The Future Unwritten

Posted on 25 May 2024 @ 11:23am by Major Porter Wallace
Edited on on 02 Jun 2024 @ 1:19am

Mission: M4 - Falling Out
Location: Obsidian Command
Timeline: MD 23 - 0730 HR
1498 words - 3 OF Standard Post Measure

Wallace ran his finger over the desk, then lifted it up to examine the tip. No dust. The room looked rarely, if ever used, just a desk with a chair on either side. Nothing decorated the bare gray walls and the floor had some nondescript blue carpet. He rolled his eyes. It was a stereotypical belief among Starfleet that Marines only cared about their combat training, cleaning and running diagnostics on their combat equipment, working out, cleaning their bunks, and of course, more combat training. It would help, he thought, if they’d show some initiative in other areas of their lives, like interior decoration. A fake plant and some wall hangings wouldn’t go amiss. The only things in the room other than the desk, three chairs, and Wallace was the several holographic projectors dotted the ceiling, like tiny stalagmites growing from a cave’s roof.

He checked the time again. One minute until the top of the hour.

It was another minute he could do without. Wallace was still feeling the disaster that was last night and could do with a distraction. The Beast – the emotion that he’d mistakenly believed tamed – had reared its ugly head again last night after Commander Rubens and Counselor Adima had delivered the bad news. Worse yet, he’d left Ibis alone without anyone to comfort her. She didn’t need that right now; she needed him to be level headed not show flashes of the Major.

And Marcus. Damn him. Every since their father’s funeral, his brother had found ways to screw with Wallace’s life, as if inserting himself into Wallace’s life was his way of payback. After nearly ten years away, it seemed that while much had changed, Marcus’s mission to fuck up his brother’s life hadn’t.

He was subconsciously grinding his teeth together when the holographic projectors lit up and a Marine captain was sitting in front of him. The officer’s gaze fell on Wallace. It was that particularly intense stare that all Andorians seemed to have biologically encoded in them. He was also straight to the point. “We’ve been reviewing your record and the psychological profile that’s been submitted. Psychologically speaking, your counselor feels like you’re mental health is better than it was before. Would you concur?”

Wallace folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes. “Captain…?”

“Shatek.”

“It’s a pleasure. I’d agree with that. Apparently, captivity and psychological torture was just what the doctor ordered. Who knew?”

“Indeed.” Shatek scribbled something on his PADD before continuing. “SFMC Command has been considering your case over the past few weeks and, since you’re physical health has improved almost to the point where you can return to active duty, at this time they feel it appropriate to discuss your future with the Corps.”

Wallace nodded. His future with the Corps. After a decade on a beach, any thought of the future had been so distant. During his recovering, the future seemed so vast, too much to even contemplate. So he’d focused on the one future, his and Ibis’ and their patchwork family. As of yesterday, that future was under threat. Having to consider this one felt like almost too much.

“Captain, my family – ”

“Family?” Shatek looked down and flipped through his PADD. “Your file didn’t say anything about a family.”

“Yes. Nothing official yet, though we’re working on it. My fiance was with me on the planet. Ibis Xeri. Chief Petty Officer. There were two children that lost their parents that we became de facto parents to as well. Olivia and Ikemba.”

“Huh. Were you expecting to take them with you to your next posting?”

“To be honest, I hadn’t really thought that far. Everything still feels...dreamlike. Like I’m living someone else’s life.”

“It’s not someone else’s life. It’s yours. Do you think you’ll want to take them to your next posting?”

Wallace was about to go into the whole story of the litigation surrounding Ikemba, but it was quite obvious that Captain Shatek just didn’t care. “That’s my intention.”

“Hm. Considering your extensive combat and survival experiences, most the postings are to forward operating bases in less hospitable environs and peacekeeping missions. Those do not allow families. Let me cull the list.” Shatek paused and looked up at him, “Unless you’d like to see those?”

“No. Cull away,” Wallace told him. The certainty didn’t surprise Wallace, but Shatek’s antenna twitched with shock. Most Marines liked to be active and in places that required them to be active. (Shatek, Wallace mused, was probably going stir crazy behind that desk being a glorified human resources officer). That’s why the few postings on Starfleet vessels that did exist were highly coveted. Those people got into all sorts of trouble. But Wallace guessed he’d aged out and ranked out of those spots. The only reason they kept sending him out on those assignments before was that he was a problem: too much of a loose canon to run a unit bigger than a platoon, too aggressive for desk duty, and too high-ranking to put anywhere else. They kept putting him in positions that were usually assigned to lieutenants and he never commanded more than a couple dozen Marines.

It took him three minutes of silent work, but Shatek finally finished. Wallace was a little flattered the list had been so long. “What do you think of these?”

The Andorian flicked his hand across the PADD and a half dozen assignments appeared between them, the words appearing to float in the air, although Wallace assumed to was just another holographic illusion, like Shatek himself. It was amazing how far technology had come since they’d been stranded and imprisoned on Kortix.

He scanned the list. Two training unit postings, on the other side of the Federation. He didn’t know the planets, but that would be easy enough to look up. Another was commanding a supply depot on Pacifica. That was a hard pass: no more oceans and beaches for them. Wallace noticed a pattern to all of them, however.

“All of these are for full-bird colonels, Captain. I’m just a Major. I don’t have the proper qualifications.”

“You do in fact. Your record of combat commands during the Dominion War included serving as a temporary battalion commander…”

“For a month. Besides, the ‘battalion’ had basically been whittled down to a little over a company of Marines,” Wallace pointed out.

“Even so,” Shatek replied. “There have been numerous times throughout your career since that you’ve been placed in positions that would’ve required passing additional training and qualifications in more peaceful circumstances. You even commanded the bridge of a ship once for a week when the other senior officers were phasing in and out of our dimension.”

“Again, just long enough for our science and engineering teams to devise a solution. It wasn’t like I was fighting a battle against a bunch of Klingons. I mostly just sat on the Bridge and scowled.”

“Even so,” Shatek repeated. “The captain of the Sunrise left you in charge of the survivors, which you ably led for many years – ”

“Only four people got off Korix, Captain. The rest died. Not exactly an assignment filled with success!”

Shatek tsked audibly. “Major, it is amazing that anyone got off that planet. And, quite frankly, with a record like yours the only reason you aren’t a colonel – the only reason you aren’t a general is because of your disciplinary record and psychological reviews. Now, your psych evals have improved so much that no one expects that discipline will be a problem in the future.”

“Still, it’s a big leap – ”

“Do you want to be a colonel or not?” an exasperated Shatek finally asked.

The question silenced Wallace, not because he was too humble to admit that he did, but because suddenly he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even sure if he wanted to still be a major. The Marines had been his life for so long, contemplating something outside of it had never even occurred to him that he would do anything else, but be a Marine. He’d thought he’d live and, eventually, die a Marine. Now, however, he had a family. Now he hadn’t worn the uniform for so long that its peculiarities – the way the collar scratched his neck, the way the pants creased against his leg – felt foreign and uncomfortable. Was this his future or his past?

“Captain, I do appreciate you presenting these opportunities to me. I need to discuss them with my family before making any final decisions. How long do I have?”

“We’ll need answers in the next couple of weeks, Major.”

“You’ll have them,” Wallace replied, standing up.