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From: "Gigi Sinclair" <stephenbratliffasc@earthlink.net> (by way of Stephen aka Old Man ASC <stephenbratliffasc@earthlink.net>)
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Date: Mon, 08 Mar 2004 22:05:24 -0500
Subject: [ASCEM-S] NEW ENT Change (Tu/R, H/m, R) 1/2
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Title: Change
Author: Gigi Sinclair
Email: gigitrekslash@canada.com
Website: www.angelfire.com/trek/gigislash
Archive: For Kylie Lee at EntStSlash
Pairing: Tucker/Reed, Hayes/m
Rating: R
Spoilers: Harbinger, vaguely.
Warnings: None
Summary: "It often takes more courage to change one's
Notes: This is Hayes's backstory, according to me (just
wait, next episode we'll learn he's actually a married
heterosexual called Jason from Baltimore.) As such, a
large portion of this story deals with an Original
Character. But there's a little Tucker/Reed in there,
too. Set between "Harbinger" and "Hatchery", and
hopefully explaining why Hayes and Reed seem to have
become more civil in the meantime.


Change can be a soldier's best friend, or his worst
enemy.

An old CO of mine told me that years ago. At the time,
I'd thought it applied only to dinosaurs like him, guys
who could still remember an age before laser weapons
and the world government, and the dozens of little
factions who opposed it and kept all the world's armies
on their toes.

I was young then. Now, I knew change could be an enemy
for other reasons, as well. Too many changes distract
you, take your mind off the situation at hand, and the
moment a soldier takes his mind off the situation is
the moment he's in real trouble.

This change was one of the hardest I'd gone through.
For the first time in my life, I wanted to go home.

It wasn't a vague homesickness for decent food and a
comfortable bed that could easily be pushed aside by
reminding myself of my duty to my mission and my men.
This was a gut-twisting, physically painful reminder
that I was a very long way from the people I cared
about, and I would very possibly never see them again.

The reminder of how homesick I was came in the form of
a message that I opened one afternoon. It had already
been a bad day. I'd spent a particularly trying shift
of arguing with Lieutenant Reed and telling Kemper I
didn't give a damn if we were about to die, he wasn't
getting involved with one of the "Enterprise" crew. I
didn't even want to know which crewmember he had his
eye on. I collapsed into the chair at my console,
rubbing my shoulders and trying to be grateful that I
at least had my own quarters, tiny as they were.
Kemper had stormed off to sulk with his roommate,
Chang. Even Mackenzie had to share her room with Cole,
which is how I was alerted to the situation between her
and Commander Tucker.

Putting that aside, I opened my messages, ignored three
from Captain Archer and one from Mac, and went straight
for the one from Heather.

She'd grown since the last time I'd seen her, and she'd
had her hair cut. "Hi, Daddy!" Heather waved at the
camera. "I made cookies! They're chocolate chip and
Papito says we're going to take them to Cindy's on
Saturday. I wish I could send you some. Do you get
cookies on 'Enterprise?'" Yes, but they mostly came
wrapped in plastic and tasted like it, too. "We have
our ballet recital soon, and I'm the elephant. That's
why we're going to Cindy's, so her mom can make me a
costume. Papito says he'll send you the video, OK?
Love you!" She kissed the camera and hopped down,
disappearing from the screen. A moment later, the
message ended as someone, presumably Miguel, turned the
camera off.

I was doing this for Heather. That was what I'd told
myself when I signed on for the mission. Heather had
lost her grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins in the
Xindi attack, and I wanted to ensure that she would
never again lose anyone to them. I just hadn't
realized that being parted from her would hurt so much.

And, selfish as it may be, I had to admit that it was
just as painful to see that she clearly wasn't feeling
the separation like I was.

I played it again, staring as if that would bridge the
millions of miles between us. Then I saved the message
and turned off the monitor. I thought about crawling
into bed with a bottle of bourbon, but I was hungry,
and I knew it would be a long time before I could sleep
anyway. So I got up and went to the mess hall, hoping
I wouldn't run into anyone who wanted to talk.

It was a forlorn hope. I grabbed a tray with a
sandwich and a piece of cake and was about to head back
to my quarters when Ensign Sato cut me off.

"Major Hayes! Do you play Ping-Pong?"

"No." Although it wasn't the strangest question I'd
ever been asked.

"Oh." Sato looked disappointed. "Would you like to
learn? Commander Tucker made a table, and I'm trying
to get a league started."

I was surprised Commander Tucker had time to make
anything, in between brooding over his sister like she
was the only one who'd died in the attack and getting
involved with anything with legs.

"I don't think so, thank you, ensign."

"OK." She went off again, and I started for the door.
I was halfway there when I realized I didn't have a
fork.

On my second attempt to escape, I was accosted by
Captain Archer himself, looking disappointed. "Major
Hayes. I understand there's been some more trouble
between yourself and Lieutenant Reed."

"Nothing out of the ordinary, sir." Mostly because
Reed was a controlling despot who had no desire to
learn anything from me, despite the fact I'd been
conducting guerrilla warfare in the jungles of
Venezuela while Reed was still at Scout camp.

"I'm getting tired of it, Major. I really wish you
would just work things out." Archer frowned. "Trip
and T'Pol did."

I was a trained soldier, with a lifetime of military
obedience and subordination under my belt. It was
still a struggle not to ask if that meant Archer wanted
me to start giving Reed massages on the side.

"I will do my best, captain."

Archer half-nodded, and I left before he could make a
bigger issue out of it.

I had been in conflict with other officers before, many
times. I'd be the first to admit I'm not the easiest
commander to get along with, but then I didn't join the
military to make friends. My job is to keep my men
alive, not to make them happy, as Kemper could attest.
I had still never experienced anything like what went
on between Reed and I. I had never known anyone who
irritated me as consistently and as intensely as Reed
did, and I knew the feeling was entirely mutual.
Working with him made the last few weeks before my
separation from Miguel look like a honeymoon.

It had all come to a head a few days earlier, when we
went at it in the gym. There were other factors in
play, of course, but the raw emotion was all too real.
We had the will, the ability and the desire to kill
each other with our bare hands, and it was only our
"civilized" natures that kept us from doing it. Not a
comforting lesson, given that civility is the first
thing to go out the window when times get tough.

When I got back to my quarters, I ate my meal and
watched Heather's message again. Then I recorded a
couple of messages of my own, one for Heather and one
for Miguel, just for old times' sake. We were together
for a long time. We'd seen a lot of bad stuff, and it
had brought us together before it split us up.

When I'd finished recording, I ducked into my tiny
shower cubicle, reminding myself that for most of my
professional life, I would have killed for a bucket of
cold water and a dirty rag. I fell asleep wondering if
I would ever see Heather again, and if she would
recognize me anyway.

***

Venezuela, October 2143

"Where the hell am I?" The last thing I remembered was
shoving my sergeant behind a tree as rebel gunfire
ricocheted through the jungle. I got in a few rounds
myself before I joined him, but after that, everything
was dark.

"Kansas. Why? Did you think you were somewhere else?"
I looked down to see my right leg wrapped in bandages
and propped up between two pillows. I was wearing
khaki shorts and a T-shirt, the metal
dogtags---traditional and guaranteed to work even when
retinal scanners were unavailable and the implanted ID
chips were damaged---resting on my chest. At the end
of the bed, a dark-haired man in fatigues was looking
at a PADD.

"Funny."

The man flicked his eyes up at me. "I thought so. How
do you feel?"

"Like hell."

"It's an improvement. When you arrived, you looked
like shit."

"Where's Howard?"

"He's fine. He was only grazed. The bullets decided
to head straight for you."

"Bullets?" We'd known the rebels didn't have a lot of
high-tech weapons, but actual bullets?

"Yes, it's very quaint. The whole time I was taking
them out of your body, I was wondering what I could get
for them at an antiques market."

"So you're the doctor?" I assumed so. He wasn't much
of a comedian.

"Unfortunately." He came up to the side of the bed.
"Miguel Ramirez." Major Ramirez, from the rank
insignia on his lapels. "And you're going to be fine.
You'll be back in the field in forty-eight hours."

I tried to be happy about that. We had a war to fight,
a war I believed in and was committed to winning. But
a couple of days off would have been nice. Not that
I'd ever admit it.

"But I might advise seventy-two," Ramirez continued.
"Provided you're a model patient."

"What does that entail?"

"Not complaining about the food and hitting the bedpan,
mostly." Ramirez smiled. It must have been the drugs,
but my stomach shifted downwards. A moment later, I
knew it definitely was the drugs as I was slammed by a
wave of nausea, and Ramirez thrust a bedpan in front of
me just before I lost all of my recent dehydrated meals
and a lot of canteen water.

"Well," he commented, when I'd finished emptying my
stomach and most of my internal organs into the bedpan.
"That's one for the 'possible side-effects' report."
He ran a hand through my filthy hair and stroked down
the side of my face. Even though my stomach was empty,
it flipped a little more, and I wondered if this was
strictly professional behaviour. On either of our
parts.

Almost as soon as the thought crossed my mind, a siren
blasted and the doors at the end of the ward swung
open. Ramirez left, speaking rapidly in Spanish, and I
glanced at the soldiers on either side of me. To my
left, a young woman was lying asleep, monitors beeping
around her. On my right, a man of about my age was
playing with a handheld game device.

"Richards?"

He looked over at me and nearly dropped his game in his
haste to salute. "Captain Hayes, sir."

I raised an eyebrow. "Enjoying your downtime?"

"Major Ramirez is going to release me in a couple of
days."

"I see. Well, take advantage of it while you can."

"Yes, sir."

"Because as soon as I'm out of here, we're finishing
this whole thing once and for all." I'd had more than
enough of Venezuela, personally. I was ready to go
home, and I didn't mean Fort Bragg. I wanted to see
snow again, the sooner the better.

***

When I arrived in "Enterprise's" mess hall, I found my
MACOs in their usual place, far away from the Starfleet
personnel, chuckling over a PADD. Grabbing a bowl of
cereal and a cup of coffee, I slid in next to them.

"What's so funny?"

"Mac made it," Kemper, apparently forgetting that he
was in a snit with me, passed the PADD down. A
dark-haired cartoon character in a blue jumpsuit was
standing at rigid attention, blinking occasionally and
moving his mouth soundlessly and continuously. After a
moment, there was a white flash and an animated cloud
of smoke, and the character reappeared horizontally,
his eyes closed. A yellow-haired character bounded
onto the screen and said, via speech bubble, "Ah don'
understand it, cap'n, he followed Starfleet
reggalations to the letter."

"Nice to see you have so much time on your hands,
Mackenzie." I handed back the PADD, trying to keep a
straight face.

"Yes, Major." She didn't roll her eyes or do anything
openly insubordinate, but we knew each other too well.
She put the PADD away and picked up her knife and fork.
"Orders for today, sir?"

"Just the usual. Try not to kill any of them. Even in
animated form."

She smiled. "Yes, sir."

After breakfast, I went to the armoury. For once, Reed
wasn't there, poised to start bitching as soon as I was
within earshot. It was a very pleasant surprise, but I
knew it couldn't last.

"Where's Reed?" I asked Ensign Tanner.

"I don't know, sir," Tanner replied.

Ah. Well, I thought, best to take advantage of this
while it lasted. I headed over to the station that,
after several months and many complaints, Reed had
assigned to me and flicked through the gamma shift's
report.

"Reed to Hayes." And there it was.

I reached over and hit the comm. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

"Would you come to your quarters?"

"What?"

"I'm afraid there's been something of an accident."

As usual, that was an understatement.

"What the fuck..."

"Wiring malfunction," Commander Tucker replied easily,
like that explained the huge charred hole in the wall
beside my bed. "It's probably been smouldering for a
few hours. Lucky you're an early riser, huh, Major?"

"How the hell..." I started again. This time it was
Archer who cut me off.

"We don't know how it happened. Trip's looking into
it." Good for Trip.

Tucker shrugged. "I'm pretty sure I fixed the problem,
but it'll be a while till we can get this patched up.
My people are real busy at the moment."

I looked at the hole, and the rat's nest of wiring and
blinking lights within. "I'll move my bed."

"You can't stay in this room until the wall is fixed,"
Archer informed me. "Starfleet safety regulations."

If he'd had any sense of humour, I would have assumed
him to be kidding. As it was, I replied, "I'll be all
right, Captain. I've slept in much worse places."

"It's not up to me, Major. If anything happened to
you, the military would have my ass. You'll have to
find somewhere else to sleep."

"Then I'll bunk down with Kemper and Chang."

"I have a better idea." Archer and Tucker exchanged a
look, and I thought about the rumours I'd heard, the
ones that claimed there was more than just friendship
in their past. Of course, there seemed to be similar
rumours about the love lives of just about every member
of the Starfleet staff. I assumed that was the reason
we'd been sent in to organize things; the Starfleet
people were too busy having sex to actually get
anything useful done. "Why don't you share Lieutenant
Reed's quarters?"

"Excuse me?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?" Reed looked as alarmed as I
felt.

"Makes perfect sense," Archer smiled smugly. "This
could be just the chance the two of you need to get to
know each other a little better."

"Captain, I can't possibly share my quarters with this
man," Reed looked at me like I was something the cat
had digested and left on the rug.

"I'm not exactly thrilled at the idea myself,
Lieutenant," I snapped back. "And with all respect,
Captain, you can't order us to sleep together."

Tucker snorted. I glared at him.

"Maybe not, Major," Archer's smirk grew. "But I
suggest that it would be the best course of action.
Strongly suggest." He looked pointedly between Reed
and I. "You're both military men. You know what that
means." It meant that if we didn't do what he told us,
the rest of the voyage would be an even greater barrel
of laughs than it already was.

"It won't be for long," Tucker put in. "I should be
able to get a crew on it by the end of the week."

"The end of the week!" Reed looked like he was about
to burst a blood vessel. If I hadn't felt the same
way, I would have been heartily enjoying the situation.
"You must be joking."

"Sorry, Malcolm." Tucker left my quarters, Captain
Archer close behind him. Reed looked at me for a
moment, opened his mouth, shut it again, and then
stormed away.

Sighing, I looked for a long moment at the gaping hole
in my wall, then picked up a duffel bag and threw in a
few uniforms and my earplugs. I had a feeling I was
going to need them.

***

Venezuela, May 2144

The rebels stole my watch, and Private Mackenzie's.
That was the part I resented the most, that they'd
totally prevented us from keeping track of time.

At first, I'd tried to record the days in the
time-honoured prison manner, carving lines on the stone
wall, but I'd stopped as soon as I realized I had no
way of telling when one day ended and the next began.
There was no sunlight, food was delivered erratically
when it was delivered at all, and Mackenzie and I slept
so much, there was no way to know whether it was 0500
or 1400 or 2130 when we woke up. We didn't know
whether we'd been here a few weeks or a few months, and
as psychological warfare went, this was one of the best
techniques I'd come across.

"Give me three words with four vowels," I ordered.
Mackenzie looked up at me. As her superior officer, it
was my duty to keep us as sane as possible, but after
however long it had been, I was starting to run out of
ideas.

"In English?"

"No, in Cantonese." I turned at a flash of movement,
and saw a daddy longlegs the size of my hand stalking
down the corridor outside our cell.

"I was thinking of French, sir." We'd been alone
together for however many weeks or months, but she
still called me sir, and I still called her Mackenzie.
We both needed it.

"You speak French?"

"Some. From high school."

"I didn't know that."

"I don't have much cause to use it."

"I guess not." I spoke passable French myself, along
with as much Spanish as the army had managed to cram
into one half-day training session before we shipped
out.

Mackenzie sat up lethargically, her back resting
against one of the smooth stone walls. Our cell was a
reasonable size, about ten metres by twelve by eight.
There were bars on one wall that let us see a stone
corridor, but nothing beyond it. Food was delivered
through a slot in the bars, and there was no way of
escape. We'd tried, repeatedly.

"Three words, Private."

Mackenzie thought. "Hawaii, eyeball, magazine."

"Eyeball only has three vowels."

"Y is a vowel, sir."

"Only if there aren't any other vowels in the word.
Like," I searched for an example, "sky." Which we
hadn't seen lately.

"I don't think so, Captain."

"I think so, Private."

Before we could explore this topic any further, I heard
a crashing noise, like a door being broken off its
hinges.

I went over to the bars and peered out as far as I
could, which was just far enough to see a flash of
khaki uniform at the end of the hall. I hadn't seen
many of the Venezuelan rebels dressed in khaki and, in
any case, at this point, we had nothing to lose.

"Somos americanos!" I called, which wasn't strictly
true but which was virtually the only phrase that had
stuck in my head from the less-than-successful Spanish
lesson. I rattled the bars in my hands and repeated,
"Somos americanos," gesturing for Private Mackenzie to
join me. The daddy longlegs fled immediately, but it
took another minute of concerted yelling for three
heavily armed soldiers to appear in our field of vision.

"Well, who we got here?" The sergeant had a broad
Texan accent, but it still sounded like home.

"J.M. Hayes, Captain, 5131497," I informed him, as he
pulled out his retinal scanner and flicked it over my
eye. The scanner beeped, and the sergeant's eyebrows
went up. "Captain Hayes. You were declared MIA five
months ago."

So that was how long it had been. Funny, I would have
guessed longer.

The sergeant ran the scanner over Mackenzie's eye.

"Can I ask you a question, Sergeant?" Mackenzie asked
politely, as the sergeant pulled out his e-communicator
and typed in a few words.

"Sure thing, Private."

"How many vowels are there in the word 'eyeball'?"

The sergeant glanced between us, then at the woman
behind him. "Jefferson, get the medic here, stat."

"We're fine, really," I countered. And I would be, as
soon as we got out of here. "We should move out before
someone realizes what's going on."

The sergeant gave me an irritatingly sympathetic look.
"There's no one here, Captain. The war's been over for
days. We're looking for POWs."

"Oh. Well, you found some." Thank God.

"Captain Hayes?" Corporal Jefferson returned with a
familiar-looking doctor in tow. I tried to remember
his name, but drew a blank. "Ramirez," the doctor put
in helpfully, as he unceremoniously lifted one of my
eyelids and shone a light into it. I flinched and
pulled back.

"You remember me?" It seemed unlikely, given the
number of casualties who had passed through the field
hospital in the few days I'd been there.

"I remember all my patients." Ramirez smiled and
lifted the other eyelid, a little more gently.
"Especially the ones who insist on leaving before they
have to."

"I needed to get back to the field."

Ramirez raised an eyebrow. "I can see why." He put
down the penlight and stuck a digital thermometer strip
to my forehead before doing the same to Mackenzie.
"You've been here five months?" He reached out for me.


I stepped back, suddenly aware that I'd been wearing
the same clothes for, apparently, five months, and I
hadn't done a lot of bathing in that time. Ramirez
didn't seem to notice. He ran firm hands down my arms
and torso, then bent to feel his way along my legs.

I propped myself against the bars to keep from falling
over, and Ramirez looked even more concerned, barking,
"Get a medi-transport here," at the Texan sergeant. He
pushed a few more buttons on his e-comm. "Think you
can walk out of here, Captain?"

"Yes," I answered, without hesitating. "But take
Mackenzie first."

Ramirez smiled. "We can take you both at the same
time. Jefferson," he jerked his head at the corporal,
who put a supportive arm around Mackenzie's waist.
Ramirez did the same to me.

"I don't need any help," I tried, but it was a feeble
attempt at best. Ramirez helped me down the hall, up a
short flight of stairs and out into the bright
sunshine, the green foliage and the surprising quiet.

I held on for another fifteen minutes, until the
medi-transport set down in a nearby clearing and a team
of medics dressed exactly like Major Ramirez and
babbling in a language all their own surrounded us.
Ramirez stayed close to me, a hand on my shoulder, as
he snapped orders I could barely understand. Mackenzie
flashed me the thumbs up as they loaded her onto the
medi-transport and, sighing with relief, I finally let
myself slide into unconsciousness.

When I woke up, I was in a pristinely white hospital in
what I later learned was Florida, with Mackenzie asleep
in the bed to my right and the fully-clothed Major
Ramirez passed out on the bed to my left.

***

I'd had a lot of bunkmates in my career, but none were
quite so unaccommodating as Lieutenant Reed. I had
planned on avoiding the captain's non-ordered orders by
sleeping on the couch on the observation deck, but at
about midnight, Tucker found me and said, "I don't
think the captain'd be real happy about you bunking
down here, Major."

"It's none of the captain's business where I bunk
down," I replied.

"True enough. But in about half an hour, the gamma
shift's gonna start taking their lunch breaks, and from
what I've heard, they like to eat up here. So if you
actually want to get any sleep before you go on duty,
I'd advise going somewhere else."

My next thought was sickbay, but Phlox had clearly been
warned about this possibility. "No, no, you can't
sleep here, Major. Quite out of the question, I'm
afraid."

"But you have all these empty beds." I pointed them
out.

"Empty now, yes. But what if there was an emergency?"

"Then I'd get up."

Phlox shook his head emphatically. "I'm afraid
Starfleet regulations clearly state that only patients
or close relations of patients may sleep in the medical
beds."

"So if I stabbed myself in the chest, you'd let me
stay?" I tried to sound sarcastic, but it was a
genuine question. At the moment, it seemed like the
preferable option to spending the night in Reed's
quarters.

"No. If it was just a minor injury, I'd sew you up and
send you home."

With that avenue closed, and because I didn't feel like
finding out what Phlox would consider a major injury, I
thought about heading to Kemper and Chang's quarters,
or Mac and Cole's. I knew that if I showed up, they
would be obliged to let me stay, but I also knew they'd
feel compelled to offer me their beds and I didn't want
that. I thought about how much I would have resented
it if my CO had come waltzing in and removed me from my
own bed. I decided to be an honourable leader and a
bigger man, and headed for Reed's quarters.

The door was locked. When I inputted the code Tucker
had given me, it came back rejected, and I ended up
banging on the door.

When he finally answered it, Reed was in sweats and a
T-shirt and looking less than enthusiastic. Join the
club, buddy.

"I was asleep, Major."

"If you hadn't changed your damn code, I could have
gotten in by myself."

"I changed the code because I expected you to be here
at a reasonable hour." Sighing heavily, Reed inched
aside, leaving me just enough room to enter. I found
my duffel bag in a corner, next to a rolled-up sleeping
bag and a deflated air mattress. "Some of us have
important jobs to do in the morning."

"Sorry to disturb your beauty rest, Lieutenant, but
it's only," I glanced at the chronometer. "0100. This
is an early night for me."

"While you're partaking of my hospitality," he replied,
sniffily and without a trace of irony, "You will get
here no later than 2300 hours."

"I haven't had a curfew since I was sixteen,
Lieutenant."

"And I haven't had a roommate since I was at the
Academy, Major." I pulled the tab on the air mattress
and let it inflate while I unrolled the sleeping bag.
"It wasn't my idea to start again now."

"It wasn't my idea, either." I picked up the duffel
bag. "And it was your friend who doesn't want to fix
the problem."

"It may be hard for you to believe, Major, but
Commander Tucker does have more important things to
worry about than the wiring in your quarters."

"Like seducing half the female crew?" Reed flushed
dark red, which I took as a victory. "Where's the
bathroom?"

"You can use the public ones."

"I'd prefer not to traipse through the ship in my
underwear." However I had been in the army long enough
not to care about taking off my clothes in front of
other people. I started to unfasten my uniform.

"It's over there," Reed pointed hurriedly, as I pulled
off my shirt and got to work on my pants.

As I'd expected, everything in the tiny bathroom was
meticulously ordered. I deliberately left my towel on
the floor and put a large smear of toothpaste on the
sink.

By the time I emerged, Reed was back in bed. I pulled
the air mattress as far away as possible from him,
until I was next to the far wall. "I certainly hope
you don't snore," Reed snapped.

"I'll try my best, Lieutenant." Grunting, Reed turned
out the lights. I turned my back on him, reflecting
that I'd never thought I'd be nostalgic for my nights
of sleeping in rain-soaked foxholes and makeshift
shelters deep in enemy territory.

I still waited until his breathing evened out before
falling asleep myself.

***

Washington D.C., July 2144

"Congratulations, Captain. The world thanks you for
your contribution." The President of the United
States, an office never dispensed with despite the new
unified world government, smiled vaguely as she pinned
the medal to my chest, then extended her hand.

"My pleasure, Ma'am." I shook it obediently and
saluted. She, a woman who clearly had no military
background, inclined her head graciously and turned to
the next recipient as I was ushered down the line,
saluting and shaking hands until I finally reached the
last dignitary.

If it had been up to me, I would have gone to sit in
the large crowd that had gathered in front of the
Washington Monument. If it had been up to me,
actually, I would have received my Distinguished
Service Medal via courier, and I would never have left
Fort Bragg. But my CO made it clear I had no choice
but to accept this medal in person, and one of the
uniformed ushers now made it clear I had no choice but
to return to my chair, conspicuously placed on the
platform at one end of the Mall.

I sat, sweat running down my back in the Washington
heat, trying not to fidget or wonder why, in the
mid-22nd century the army was still incapable of making
a dress uniform that was remotely comfortable or even
slightly appealing. Finally, after what seemed like
hours, the President returned to her place at the
podium and said,

"The men and women before you are the best the armed
forces have to offer. I for one sleep better at night
knowing that they are out there, defending the causes
of unity and freedom from all those who would challenge
it." There was a pause while the audience whooped and
clapped. The band inside my hat became saturated with
sweat, and the residue started to roll down the sides
of my face. "We owe them all a debt of gratitude."
More clapping, and I shifted in my chair as the sweat
reached my collar.

"Problem, Captain?" The major next to me asked.

"No, sir."

"Then pay attention. This is a good day to be a
soldier." I was a soldier, and I loved my job. But my
job didn't include things like this. There were
billions of people around the world who lived in abject
poverty, who fought for their lives on a daily basis,
who were lucky if they could even eke out a meagre
existence, and here I was, accepting fawning
congratulations for doing my job, and not particularly
well. It seemed wrong. And that was before the three
shuttles, shooting red, white and blue laser light,
flashed across the sky to the strains of "America the
Beautiful."

I escaped as soon as was physically possible, which
wasn't soon enough. I couldn't wait to get back to the
hotel, take off my cloying uniform and pack my bags for
my two weeks of upcoming leave, but of course, that
wasn't to be. I was still battling the crowds---who,
despite their apparent agreement with the President's
declaration that "there is no greater force on Earth
than a dedicated soldier" still seemed disinclined to
let me through---when I heard a voice behind me.

"Captain Hayes!" I tried to ignore it, but the voice
repeated, "Captain Hayes. How are you?"

I turned to see Major Ramirez beside me, also wearing
his dress uniform but looking much more comfortable in
it. Not to mention much more attractive, although as a
soldier, I of course didn't notice that. "What are you
doing here?"

"I was in the neighbourhood. Congratulations." He gave
me a salute, which I returned automatically.

"I didn't do anything." No more than every other
soldier, at least.

"You survived sitting up there for four hours." He
pointed at the platform, which had been covered by a
stifling white tent just to increase the heat that
extra little bit. "That's worth a hell of a lot more
than a medal. Are you going to the reception tonight?"

"I wasn't planning on it."

He shook his head. "Good decision. When you've been to
one, you've been to them all. Can I buy you dinner
instead?"

I blinked. "Why?"

Ramirez smiled. "Because I patched you up twice, and I
like to make sure my work isn't going to waste." He
looked me up and down and I wondered if the sweat
stains were evident, and if that would be considered a
form of desecration, like spitting on the flag. Then I
remembered this man had seen me in much worse states
than this.

"I don't think..."

"Come on." He insisted, lowering his eyelashes, which
I now saw were much longer than seemed normal. Before
I could ask myself if it was common to notice that kind
of thing about a superior officer, he added, "You look
like you could use a drink."

"Alcohol doesn't help cool the body." As a doctor, I
would have assumed he knew that.

"Fine, then you deserve a drink, after sitting through
that. And so do I. Unless you're here with someone?"

"No," I admitted, before I could consider lying to a
superior officer. It had been a long time since I'd
been anywhere with anyone.

"OK, then." Ramirez put a hand on the small of my back
and steered me through the crowd.

He was my superior officer, and for that reason, I was
reluctant to turn him down. When we finally got the
cool, dark restaurant and Ramirez ordered us two beers
and a plate of nachos, I was glad I had agreed. The
beer was just what I needed.

"Don't tell my mother I'm eating Mexican food, OK?"
Ramirez smiled, as the nachos arrived. "She'd kill me."

"Aren't you Mexican? I assumed from your name..."

"Common mistake. I'm actually one of the Swedish
Ramirezes." I opened my mouth and closed it again,
unsure if he was kidding or not. Finally, he took a
sip of beer and smiled. "We're Cuban."

"Oh." I knew nothing about Cuba, beyond that it was an
island off the coast of Florida and a protectorate of
the United States.

"Where are you from?"

"Fort Bragg." It wasn't the best beer I'd ever tasted,
but at the moment, it was the nectar of the gods. I
tried to restrain myself and not drink the entire thing
in one gulp.

"You don't sound like North Carolina."

"I'm originally from Iqaluit."

Ramirez frowned and took a stab at it. "Vermont?"

"Nunavut. Canada," I added, because that didn't
usually help.

"What are you doing here?"

"It's a long story." Involving my father, spite, and a
lot of other factors I didn't particularly want to get
into.

"You been back there recently?"

"I'm going tomorrow. Two weeks' leave."

"Yeah. My mom told me I have to go see her next time I
get a few days off. You ever been to Cuba?" I shook
my head. "You should go sometime. I bet it's a hell
of a lot warmer than None-of-it."

"Nunavut."

"And," Ramirez smiled and indicated the nachos, which I
hadn't touched. "My mom would love you."

After dinner, Ramirez asked if I wanted to go back to
the Mall to watch the Independence Day fireworks. "Not
particularly." My appreciation for fireworks had been
somewhat dampened the first time I'd seen a shell go
off in a man's face. "I should really get back to the
hotel. I'm flying out tomorrow morning."

"Is all your family still up there in..."

"Iqaluit. My mother is."

"Your father take off?"

I couldn't begin to fathom why Ramirez would be so
interested, but I answered truthfully. "He's dead." I
wasn't feeling quite truthful enough to admit that
death had come at his own hands. At his own gun,
anyway.

He winced. "Sorry, John."

"What?" I looked up sharply.

"That is your name, right? John Hayes. It's what it
says in your file."

"I go by my middle name. Matthew." Because Colonel
John Hayes was my father, and, while I wasn't any more
superstitious than the next man, it seemed like
tempting fate to start using the name after he was dead.

"I'm Miguel."

"Oh. All right." We walked in silence for a few
minutes, until we arrived at my hotel. "Well, thanks
for dinner, Major...ah, Miguel." I put my hands behind
my back, then wondered if I should salute or shake his
hand or what.

"No problem." He smiled again. "Hopefully I'll run
into you again sometime."

"Right."

"Or, you know, you could comm me. If you don't want to
leave it entirely up to chance."

I frowned, but before I could ask what he was talking
about, he leaned forward and pecked me on the lips.
Things were suddenly very clear, even to me.

"Oh." I didn't know what else to say. Miguel licked
his lips and swallowed, and I felt like I had to do
something. So I went for what seemed like the best
course of action at the time, and kissed him again, a
little more meaningfully. I was out of practice, but
apparently my performance was still acceptable. He
smiled again, and I felt my chest constrict.

Well, I thought, it had been a long time, and he wasn't
an unattractive man. He wasn't my subordinate, and he
wasn't my direct superior, either.

"Want to, ah..."

The smile grew. "Thought you'd never ask, Matt."

No one ever called me "Matt." I was a strict
"Matthew." I was about to correct him when we stepped
through the revolving door, his hand landed on my
shoulder and I realized he could call me anything he
wanted.

***

I had never seen anyone look quite so unapologetic as
Commander Tucker when he told me, "Sorry, Major, it'll
be another couple of days at least."

"But it's already been four days." Four days of
showering in the gym. Four nights of sleeping with the
most hostile roommate I could imagine and getting
deliberately stepped on when Reed went to the bathroom,
as he seemed to do with incredible frequency. He
hadn't even appreciated it when I'd given him the
friendly advice to either cut down on the tea or ask
Phlox to check out his prostate.

"What can I tell you?" Tucker shrugged. "If it'd
happened last week, there'd have been no problem. But
we're all tied up at the moment."

"Thank you, Commander," I snapped, in my iciest tone.

Tucker just smiled. "No problem, Major."

I stalked into the mess hall, hoping that Mac might
have come up with another completely unprofessional yet
very satisfying animation sequence. Instead, I found
my men huddled around a Ping-Pong table, while Corporal
Chang and Ensign Tanner engaged in a fierce
competition. Chang seemed to be winning, at least.

I took my PADD over to one of the empty tables and
logged into my personal files. A pop-up box informed
me that I had two visual messages that needed to be
accessed from a station. I thought about going to the
armoury, but I didn't really want anyone who happened
by to overhear my private messages. Instead, I went to
Reed's quarters, hoping he wouldn't be there.

He wasn't, and I took advantage of his absence. The
first message was from my mother. I skipped through it
quickly, getting the general idea that a cousin in
Vancouver was having another baby and my Aunt Catherine
was going in for knee surgery. The second message,
from Heather, I watched all the way through.

"The dance recital was so good, Daddy. I was the best
elephant ever, even Miss Laura said so. And I didn't
fall even once, not even in the hardest part." She
smiled proudly. "I hope you're having fun in space. I
can't wait till you come home." She waved at the
camera and the computer asked if I wanted to open the
attached "Dance Recital" file. I agreed, and an image
of the dance studio in Texas appeared on the screen. I
couldn't see her face, but I guessed Heather was the
one in the baggy grey costume with the trunk.

She and the other girls in her class, dressed in
various animal costumes, were running around the studio
while the harassed-looking teacher tried to get them to
stand in a line at the front of the room.

"Want me to do that, Miguel?" A male voice asked, as
the camera panned over the crowd, then back towards the
kids at the front of the room.

"I'm fine, Ray." Miguel replied.

"Just let me know."

"I will." The music started and Heather arranged
herself between a short giraffe and a hefty rabbit. As
she did her little points and pirouettes, the only
thing I could think was, who the hell is Ray?

"What are you doing, Major?" I didn't hear the door
open, but Reed didn't exactly sneak in.

"Watching my messages. I am allowed to do that, aren't
I?" I turned the screen off, but not fast enough.

Reed raised his eyebrows. "Didn't peg you for the
ballet type."

"It's all physical training." I hated ballet, in fact,
but I wasn't about to give Reed the satisfaction of
knowing that.

"Of course. And I suppose the costumes enhance the
physical benefits."

"That was my daughter's dance recital, not that it's
any of your business."

"Oh. I didn't realize you had children." He seemed
alarmed at the prospect.

"Even soldiers have been known to reproduce on
occasion."

The sneer came back to Reed's face. "I know that. I
just never pictured you loosening up enough to do it."

Adopting Heather had been anything but relaxing, but
Reed was the last person I was going to explain that
to.

"Live and learn, Lieutenant."

"Indeed."

I got up and left, taking my PADD with me and still
worrying about this mysterious "Ray." Because of
Heather, of course. Miguel himself was a grown man who
could do whatever he wanted.

***

Cuba, February 2146

"Stop, Miguel," I tried to protest, but it was
difficult with his tongue in my mouth and his hand down
the front of my bathing suit. "Someone's going to see
us."

"Like who?" Miguel ran his tongue down my neck, neatly
distracting me from the sand working its way into my
shorts.

"Like your mother." She had a house overlooking the
beach, and a tendency to look out the window at
inopportune moments. As I'd noticed when I'd let
Miguel talk me into skinny-dipping, only to have
Juliana thoughtfully inform me, as we sat down to
dinner that evening, that sharks tended to be attracted
to dangling objects in the water.

"She knows this is how we spend our free time." And
according to Miguel, she was gradually accepting it, at
least to the point where I didn't have to worry about
eating her cooking. Anymore.

"I'd still rather she didn't witness it first hand."

Miguel laughed, moving his mouth back over to mine. He
tasted like margaritas, saltwater and extra-strength
sunscreen. By the time I remembered I wasn't
participating in this, I had my hands in his hair and
was making some very non-discouraging noises.

"Matt," Miguel finally pulled away, breathless. "Keep
doing that, querido, and she is going to see more than
I'm comfortable with."

"Inside?" I suggested.

He nodded and climbed off me, extending a hand and
pulling me to my feet.

Unlike her son and I, who spent our lives in khaki and
were glad of it, Juliana had good fashion sense. The
guest bedroom was done in different shades of white,
which I'd thought of as an oxymoron until I actually
saw it. The decor was hideously frilly, of course, and
not at all like either of our quarters back on base,
but I had to admit, Miguel didn't look too bad on the
white bedspread on top of the white canopy bed.

Lying in a post-coital daze with his head on my
stubbornly un-tanned chest was a pretty good look for
him, too.

"Matt," Miguel murmured, as I began to reluctantly
think about getting up for dinner. Juliana didn't
appreciate latecomers, and I needed all the Brownie
points I could amass. "Why don't we get married?"

"What?" I froze.

He propped himself up on one elbow. "Why not?"

Logically, it was a reasonable question. Since Miguel
had transferred to Fort Bragg, there weren't many
people who didn't know about us. I would have
preferred to keep it quiet, but since Miguel wasn't my
direct superior, there wasn't much anyone could
legitimately complain about. There were still a few
people in the military who longed for the return of
"don't ask, don't tell", but they tended to also be the
people who favoured segregated units and keeping women
out of command positions in battle situations, and no
reasonable person paid them much attention. If Miguel
and I were married, we'd qualify for better housing,
joint benefits, and a tax break.

But that wasn't enough to convince me to change my life
like that.

"I can't, Miguel." Disappointment flashed briefly
across his face, and my heart sank. "I'm sorry.
Really. You know I," I cleared my throat. "Care about
you and everything, but I can't."

"Do you want to break up?" He asked, in a calm,
reasonable, doctor-like tone.

"No! I just want things to stay the way they are."
Indefinitely.

"Nothing stays the way it is," Miguel pointed out.

"I know." But that didn't mean we had to go making
changes just for the sake of them.

Miguel hesitated for a long moment. I waited, more
nervous than I had ever been in the middle of a
minefield or with an enemy soldier in my rifle sights.
Finally, he said, "OK, Matt."

I was so relieved, I did something I hadn't since
Miguel and I first got together. I rolled him over and
started a second round.





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