The Long Night of Commander Shran
Destiny #1
By April French

Author's Note:

This story is meant to take place immediately following the season one episode "The Andorian Incident." Thanks to Night's Darkness for getting me back on track, at least temporarily. (wink)

We're in your debt.

The words he had uttered to the human, Archer, echoed in his head. They were words he would have spoken to any Andorian who had done him a similar service. But to an alien? And one who had allied himself with Vulcans?

Shran couldn't understand it. And Tholos, his first officer, was just as incredulous. It had been three days since the Kumari had left P'Jem, and after hearing about the incident in Shran's report, Tholos, a man who was normally not shy about voicing his opinions, had not spoken an unnecessary word to his commander during that entire time.

Keval, on the other hand, was not leaving Shran in any doubt as to his feelings--although strangely, not about the boon that Shran had acknowledged owing. Despite being the only one of his men to have heard the commander's statement, what Keval had not stopped talking about was the mission. For three days. The older, more experienced officers knew just to ignore the eager man, to treat his bravery at P'Jem as just another day on the job, so as to allow Keval to brag as much as he wanted. A small smile flitted briefly across Shran's narrow blue face. He remembered being that eager, that boastful. Keval was one of the Kumari's youngest officers, and one of the most promising. Compared to other species, Andorians were considered mature at a very early age, but despite being past his majority, in Shran's mind, Keval was still just a boy. He was, he had to admit, very fond of Keval.

Rubbing fretfully at the base of his right antenna, Commander Shran of the Andorian Imperial Guard picked up a pitcher from his desk and poured some water into a cut-crystal tumbler. He drank it with a frown on his face, more to have something to do with his hands than from any real thirst. He was trying to avoid the stack of PADDs piling up on his desk; communiqu�s from Imperial Central, asking for updates on his progress (even though he had already informed them of the current situation), a few from his more conservative fellow ship commanders, asking him what the hell he thought he was doing, communiqu�s from the Vulcan High Command (also demanding to know what the hell he was doing), and more and more of the part of the job he hated--paperwork. "Bureaucratic nonsense," he muttered to himself. "If I'd wanted to do this much paperwork, I'd've become a file clerk in Armasha."

He set the stack of communiqu�s aside and focused on the second stack of PADDs, ones that dealt with the smooth running of his ship and the welfare of his crew. Discipline, routine, and practical needs. That was the mundane part of commanding a battlecruiser, but Shran didn't find it as tedious as others did. It was a mindless task, and it gave him a measure of peace that was sometimes difficult to come by.

There would be no peace for him tonight, though. The first PADD he picked up was a report from Ashun, his ship's doctor. His man Arslan had been the only casualty of the mission to P'Jem; he had been shot by one of the human phase pistols, and was struggling to recover. Andorians were tough as nails and hard to kill, but they came from a planet that was mostly frozen tundra; they had little immunity to disease and infection, and the effects of a phase pulse on Andorians were protracted and painful. "The human's phase pistols seem to have stun settings, and this one looks to have been set only on stun," Ashun assured her commander. "Arslan's strong, he's willing--he'll pull through." The recollection of the oozing purplish wound on Arslan's shoulder said otherwise. Shran set the PADD down again.

This, then, was the flip-side to a mindless task�the boundary-less mental wanderings of a mind perhaps too creative and imaginative to have become a soldier. As a boy, when he warranted punishment (which was often), his parents and teachers resorted to a method of chastisement that was unique to Shran: they put him in a small, windowless room with a desk and a lamp and a computer, gave him a large pile of simple filing to do, and left him alone. How long? For as long as it took to get the work done. Shran never minded being alone, and the work was simple enough; the first time, he finished the massive pile quickly, and then waited to be let out. And waited. And... waited. Shran quickly discovered that he hated waiting.

And yet, that was the bulk of a soldier's life. Tedious, repetitive drilling and exercises, and constant waiting, waiting for orders, waiting for the battle to begin, waiting to die... waiting for others to die. How long has that pinkskin been in command? Shran found himself wondering. He had never seen a human before P'Jem, had little idea as to how humans matured or how long they could live. Has he ever had to wait through the long, cold nights that sharpen the senses so that even the slightest breath sounds like a scream? There could be no retribution, if Arslan died of his wound. Death in battle, clean death with no chance of being maimed or left a helpless cripple at the mercy of one's family, was the least of all the boons an Imperial Guard could hope for.

Shran would mourn for his lost crewman; he felt the tingling in his blood already, the sixth sense of a soldier that senses the hovering shade of Death peaking around corners and lurking in deserted quarters. But there would be no blood spilled in Arslan's name; Shran would not invoke an oath against Jonathan Archer. He could not; he owed the pinkskin a debt, and one that would be fulfilled to repay a gesture of peace and the sacrifice of an Andorian Imperial Guard.

The commander of the Kumari sank his head into his hands with a groan, cursing as he always did the twisted conundrums of morality and honor. It was to be a long night, and Shran, burdened with his puzzle of debt, did not sleep.

Fin 7-17-07