Nightfall came to Rostella IV suddenly; the canopy of the jungle swallowing up whatever light managed to penetrate from the stars overhead. It was quiet in the jungle. Too quiet.
Rob Benson was still in full berserker mode, looking around anxiously for any sign of movement in the undergrowth or canopy. The other seven Marines lay sleeping together in a clearing. Rob could smell the creatures who had attacked the platoon, but he couldn't pin down their location.
Suddenly he was disturbed by a tap on his shoulder. Turning around with his rifle at the ready, he saw another member of the squad.
"Dammit, Vartan! Don't do that!"
"Sorry, Benson. There's something I think you need to know."
"About what?" Benson asked. Vartan was a Betazoid; anything she might have sensed could be of value.
"Private Beckham. I'm sensing he's extremely distressed about something."
"Hmmm... let's see... most of his platoon, including his commanding officer and platoon sergeant, have just been killed rather gruesomely. He's stranded on an enemy-occupied planet and the only starship that can get him out of here is re-entering the atmosphere in itty bitty pieces... don't you think that might have something to do with it?" Benson asked, rather testily.
"No, it's more than that. He's undergoing major stress regarding his home life."
"And who isn't right now?"
Vartan sighed in exasperation. "It's more than that. Much more. He's actually worried about their survival. There is genuine fear that they may be in jeopardy if he's killed."
Benson was loathe to intervene in the personal life of anyone, but this was something that could affect their ultimate survival. One member of a combat team even slightly off his game could get the whole team killed. "Let's find out what it is."
The two of them woke Benson up. "Is it time for my watch, sir?"
"Later. We need to talk. What the hell has got you so eaten up that Vartan here can sense it over and above the fear of our impending deaths?"
Beckham looked apprehensively at the still-sleeping form of Damon. "Don't worry about that shitbird. What you have to say stays here, between us"
"My family, sir. My mother and my brother and sister. I haven't told anyone this. I wouldn't be saying anything now if Vartan hadn't sensed anything. I've been putting away money since I signed up to help them get away from my stepfather. If I'm gone, they don't get anything. No survivor's benefits, nothing! He'll take it all!"
"What's up with him?" What the hell, nothing else to do anyway, and Vartan will sense anything coming.
"I'm from New Belfast, a little mining colony just outside the Gamma Quadrant side of the Bajoran wormhole. No place to go, and no way to get there unless you've got contacts somewhere else. My father died in a mining accident just after I was born, and my stepfather.. my mother married him just to keep herself and me fed. He's a son of a bitch. He beats her and..." Beckham trailed off.
"So you signed up, to help get them out of that, is that it?" Beckham nodded.
"Only partly. I had no other options. I had a scholarship to go to university, but my stepfather got hold of the money before I could. I had nothing, and he was going to send me to work in the mines. So I ran off and enlisted instead. I put half my pay in a bank account on Bajor. As soon as I get enough, I'd planned on taking leave, buying my mother and everyone else passage to anywhere, and getting them away from that son of a bitch. My mother knows my plan, but she's kept everything secret. My stepfather doesn't even know where I'm at."
"And now you think you're going to die on this rock, and that'll be the end," Benson said. Beckham nodded again.
"Well it ain't gonna happen that way, grunt! We're getting out of here, with as many of those sons of bitches in body bags as we can manage. Do you hear me, boy?"
Beckham said nothing.
"DO YOU HEAR ME?"
"Yes, sir!!!!"
"Then let's get motivated here. And when we get off this steaming chunk of Fek'lhr's feces, you need to contact someone about this situation. JAG corps, your bank on Bajor, someone who can set up an arrangement so that if this happens again your people are taken care of. And then you're going to take leave, however much you have left, go back to New Belfast and kick that son of a bitch's ass from there to the Delta Quadrant! Because you're not some beat-down pussy wimp, you're a god-damned Starfleet Marine, and you mean business!" Benson told him.
A light came on in Beckham's eyes.
"That's what I like to see!" Benson said, clapping the younger man on the shoulder. Vartan nodded approvingly as she sensed the warrior take over from the frightened boy in Beckham.
Damon had awakened. "Whassa matter, little boy afraid of his daddy?" he sneered.
Benson kicked him square in the head. "You get off Beckham's case, post-haste, shitbird! I don't care who or what you think you are, and I'm god-damned sick of your attitude! One more time, and I'm feeding your liver to those creatures out there, you hear?"
Damon shut up.
"Now, we've all made too much noise. Let's move out!"
"We can assume that the dilithium processing facility at Rostella IV is offline, if not captured," Tarik told the assembled captains. "Now, under the circumstances, how long does the remainder of the Ferengi fleet have?"
"The fleet is out of business in 24 hours," Captain Scheherazade Amanat of the USS Flanders told him. "Between the casualties the Ferengi have taken in their fighting retreat, and the rate at which the Marauder-class goes through dilithium, it's not looking good. Already they're having to reduce shield and/or engine power just to conserve what they have. The Mulluran Type III's and Type IV's are just too much for them. With the dilithium, the Ferengi could potentially turn this fight around and actually win."
"Let's assume the Ferengi devote all of their resources to protecting Ferenginar, given that their most important offworld colony is now off the board. Can we liberate Rostella IV on our own?"
"Unlikely," Captain Sulok of the USS Endymion -- a late addition to the task force -- replied. "Long-range scans indicate that twenty Type III Mulluran cruisers are in the Rostella system. Apparently Captain Grimaldi's efforts had some impact. By my calculations, a force consisting of three Akira-class cruisers and two support vessels has only a 29345827% chance of drawing even with the defenders. The probability of victory is under five percent."
"Perhaps... if we stick with purely Starfleet resources."
"What do you mean?" Captain Amanat asked.
"There's no need to keep the secret any longer, under the circumstances," Tarik told them. "Over the past year, I and associates of mine have been assembling a covert force specializing in asymmetric warfare. They're called the La'Kon Legion, a primarily G'kra unit funded completely off the books by the Federation and G'kra governments, with some ah, outside assistance from time to time. We have three captured Mulluran Order Police cutters, seven newly-acquired surplus K'tinga-class Klingon cruisers, and about 2500 personnel. The crews for the cruisers are all Klingon-trained, and several Klingon 'advisors' are part of the Legion."
Amanat's jaw dropped. Sulok raised an eyebrow. "This changes the situation considerably. The probability of victory is nearly fifty percent."
"That's not all. I have personal resources to draw upon as well."
"Such as?"
"Yukon Synthetics Company, my private business interest with the Nausicaan government-in-exile. Our corporate security division is, shall we say, rather well equipped."
Sikal sat in his office at the Yukon Synthetics compound on Yukon, Serenity's outermost moon. He looked over the urgent message from his grandson.
"Balax, this is Sikal. How long will it take to get the flagship back up online?"
[Why do you need to know?]
"I think the company's services may be needed in Ferengi space."
[The flagship can be powered up and ready for action within eight hours. Four of our freighters are still outfitted as privateers.]
"Excellent. Get your people moving. I'll notify the starbase."
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