Harriman took hold of the handles of his antigrav, and Buonarroti did the same. “All right, one, two,” the captain said, and on “three,” the two men hefted the container, then slowly maneuvered it toward the transporter pad. “I’ve been looking forward to this time with Amina for quite a while,” Harriman said as they moved.
“I believe it,” Buonarroti said. Even though Enterprisehad been in Foxtrot Sector for the last half-year or so, the crew’s grueling schedule had not allowed for any downtime at any of the outposts. Harriman and Sasine had seen each other for only the shortest of times, and only on official business. The captain had stayed focused during that time, Buonarroti knew, but he also guessed that Harriman would have greatly anticipated being able to spend time again with his innamorata.Today, after they had finished transporting the containers down to the outpost, that time would finally arrive. As the specialists aboard Agamemnontook over to install the weapon systems, the Enterprisecrew would have a day of light duties before beaming up the current Foxtrot XIII crew in favor of their replacements. “How long has it been since you’ve seen each other?” Buonarroti asked. “I mean, since you’ve spent any significant time together?”
“Eleven months,” Harriman said, peering around the container at Buonarroti. “Eleven and a half, actually. We took that vacation on Pacifica.”
“That’s right,” Buonarroti said, remembering back a year ago to when both the captain and the executive officer had taken leave, and Lieutenant Commander Linojj had taken temporary command of the ship for nearly a month. “What I recall about that trip of yours is that you came back to the Enterprisemore exhausted than when you left it.”
Harriman stepped up onto the transporter platform and moved slowly across it. “That’s right,” he said. “Amina and I never managed to relax, but we sure had a wonderful time.” The captain’s eyes shifted upward, and Buonarroti imagined him visualizing that romantic trip. “We swam and sailed, and hiked the Peragoit ruins. And almost every night, we ended up dancing at this bistro in Jennita…it’s this little town that sits at the top of a cliff overlooking the ocean.” The beautiful cobalt blue waters of Pacifica were well known throughout the Federation. “And the dance floor in the club actually projected out beyond the edge of the cliff…it was breathtaking. And our bungalow—” Harriman stopped, looked over at Buonarroti, and blinked, apparently embarrassed by his reverie. “Sorry,” he said, and then, “One, two, three.” As before, they coordinated their movements, this time lowering the container to the transporter pad.
“It’s all right, Captain,” Buonarroti said. “I’ve been to Pacifica, so I know that it’s conducive to amore.”
“It is,” Harriman agreed, “but right now, I’ll take that hunk of gray rock out there. It may be an asteroid with a military base buried beneath its surface, but for me, it’s an oasis in the desert.”
“I understand,” Buonarroti said. “Don’t forget to sip a little water for the rest of us.”
“Don’t worry, Rafe,” Harriman told him. “Once we’re finally done here and return to Space Station KR-3, I’ve put in for at least a few days of R and R for the crew.”
“That’s great, Captain,” Buonarroti said. “I think we need it.”
“I do too.”
It took them just short of six hours to empty the cargo hold, a tiring exercise despite the use of the antigravs. It put an end to a long day for Buonarroti, but despite his fatigue, he felt energized for Harriman. For so long now, the captain had been Starfleet’s point man in readying for battle with the Romulans, and Buonarroti could see the heavy days weighing on his captain. So as much as war might be waiting for them all in the near future, Buonarroti felt happy that, at least right now, on Foxtrot XIII, the captain’s love would be waiting for him.
Harriman’s footsteps echoed along the series of corridors that led from the transporter room to the section of the subterranean outpost that housed crew quarters. The walls, floor, and ceiling extended away from him in matte shades of leaden gray, interrupted every few meters by support columns and beams, along with an occasional access panel. The stark illumination provided by the overhead lighting panels did little to liven the sterile atmosphere. The cold, colorless setting seemed not only unoccupied, but uninhabitable, a man-made congener of the desolate asteroid surface somewhere above.
Of the 271 Starfleet personnel stationed here at Foxtrot XIII, Harriman knew, a third would be on duty at their stations, a third would be asleep, and the rest, while off duty, would likely be in either the mess hall, the gymnasium, or their quarters. This far from the main body of the Federation, and this close to the Neutral Zone—and to the Klingon border, for that matter—few opportunities for recreation would present themselves. The significant power demands of the small outpost for its sensor, defense, and weapon systems rendered most luxuries unsustainable. Harriman could readily understand Command’s rationale for regularly reassigning the crews of such installations. Unlike their counterparts aboard starships, who could travel to any number of locations for shore leave, those who staffed distant outposts were effectively bound by their responsibilities to them—bound to fragments of frozen rock beside borders that could in a flash become the front lines in a war.
The corridor jogged to the right, past an exposed conduit that had obviously been repaired recently; a patchwork of optical fibers emerged from several openings and wound around like the web of a disoriented spider. Harriman sidled by, distinguishing another characteristic of duty at the periphery of the Federation, namely the necessity of performing makeshift maintenance. Supply ships never called often enough.
As he continued on, he thought of his own crew. Though not posted to a base along the Neutral Zone, they had been at the vanguard of the Federation’s delicate and dangerous contacts with the Romulan Empire for years now, without any real respite. Prior to spending the last seven months in the precarious Foxtrot Sector, there had been the Romulan occupation of the Koltaari, and before that, Enterprisehad been embroiled in half a dozen other tense ship-to-ship encounters with Imperial vessels.
And then there had been the clandestine mission to Devron II. That had not involved the entire crew—only Sulu had accompanied him from Enterprise,together with five officers from other Starfleet postings—but that had been a year ago, and it brought home to Harriman the reality of just how long this strife with the Romulans had been plaguing the Federation. The operation on Devron II—a planet in the heart of the Neutral Zone—had been especially brutal. Harriman remembered trying to mitigate the horror of the experience for himself by believing that the efforts of his team would ultimately prevent hostilities from breaking out. Instead, good women and men had died—and worse—for nothing; all this time later, war still impended.
One of the officers who had served at Devron II had been Commander Michael Paris—known as “Iron Mike,” an odd moniker for so frail-looking a man, Harriman had thought at first, although the commander’s constitution and determination had soon explained the nickname. Paris had taken leave from his position as first officer of Agamemnon—the same ship in orbit about Foxtrot XIII right now—in order to take part in the covert assignment, and he’d comported himself admirably. He’d risked his life to save Sulu’s, and it had been his courageous and quick-thinking actions that had allowed the team—or what had been left of it—to escape the Devron system. Ironically, Harriman thought, in order for his current mission regarding the Romulans to succeed, he would once again require the assistance of Iron Mike Paris.