Disclaimer: Combat and Star Trek belong legally and financially to other people, but you can’t get arrested for thinking. I receive no reimbursement for this story. Maybe an occasional virtual bottle of French wine and intangible English chocolates.

GREAT TIMES TEN

by Ricochet © October 2005

Crumpling under the impact of the bullet, Saunders saw his life flash before his eyes. His muscles stiffened as eternity exploded in his brain. Blinding images streaked past his vision like silvery ribbons, yet he comprehended everything he saw with perfect clarity. He saw people he’d forgotten, and people he had yet to meet. He saw ghosts by the thousands; spirits that had touched his life briefly, then vanished. He saw home, and he saw Hell. He saw things he’d prayed feverishly to forget.

And then he saw himself, sprawled bleeding in the bottom of a bomb crater. A raw wound furrowed the side of his head, his hair was sticky with blood. His helmet and Thompson lay discarded by his side; lifeless blue eyes stared unblinking at the sun. A radius of destruction encircled the fallen sergeant. Soldiers clamored by on all sides; some fleeing in panic, some in vengeful pursuit. In the wild mayhem of warfare, no one paid the fallen man any attention.

Drifting higher, Sarge felt detached, untroubled by the sight of his broken body. Yet sorrow for his squad resonated in his mind like a lament. This would hurt them badly. He just couldn’t abandon them to the war like this; they needed him to survive. It was a fact, and one he acknowledged without conceit. Yet with that plain truth, he also knew he had a crucial decision to make.

Part of him resisted the return to chaos and panic and pain. It was tantalizing to just drift off into the ether, sleep forever. He was so tired, an eternity of rest didn’t seem enough. Ultimately, his strong devotion to duty prevailed, as it had so many times before. And the moment the thought entered his mind that he must live, he did. Brutal reality struck him like a sledgehammer.

“Schnell...schnell!” a harsh voice rose above the bark of bullets and the screams of men. Rockets ripped across flaming French skies; thunderous detonations followed. The stricken earth trembled beneath Saunders’ body.

Reviving sluggishly, Sarge coughed in the smoky air and moved feebly. A hatchet of pain seemed to split his skull. Constricting in agony, he almost passed out. Only the dread of being captured by krauts held the blackness at bay.

Choking, Saunders pressed his cheek to the scorched soil and shuddered. He heard the sound of German mortars “walking” across the battlefield, their destructive stroll headed directly for him. There was nothing he could do; unnerving pain kept him pinned in place.

Urgency raced through his nerves like an electric current. Reaching out a trembling hand to the sky, he silently entreated his squad to see him. As though prompted, one of his men called his name.

“Sarge!” Littlejohn’s deep voice sounded dim behind the staccato spurt of gunfire. “Sarge! Where are you?”

“Here-...” Stirring in the bottom of the crater, Saunders’ response was little more than a congested croak.

“Sergeant Saunders!” Caje bellowed, his normally fluid tones tinged with anguish. “Sarge, answer me!”

Saunders tried to rise, but quickly collapsed under the sheer magnitude of the task. His head lolled on the dirt, eyes crimped shut tightly in pain. They’d never find him, not in all the hundreds of craters that defaced the field. Not among all this carnage.

“Sergeant Saunders-...!”

“Caje,” he rasped, reaching out once more to the jaundiced sky. That simple task took all his remaining strength, more than he could afford. His uplifted hand dropped back down onto the dirt with a soft thump as inky blackness blotted out the sun.

* * *

The vast, glittering ocean of space rippled and wavered and slowly solidified. Dropping out of warp drive, the corpse-green cruiser coasted silently toward the dead planet.

Halting on the outer reaches of the long range security sensors, the vessel drifted undetected in the dark. A wedge of bright light appeared in its hull, and a tiny one-man ship shot like a dart toward an approaching meteor cluster.

As the little craft disappeared, the wedge of light closed and the hull sealed tightly. Its wicked work done, the Klingon cruiser backed slowly away, like a sated crocodile slipping beneath black, stagnant waters.

Swiftly joining the meteor swarm, the little ship fell into a lazy tumble, blending seamlessly with the rocks. It’s dull, irregularly-shaped hull mimicked an authentic asteroid. To security sensors, it appeared to be just another chunk of stellar flotsam; space debris drawn by planetary gravity to meet a fiery end in the atmosphere.

Shutting down all non-essential systems, the pilot settled into the cockpit and closed his eyes, reserving energy. He would need all the strength he had to withstand the wild adulation of cheering Klingon crowds. It would take thirty-six hours for the meteor shower to reach the planet; thirty-six hours and it would be over. Earth would cease to exist.

Grunting softly in almost bestial pleasure, the saboteur fell into a deep, satisfied sleep.

* * *

Staring warily at the rough hewn arch of stone, Captain James T. Kirk was troubled. Memories flashed through his mind of his first encounter with the monolith. He had to constantly remind himself that the memories were artificial, for they were never meant to be. And yet they had left a very real scar on his heart.

The object resembled an unfinished sculpture by an untalented artist. Yet Kirk was well aware that, hidden beneath its innocuous surface, the stone arch had unlimited potential to teach, or to destroy.

The Guardian stood sentinel at the Gates of Time. An enigma, when asked whether it was a being or a machine, it claimed to be both, and neither. At first its logic seemed confounding, attributed to the slowly degrading program of an old computer; akin to senility in humans. Then the device revealed its truly awesome abilities to the officers of the starship ‘Enterprise’.

After a tragic course of events interfered with a pivotal point in Earth history, the present as they knew it was altered beyond recognition. In a split second, the ‘Enterprise’ vanished. The Earth they knew was no longer there. They were totally alone on a dead, windswept rock. With nowhere to run, Kirk and Spock took the only route open to them: the distant past. And thus Kirk began one of the strangest, saddest, most important days of his life.

With painstaking effort and a heartbreaking loss, the captain and first officer restored history to its rightful balance, but the lesson was learned. To interfere with the past was to risk annihilating the future. Any alteration of past events - any pebble tossed idly into the time stream - sent ripples of consequence throughout eternity. Not only would Earth be destroyed, but every future civilization that depended on human contact would suffer. And so on, forever.

Yet the Guardian wasn’t programmed to be selective of its users, it allowed unrestricted access by all. In this regard, the device was supremely dangerous. Naturally, being sentient, it wouldn’t allow itself to be disabled, dismantled or destroyed. But it also couldn’t be left unattended.

Not wishing to push the issue too far with the mysterious entity, Starfleet simply armed the Guardian planet with enough security to deflect a galactic war. Its defenses were virtually impenetrable; nothing short of an exploding warp engine nacelle could pierce those shields. And whereas the Guardian wasn't discriminating in its visitors, Starfleet was. No one but select scientists from the Federation’s most elite ranks were granted access to the device, and still they were subject to constant surveillance. Even Kirk, the first human being to speak to the Guardian, hadn’t been allowed back to the planet in years.

Kirk reached out and placed a hand on the side of the great stone shape. He felt unnatural powers throb beneath his touch. He drew his hand back. He told himself it wasn’t fear he felt, but healthy apprehension. He knew the universe wasn’t safe as long as this alien time machine existed. That, he supposed, was why he had been summoned here by Starfleet Command.

He heard a noise and turned as First Officer Spock and an older woman in work coveralls approached. Small puffs of gray dust rose with their footsteps and were carried away on a bleak breeze.

Stopping before Kirk, the woman stuck out a hand. “Captain, my name is Dr. Calhoun.”

Hesitating a moment, Kirk grasped her calloused hand. Her grip was so firm, Kirk’s first reaction was to squeeze harder. Tough old bird. “My pleasure,” he said gallantly.

She actually blushed. “Oh, no, Captain, I assure you that the pleasure is all mine.” Strolling around the Guardian and casting an appreciative eye at its hulking form, she began to speak briskly.

“I hope you don’t mind, Captain, but I’ve made a study of the progeny of some primary figures in ancient history. Your ancestors figure quite prominently in Earth’s past, but I’m not surprised given all that you have accomplished at such a relatively young age. Alexander would be hard-pressed to match your feats; but of course that is the hallmark of your lineage.”

Kirk cast a beleaguered glance at Spock. The Vulcan, of course, was all ears as the doctor rattled on in that hyper-intelligent, nearly unintelligible way some scholars had. Spock looked fascinated by the glowing narrative, while Kirk resigned himself to the flattering but fawning ride the woman was taking them on.

“Not that all of them achieved the same elevated public status as you have, Captain. In fact, many toiled in anonymity; their courageous exploits and heroic sacrifices heralded only by those who survived to report them. I’ve only researched back a few hundred years, but I must tell you...I’m mighty impressed with your family, Kirk. Mighty impressed!”

Kirk opened his mouth to respond, but she interrupted. “Which brings us to why you’re here. I’m not the only one studying your family history, Captain. It came to our attention recently that other factions have a less than wholesome interest in your ancestry. Until a few weeks ago, it was only a rumor; now we can no longer ignore the possibility of great danger.”

Baffled, the captain shook his head slightly. “A rumor? About what?”

The doctor’s brisk, business-like veneer melted away. She looked down, her fingers twisting together in cold, colorless knots. “Captain, two months ago we suffered the loss of one of our members. She was the director of research; she knew everything that was being investigated and catalogued, including my work on the historical lineage of modern figures.”

“How did she die?” Spock asked somberly.

“She was abducted by those-...those Klingons and tortured for her knowledge.” Her voice was a horrified whisper. “They tricked her - sent a message that her granddaughter had been in an accident on Earth. When she found she’d have to wait a week for clearance and a military escort, she forced the head of security to override the planetary shields. We lost contact with her shuttle ten minutes after she departed. We only learned of her fate a few weeks ago; that’s when Starfleet contacted you.”

“So now the Klingons know about the Guardian?” Kirk phrased his question in a hard, accusatory tone. This time the doctor’s blush was of an entirely different nature. She seemed to wilt before Kirk, unable to withstand the heat of his glare.

Spock interjected in her defense. “We suspect they’ve known about it for some time, Captain. Military secrets are the most fleeting of all.”

Grateful for his help, Doctor Calhoun nodded stridently. “Yes, it’s why Starfleet placed additional security around the Guardian planet. No more human error; the security systems are fully automated, practically foolproof.”

“Then why-...?” Kirk’s question died on his lips. The confusing bent of this conversation was starting to annoy him. What did his dead ancestors have to do with this? Why force the ‘Enterprise’ to languish in orbit, waiting for a rumored plot that may never hatch? What was the meager firepower of a single starship, when this planet bristled with weaponry? There was only one reason he would have been called back to this desolate planet. One reason alone.

Sensing entrapment, Kirk’s hazel eyes narrowed. His suspicious gaze slid from Dr. Calhoun to her precious Guardian. It seemed to stare back with its single great eye. Kirk felt an uneasy tremor in his muscles, and without knowing he did it, he took a distrustful step away from the rock.

Then he felt the quiet assurance of his first officer next to him, as though the Vulcan were guarding him from the Guardian, and his tension eased somewhat. Only Spock recognized the effort required of Kirk to be here, the excruciating memory of his last, fateful encounter with the past still fresh in his mind.

Doctor Calhoun’s voice regained some strength, and she took a deep breath. “Listen to me, Captain. After running comparisons on all the information our director could have known, we found historical records that indicate another pivotal point in Time. Personal journals and eyewitness accounts of surrounding events justify our suspicions. It was only a-...well, just a matter of time before the puzzle became a more complete picture. The abduction of our director was the final piece, and now we feel it is safe to say that the danger is more substantial than at first believed.”

Before either officer could speak, she patted the silent Guardian and shook her head. “An attack is imminent, but for some reason the Guardian can’t or won’t elaborate. In fact, we believe it has gone into some sort of hibernation, perhaps as a protective measure. I don’t know if you noticed, but the spatial distortion in this area isn’t as severe lately.”

Kirk wouldn’t say that. After achieving a rough orbit, the ‘Enterprise’ had bucked and trembled like a nervous stallion. If anything, he felt that the waves of temporal displacement had grown stronger, as though space itself were seething.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “If you don’t know where or when the attack will occur, how do you intend to stop it?”

Clearing her throat, Dr. Calhoun spoke quietly. “Captain...you already did.”

Kirk stared at her without speaking, the color washed from his cheeks.

Dr. Calhoun glanced at the Vulcan scientist for assistance. He remained as silent as the Sphinx, but his disapproval was evident in his frosty glare. ‘Don’t ask him to do this’, his gaze seemed to say.

Steeling her nerves, Dr. Calhoun faced the intense young officer. “Kirk, whoever it is, they intend to-...I mean, they did-...go back in time to alter events, but you successfully stopped them. Or you will-...” Struggling to explain to a layman was beyond Dr. Calhoun’s powers obviously, for she flung her hands up in exasperation.

“Captain,” the burgundy tones of the first officer helped bring a moment of clarity to the situation. “Many generations of your family have held important roles in history, whether they were aware of it or not. By eliminating an early key progenitor from that bloodline, one may effectively prevent the contributions of later generations. While this is true of all families, yours obviously holds special interest to some enemies of the Federation, notably the Klingons.”

Spock’s gaze held as much compassion as it was possible for a Vulcan to have, and perhaps something more. He stared at Kirk, the dark brows slanted and slashing as raven’s wings. “Sir, simply put, you would not be here today, if you had not been there yesterday. If the Klingons had succeeded in killing a key ancestor of yours, you would not have been born to fight the Klingons, and thus they would have never known defeat at your hands. It is the same as with-...” He paused, reluctant to bring up Edith Keeler’s name. Not that he had to; no doubt Jim’s lost love was forever in his thoughts.

Strolling around the arch, Dr. Calhoun continued, oblivious to the captain’s pain. “Since the Klingons don’t have the Guardian, they can’t know the outcome of their actions beforehand, as we do. Yet we can’t stop the wheels once they’re turning, Captain. History doesn’t lie; you were there before, and you must be there again. This isn’t just a simple assassination, it could be the end of everything.”

Feeling a chill race up his spine, Kirk suddenly understood. The decision had been made before he was born; there was nothing he could do to alter it. To attempt to do so might risk creating another temporal rift, with its awful Hydra of ripple effects extending into eternity. Trapped like a fly in amber, he felt as though the entire universe were scheming against him.

Casting his gaze downward in rare surrender, Kirk finally murmured, “What do you want out of me?” He didn’t see the solemn nod the doctor gave him, or notice the regret in the Vulcan’s dark eyes.

Long moments passed in silence, as though to allow the captain time to mourn the end of the peace of mind he had finally achieved. Then the shrill note of his communicator cut through the uneasy silence. Kirk barely had the small device open before the chief engineer’s frantic report rushed out in his heavy Scottish brogue.

“Captain, we’re under attack! A ship came out of the asteroid cluster and got off a few photon torpedoes before we could raise shields! We’ve taken several serious hits, and sensors indicate a Klingon warship advancing-...!”

A thunderous explosion interrupted the engineer, and Kirk heard the helmsman’s voice ring out over the wail of the red alert klaxon. “Mr. Scott! We have a breach on decks five through fifteen. Life support is failing-...”

“Scotty-...!”

Kirk felt a cold hand on his arm, and he met the disturbed gaze of the little doctor. “It’s begun,” she said. The captain stared at her, staggered by the enormity of the responsibility thrust upon him. She gently steered him toward the spartan buildings beyond the silent Guardian. “Let’s go to my office, shall we? Doctor McCoy will be there by now, and we have many preparations to make-...”

* * *

Roused by the uncommon sound of silence, the sergeant opened his eyes. For a few seconds, he lay still in the bottom of the bomb crater and listened to his pulse, stunned that his heart still beat. Stiffly turning his head, he struggled to focus through rolling vision.

Their energies spent, the two mighty armies had left nothing but casualties and desolation in their wake. A sooty curtain of smoke shrouded the setting sun, casting an eerie copper pallor over the land. The withering humidity of July sprawled heavily across the battlefield, smothering even the drone of a billion greedy flies. Time seemed suspended, elastic in the heat. Nothing seemed real.

Then Sarge saw two figures appear from the haze and approach him unerringly. It was as though they had selected him from the multitude of dead and wounded. The taller man carried a medic’s rucksack. His helmet looked new, the painted red cross sharp and pristine. Saunders blinked dully, confused by the inconsistency. Doc’s helmet was so battered and faded, it seemed like a relic of another war.

Clamoring down into the crater, the men knelt by his side. “Take it easy, Sergeant. We’re here to help you,” the medic said. The other soldier remained silent, his gaze intense. Captain’s insignia flashed in the glow of a burning tank. This man, too, looked untouched by the dirty business of war, his uniform barely wrinkled or soiled. His sandy hair was neat, his face freshly shaved and clean. It was like the two of them just dropped in from thin air.

“How do you feel, son?” the medic asked gently, pressing a cool compress against Sarge’s torn, bloody temple.

“Fine, sir,” Saunders automatically answered. In fact, he was not; even he knew it. So he wasn’t surprised at the skeptical look in the medic’s eyes.

The captain glanced at the medic, a silent query in his gaze. The medic nodded, seeming to read the captain’s mind. They must have served a long time together, Saunders thought, watching their ease of communication.

“You’re lucky we found you,” the captain explained quietly. “Enemy lines are just over that ridge. They’re regrouping, planning for a counterattack. They would’ve run right over you.”

“Thanks,” Sarge said in a parched voice. “Thanks for saving my butt...”

For some reason, the captain laughed quietly at that. His handsome features softened into a smile, and his eyes were warm as he and the medic exchanged bemused looks. “Not precisely what we came here to save,” the medic said lightly. “But close enough for argument’s sake.”

Confused by the remark, Sarge chose to ignore it. His thoughts were sluggish and drifting, distorted by intense pain. He felt himself starting to slip back into oblivion, and he fought it with waning strength.

German artillery flashed across the darkening horizon like heat lightning. The brief lull in hostilities had ended; the tide of war was returning. Any hope of retreat back to Allied lines had to wait until the bombardment ceased.

Backlit by distant explosions, the ‘Enterprise’ men helped the sergeant to a nearby cave. Fortunately, the French countryside was honeycombed with small cellars like this one, and Kirk dragged leafy debris closer to hide the opening.

Collapsing onto the floor of the cave, Saunders felt sick from the pain in his skull. Even the weak light of dusk hurt his eyes. The medic examined Sarge’s wound, clearly concerned. Rising, he paced over to the captain and spoke softly, but he may as well have shouted. The acoustics of the cave carried his words to Sarge’s ears.

“We’ve got to take him back. That’s a bad wound; I need to check for fractures or bleeding.”

The captain objected quietly. “No, it’s not time, yet. You know that.”

“What’s the point if he dies?” the medic argued in an angry whisper. “We’ll be stuck here forever!”

The officer shook his head. His voice was low with regret, but resolute. “We can’t risk it. You’ll have to do what you can here.”

Sarge didn’t detect any malice from either man, yet there was no explanation for their presence or actions. What was going on? Why didn’t they take him to the Aid Station? What did the officer mean, ‘not time, yet’?

“Who-...?” Sarge gasped. It felt as though his brain were threatening to burst. His vision blurred, and he pressed a shaking hand over his eyes. The side of his head felt chilly, and he knew he had started to bleed again.

“Relax, Sergeant, struggling only makes it worse,” the medic said, returning to his side. Sarge grimaced and fought the waves of dizziness. His eardrums throbbed and he barely heard the medic’s next words. “I’ll give you something for pain.”

“No-...m-morphine,” Sarge whispered.

“Oh, God, no,” the medic said, sounding appalled at the mere suggestion. “You know how many addicts were created by-...?” He paused as the captain reached out and touched his sleeve, and his sentence trailed off unfinished.

The captain stared at Sarge, his hazel eyes unreadable. He seemed to look right through Saunders’ head, and it made the noncom uncomfortable as hell. Something wasn’t right. His intuition told him so, and he’d learn to trust it with his life.

Germans; they had to be. Vultures picking through the remains, looking for scraps of information to help turn the tide of their Fuhrer’s misfortune. Saunders managed a bitter smirk; they’d have to look elsewhere for their secrets. If these two meant to drag him to Berlin and throw him at Hitler’s feet, he wouldn’t have the strength to resist. But he wouldn’t cooperate.

“Saunders...Sergeant,” he rasped. “Two-...two-seven...ohhh-...” The final word ended in a quavering groan. Sarge’s eyes were damp as pain wracked his head. His heart pounded, knocking the air from his lungs, and cold sweat beaded his brow.

The captain’s voice came from far away. “Sergeant, I know what you’re thinking, but I assure you-...”

“It won’t work,” Sarge stated defiantly, hoping he sounded tougher than he felt. “Better just kill me.”

The captain’s chin lifted in something like respect. Next to him, the medic glanced at the officer. “Seems to be genetic,” he remarked in a wry tone, confusing Saunders.

Before the sergeant could ask what he meant, another soldier approached the earthen cellar. At first glance, Sarge mistook the lean, dark figure for Hanley. Then the features took on definition as the soldier stooped slightly and entered the cave. Sarge felt a wave of surprise and relief at the sound of a familiar voice.

“Sir, the barrage has lifted, but will resume in a matter of hours. By dawn, enemy forces will converge near here at-...”

“Neumann!” Sarge gasped. Hadn’t it only been a few weeks ago that the private was hovering on death’s door? He’d been seriously injured after an SS officer threw a grenade inside a captured German field hospital. He hadn’t been expected to survive; now here he was.

The private’s angular face seemed stoic, unrecognizable from the sensitive young translator from New England. Something had happened to steal his sense of humanity. Saunders wondered if what he’d heard was true; that there were ways to brainwash a man into complete compliance. “Neumann...”

As Sarge struggled to sit up, the medic reached quickly into his rucksack and withdrew a slender silver device. Before Saunders could react, he pressed it against the sergeant’s arm, but nothing happened. Sarge was no doctor, but he knew the strange instrument wasn’t standard government issue.

Reaching out with clumsy fingers, Saunders clutched the site of the injection, as though trying to drag the lethal dose from his flesh. “Who are you?” he demanded in a fading voice. “What was that?”

Although he tried, he couldn’t fully disguise his fear. He’d seen for himself Nazi atrocities, the medical experiments and torture of helpless prisoners. It was his worst nightmare come true: to be taken captive by the Germans.

The static in Saunders’ ears grew louder, invading his senses. A paralyzing fog filled his brain. The medic’s face retreated in his narrowing vision, but Sarge felt the man pat him gently on the shoulder. “It’s all right, sir. Believe me, you’re among friends.”

Before Saunders could automatically berate the medic for calling him ‘sir’, he was deeply asleep.

* * *

Nelson huddled on one side of the deep trench, his feet pulled in tight to avoid being trampled. The intervals between bombardments had allowed the men time to regroup, reload and rest. Trenches had been dug around the ruined village, and soldiers were packed in like sardines. Half the company seemed to be slumped in exhaustion or pain, and the other half hustled to refuel the war machine so the first half could keep fighting. Many men would die at dawn, vying for a pile of rubble that had once been a village. It was insane, but Billy knew it was a necessary madness.

The darkness seemed alive, lurking and scheming beyond his sight, and he knew it wasn’t just his imagination. Those Germans were really mean fighters, really tough. They didn’t give up ground easily. They’d make the Americans pay dearly in blood for every inch they wrested away from the Fatherland.

Billy would hate to be out there, alone among those rotten krauts. He felt their eyes on him now, and he shivered. “He’s dead, I can just feel it-...” he said softly. Next to him, a dozing mountain shifted uncomfortably and sighed.

“Cut it out, Billy. I don’t wanna hear that kinda talk.” Littlejohn’s tone was quiet but firm, reluctant to hear his worst fears given voice. How many times had they had this conversation? Each time could be the last; and each time was worse than the one before it.

Worse, because war was hell, and Sarge had seen more of it than anyone in the squad. They couldn’t make it without him, yet most of them feared he would never make it home with them. His boldness seemed to defy the laws of luck. And everyone knew luck only carried a man so far.

Staring into the black night, Littlejohn swallowed the lump in his throat, willing his voice not to wobble. “Sarge is lucky, Billy...smart and lucky. He’ll make it back.”

“You really think so?”

“Oh, yah.” Littlejohn knew Billy wasn’t convinced. Yet, like all of them, he clung to whatever hope was offered.

Nelson stared over the edge of the trench, his eyes dark with worry. He was too keyed up to sleep, despite the rigors of the day’s fighting. The thought of Saunders lying out there alone ate at him like acid. “Jeez, Littlejohn, the lieutenant won’t even let us go look for him. It’s just not right!”

“Hanley would do it if he could, Billy. But you know it’s different for officers,” Littlejohn said quietly. “He’s gotta think about a lot of guys, not just one sergeant.”

“Oh, bull hockey!” Billy blurted, in what passed for scandalous profanity at his house. “Saunders is his friend, like you’re mine! I’d disobey orders in a minute to save you, Littlejohn. Hanley can’t order us to go find the Sarge, but maybe that’s what he wants us to do! Besides, we don’t hafta tell him. He won’t get in trouble if he doesn’t know-...!”

“Yes, he will, Billy,” Littlejohn interrupted solemnly. “It’s his job to give orders, and ours to follow ‘em. He looks bad if his men don’t follow orders. He’ll get in trouble if we go out there; he’ll get in big trouble if we get ourselves killed. Now you don’t wanna see that happen to a nice guy like Lieutenant Hanley, do ya?”

Frustrated with the familiar argument, Billy spoke hotly. “You know what? It sounds like you’re makin’ excuses not to go help Sarge! What’s wrong with you, Littlejohn? I can’t believe you don’t even wanna try!”

“Now you know better than that, Billy.” Nelson couldn’t see Littlejohn’s face, but the big man’s voice sounded hurt.

Falling silent, Nelson gazed up at the stars. Same constellations as the ones over his hometown, but now they seemed alien. Cold. It was a hostile, cold world, filled with uncertainty. The only thing he knew for sure was that he had no reign over any of it. The only thing he truly owned in this life was his soul, and he would determine its course.

A peculiar calmness filled him, and he took a deep breath. “Okay,” he said aloud, steeling himself for the coming task.

It felt good to reach a decision, to feel the sudden alignment of his chaotic thoughts. He glanced at his buddy Littlejohn. Littlejohn met his gaze and smiled ruefully, as though struck by the same mutinous inspiration. Together they stood and gathered their rifles, then vanished into the night, right under the sentries’ noses.

Determined and unstoppable, they had a destination, a plan of action from which they would not be deflected. Their sergeant was missing; maybe alive, maybe not. Either way, they were going to bring him home.

* * *

Patrolling the perimeter of the CP, anxiety gnawed on Kirby’s nerves. He felt as though he’d jump out of his skin any second now. Sarge’s disappearance was driving him to distraction. Not a good thing when you’re on sentry duty, but for cryin’ out loud! Jampel wouldn’t even let Kirby go back to look for Sarge! Ordered him to take this stupid assignment; guarding the guards who guarded the command post. Talk about paranoid. Hell, if it weren’t for guys like Sarge, there’d be no command post to protect!

Now the brass was too worried about a counterstrike to spare a single soldier. Kirby snorted scornfully: pussies.

Hitching his shoulders edgily, the BAR man glared into the dark. No moon tonight. Could be good or bad; it worked both ways. They’d managed to repulse the first enemy attack, but rumor had it the Germans were gathering their scattered forces together in a last stand. Either it was just a rumor, or it was going to be a long night. He sure wished the Sarge were here.

“Look sharp, soldier,” a clipped voice spoke behind him. Startled, Kirby whirled around. An oily-looking lieutenant appeared out of the shadows. He looked like a villain stepping from the pages of a penny-dreadful, arching black eyebrows and all.

“You’re Saunders’ man, aren’t you?” he asked, cupping a cigarette in his hand. Kirby glanced nervously at the orange glow of the ember. A kraut sniper was probably zeroing in on that target right now.

He stepped back carefully and nodded, clutching his BAR tighter to his chest. The lieutenant took a deep drag on the cigarette and exhaled a cloud of bluish smoke. “Came by to see if he showed up here. Guess he got it in the last wave.” He smiled, showing sharp, ochre-colored teeth. “That’s too bad. He was a tough bastard.”

“He still is!” Kirby said hotly, before he remembered the rank of the idiot he was talking to.

The lieutenant nodded distractedly and took another deep drag. “Yeah, okay.” He turned a vaguely arrogant gaze on Kirby and dropped the cigarette butt in the dirt. Crushing it under his boot, he turned to leave. “Keep on your toes, Private, lest you find yourself entertaining the enemy unaware.”

Kirby wanted to spit at his retreating back. Instead, he muttered through clenched teeth, “Yessir. G‘night, sir,” and willed his trigger finger to relax. What in blue blazes did that dumb remark even mean?

Yanking around and resuming his patrol, Kirby fumed in outrage and insult. He hated officers. Always had. Unreasonable bastards. Always findin’ ways to step on the enlisted guys. ‘Cept maybe Hanley; he was all right. And Sarge, of course. But not them others, no, sir. They didn’t care about nuthin’ but their own limp...

“Hey, Kirby, stop playing with yourself and stay alert!” Caje hissed, strolling past on patrol.

“Shaddap!” Kirby responded sourly. He adjusted the heavy rifle straps and scowled, but kept prowling the perimeter. God, he wished Saunders were here...

* * *

Caje fixed his gaze on the path before him. He had to be doubly sharp to take up Kirby’s slack. Still, he understood the reason for the BAR man’s distress. Sarge could be hurt or dying, waiting for help that would never arrive. And here they were, stuck baby-sitting the brass. It was nerve-wracking.

The scout looked at the sky. It was so dark. Perfect conditions for hunting Germans. He only hoped they didn’t feel the same way about Americans.

“Sarge...where are you?” Caje whispered to the indigo night. He had a bad feeling in his belly. His Aunt Pettigrew had the power to sense the supernatural, and she could also foresee disaster. Caje often had premonitions that came true, but he never told anyone. They’d call him crazy and he’d lose their trust. Still, it’s what made him such an effective scout. It’s why Sarge depended on him.

Now the thought of the sergeant filled the Cajun with dread. The stars themselves seemed to urge him to hasten to Saunders’ side, before it was too late. But how? How, when he was stuck fulfilling his duty to the rest of the Army?

Kirby’s face was a tight, pale mask as the two men passed again in the night. His lips were pressed into a thin line of anger and his dark eyes were stormy. He didn’t speak to Caje; he undoubtedly felt he was alone in his frustration.

“Kirby,” Caje murmured in passing. No answer. It took two more complete circuits before he got a response out of the simmering soldier. “Kirby, dammit!”

“What?”

“Did you hear something?”

“What?” Kirby sounded irritated. Caje couldn’t see him, but he heard him stop on the path. The scout could tell Kirby was straining to see through the darkness. “What did you hear? Where?”

“There it is again!” Caje lied. He deliberately spoke loud enough for the next sentry to hear. “Maybe we should go check it out, Kirby.” There was no response, and Caje exhaled impatiently. “Hey, Kirby-..!”

Suddenly, the BAR man was at his side, jostling him to be quiet. “Keep it down, willya?” He glanced around quickly, his voice low. “I get it, I get it, okay? Just a quick look that turns into a recon for the Sarge. For the record, I thought of it first. I just don’t wanna get my head blown off. Especially by our own guys, y’know?”

Sometimes the goldbrick was brilliant. “Tell me something, Kirby,” Caje asked softly, grinning. “You got any Cajun blood in you?”

* * *

Hanley paced restlessly in the small, dank confines of the officers’ tent. He kept looking at his watch, frowning as the minutes dragged by. This situation was growing ridiculous. Never before had he felt so weighed down by his bars. Part of him wanted to disobey orders; leave at once, grab first squad and go find Saunders. The other part - the part his logical mind ruled - forced him to abide.

The turmoil in his soul made his head pound. It was impossible to sit still. He paced the tent until his long legs ached with fatigue and he wanted to bellow in impotent rage. And yet he waited, too well trained to do anything else.

A corporal appeared at the tent door. “Sir, possible enemy activity has been detected on our eastern perimeter. Two of the sentries are going to check on it.”

“What kind of-...?” Hanley paused, a line forming between his brows. “Who did you say the sentries were, Corporal?”

“Sir, I didn’t. But it’s two of your men: LeMay and Kirby.”

Hanley subconsciously ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, considering. Then he straightened his shoulders and spoke in a brisk voice. “Tell them to take our medic.” At the young soldier’s confused expression, he added: “In case they run into trouble...or find one of the wounded.”

Nodding, the corporal dashed away to fulfill his orders. Alone again, Hanley released the deep breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. His eyes sank shut in relief. “Good luck, guys,” he whispered. “Bring him back.”

* * *

Working quickly while the sergeant was unconscious, the three men of the ‘Enterprise’ huddled over the tiny glowing screen of Spock’s tricorder. As the Vulcan had stated so succinctly during their last fateful journey through the Guardian, his tricorder would not work in this zinc-plated, vacuum-tubed culture. Unable to access the vast computer banks of the starship, their information was limited, at best. They would have been better off with a tattered copy of a Twentieth century sixth-grade American history book.

All they knew was that a battle was brewing. Without hope of accuracy, the best they could do was to correlate the ancient accounts and plan their next move. The Klingons didn’t care which fight was in progress; they only needed the cover of war to hide their misdeeds. Whether Saunders’ lineage survived or not, there was still the matter of secrecy. No need to tip their hand to the humans, give them centuries of advance notice of invasion. If Earth could produce one Kirk, it could undoubtedly make more.

Relying on their own military training, the officers hurried to take stock of their defenses and try to tip the scale in their favor. Aside from their replicas of the M-1 Garand, they had Saunders’ Thompson and sidearm. By adjusting his medical scanner to detect alien life signs, McCoy rigged an alarm to alert the men if a Klingon approached the area.

He demonstrated the soft signal for them by aiming the device at the Vulcan. “See? If anything weird and cold-blooded approaches, it’ll tell us so we can blow the points off it’s ears...” he grinned.

When the coast was clear, Spock and McCoy slipped out of the cave. The Vulcan left to patrol the perimeter of their temporary haven; the doctor accompanied him, using the excuse of needing fresh water. Kirk knew it was a ruse to leave him alone with the recovering sergeant. He didn’t mind precisely, but he couldn’t shake a vague sense of animosity.

As intriguing as it was to meet an ancestor in the flesh, Kirk didn’t belong here. This wasn’t his time. Frankly, after the last encounter with the Guardian, he never wanted to see anything older than his own century, again. For him, the distant past was steeped in pain.

Kirk regarded the scruffy young sergeant in silence, his brows drawn together in a mild frown. How could he tell this man that his company command post was destined to be obliterated by German rockets tonight? His squad was no doubt stationed there. Men he had grown fond of; men for whom he was responsible. Yet they would die, nonetheless. They were supposed to: History said so.

Cursing softly, Kirk rose and went to the mouth of the cave to seek the stars. Whenever he was on a planet, his gaze invariably sought the constellations, as though he derived sustenance from their spark. He longed to return to the cold, uncluttered reaches of space; it mirrored the way he felt inside. Edith’s death had extinguished something vital within him, and being here reminded him of his loss. He didn’t know if he could care for anyone ever again.

The sergeant grimaced in his sleep, but made no sound. With his sturdy, compact frame and legendary toughness, Saunders seemed perfectly adapted to this harsh job. And while his rumpled countenance and slouching saunter didn't fit the part of courageous warrior or skilled tactician, behind those piercing blue eyes lay a brilliant and agile mind.

Staring at him, Kirk recognized the family features; the fair hair and light-colored eyes, the strong jaw and brow. Saunders resembled Kirk’s father, or at least the way his father had looked the last time Jim saw him. Treacherous space had swallowed George Kirk’s ship a long time ago, leaving no trace behind. No legacy for his sons, no husband for his wife.

Kirk wondered what his father would’