The surface of Galador III. October 27th, 2151.
Polly awoke. That turned out to be a mistake. The right side of her head screamed with the most intense pain she had ever experienced, a nauseating throbbing echoing throughout her skull. She gasped, and tried to open her eyes. The left one slid open a fraction, the right was swollen shut. All she could make out were blurred shades of grey, the floor of some sort of cave perhaps, so she let her eye shut again.
Automatically she moved tried to move her hand to her injured head. Both hands moved together, then stopped. As sensation returned she realised they were bound, uncomfortably tight, behind her back. Her ankles were similarly tied, and linked to her hands. Kicking her legs just yanked on her arms.
An attempt to take a deep breath failed. Something was pressed over her mouth. It felt like some type of adhesive tape. She could only breath through her nose, and her right nostril was blocked.
Abducted, gagged, and hog-tied. This is the beginning of either a perfectly wonderful evening or a perfectly dreadful one.
She was whistling in the dark, and knew it, covering up a growing terror with an attempt at levity. She realised now that the throbbing in her head was her own racing heartbeat. In a moment of sheer panic she struggled desperately to free her self. No subtlety or delicacy, just a frenzied thrashing as if brute force alone could break her bonds. The worst part was she knew just how futile her actions were, but couldn't stop herself.
As exhaustion claimed her she slumped back down. And then came the horrified realization that something was moving towards her. She forced herself to open her good eye. Things were still blurred, but she could make out a tall, slender figure approaching her. It stopped. Though it was in silhouette, the mouth of the cave behind it, she got the impression it was looking at her.
It made a noise, a series of soft rolling clicks.
A memory. A family get together. Her mother's people, a military line going back centuries. Polly was something of a black sheep, her involvement with the anti war protests hadn't gone down to well with the rest of her family, but she'd just picked up her fourth doctorate and the clan were in an accepting mood. Uncle Philip, over lunch, roast lamb with mint sauce, "...the one thing that always got to me. The noise they made. They'd click their mandibles. Click click click. Their way of talking, I suppose. But it got on my nerves, I'll tell you."
Click click click.
Axanar...
Behind the gag Polly moaned and tried to draw away. Her vision blurred, and she felt awareness slipping from her. Part of her thought it might be the effects of her injuries. Oh let's be honest. I'm terrified and about to faint.
As she passed out she was glad to have thought that. She had always tried to be true to herself, and the fact that she was honest under such extreme circumstances gave her some comfort.
Just not very much.
***
Before joining Reed's unit 'Red' Grant had gone by a different nickname. The Bloodhound. She was generally regarded as one of the best trackers in the military.
Her father hadn't wanted a daughter. Not that he disliked women in anyway, but his own childhood made him used to a male dominated environment. Rare as it was in this day and age, by chance most of his friends and work colleagues had been male as well, and he simply didn't know how to interact with women, except in a romantic sense. So when little Isobelle was born he was at something at a loss as to how to cope with her.
Though hunting was very much out of fashion in most quarters, it was still allowed with proper legal permission. Jacques Grant had was a skilled and enthusiastic hunter, and kept his paperwork in good order. His family, and several neighbours, ate well after one of his regular hunting trips, and he spoke with great passion about his experiences. Perhaps it was this that led the five year old Isobelle to ask if she could go with him. He'd laughed this off as a childish fancy, saying she was much too young, but she had been insistent.
(Many years later she'd been talking about this in a bar on Schofield Station, and a know-it-all had suggested that she'd been looking for a way to spend more time with her father. That was certainly plausible, she'd often felt that her father maintained a certain distance up to that time. The know-it-all had then made other comments, based upon his inaccurate understanding of Freudian psychoanalysis, the nature of which earned him a generous thumping).
As a compromise Grant had taken his daughter on a camping trip just a few kilometres away from home. They'd set up a tent in a small forest clearing, cooked beans and bacon over an open fire, and sang songs. As evening fell Isobelle suddenly became very scared. She became convinced, in the way small children, and some adults do, that some nameless horror was hiding in the woods, ready to attack.
"Do you trust me?" Jacques had asked. She nodded wordlessly, and he took her hand, leading her deeper into the woods. They found a fallen log, and sat in silence for perhaps quarter of an hour, his arm round her shoulder.
Eventually he said, softly, "We are the safest people in the world."
She asked why.
"Listen carefully. Hear all the sounds around you. No one can approach without our knowing."
There were noises, sounds she had not noticed before. As she heard them her father explained what they were, and the imaginary terrors retreated behind a sense of wonder at this new world she was being introduced to. At one point he told her to stay very still, as they were about to get a visitor. A small fox strode by in the faint moonlight, almost close enough to touch. Suddenly it became aware of them, stopped and stared, then darted away. She hadn't heard it approach, but she heard it leave.
They'd returned to the camp site shortly after, and she slept soundly. From that point on daddy-daughter camping trips were a regular occurrence, but there was still more she wanted. For her eighth birthday she was delighted to receive a small target rifle, which, with her father's tuition, she soon became highly proficient. By the time she was ten she'd started joining her father on his hunting trips. Legally she was not allowed to do any hunting herself, but she took along a camera and claimed that would be the only thing she'd do any shooting with. There were always plenty of photo's when they returned to satisfy the authorities, none of whom ever seemed to notice that, whilst the larger game had always been brought down with a high calibre hunting rifle, a much smaller weapon had been used on the various birds and rabbits the Grant's took home.
Sixteen was the minimum age to apply for a provisional hunting licence, but the Grant's knew the appropriate officials very well and the paperwork and background checks had been prepared well in advance. Isobelle received her licence within two hours of waking on her birthday. By the end of the day, she'd taken her first buck. It was a bitter-sweet moment for Jacques, who realised his daughter had eclipsed his abilities. There was little more he could teach her. By the time her next birthday came round he had given up hunting entirely, to spend more time with his wife. He had, truth be told, lost interest in the sport some time ago, and only continued as he wished to mentor Isobelle. His beloved rifle went to her.
At the age of eighteen she joined the military, Ground Forces infantry, as it seemed a productive use of her talents. The war had not yet started, but conflict seemed inevitable. As soon as she'd completed Basic she applied for sniper training, but was turned down. No one got in straight after Basic. Instead she was shipped out as one of the security troops for Camp Fortitude, a forward operating base on the Veltran home world. Axanar military 'advisers' were stirring up trouble amongst the Southern clans. Earth had pledged to help the North, out of a dedication to liberty and interplanetary friendship, and nothing at all to do with the vast mineral reserves, no sir.
Early in May 2142 it all kicked off. The Southern clans struck without warning. The initial attacks, mostly remote detonated bombs, were targeted on human troops and equipment. Though the devices were crude, they were effective, and the near simultaneous timing of the attacks demonstrated highly advanced planning. This was only the precursor to a much stronger push. Southerners with Axanar supplied weaponry and armoured fighting vehicles struck multiple bases. Camp Fortitude was one, and Grant got her first taste of combat. She didn't like it. Being holed up in one location wasn't to her taste. Much better would be to strike the enemy when he didn't know where you were, or better yet, didn't know you even existed.
Still, she did well enough to get noticed by her CO. Not that it mattered at the time. Camp Fortitude fell swiftly, most of it's complement dead or captured. She managed to avoid either fate, slipping away into the jungle. It was most unlike home, but she'd spent a bit of time getting to know the lie of the land, and talking with the local trappers. Four days later, limping slightly, and very hungry, but otherwise fine, she walked into Camp Justice over sixty kilometres away. The intelligence about the fall of Fortitude added significantly to the little already known. Grant was also asked to brief a number of soldiers on the terrain she'd passed through, as they were planning operations on that area. The clear, concise, and relevant summary was much appreciated.
To her surprise there were a number of marines at those meetings. The Marine Division was generally tasked with ship security, boarding actions on enemy ships and stations, and other space borne operations. Apart from sudden assaults to establish a landing zone, from which they'd quickly withdraw once Ground Forces were in place, they'd normally take no part in planet-side operations. She learnt however that the GF were bitterly outnumbered, so any marine with relevant ground training was being reassigned to help out. Fleet ships had been carrying extra marines recently, so, hopefully, the vessels in orbit wouldn't be in too much risk. Amongst their number was a Sergeant Reed, who listened attentively to what she said and asked some smart questions.
To her annoyance she was assigned back to regular infantry duties. Other units, including marines, went on raids behind enemy lines. She was stuck providing security at various bases. Things got even worse when, after several months, the fleet managed to establish a full blockade. Without Axanar weaponry and equipment the Southern forces folded rapidly. For most soldiers this was welcome news but Grant was frustrated by the lack of action. As a precaution Earth maintained a military presence until after the war's conclusion.
Eventually she was shipped back to Earth. First chance she got, she applied once more for sniper training. Her CO at Fortitude, who had been freed from a POW camp by troops acting on information she had given, gave her his full backing. Though no one told her at the time, she entered training with skills not far short of a fully qualified graduate. Her tutors taught her all they could, and she graduated top of the class.
With the war now over there seemed little for her to do at first. That changed as organisations like Terra Prime and Earth First grew in strength and boldness. She was temporarily assigned to JATO, the multinational anti-terrorist unit. Despite working mainly in unfamiliar urban environments it suited her talents. During this time she met once more with Malcolm Reed, now a Lieutenant out of Sandhurst.The Marines, he explained, were being re-organized. The war had shown that they would be needed for much more than ships security. Although the bulk of planetary work would still be performed by Ground Forces, all Marines from now on would be cross trained for dirt-side missions. There was even a new unit, a special forces commando group, being formed. Would she be interested?
Her CO was not pleased when she put in her transfer request, Too good a damn soldier to lose. But the marines reorganisation had political backing, and he had to allow her application to go through. She 'swapped her khaki for greens', as the saying went, accepting a demotion from Corporal to trooper in the process. Marine training was similar to GF in many respects, but the emphasis on shipboard combat and zero gravity warfare nearly threw her. Everything else she managed with no real difficulty. Perhaps because of her background, the Marines put her on the Scout/Sniper course as soon as she applied. Again a lot of this was familiar territory to her, but she did pick up a few new techniques, as well as showing a few of her own.
And from there...the Pathfinders. A four week course of arduous, gruelling activity. Thirty kilometre runs in full fighting order. Forced marches. Obstacle courses. Live fire training. Observation and memory tests. Escape and evasion skills. Jungle survival. Arctic survival. And that's just the Selection process, to weed out those not good enough to get in. Afterwards, that's when the training really starts. Whatever skills you have, the Pathfinders need more. Although every squad member has at least one speciality, usually more, all are cross trained in a variety of skills. If a medic drops in a fire-fight, at least one other trooper can take his place.
She was not surprised to be assigned to Reed's unit. Her new nickname took some getting used to. 'Red' Grant, a character from one of the lieutenant's favourite books. She'd been with him since, including the incident that had seen them assigned to the Enterprise in the first place. That had seemed a dull posting, at first. Things had got better since then...
***
The trail was clear, the foot prints heavy. One person, carrying a weight. Yes...."See there? The slight discrepancy between left and right foot print? Our professor was being carried over her captor's right shoulder. Do you agree?"
Archer, pistol held ready, shrugged. "I'll have to take your word for it, Trooper Grant."
"I can't even see any foot prints!" Mayweather admitted. He and Archer were accompanying the two marines. The rest of the expeditionary party remained in the clearing.
Dumont said "Well I agree."
They continued deeper into the forest. Archer's communicator bleeped.
"Sato here. I've sent the message to Enterprise asking them to return immediately, but it'll be another fifty minutes or so before they receive it."
Archer let out a slow frustrated breath. He'd known that would be the case, but that didn't make things easier. "Acknowledged."
"Beowulf Two is in pre-flight now, we will be with you in five minutes. And all the drones have been re-tasked to your area."
"Thanks Hoshi. Let me know when you get here. Archer out."
Grant gestured him forward. "Captain. Look at this."
In a small clearing, one of Polly's hiking boots lay on the floor. This time Archer knew well enough not to go near. "That strikes me as ...suspicious."
Grant smiled softly. "The laces, they are cut. With a sharp blade, I think." She glanced around, found a fist sized rock, and tossed it at the boot. With a sharp crack! a springy sapling sprung from concealment. Sharp stakes fastened to it's length stabbed though the air at knee height.
In the silence that followed Mayweather said. "Damn. I knew I should have stayed in bed."
"If it is any consolation, Mr. Mayweather," Grant explained, "that trap is not meant for us. It is too low down. It is also placed on a track in the vegetation. It is for killing those boar like creatures, I think. Like the ones we saw earlier."
"For food?" Archer asked.
She nodded. "Or protection. If our quarry lives in this area, then the territorial bores would be a problem. Unless he deals with them first."
Once sure it was safe, she lead them on. This, she told herself happily, was what she had joined up for.
I read through all you've written last night, and plan on reading the previous story as soon as possible. I like your takes on the characters - far more personality than the Enterprise TV versions. And your world seems far more realistic than the TV Enterprise as well. I'll definitely be keeping up with any new additions to this tale, and whatever else you may write in the future.
My own Doctor Who stories are the same way. And I also understand long and rambling - some of my stories just seemed to go on and on before I cut them off, and sometimes that wasn't a good thing.
I'd watch Adrian Paul read the phone book!
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