrex Arms. Originally purchased with the standard fixed stock and Bushnell holosight and Surefire weaponlight integration, it had since received several aftermarket modifications: a tactile fire selector, altered trigger pack and control chip. In the era of featureless ergonomics, glassy panels and holographic displays, there was still a place for old-fashioned rough, protruding toggles and switches. It allowed him quickly switch power or fire settings by muscle memory, without need for lighted displays or audio feedback, looking at his weapon, counting or guessing. The fire selector offered three choices: safe or two programmable settings, which he'd set to heavy stun and mid-level disruption, capable of killing unprotected organic matter and causing damage to light alloys and ceramics. If necessary, he could still make finer adjustments using the phaser's original control panel set on the back of the weapon that he generally kept dark and muted. The pulse-phaser carbine was incapable of sustained phaser beams like hand-helds, but the altered trigger allowed him to fire semi or full-auto, determined by the amount of pressure he put on it.

 

Ethan fingered the safety, musing at the weapon that felt entirely natural in his hands. He checked the carbine's charge and components, and then put it and the soft case inside the locker, closing and locking the cabinet door. Aftermarket modifications weren't new or unusual, but it was the control chip provided by his last employer that could eventually bring trouble. And, as he sat on the edge of his bunk and slouched over his knees, he wasn't thinking of Starfleet or Federation law.

 

His thoughts had turned to the half-Caitian that Captain Manning had singled out among the raiders – the raider he'd shot in Engineering and would have killed if the other man hadn't been wearing armor. Ethan hadn't said much to Manning then or since. He didn't know what to say. He didn't regret his actions and, frankly, his mental energies had been focused on other things. He'd only found time to really dwell on the situation and how they handled it once Verbistul was secured.

 

Something about the entire incident wasn't settling in Ethan's mind. He'd known that it was only a matter of time and luck before he'd run into other former members of Starfleet in Bull's Head. But by and large it was the washouts, deserters, and good-for-nothings that had ended up on the business end of his rifle. This was the first time that he'd looked down his sights at someone who'd once been a 'damned fine' officer. Still, that concept was only an offshoot of what was bothering him; people could change or be misperceived.

 

It was the image of Holstrum sobbing on the decking; knowing that the half-Caitian had been driven into his sights by desperation that had him revisiting his own disillusionment. He didn't enjoy hurting people, but they'd forced his hand. He would do it again each and every time lives were threatened; they couldn't shake that resolve. But it was the events and their choices that led up to the situation or as much of it as he could figure out that had Ethan frustrated.

 

It was a complete failure of civilization; no one offered to help when their colony had run aground and they'd given up asking for it. There was no support network and pride drove them to deal with it on their own until they'd decided to just take. He could only imagine the distraught, starved friends, children and wives they'd have to greet when they returned home empty-handed, if they were still there.

 

Ethan rubbed a hand across his tired face to clear his mind and stood. He grabbed his towel, swung it over his shoulder and walked to the shower. Almost ten minutes later he returned to his berth, washed and shaven. The exhaustion was finally showing in his frame as he wearily pulled on a pair of sweatpants and meditatively relaxed on his bunk, left arm tucked behind his head.

 

He glanced at his duffel to the spot where his financial chip had been sewn into the seam. Business in Bull's Head had been profitable for Ethan. But in a place where nothing was provided, money was an ugly necessity to him. He wanted a simple life and was content to live on a near empty account, prone to giving it away whenever the opportunity presented itself.

 

Damned for once if he didn't have enough this time; not to feed a colony or build their self-sufficiency. With his mental gears grinding away to dissect his thoughts and fish up some miracle, he unintentionally dosed off where he lay on his unturned sheets.

Edited September 13, 2011 by Ethan Neufeld