Residual: Part XI – Tried, Not Tamed

Posted on Mon Dec 1st, 2025 @ 3:01pm by Sergeant Jace Morven

3,103 words; about a 16 minute read

Forward Command Base, 77th Infantry Battalion, February 15, 2375

The fusion generator groans when it cycle. Something too thin in the current, stretched over too many systems. The lights flicker again above us, hazy yellow through layers of grit, like they’re afraid to stay on too long. The wind howls against the outer bulkhead, metal flexing with it, a long creak that slides through the walls and into your chest if you let it. Somewhere outside, the storm’s still going, voice sharp with sand.

It’s been thirty hours since we got back. A Lieutenant took our names, ranks, then the reports…and left us. No additional orders, no commendation, no reprimand. Nothing. Somehow, that unsettles me more. The lack of a reaction, until we were pulled in to debrief. One by one, same room, same chair, same questions phrased different ways. I know because it isn’t the first time I’ve experienced it, and the others…talked. As far as I can tell, we all answered them with the truth. They say truth will set you free. Sometimes, all it does is tighten the leash.

They took the prisoners. Loaded them into the med transport with field tags and vacuum blankets, no names spoken. Someone said one of them coded on the pad, lungs too far gone, no matter what they tried they just…gave up. No one confirmed it though. Didn’t matter, not really. They were off-world, as far away from that camp as warp could take them. That was enough.

I sit on the edge of the bunk, elbows on my knees, fingers laced. The uniform’s clean. I got issued one, the other one too far gone to save. I hate to see it go, given time I could have gotten the grit out.

The boots aren’t clean. There’s still blood on them. Not because it means something. I just haven’t scraped it off yet. It feels far away, like everything else. Across the room, Martinez leans back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of them. They’ve got a PADD balanced on their thigh, but it’s dark. Been dark for hours. They aren’t reading it. Just holding on, finding something to trace with their fingers.

I don’t speak. I rarely do after. Not when it’s done. There’s a kind of silence that sets in once you’ve pushed past the part where words matter. It wraps around the air like gauze. I know if I try too soon, what will come out will be Turkana Creole, not Standard. I listen instead. To the wind clawing outside the hull. To the sharp little cough two rooms over. To the thrum of the vents straining against sand and time. The bones of this base creak like they want to be anywhere else.

Eventually, Martinez says, quiet but not brittle, “You think they’re gonna court-martial us?”

I don’t look up. My tongue works inside my mouth, taking the language in my head, the shorthand words, and twisting them into Standard. It takes longer than I like. “Probably not.” Because there’s something to weigh up. A General would have come, or at least a Colonel. Someone with gravitas to beat us down with it.

“You that confident?” Martinez’s eyes find mine, briefly, but I can’t hold them for too long. Even a friendly stare raises the hackles when I feel like this. Like something cold’s gripping at my skin, ready to drag me down again into instinct.

“No.” I pause. “Just doesn’t feel important to them. Not yet.”

They exhale slowly, head tipping back until it rests against the bulkhead. Their silhouette is all hollow edges in the low light. “One of the prisoners. Bajoran. Kept thanking me. Over and over. Like I saved him.” Their voice dips, something pulling tight beneath it. “I didn’t even open his cell. Banik did.”

My eyes track the scuffed line where floor plating buckles slightly near the hatch. “People look for shapes. Something to hold on to. They pick whoever’s still standing.”

That gets their eyes again, steady and tired. “You make sense of it?”

My jaw locks a little. I tighten my grip, fingers tangled together. “No. But I know what I saw.” I lift my head and meet their eyes across the space. “I saw a boy executed for trying to help. And I saw what we did because of it.”

Martinez watches me for a long moment. Then their voice drops. “You don’t regret it.”

“No.” That word doesn’t slice like a blade. It’s quieter than that. Just truth, because I don’t regret it. “I regret it took that long.”

The quiet after is heavier, but not sharp. Not cold. Just shared. Martinez’s head tilts slightly. “They said he had a name. Damar. His cousin was part of the camp. Reported him for sharing food, they think.”

That makes me blink. Not the betrayal. I’ve seen worse. But the name. It catches, because I didn’t want it. Didn’t need it. But it is there now, it has to live in the part of me that never forgets no matter how much I try. I shift my weight, reach for something tucked in the edge of my belt pouch. Pull it out, slowly. I rarely take it out, but I have always kept it. A strip of cloth. Once it was red, even then somewhat faded. It’s frayed through the years...a bit scorched from when I’ve taken fire. I turn it in my fingers, slow. Martinez doesn’t ask. I don’t offer, not right away. But then I speak, quiet. “When I was a kid, there was a boy. Not much older than Damar. Had a scarf like this. I kept it.”

“Why?” Martinez asks, and there’s a quietness to the voice…as if they are afraid I’ll shut up if they push too hard. They know me well, and they’re probably right.

My eyes stay on the cloth. “Because he ran. And I didn’t.” Instead I had shot the boy, back when killing other Factions was just another task that kept me fed. I...like to think I am better than that now. I’m not so sure now, sitting here, remembering the dustburn we walked through to take out the camp. And how easily I could let go on everything that made me a person to accomplish the task.

They don’t say anything after that. Just get up, walk the few paces over, and sit beside me. No contact. Not at first. Just near enough. And that’s enough. I don’t look at them. But after a breath, I speak again. Voice rough with something I don’t name. “We’ll get orders soon. A reprimand. Maybe nothing. Maybe a medal.”

Their laugh is breath, not humour. “Federation’s real good at medals.”

I nod once. “Don’t want one.” The words are final. Because this…doesn’t sit with medals. It was a thing that needed doing. I take no pride in it. No one should. But it needed to be done and Command wouldn’t let us.

There’s a pause. Then the faintest pressure against my shoulder. Their own, just resting there. Barely anything. But it settles against me, pushes the dark edges away from my vision. “Then we don’t take it,” they say, softly.

We sit like that. Still. Breathing. Letting the war hang behind us in the air like something moulted and too large to bury. There’s nothing left to say. We already said it when we moved. When we chose. When we made sure that boy didn’t die for nothing. And whatever comes next, I already know this much: I’m not sorry.

A few hours later, I’m called to report to Colonel Halric. The movement is automatic, there is no choice so my body does what it always does…it moves. The two troopers standing outside the door don’t say anything. They don’t even meet my eyes. They just move aside when they see me coming. No salute, no curiosity. We all know this part. They recognise me. Or at least they recognise the version of me that came back from that camp.

The door hisses open. I step inside. It’s a converted cargo room, same as most of Forward Command. Hastily laid fibrecrete underfoot, corners still showing the lines where cargo brackets used to bolt down. There’s a desk in the centre, bolted to the floor like they’re worried the wind might pick it up and toss it through the wall. One Federation flag behind it, limp and colourless in the dry air. There’s dust in the seams of the floor plating, somehow…managed to get in via troopers or just the vents. The lighting hums with that uneven flicker you only notice when everything else is too quiet.

The air tastes like all forward bases do…chemically scrubbed, dry, and slightly sour with something that isn’t quite decay but remembers it. Like every breath here has been used before. Probably by someone already dead. I note the lack of anything remotely resembling comfort to senior officers. Just the desk, one chair behind, one in front. I know the angle of the walls. There are no windows. Only one exit, which is now behind me. I stand. Still, quiet. Waiting.

I already know what this is. And I already know what I’ll say.

Lieutenant Colonel Halric doesn’t look up right away. He’s reading something on a PADD, eyes scanning with the steady stillness of someone who’s read worse and seen more. His face is all sharp lines and weathered control, the kind of man built to absorb bad news and deliver worse. Close-cropped hair. Deep lines around the eyes. The uniform fits like it belongs on him, not like he’s clinging to rank but like it’s woven into the muscle and bone. He reminds me of rusted steel: not fragile, not flexible, just permanent. “Corporal Morven,” he says, finally lifting his eyes to meet mine. “Sit down.”

I watch him for a breath. Not out of defiance, just to see if he blinks. He doesn’t. So I sit. Hands flat on my thighs, my back straight. Mind focused, yet distant. The silence lingers, thick with the weight of things unspoken and the knowledge that this moment could break clean in any direction.

Halric taps the PADD once. Doesn’t look at it this time. “Fourteen prisoners recovered. No squad casualties. No enemy survivors.” He sets it down with quiet finality. “You want to tell me what happened?”

“No, sir.” I let the pause settle where it needs to. “The report’s accurate.” Because it is. I recorded it myself, the facts. Timestamps. Layout. Enemy combatants. Rescued POWs.

Halric studies me now. Not the report. Not the incident code or the sequence of events or even the outcomes. Me. Like he’s taking the measure of a machine he’s never quite trusted, wondering what’s changed in the gears. I hold still. Let him look. Let him draw whatever conclusions he wants. I’m not hiding anything, but I’m not offering it up, either. What’s written on my face isn’t pride. It isn’t guilt. It’s nothing - and everything.

He takes a breath. Slow. Measured. “You broke orders,” he says. The words are steady. Not accusatory, not warm. Just the even tone of a man who’s repeated too many disciplinary protocols in rooms like this.

“I broke silence,” I reply, voice flat but grounded. Not defensive. Not seeking ground to stand on. Just naming what happened in the clearest way I know how.

He leans back, folds his arms across his chest. The chair creaks slightly beneath him. His fingers drum once against the sleeve of his uniform, then stop. His mouth tightens, showing off his face more in the light. Gaunt, clean-shaven, the lines drawn deep around his mouth like they were carved by habit rather than age. Wind-burnt from recent fieldwork. But his eyes are still administrative, scanning for what fits, what breaks pattern. “You saw the execution of a member of Starfleet,” he says. His voice is a degree cooler now. Less room for interpretation.

“Yes, sir.” That’s all I give. I let the word settle like a stone dropped into sand. It is in the report. We even have the footage, although that was whisked away by Intelligence the second we came back.

There is a pause. Another breath, deep. He’s not scowling, but the coldness is still there. I feel it prickling my skin as he speaks. “And you acted.” I don’t answer. There’s nothing in my silence that invites clarification. He knows what I did. He just wants to know if I’ll own it aloud. He shifts slightly, reads from something only half glanced at on his PADD. “You were deployed without a proper NCO. Sergeant of record’s been up at 77th since the Vargo operation. No replacement filed.” His gaze lifts. Narrows. “So on paper, you weren’t in charge. But in practice…”

“I was.” It comes out quiet, but firm. No need to add more. Ever since Tho died, they’ve somehow followed me. I put it down as I moved and they needed to move too to stay alive.

“You stepped in,” Halric observes, sitting back slightly.

I nod. Nothing more. The chair beneath me doesn’t creak. I’m too used to stillness.

“You led.” He lets that hang. Watching. Measuring.

I don’t respond. Not because it isn’t true. But because that word never sat right in my mouth. Other people lead. I move when no one else will. I hold the line because someone has to. The moment needed someone to act, and it happened to be me. That doesn’t make me anything more than what I’ve always been…a weapon built for the places that decent people don’t want to see. But I feel the weight of the silence between us now. The choice we both know I made. And the ones he has yet to name.

Halric taps the PADD again. Not for emphasis. Just something for his fingers to do. I recognise the movement. Officers with too many reports and not enough certainties always come back to their hands. It’s the only part of them that still moves when the rest starts to slow. “You’re not what Command looks for in a leader, Morven.”

I don’t flinch. I don’t argue. “I know.” I have seen the leaders of the Ground Forces, of Starfleet. I know I am nothing like them. I’m not someone you can bring into a briefing, or invite to a gathering.

He doesn’t soften the words. Just keeps going, like he’s reading a list that’s already written itself. “You don’t inspire trust. You don’t boost morale. You don’t…” he pauses, not for effect, just to find the right failure, “set an example.”

My voice stays low. Measured. “But I’m not dead.” It settles between us. Not as a challenge. Just the fact of it. Then I add, “And neither are they.”

That’s the piece that makes him stop. I don’t know what he is thinking. I can’t tell if it is a good silence or bad, just that his eyes pin me to the chair. And then he looks away first. “I don’t think they even know they’re following you,” he says quietly.

I don’t answer. Because I don’t think they know either. It’s just become habit now, our little squad. Moving together as part of a clock, slotted together to run perfectly on time.

He slides the PADD across the desk. It skims the surface slow, deliberate. “You won’t be promoted. Not now. Too much heat. Too many black marks.”

I give the smallest shrug. “I don’t want promotion.” Truth is, I don’t think that it would matter if I wanted it anyway. Easier not to want things. Less to be taken from you.

He watches me. Longer this time. The kind of look that isn’t about evaluation anymore. It’s something older. Closer to understanding. “Then what do you want?”

The question appears soft, but it feels heavier than the rest. I let it hang. I’ve been asked before. Years ago, by Dannic. I had no answer then. I have none now. “I don’t know.”

He leans back slowly. Like he already knew that would be my answer. “But I know this. If Command starts cleaning house, you’re the first to go. Not the sergeant who vanished. Not the lieutenants who’ve never seen a body burn. You.” My jaw shifts. I don’t break eye contact. He leans closer to me, over the desk, the PADD sliding across the table to his side. “They don’t like wolves in the pen,” he says.

I hold his eyes, unblinking. “Then don’t put sheep in the field,” I say, because it is the truth. They wouldn't have need of someone like me if they only prepared their people for what war really was.

He flinches. Not physically, but I see it in his eyes. That brief recognition. He means it as a warning. I take it as a fact. They’ve called me a wolf before. Said it like a slur. Like I’m the reason decent men get chewed up out there. But I’ve seen what happens when you send uniforms into a slaughterhouse and tell them to hold the line with hope and regulations.

If I’m a wolf, it’s because I learned too young what fear smells like. Because I remember what it costs to be soft. Because someone has to bite back when the predators are wearing medals. At least wolves protect their own. I never wanted to lead. I still don’t. I just wanted them alive. And they are.

Halric gives a grim, tired smile. Brief. “Dismissed.”

I stand. Turn. Walk out. No salute. No words. No echo. Just footsteps.

---

Sergeant Jace Morven
Platoon Sergeant, Alpha Squad
Federation Ground Forces
USS Guinevere

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