Tarik had been busy since returning to SB901 after the Darwin salvage mission. The 28th MEF had finally arrived!
The 28th Marine Expeditionary Force was somewhat smaller than the name implied. Only a company- strength unit, it was nonetheless equivalent to having three times as many Security troops in the field. Starfleet's tactical doctrine had always been to use Marines as force multipliers, taking the hard edge of a campaign while the more lightly-equipped Security and Tactical forces handled defensive actions or secondary fronts. Marines were also used as a rapid reaction force specifically trained to wreak havoc on a reinforced enemy position such as a starbase or a starship.
Given what Tarik had seen over the past few days, he wished Starfleet had sent a division at least. The Son'a had never been numerous, but interrogation of the alien captured aboard the wreck of the Darwin had revealed a major buildup. What was left of the Darwin's navigational records, along with the statement of a now-sober Crewman Apprentice Jerry Peterson indicated that the Darwin had encountered a heavily fortified Son'a forward base approximately one parsec from the New Canada system. It was from this base that the raids of the past few days had been staged.
A perfect mission for the 28th MEF—we smash that base, and it'll ruin the Son'a tactical posture. If nothing else, it gives New Canada breathing room while we build up our forces for a drive deeper into the nebula. They're doing the same thing the Cardassians were doing at the beginning of the Dominion War against the Maquis settlements, except the Cardassians were smart enough to do it from more than one base! We hit that base, we go a long way toward ending this war!
Tarik issued the necessary requisitions for equipment and billeting before retiring for the evening. It was already 2030 hours, and he had yet to eat! Such was the intensity with which Tarik had pursued The Plan.
In three separate military campaigns over thirteen years Tarik had not seen brutality the equal of what the Son'a and their allies had wrought upon New Canada. The Son'a were entirely without mercy.
Tarik reflected upon the history of his own people. The Romulans were said to be a people without mercy by their enemies, the Klingons and the Federation. But even a Romulan commander would have drawn the line at executing children and the infirm (if only to ensure their later availability for a labor camp). The Romulans were efficient in their brutality, not wanton as the Son'a and their allies had been.
"Roast beef sandwich, single serving of plomeek soup, and iced Tarkelian tea," Tarik requested from his replicator. One of the few flourishes Tarik allowed himself in an otherwise Spartan life was diversity in dining experiences. The food materialized in the replicator chamber a few seconds later.
For some reason, though, Tarik's appetite just didn't seem to want to come, though he was quite hungry. Roast beef was one of Tarik's favorites, even though he hadn't really experienced it until leaving Vulcan for Starfleet Academy. Romulans were meat-eaters, unlike their Vulcan cousins, but what little meat there was to be had on Vulcan was in the hands of off-worlders, and hideously expensive.
Looking at the sandwich, though, brought back some troubling images for Tarik. He'd seen quite a bit of roasted meat over the past few days. The reddish color of the soup didn't help his appetite, either—it was much too close to the color of human blood.
Tarik became restless. He left his meal on the table and departed his quarters. Perhaps the station shops might have something more appetizing. Tarik had heard about a number of highly regarded restaurants in his short time aboard.
Looking over a kiosk displaying the station's layout, Tarik decided to try Harry's, a "diner" claiming to specialize in Old Earth cuisine. Earth food might be the ticket—it was relatively innocuous and generally well-regarded.
Normally crowds didn't affect Tarik, but for some reason everyone seemed a little too close. Nobody was actually doing anything, but still Tarik felt on edge. On his way to Harry's Tarik encountered two men having an argument.
"Dammit, you owe me five strips of latinum from that poker game last week, and don't try to deny it!" one yelled at the other.
"I do not! You cheated, and you know it!"
"That does it! Nobody accuses me of cheating! You and me—right here, right now!" The two men squared off, as if to fight. One drew a knife.
Tarik's instincts told him to move on, or call Security. For some reason, he didn't.
"Gentlemen, might I suggest you take your conflict elsewhere?" Tarik asked with his best Vulcan-groomed manners.
"Ooooh! Now the Fleet's involved!" the man with the knife said sarcastically. The voice hit home with Tarik. A Cardassian prison camp guard had talked that way to him once. Once.
Tarik moved in quickly upon the miscreant. Before the man could withdraw Tarik had grabbed his knife arm, twisted it around in such a manner that the knife clattered to the deck, then threw the man over his shoulder in a classic Judo move. Tarik then drew his booted foot back to kick the man in the ribs—
"Whoa! I didn't mean anything by that, man! Just leave me the hell alone!" the would-be attacker said as he scrambled away.
Tarik collected the knife—a cheap switchblade—and looked at the man with contempt. "On Romulus we give these to toddlers as teething implements. Perhaps you should show as much maturity," he said. "Now both of you go your separate ways, and I might reconsider calling Security."
It was all he could do to restrain himself. This is not good. I am losing control, and I'm not sure why. That man was a thug, not even worth my attention, and I was about to kill him!
Vigorous exercise would do the trick. Tarik found a comm panel and contacted Holo Pursuits.
<I'm sorry, sir, all of our equipment is booked for tonight. I can get you in tomorrow, however,> the receptionist told him.
"That would be good, thanks. Good evening," Tarik replied before signing out.
That'll help me tomorrow, but what about tonight?
Tarik thought momentarily about rousting the station counselor, but decided not to disturb that worthy at such a late hour—it was approaching 2100. Besides, what kind of officer would I be if I can't handle my own difficulties?
He passed by a large group watching a public display panel. A newscaster from well behind the lines was delivering a report on the Son'a raids on New Canada.
"Starfleet authorities are confident that these are isolated incidents and that the matter can be resolved diplomatically," he droned on. "No buildup of forces in the sector is anticipated at this time. Meanwhile, in other news, the Paresi Squares tournament on Risa is entering its second day..."
"That's bullshit!" Tarik yelled. "This was no isolated incident, and they aren't interested in talking! They understand only one thing—raw, unadulterated force!"
A few voices in the crowd murmured assent, but most just stared at this spectacle of a man who looked an awful lot like a Vulcan spouting profanity and losing emotional control.
Tarik made as graceful an exit as he could, finding his way into the nearest shop, and found himself surrounded by all manner of trinkets and icons—kachina dolls and Catholic prayer cards from Earth, a shrine to Kahless, a horgon from Risa. In the back he noticed an ancient Romulan household idol.
"I've been expecting you," Kassia said.