Liz's hand still stung slightly as she pondered the odd occurrence with the Commander in the corridor. She and Mr. Proteau sat across from each other at a table in the Officer's
Club while VanTedly pressed buttons enthusiastically on the pinball machine in the corner. He craned his neck around and addressed the security officer.
"You sure you don't have a quarter?", he whined, repeatedly trying to activate the flippers with little success. "It'd be a lot more fun if it were on."
"For the fifteenth time Ensign, I do not carry pocket change", he informed him sharply. "Standard Space Fleet uniforms don't even have pockets."
"Well, could you turn yourself into a quarter, just for a second?"
Proteau ignored the request, turning his attention back to his female guest as the Ensign began making high pitched sound effects to cover the imaginary action of the absent, steel ball.
"Again, Ms. Crowlick", he began uncomfortably, "I'd like to apologize for the unfortunate incident in the hallway. I really can't explain what happened, but in any event it was unprofessional and
unnecessary."
"You ain't gotta be sorry fer nothin'", Liz replied, absently twisting a strand of hair around her finger. "It's that pole-cat Reed what has some answerin' ta do."
"Uh, yes", the security officer grudgingly agreed, "of course your right. It's just that as captain of this vessel, the pressures of command can be..."
"Free game!!", VanTedly yelled, dancing jubilantly around the machine. "Woo-hoo!!"
"...quite stressing", Proteau finished, casting an icy look at the Ensign. He turned back to Liz to continue their conversation when klaxon horns began to sound.
Broski was still caressing his cup when the alarm began. He rolled out of his bunk, grabbing his kit bag and began calling to his squad to fall in. Less than a minute later the entirety of the Avenging
Angels was at attention and in formation.
Stauch who was speaking rapidly into his communicator, waved the Corporal over.
"Bridge says we're under attack", the sergeant conveyed urgently. "They haven't been able to identify the ship, but it's small and they're almost certain it's alone."
"So what do we do", Broski asked hotly, "stand at the windows and wave?!?"
"Negative, corporal", Stauch replied, un phased by his subordinate's outburst. "We stand by and await our orders. And the windows on a ship are called 'port holes', not windows."
"What a load of crap, Sarge. We get all dressed up to stand around and look at each other?" He shook his head angrily. "Why don't we just stand down until something real happens."
"Standing by for orders sounds fine with...", Sgt. Randaway attempted to interject.
"Stow it, flunky", the corporal instructed, turning his disturbing leer on the untested sergeant, "this don't concern you."
Stauch stepped between the two, coming nose to nose with Broski. "That is not the way we talk to our superiors, corporal", he remarked quietly, steel in his voice. "Now I suggest", he
continued, "that you apologize to the sergeant, shut your trap, and get back to your squad."
Broski blinked slowly, absorbing the sergeant's "suggestions", then came to rigid attention. "Yes, Sergeant!", he exclaimed, turning smartly on his heels. He strode back toward the assembled
men without another word.
"Geez", Randaway breathed, "what's his deal?"
Stauch shrugged as he watched the corporal walk away. "He's a pain in the ass", the sergeant acknowledged, "but he always follows orders."
