Small Wins [5/6]

Posted on Sat Jun 21st, 2025 @ 11:56am by Sergeant Jace Morven

2,116 words; about a 11 minute read

Mission: Prologue
Location: USS Guinevere
Timeline: 2388

Forward Command Base 77th, February 15, 2375

The lights in the converted cargo space were kept low, flickering with the hum of overtaxed generators. The ceiling creaked when the wind pressed too hard against the bulkhead. Outside the reinforced windows, the sandstorm still raged.

It had been over thirty hours since they returned. No word from Command.
They’d washed. Changed clothes. Small things. Not rituals...just ways to scrape the mission off their skin. The prisoners had been evac’d off-world. Medical transport. No ceremony.

The squad had gone through debrief. Questions asked. Answers offered with practiced stillness. And then: silence. The kind that stretched long. The kind no one wanted to break.

Jace sat on the edge of his bunk, elbows on his knees, fingers laced. Clean uniform. Blood still on his boots. Not from sentiment. He just hadn’t felt the need. Across the room, Martinez leaned against the wall, legs stretched out, a battered PADD dark in their lap. They weren’t reading it. Just holding it.

Jace didn’t speak. He rarely did in the aftermath. Instead, he listened: wind clawing at the walls, a cough two rooms over, the thrum of strained ventilation.

Eventually, Martinez spoke. Quiet. Not brittle. Just scraped raw. “You think they’re gonna court-martial us?”

Jace didn’t look up. “Probably not.”

“You that confident?”

“No.” A beat. “Just doesn’t feel important to them. Not yet.”

Martinez let out a slow breath, head tilting back against the bulkhead. “One of the prisoners. Bajoran. Kept thanking me. Over and over. Like I saved him.” Their brow tightened. “I didn’t even open his cell. Banik did.”

Jace’s eyes tracked the scuffed floor. “People look for shapes. Something to hold on to. They pick whoever’s still standing.”

Martinez looked at him. “You make sense of it?”

Jace’s jaw tensed. Fingers laced tighter. “No. But I know what I saw.” He looked up, met their eyes across the dim room. “I saw a boy executed for trying to help. And I saw what we did because of it.”

Martinez’s voice slowed. “You don’t regret it.”

“No.” That word was steady, not sharp. Just true. “I regret it took that long.”
Silence again. Not cold, this time. Just heavy.

Martinez nodded, barely. “They said he had a name. Damar. His cousin was part of the camp. Reported him for sharing food, they think.”

Jace blinked. Let that sit. The betrayal didn’t surprise him. The name did. He shifted slightly, then reached for something tucked into his belt pouch...a strip of cloth. Red once. Faded now. Frayed at the edges. He looked at it. Martinez didn’t ask. After a moment, Jace spoke. “When I was a kid, there was a boy. Not much older than Damar. Had a scarf like this. I kept it.”

“Why?”

His eyes stayed on the cloth. Voice low. “Because he ran. And I didn’t.”

They didn’t speak after that. But Martinez got up. Moved to sit beside him. Not touching. Just there. And that was enough. Jace didn’t look at them, but his voice dropped...rough, quiet. “We’ll get orders soon. A reprimand. Maybe nothing. Maybe a medal.”

Martinez gave a joyless exhale. “Federation’s real good at medals.”

Jace nodded. “Don’t want one.”

A brief touch; shoulder to shoulder. Barely contact. But felt. “Then we don’t take it.”

They sat like that a while. Two soldiers not saying what didn’t need to be said. They’d already proved it, when it counted.

A few hours later, Jace was called to report to Colonel Halric.

He went.

The two FGF troopers posted outside didn’t speak. Just let him through.

Quick build conference room. A desk bolted to the floor, in case the wind finally tore the building apart. One Federation flag drooping on the wall behind it. Dust in the corners. That particular mix of air you got in forward installation; scrubbed, dry, recycled death.

Lieutenant Colonel Halric didn’t look up at first. Reading from a PADD. Expression neutral. Bureaucrat’s stillness. Or just a man who’d signed too many condolence letters this month. “Corporal Morven,” he said finally, eyes lifting. Jace stood at attention. Clean uniform. Bloody boots. He hadn’t asked for this meeting. He hadn’t asked for anything. “Sit down.”

Jace didn’t move at first. Just studied the man. Then he sat. Hands on his thighs. Spine straight.

The silence lingered.

Halric glanced down. “Fourteen prisoners recovered. No squad casualties. No enemy survivors.” He set the PADD down. “You want to tell me what happened?”

“No, sir.” A pause. “The report’s accurate.”

Halric studied him now. Not the facts...him. Jace’s face showed nothing but fatigue and something quieter. Not pride. Not guilt. Just presence. “You broke orders,” Halric said. “Disobeyed.”

“I broke silence,” Jace said. Even. Precise.

The Colonel leaned back. “You saw the execution of a member of Starfleet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you acted.”

Jace didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

“You were deployed without a proper NCO. Sergeant of record’s been up at 77th since the Vargo operation. No replacement filed.” Halric’s eyes narrowed. “So on paper, you weren’t in charge. But in practice…”

“I was.”

“You stepped in.”

Jace nodded.

“You led.”

He didn’t respond.

Halric tapped the PADD again. “You’re not what Command looks for in a leader, Morven.”

“I know.”

“You don’t inspire trust. You don’t boost morale. You don’t...” He paused. “Set an example.”

Jace’s voice was soft. “But I’m not dead.” That hung in the air. “And neither are they.”

Halric stilled. And in that moment, he saw it. Not just the trooper. Not even the warfighter. But the centre. The thing they didn’t train for. The reason that squad came back whole. “I don’t think they even know they’re following you,” Halric murmured.

Jace didn’t speak.

Halric slid the PADD across the desk. “You won’t be promoted. Not now. Too much heat. Too many black marks.”

Jace gave the ghost of a shrug. “I don’t want promotion.”

Halric studied him. “Then what do you want?”

“I don’t know.”

Halric’s voice dropped. “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.”

Jace’s jaw shifted slightly.

“They don’t like wolves in the pen,” Halric said bluntly, his eyes on Jace's face.

Jace met his gaze. “Then don’t put sheep in the field.”

A beat.

Then Halric smiled. Grim. Brief. Tired. “Dismissed.”

Jace stood. Turned. And walked out. No words. No echo.

Just footsteps.

USS Guinevere, 2388

Still not asleep.

Jace’s thoughts drifted—years back, desert wind in the vents, Halric’s voice cutting through recycled air. Not fear in the man exactly... but something close. Something heavier. A tension in the way he looked at Jace, like he saw the shape of a decision and didn’t know whether to crush it or salute it.

In the end, Halric let him go.

Technically, Jace had never been in command. No promotion orders. No ceremony. But everyone knew who they followed. He hadn’t taken charge out of ambition; it was just what needed doing, to move forward. To survive. The sergeant got to replace Tho had gone to the 77th Command and never come back. The rest filled the gap with silence until Jace moved, and they moved with him.

On paper, it was temporary. Wartime allowances. Easy to overlook a corporal stepping up when the brass were neck-deep in casualty reports. Especially a corporal with too many red marks on his file. Too many operations that didn’t go clean. Too much truth in his after-actions.

But that was the strange part. For a while, he hadn’t felt like the lone wolf anymore. Not entirely. There’d been a shape to it. Not just surviving beside others but moving as part of something. A squad. A pack.

He still obeyed orders. Until he couldn’t. Then he acted. Then he fell back in line. Strange rhythm, war.

He wondered, sometimes, how much that moment shaped him. Not Halric. Not the medals that never came. Just that decision. To act. To step forward.
He didn’t need words then. Still didn’t. Action made sense. Words cut differently. Slower. Sometimes deeper.

It was different now. He now wore the rank to go with the responsibility. And there was not a war. Things were different, but he was still alive.

Small wins.

Forward Command Base 77th, February 20, 2375

The door hissed open.

Five days since Theta-9.

Five days since Jace walked out of Colonel Halric’s office with no reprimand, no orders...just that dead pause before dismissal. Like the silence itself was the punishment.

Now he knew what it meant.

They’d given the squad a sergeant.

He stepped into the barracks. Same shadows. Same buzzing lights, too old and overworked to hum steady. The air still carried that burn: scorched metal, char, recycled sweat, cheap rations, and the alkaline dust that never fully left a uniform, no matter how many times it got washed.

The squad was there. Quiet. Waiting.

Martinez sat near the vent, hand bandaged, eyes flicking up. Unreadable. Banik had moved her bunk again: closer to the wall, further from the door. Terrow crouched in his usual corner, not cleaning his phaser rifle anymore. Just holding it.

Kerren didn’t even look up. Just kept humming, heel tapping out some rhythm only he knew.

And then: Brell.

Sergeant Brell now.

He stood at the end of the row, arms folded. Not stiff, not relaxed. That same calm weight he’d always carried, now wearing it with rank. The collar tabs were new. Polished. Official.

Jace didn’t need to look at them. The shift was already there. Not in Brell, but in the silence. In the way the squad sat straighter. In how nobody spoke.
Brell watched him approach. “Morven.”

“Sergeant.” Jace’s voice was flat. Not hostile. Not warm. Just… held back.

A pause. Then a short nod from Brell, like something unspoken had been agreed to. “Command noticed a paperwork discrepancy,” Brell said. “They assigned me yesterday.”

“You transferred from the Fifth?”

Brell nodded once. “Their new Sergeant showed up. Mine didn’t.”

Jace didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

“I didn’t ask for the slot,” Brell added. “Wasn’t a choice.”

Jace moved past him, toward his bunk. “Never is.”

The squad stayed silent, but something eased when Jace sat. Like a wire went slack. He removed one boot, slow and methodical. His back still ached, Theta-9 had seen to that, but he didn’t show it.

Across from him, Martinez glanced at Brell. Then at Jace. Nothing said. Nothing needed to be.

Brell stepped forward, voice even. “I know how it’s been. Who’s kept this squad together. That doesn’t change overnight.” His eyes found Jace. Held. “You’ve got instincts. They follow you. I’m not here to erase that.”

Jace looked up. “So what are you here to do?”

Brell didn’t blink. “Make sure Command doesn’t rip this squad apart just to remind everyone they still can.” A long beat. “You’ve done what most don’t survive, Corporal Morven. You carried them. But now they’ve handed me the weight. So if you need to fight someone over that...” his voice didn’t sharpen, but it settled deeper “...don’t make it me.”

Jace’s jaw tightened. Then: a single nod. “I’m not here to fight my team.”

“Good,” Brell said. “Because we redeploy in thirty-six. Break’s over.” No one groaned. No protest. Just that shift in the room again...the shared look of people who knew better than to hope for something easier.

Brell turned toward the door. Paused.

“They didn’t want to give me this post,” he said, not looking back. “They just didn’t want to give it to you.”

Then he was gone. The door hissed shut behind him.

The silence settled again. The old shape of it. Familiar. Close.

A cup of mint tea waited on Jace’s shelf. Sweetened, just slightly. He picked it up. Drank. Didn’t ask who left it.

Small wins.

To be continued in the 6th and final part

----

Sergeant Jace Morven
Platoon Sergeant
Alpha Squad
USS Guinevere

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