The Changing Face of Evil
"But I will sing of your strength;
I will sing aloud of your steadfast
love in the morning.
For you have been to me a fortress
and a refuge in the day of my distress.
O, my Strength, I will sing praises to you,
for you, O God, are my fortress,
the God who shows me steadfast
love."
Psalm 59, Verses 16 and 17
"You can still surrender. Power down your vessels. All of them," the fisher decreed, opening his arms, his paws, in a false, 'friendly' fashion. "And prepare to be boarded." A sickly, over-confident smirk. Showing his sharp, white teeth. His hunter's teeth. Teeth that had, a thousand years ago, even a few hundred years ago (until the advent 'prey laws'), aided his species in making meals of sentient prey. Raw, bloody meals. What lingering sharpness. What division.
He showed his teeth because he knew it unnerved the snow rabbit. Increased his pulse. Spiked his adrenaline. There would truly never be an end to predator/prey tension. Could there be understanding? Yes. Attempts at friendship. Attempts at deeper knowing (notably in the rare predator/prey marriages). Ways of living, of faith. There could be degrees of peace. But the underlying tension was hard-wired into all 'furs.'. It could, at times, be controlled. But it couldn't be shut off.
In the end, it became a matter of mind, and of heart, over instinct.
Unfortunately, instinct was going to prevail today. Or so it seemed.
As it had (prevailed) many times before.
And would (prevail) many times again.
Leaving the heart in the dust.
"I am afraid," Graham finally replied, quite strictly, trying to not let his prey-like fear show. Trying to keep his body composed. Controlled. He was doing a much better job of it than Taylor was. The captain was standing behind the chipmunk's chair, behind the helm. The snow rabbit's paws rested gently, securely on the rodent's shoulders, gently kneading. Massaging. Warmly. Trying to keep the rodent's anxiety under control. "I am afraid," he finished, ice-blue eyes on the viewer, "we cannot allow that."
"A pity." A tilt of the head. "Is your chipmunk going to be okay?" A greater show of teeth, off-setting the 'act of concern.' "He seems to be shaking."
Taylor, indeed, was shaking. His paws were trembling at his controls. His whiskers twitching as fiercely as a mouse's. His brushy tail flagging behind his chair, he tried not to look up at the viewer. But the viewer was big. Was right in front of him. It was hard to avoid it. Like a morbid curiosity, his prey senses were drawn to the predator's show of strength. As if he felt he had to look. Had to submit.
Graham didn't give the fisher a direct reply. Just said, "Perhaps you would wish to ... power down your vessels, instead?"
"An interesting suggestion. However, we will decline that ... most generous," the fisher spat, "offer."
"I see."
The two captains squared off.
On the open comm channel, on the viewer. On the bridges of their respective ships, but staring into each other's eyes, all the same. Both fleet leaders knowing this wasn't going to be stopped. The battle was going to happen. Regardless. It was inevitable, at this point. But both of them simply, through this meaningless prattle, attempting to gage each other. Each other's capabilities, personalities. A last-ditch attempt to gain an upper paw.
"You are making a mistake," Graham said, simply, his tall, slender rabbit-ears waggling. Waggle-waggle. A mistake. There was no other way to phrase it. It was the truth. The simple, stark truth. "Do you honestly believe that, when this is over, when this ends ... and you go back to Federation space," he said. "Do you think that, when that happens, things will be any better for you? That you can erase the effects of one war by starting another? You are simply compounding your society's problems."
"That's snow rabbit 'logic,' I take it?" The fisher was a medium-sized mustelid, kind of like a weasel (only not). Rich, blackish-brown fur. A thick, soft pelt. Very luxurious. With a pale face. His body was rather short, rather stout. And he had a very bushy tail. And he was unmistakably built to be a carnivore. The fisher species was notorious (among furs) for, a few hundred years ago, nearly driving porcupines to extinction. Through relentless hunting. Fortunately, the porcupines had survived, had recovered. But, because of the affair, the fishers still possessed a certain (negative, if you were prey; positive, if you were a predator) reputation.
"It is common sense. Which I believe ... is a universal property. We do not own it."
"But you specialize in it, don't you? In lording your 'intellect' over the rest of us?"
Graham did not take the bait. Instead, said, "There are furs today who do not believe in true evil. They do not believe in true rights," he whispered, "or wrongs. By not taking that moral stand against darkness, they leave themselves wiggle room ... to indulge in it," the snow rabbit said, "if they so wish. They give themselves ... options. Among them: siding with the Devil. The problem is ... we often side with him unknowingly. We are deceived. We deceive ourselves. Justify our slide into ... "
" ... what are trying to say, bunny? Just SAY it."
Graham tensed, fur bristling at the 'racial' slur. His eyes narrowing, heart pounding. "I am saying that evil, itself, is a constant. And shall be until its eventual, ultimate destruction at the paws of our Lord. But the face, the muzzle of evil? It changes. It shifts ... " A pause. And a breath. "We forget this. And, so, when evil is looking us in the eyes ... we are fooled." A breath, and a steely glance. "Today, the changing face of evil wears the mask of the Furry Federation. And I will," was the decree, "expose you for what you are. I will stop you. You will not," was the fierce declaration, "succeed."
"Is that so?" was the dangerous whisper.
"I do not lie."
"No. But maybe you delude," the fisher decided, "yourself. Maybe, to you, it is not a lie, but ... to the rest of us, the sane," he posed, "furs? We see your desperation. We see you clutching at air."
Graham just glared at the fisher. His bobtail flickering, and his black nose giving a few sniffs.
"Your government has been infiltrated by humans. That makes you a deadly threat," was the assurance, "to us. To ALL furs. You must be stopped." The fisher puffed himself up, trying to look bigger than he was.
"A preemptive war? Based on supposition? Speculation? Your excuse is a crafty one, but ... there is no proof. And, what is more, it is not the REAL reason you are doing this. And we both know it. You say I am desperate? That we are desperate? You are the ones ... entertaining desperation. Your actions speak louder than your words."
"Let us hope so," was the fisher's simple response. "Because we plan on destroying you with our 'actions'," he mocked. And the channel was cut.
Graham, swallowing, withdrew his paws from Taylor's shoulders. "The Lord is with you," he whispered to the chipmunk. "Stay focused."
The chipmunk gave a weak, affirming nod.
Graham turned around. And went back to his seat, where he sat, clasping his paws together, putting them under his chin. Eyes closed, a few breaths. A silent prayer. Until eyes opened, with a delayed (oh, that he had to say this) verbal order for, "Battle stations."
" ... auxiliary power to the forward shields. Ensign, close the gap between ... "
Weapons flew.
Purple, red, and blue.
Sparking/sparkling, showering on shields, energy on energy. Crackling, sizzling (in the mind's ears, at least; for not in the sound-less vacuum) in the deadly void of space. The Federation ships were a bit bulkier. A bit larger. Greyer, with cadet blues. Larger crew compliments, larger engines.
The snow rabbit ships (ships of the 'High Command') were sleeker, smaller. Colored white, lavender, sky-blues. Crews of forty, not eighty (or two hundred, or a thousand). Being outnumbered, though, was not a death-knell: for no question that the snow rabbit ships were more advanced. Technologically. By design, and by sight. So pleasing to the eye that you could scarcely believe that they had such sharp, stinging teeth.
" ... plasma leaks on E-Deck, D-Deck ... "
Taylor, at the helm, frantically steered the ship. His multi-brown fur matted with sweat. His paws tired. It was so hard to focus. When his stomach was in knots, the anxiety gnawing, gnawing, his skin itching beneath his fur. He wanted to scratch. Wanted to groom his tail. Wanted to take his fingers off the smooth, shiny computer console. Wanted to stop, to scrabble away. To skitter on down to sickbay, grab Aspera, and get away. Far away. To safety. But he couldn't. He couldn't do that. Couldn't even take a break. No rest. Not for a moment. To take his paws off those controls was to invite damage. More damage. Destruction, maybe. Oh, sure, the ship had an auto-pilot, but that was used mainly for cruising. For going long distances. From here to there, planet-hopping, entering orbits, et cetera.
Not for fighting.
Not for close combat.
That kind of flying, that thrust and retract, approach and evade. That kind of flying had to be done manually, by paw.
And those paws were shaking. Tap-a-tap. Beep. Beep-a-beep. Tap. Furry fingertips and filed-down claws tapping, clacking. Tap. The computer chirruping, immediately acknowledging his inputs. Immediately registering the commands. The bio-neural circuitry on which the ship's computer core ran, it had an incredible response time. Much faster than the iso-linear processing chips that most of the Federation ships were using.
Which was an advantage.
Which made for an odd sort of smooth-rough flying.
The ship was responding so, so smoothly. Even with its growing wounds.
But the flight, itself, was rough.
And all the chipmunk could do was shove the extraneous thoughts out of his head, out of his mind. Bind them and push them away. Lock them out, Taylor. Don't think. Don't think. Just do.
Just keep us moving.
Stop, and you die.
A chitter, flinching as the viewer revealed a nearby explosion. From another ship. Another chitter, and angular ears cocked.
Keep moving.
" ... us and the Chignik. We can't allow the Federation front-ships to ... "
Yellowknife veered. To the left. A ruby-red photon torpedo, like a careening, falling star, went sailing past. Missing the hull by mere yards. And, in turn, she lashed back. Firing a torpedo of her own. Purplish, precise. Punctuating the friction-less space.
Pounding.
Piercing.
Perfect hit. Shattering into the shields of the nearest Federation ship, causing greater damage, surely, than could be visibly seen.
But the twisted, sad-forced joy of giving hurt, or successfully dishing out destruction, was short-lived. For destruction was given back.
Spark!
The deck tilted. Consoles exploding. A coolant leak rupturing overhead, spewing into the air with a loud, continuous 'whoosh.' The lights flickered. The lights, that is, that were still working. Back-ups started to come on, dim. Ghostly. Eerie. These were the lights you never wanted to see. For they hinted of breakdown.
Breakdown.
You are mere feet from an airless space. So horrifying in its coldness. Instant death. You are in a piece of metal, days from sunlight. Days from clouds and air and solid ground. You are in an egg shell.
Do not let the egg crack.
Slam!
Spark!
" ... life support failure in the armory."
Who's voice was that? Who was speaking? Calling out reports, instructions, names? So many voices! They blurred, becoming a fragmented windowpane, shards of glass. Cut. Calling out. It was rapidly descending into something close to chaos. Everyone trying to speak at once. Not out of need, necessarily. Not everything being said needed to be said. Some of it was common sense. Phrases like 'we've been hit' and 'the lights just went off.' But it wasn't about making sense. It was about panic. Needing to blurt something out. Anything.
Needing to be heard.
And needing to hear everyone else.
To know they were still there.
To know you were still here.
" ... tell Seward to get out of there. NOW."
Wartime tales of valor, too often told, showcased the heroes of war. The sad heroes. The valiant heroes. The reluctant or unexpected heroes. Heroes. The ones who came, stood their ground. In the face of everything. Danger, disarray. Who, in spite of it (or because of it), fought. When wars were over, you heard of the decorated. You heard of the brave. You celebrated what they'd done. What they'd given.
Celebrated sacrifice.
But what of the cowards?
The ones who also came? Also stood their ground?
Only, before it was over, to completely fall to little pieces.
To crumble.
To cry.
Oh, true, there is a much, much finer line between courage and cowardice than we would have ourselves believe. Than we would like to believe.
But, here, now, Graham was seeing it first-paw.
That line.
The warm-blood furs that were on the bridge, they were crying. Taylor was sobbing. And Graham, with his logical mind, his first thought was: 'I can only hope he can see those helm controls through his tears.' A terrible thought, he told himself. How callous. How crude. They are frail. They do not have the emotional control of your species. They are not 'of the ice.' Have sympathy, pity. Help them. Build them up. They NEED you.
And I need them, Graham whispered to himself. Internally. Wasn't that true? Without them, he never would've 'thawed.' No, he could not melt. But he had thawed, yes, the tiniest of bits. Enough to allow love to seep through his glacial exterior. Enough to allow love to touch his heart. Enough to allow faith to soak into his soul. He supposed he had Captain Aria to thank for that. She was a snow rabbit. But Aria had gotten those things from, yes: the warm-blood furs. The rodents, the prey. And from her, it had spread.
Spread.
Like a wonderful contagion.
And he'd caught it. And Ada. And others.
Love, faith. Forces of change and betterment.
We need the warm-blood prey, he knew, for their meaning. Their feeling. Their sense of love and life. Their faith.
They need us for our logic. And our strength. And our grace under pressure. We fill each other's gaps. Each other's holes. Grace.
Grace under pressure.
Have that, Graham.
Lead by example. They are terrified.
So am I. My paws are shaking, too. My heart is hammering, too. I am no better off than they are. But, still, I am the captain. I cannot show my weakness. They need a leader. And you are that leader.
So, lead.
And he did. Ordering, pacing, helping. Orchestrating this battle like it was a dance, a sweeping symphony of flare and bombast. Little quiet to be had. No pianos here. Just drums, drums, and drums! And blowing, blaring trumpets. Horns, and none of them Gabriel's. None of them signaling an end.
Oh, please, take us home. Now, he prayed, would be a good time, dear Lord, to step in.
Spark!
A squeak!
A mew (from Ada).
His head spun, breath escaping him. Was she hurt? Was she okay? "Darling!" he called out, not caring that his voice held panic. Not caring about informality. Oh, clearly expressed panic! Worry. Oh, he didn't care. Only cared that ...
" ... y-yes," was her shaky response, still there. Still at the helm.
A huge sigh of relief. But his heart not slowing. No, not even for a minute. Oh, yes, that aforementioned line? He saw it in others.
And in himself.
For the prey side of him, the instinctual side of him, the 'fight or flight' side of him, the side that would do anything to survive, was SCREAMING at him to get this ship out of harm's way. Run. Hop. Flee. They're predators. You are not SUPPOSED to engage them. You are supposed to run. You are supposed to evade them. Not engage them. You are supposed to be staying alive.
Staying to FIGHT went against an eternity of inherited instinct. Holding his ground was so much easier said than done.
Risk?
Valor?
Your blood is not concerned with that.
Your blood wishes to keep flowing. To not be spilled.
Flee.
Do as your instinct cries!
But he shook his head. To himself. Shook it, in the half-dark, in the glow of the emergency lights, his pure-white fur smeared with soot, debris. Looking dirtier than it should. Snow rabbits were among the most pristine of furry species. Beautiful. Elegant. Luxurious, holy-white pelts (which little bits of charcoal fringe on the ears, and with charcoal-colored noses and paw-pads; which only added to their character). And to see a creature of such natural beauty thrust into such a bloody, sweaty mess?
There was a certain sense of injustice about it.
About this picture.
That, oh, civility was always two steps from ruin. That the only thing surer than the fact that 'life was beautiful' was that 'beauty is fleeting.'
"We only have seven torpedoes left in our launchers ... phase canons are fully ... "
Graham heard someone. Barking out. Crying out.
Heard pain.
Heard status reports.
Heard the ship groaning from deep within. Sounds coming from the belly, the core of the ship, where metal was being shredded, melted. Where lives were undoubtedly being lost. Please, Lord, let not our toll be too high. Please, have mercy on us.
We cannot bare to pay the price.
" ... fire at will."
That was the only thing left to say. In the midst of this, in battle, fighting for your lives. Too late to run. And, despite your body's pleas, you could not run, no. Even if you wanted to. Not just because you feared a loss of honor. Not just because you had a duty. A duty to your species, your home. An obligation born of love. Not just because of that. But because your legs would not move you. Because you were paralyzed with fear. You were stuck here.
And all you could do was be pummeled.
And slash back.
"Fire at will," Graham repeated.
Whir-whir-whir!
Phase canons. Pulsing, churring. Lash-lash-lashing out, with pretty, lavender lines of fierce, cutting light. Aiming to puncture. Aiming to penetrate. Aiming to push each and every target to submission.
SLAM!
Shudder!
Shake!
Spark!
Mew!
A pained, surprised mew. From ...
" ... Graham!"
"Captain!"
Several voices crying out at once. With disbelief. That their captain should go down? In the heat of this? When they needed him most? Oh, the grief. The fear. The uncertainty. Was he okay? Check on him, check on him!
Keep fighting!
Don't get distracted!
Thoughts flying. Flying faster than their weapons were (or ever could).
"Ada, stay there." A fierce gesturing of her auburn-furred paws. "STAY!" shouted Talkeetna, whiskers twitching. Twitching. Nose sniffing. "We NEED to monitor the comm traffic ... we need to stay coordinated with the fleet!"
"I ... is he ... I ... " Ada's snow rabbit logic was starting to break down. Logic did not apply here. None of this was making sense. It was too cruel, too fast, too furious. It was overwhelming her analytical mind. And she could not cry. Could not weep. But, oh, she could FEEL the fear, the grief. Deep inside, like a heavy, burning stone, dragging the rest of her down.
"Focus!" Talkeetna squeaked, being more unruly than she was prone to be. Her beautiful, arched tail looking so unkempt. So dirty. Her rodent anxieties were unfurling like fast-growing weeds inside her, and she, as a former captain herself, knew what had to be done: order HAD to be kept. "Focus," she repeated, not yelling it this time. Speaking to both Ada and herself. And everyone else. "Focus." Speaking louder than normal, though. For the ship was shaking, and the coolant leak was still spewing, and ...
... rattle-rattle!
Spark!
" ... I got him. I got him," the red squirrel insisted, on her knees, now, beside Graham. Putting a paw on his neck. Please, please. Please, be a pulse. A pulse! There was a pulse! Oh, he was breathing ...
... a sigh. Heavy sigh from her. "He's ... he's alive," she said.
Ada, at comm, shut her eyes. Her whiskers trembling. Her black nose sniffing. She swallowed, nodded. And let out a shaky breath. Trying to listen to the comm chatter. Trying to communicate with the other ships. Trying to coordinate everything. All while trying to coordinate her own body, her own mind, and her own repressed, dull emotions. Even snow rabbits could get overwhelmed.
Even we have limits.
Oh, dear God, she prayed. Turning to Him. Begging. Calling. Oh, dear Jesus, Keeper of my soul. Redeemer. Should I die on this day ...
"What hurts?" Talkeetna asked, leaning over their downed captain. "Can you hear me? Your eyes are open ... come on, talk to me. Talk ... "
Spark!
" ... to me. Please ... please, come on ... "
" ... p-paws," Graham stammered, pitifully. In such great pain. "Paws," he mewed, sucking in air. Oh, the hurt! It felt like fire!
Talkeetna, whiskers frantic, non-stop in their twitch-twitching, looked. Looked and saw: fierce, bloody burns on his paws. Second-degree, at least. Certainly. And, looking to his vacant chair, she saw the smoking circuitry of his computer console. It'd exploded. That, and the pitching of the deck. He'd slammed his head on the floor. After the sparks had severely burned his paws (for he must've been tapping on the console at the time).
A difficult swallow, and he tried to sit up.
"No, no ... no, don't do that. I think ... " A shaky, scared breath. Focus, Talkeetna. Focus. A chitter-squeak. Squeak! "Uh ... your paws are burned pretty bad." There was no dermal regenerator on the bridge. "I don't have time to take you ... "
Whir-whir-whir!
" ... to sickbay. You're gonna have to wait," she said, trying to stay controlled. Managing better than Taylor was (or than the mouses and the pika must be doing; none of them were stationed on the bridge right now, due to Graham's orders, as he'd anticipated them not being able to function in this environment, under such stress). Antioch, however, like herself, was keeping it mostly together. As was Ada. As was femme snow rabbit in the back of the bridge, at the Ops station. What was her name? Orla?
"O-okay," was all Graham could manage, ears unmoving. Whiskers waggling once. Twice.
"Listen to me. Listen," Talkeetna squeaked, big, bushy tail wavering.
Graham's half-open eyes fixated on the red squirrel's.
"Do not," she whispered, licking her dry lips, her tail shaking. Twitching. Flagging all over. "Do not go to sleep. You hear me? I think you might have a light concussion. I ... don't go to sleep," she begged.
"Okay ... okay," were the dizzy whispers. "The ship is ... is spinning. You must ... "
" ... just hold on. I gotta ... "
Spark!
" ... go." Talkeetna sprung up, exchanging a wobbly glance with Ada.
"Is he ... ?" she mouthed, silently. "Please?" was her wordless plea.
Talkeetna just nodded. Nodded, mouthing back 'okay ... he's okay,' and stumbling to the back of the bridge, going for Antioch. Wincing as, now and then, her bare foot-paws stepped on a sharp piece of debris. She treaded as carefully as she could, trying not to stub her toes. She went toward the tactical station, saying, "Darling, look ... I, uh ... look how the Federation ships are focusing their fire on our section of the task ... "
Shake!
" ... force. They're trying to draw us and ... "
" ... the Chignik and the Prudhoe," the hoary marmot finished, nodding, squeaking, "out of position. Yes. Yes, I see it." His solid form looked disheveled. His pelt. His fur, like everyone else's, was being matted with sweat. Partly the anxiety. But partly because the environmental controls were on the fritz. It was getting warmer in here.
"They're trying to create a gap in our line ... so they can break through and puncture," Talkeetna breathed, "into snow rabbit space."
"Alright. I'll ... I'll, uh ... "
But Talkeetna was already scrabbling away, shouting, squeaking to Ada, "Tell the other ships ... what they're doing! If they don't already ... "
Slam!
Spark!
" ... know," the red squirrel finished, thrown off-balance. Hitting the littered, carpeted floor with an audible 'oomph.' The breath knocked out of her. Pant. Pant. "I, uh ... " She pushed off the floor, rising. To her knees. With a headache, now, and the adrenaline so bad. She literally felt her rodent heart was going to burst. At any minute, now. Like an overfilled balloon. It terrified her. What if the fear gave her a heart attack? What if ...
" ... Talkeetna," was Antioch's worried-sick voice. Through the dim and the mire, from the tactical station.
" ... I'm," the red squirrel panted, standing back up, "fine. I, uh, Taylor," she chittered. "Don't be moved out of position. Hold your ground. Antioch, keep firing ... keep ... "
" ... still," Seward whispered. A shaky breath from him. As he looked to her side. "Keep still," he repeated.
"I can barely see," Aisling panted. "I ... I feel cold."
Seward's whiskers twitched. His cool, black nose sniffing. They were trapped in a lift. Somewhere between C-Deck and B-Deck ...
... when life support in the armory had failed, he'd been forced to leave. Knowing the bridge was already crowded and chaotic enough, he'd gone to engineering. To help. To be of use. When he'd gotten there, he'd found fires. Snow rabbits lugging around fire extinguishers. And Konka, of all furs, yipping out commands, his tawny tail wagging like he was born for this.
Seward, frantic, had looked around.
Attu was in a pile of his own blood, his fur stained. Dark, blood-red. Contrasting with the white. His nose was still sniffing, so faintly. His toes curled, and then uncurled.
And Aisling, at a heaving sit, her back to the wall, clutching at her side. Her paw dripping with blood. Her breath shaking. Her ice-blue eyes wide and full of fear. Her ears drooped over. Not at their usual, healthy 'tallness.' Not even waggling. Just bent over.
He'd gone to Attu first. He had no choice. Attu was in worse shape. And, getting there, getting to his shins and knees, Seward put his paws on the fellow snow rabbit's body. A member of his breeding party. They shared the same femmes (and, at times, they would genially confide in each other about how to best please this femme, and the quirks of that one, and so on). He was somewhat of a friend. And his eyes were so weak, so dull. And closing, lungs struggling. And a final, deflating breath. A stoppage. Mortal body too far gone.
He was dead.
In the shadows here in the darkened madhouse that engineering had become. The pleasing, swirling glow of the cylindrical warp core seeming like a cruel joke, now. Its taunting beauty.
A beautiful life, full of grieving.
Is that not what we all live?
Is that not how it must be?
Seward took a breath. Sadness. Sorrow. All of it sharply, so sharply. A prayer uttered, small, incoherent. Seward's stomach flipping over and over. The sight of blood. It made him sick. Yes, God, the Architect of the universe, the Builder of all bodies, the Creator of our souls. Our selves. Yes, He made beauty. Yes, life was beautiful. But even blood? Blood? That fluid that flowed and flowed, carrying all that oxygen, all that air, those breaths, and all that microscopic nourishment, carrying so much to so many parts of us. That red richness of life just spilling out. Pooling all over.
It was a fierce, undeniable reminder of frailty.
Weakness.
It was like peering at something not meant to be seen.
Forbidden liquid. Like water, like steam to power an engine. Blood being our steam. And when it leaked out, and all stopped ...
... it was too much to handle.
Seward had to shove his thoughts aside, though. Shove these things aside. You can grieve later. Pray later. You have to do something. Go to her. Help her.
"Aisling!" he'd mewed, crawling over to her. The ship still shaking.
Konka was running around, still barking things, pounding his paws on controls, growling. But doing his job. Keeping things running. The snow rabbit engineers were listening to him. He might've been a predator. But he was their predator. One of 'our' predators. And they listened. And heeded.
Aisling, out of commission, had to watch her department operate without her. In its time of greatest need. And she saw, through her hooded eyes, Seward. "What ... what are you ... "
" ... never mind," he told her. Never mind why he was here. He wasn't going to get into a roundabout debate with her. No evasion, this time. No sidestepping issues. No fear. "I am taking you to sickbay," he decreed. And he slipped his paws, his arms around her, under her.
"What ... no ... no," she whispered, weakly. "Seward, I ... I order you," she breathed. "I outrank ... "
"I do not care. I love you," he blurted, saying it. Once and for all. Tenderly. Desperately. "I love you, and I am taking you ... "
Whoosh!
"Another coolant leak!" yelped a snow rabbit.
"The warp plasma's going to overheat if we have many more of those ... repair them. Now."
"Sir, they are too unstable to ... "
" ... then turn them off! We don't need warp engines, now, anyway ... just ... just shut the whole damn core off!" the coyote growled.
And Seward, carrying her weak, limp body, moved off. Went out the doors, and headed for the nearest lift ...
... which had jerked to a sudden stop.
That last hit.
That last hit must've taken out the lift mechanisms.
"Here ... here's more material," Seward said, putting a paw forward. They were both on the floor. Her at a sit, back against the lift-wall.
And him on his knees and shins, watching over her.
"You ... your uniform," she stammered, coughing lightly.
"It hardly matters. Take it." He'd taken off his shirt. Was giving it to her. "Apply it to your wound. Or, uh ... wrap it around you. Soak the blood. Just ... "
She nodded, understanding. A swallow, and a wince, delicately folding his shirt (with her shaking paws) and pressing it to her side. Where the bloody gash was. While holding the shirt there, she breathed. Her breaths shaky, erratic.
Seward's eyes were fixated on her. Oh, please. Please. Dear God.
"A-attu ... "
A hesitation.
"He is dead, isn't he?" Aisling squeezed her eyes shut. Her whiskers twitched.
A swallow. And a nod. "Yes ... I ... there was nothing I could do," Seward whispered, painfully. "He was ... " The words failed him. A shake of the head. "There was nothing I could do," was the repeat.
Nose sniffing, she nodded, opening her eyes. "I ... I am ... " She faltered. Swallowed. Pressing the shirt to her side. She felt weak. And, again, felt cold. She wanted to shiver. "I am scared," she said. Her breath shaking. "I am scared." A weak, terrified mew. No tears. They wouldn't come. They couldn't. She just shook. And gave another mew.
Seward leaned in. Hugged her. Cradled her. Knowing he was getting blood on his soft, bare chest-fur, the white fur soaking the red her body was leaking. But he didn't care. He gave her his warmth. Held to her. "I will not leave you," he promised, his chest rising and falling. With each breath.
A shaky exhale. A wince.
"Aisling, I ... "
" ... said ... you said," she stammered, "that you loved me. Is that ... "
" ... true. It is," he insisted. "It is true."
"Seward ... "
" ... I do not care. I love you," he said again. His paws shook. He clutched to her, closing his eyes. "Do not ask me to rationalize or ... or analyze it. I ... I cannot," he admitted. "I love you." It felt good to say. It felt strong. Pure. Powerful. Like a long-held weight was being lifted. Like a window being opened. Like fresh air.
Like promise.
Like hope.
It was dim in this stationary lift. Dark. Stagnant.
But those things were being repelled by the lights of life and love. And by Light itself. And Aisling, eyes weakly opening, ears still drooped, whispered, "I ... the other day," she managed, swallowing, wincing. A mew of pain. "The other day ... you, uh, said that you wished to know me more. And ... " Her voice trailed.
Seward took a breath. Licking his dry lips. Still holding to her. Waiting.
" ... and, uh ... about opening up. You said that ... " A cough, and her nose sniffing. She pressed his folded shirt to her side, but she could feel the wetness of her blood. It had already soaked through. " ... you said that I would be unwilling to ... reciprocate." A deep, shaky breath. Her eyes squeezing shut again. "I ... I will. I would," she stammered, "be willing. If I live through this, I ... I will be yours. Yours," she promised, "only. As in ... " A painful swallow. " ... marriage."
"You are ... "
" ... not just ... saying it. I have thought," she managed, "of this, and ... of myself. I am not well. Inside," she whispered. "And you ... your newfound sense of love, of faith, of ... I want those. I wish to heal. I ... the last time we bred," she whispered, "after ... after you found me in the simulation room. That night. The passion," she breathed, "you showed me ... you made LOVE to me. I was ... exhilarated. I did not know that ... that was possible. What you made me feel." A brief pause. "No one has ever done that. They have simply ... " She trailed. Nose sniffing for air. And a shaky exhale through her muzzle. Her free paw clutching weakly, weakly at his pelt. " ... I ... I want new life. I want it," she breathed, "with you. I am telling you now," she said, "because ... right now, I am so scared," she whispered, "that the fear of love and of ... true closeness, true faith ... right now, they seem far less scarier than they felt a few days ago." A breath. A pant. "I want new life," she repeated.
"You can have it. I will help you." A tight, dear hug. "I love you, Aisling."
She hesitated before saying the words. Hesitated. Out of habit. Out of a final, lingering reluctance. Out of a final, flickering fear. But she let it go. Let it out. "As do I ... love you, as well," she breathed, "Seward." Her nose in his fur. Breathing of his scent. It was the only thing, right now, that made sense. The only thing that seemed safe. That seemed right. Was him.
"Will you pray with me?" Seward whispered, into her ear. "I will show you how ... "
A weak swallow, and a weaker nod.
The prayer said.
Whispered.
And a jerk. A rocking motion.
"The lift," Seward said, looking up. With surprise, with gratefulness. The ceiling-lights back on. "Your engineering staff ... they got the power back on."
Aisling nodded weakly. "It appears," she breathed, "so ... " A shake. "I feel so cold ... I feel so tired."
"Hold on," he pleaded, as the lift finally stopped. Finally opened. As he picked her up and rushed her out. Hurrying.
Into sickbay.
Where Aspera (and two snow rabbit medics) took over.
Seward had to move aside, out of the way. So many injured bodies in here. And he, again, appealed to God. Prayed for Aisling's soul.
For the souls of them all.
Beep-a-beep!
"Ma'am ... Talkeetna," Taylor blurted, pointing wildly at the viewer. "Look. Look!"
The red squirrel's head spun. She swallowed, eyes glued to the viewer. "The Federation ships," she whispered.
They were firing on one another!
"Their crews must've mutinied," Antioch breathed, with amazed relief, from tactical. "They must be overthrowing their captains ... "
"Well, let's not wait to find out. Their attention isn't on us, anyway. Ada," the red squirrel barked.
"Yes?" she asked.
"Take Graham to sickbay," was the gentle order.
A gracious, grateful nod, and the snow rabbit wasted no time in doing so.
"Darling," Talkeetna said, to Antioch. "Coordinate with the fleet ... let's all back off a bit. Full impulse. Withdraw. See what happens ... "
Hours later, the Federation ships were retreating. Indeed, heading back to their space. A long, dark, two-week journey. That would be full of many questions. Much grieving. And uncomfortable decisions. The crews had, as Talkeetna had guessed (and as Antioch, through tapping into the Federation comm channels with his knowledge of Federation systems, had confirmed) mutinied.
When the fighting had started, and the casualties had begun, the Federation officers had snapped. Finally snapped. Lost all will to keep this going, to keep following orders from a corrupt government, from predator-picked captains. This war. All the wars. It was too much. And they couldn't tolerate any more. The crews (both prey and predators) rose up, took the ships, turned them on each other. Until the entire Federation battle-fleet was under new control. Each ship having a new, 'illegal' captain.
Mass mutiny.
Stopping a mistake (in a long series of mistakes) before it bred new mistakes.
Stopping it.
There was no saying what would happen when the fleet got back to Federation space. The civil war had, for the time being, been 'pushed aside.' In favor of this new 'campaign' against the snow rabbits. But, now that 'campaign' was cut short. By insurrection. The whole thing abandoned. The officers would not fight. And with a commandeered fleet, and playing on the public's pain and fatigue, perhaps a new order could be forged. Restored. A few years ago, things had seemed so promising in the Federation. How had it all gone downhill so fast? How had things reverted?
Perhaps the Federation could regain a semblance of peace.
Or perhaps not.
Its government (if it could be called a government) was still very corrupt.
These wounds were too deep to heal overnight. Or in weeks. Or in months.
This would take years.
Lifetimes.
This was far from over.
The snow rabbit task force lingered at the border for several hours. Licking wounds. Healing. Monitoring long-range sensors, making sure the Federation battle-fleet didn't change its mind and come back.
When it seemed safe, Talkeetna (as acting captain of Yellowknife, and therefore, acting head of the task force) told the fleet to begin sending shuttle-pods from ship to ship, helping the worst-damaged. Bringing needed supplies. Extra officers. Anything.
Yellowknife lost three crew-furs (out of fifty-four). All snow rabbits, the casualties (none from the senior staff). But three was still a terrible number. There was no relief in 'only three.' It did not matter who they were. There was no relief at all. There was mourning. And most of the crew had injuries of some sort. Broken bones, gashes, burns, bruises. Those could be healed.
It was the injuries to the mind and heart that would linger.
But at least, finally, this was over. Wasn't it?
They could only hope and pray that it was.