Chapter Text
The Star Beagle Adventures
Episode 7: The Roundabout
Scene 13: Reverse
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Reverse
Shortly after learning that PFC Raanda Habib and Lance Corporal Petra Spitze were being rescued by an unknown party, 2nd Lt. Iov Pushkin, Sgt. Chavez Lone Wolf, and PFC Sasha Soko were removed from their cell by what were quite clearly their well-armed and determined captors. Each of the marines was given a medallion that included a translator, allowing them to understand their captors’ instructions.
Being U.S. Marines, they carried on their own conversation with a very subtle sign language. At the moment, Lone Wolf and Soko were following Pushkin’s lead - which was to comply with their captors and play for time. All three men were naked with the exception of the sports guard over their genitals. Being large, heavily muscled young marines, none of them seemed disconcerted - if anything, they were taking the opportunity to furtively flex and show off a little.
The three men were led through a winding series of ancient corridors and airlocks long frozen open from disuse, into the stadium. One of the oeast captors wrapped an arm around 2nd. Lt. Pushkin and placed a knife against his neck. Iov Pushkin relaxed.
“You two, into the ring,” said another oeast to Soko and Lone Wolf.
“Do what they say,” Pushkin said, quietly, then: “Remember the rules.”
“Begin!” said one of the oeast captors as the two young marines squared off in the ring.
“Open hand grappling only,” said Sgt. Lone Wolf as he and Soko began circling each other. “No striking with hands, feet, knees, or elbows.”
Lone Wolf was dark skinned, with a wiry brush of jet black hair, and bright blue eyes. He was about 2” taller and nearly 40 pounds heavier than the young, blonde private, but his primary advantage was experience. Within moments of the two engaging, Sgt. Lone Wolf had PFC Soko locked down and on the sandy floor.
2nd. Lt. Iov Pushkin easily removed the knife from the hand of the oeast who had been holding it at his neck. He flipped the knife easily in his fingers, then handed it back, hilt first, to his captor. “My turn,” he said simply, and walked out onto the ring. He knelt and patted the pinned Sasha Soko’s shoulder, then helped him up as Lone Wolf released him.
“Schedule some individual combat training when we get back shipboard,” Pushkin said to Soko.
Soko came to attention and saluted: “Yes sir!” Then walked off to rejoin the oeast that had been holding the knife at Pushkin’s neck. “You might as well put that away,” Soko said to his captor. “I’d prefer not to have to take it away from you again.”
The oeast glared for a moment, then reconsidered as Soko, while younger, was considerably larger than the 2nd lieutenant. He sheathed the knife and took up a stance just within arm’s reach of the young marine.
Iov Pushkin was a fairly large man, but even at 6’0” and 210 pounds, he was nowhere near as large as either Soko or Lone Wolf. He had an odd combination of fair skin, light brown hair and vaguely Asian facial features. He was only a few months out of Quantico and was a year younger than the experienced (and quite large and muscular) first sergeant who reported to him. Pushkin was a champion wrestler and his long training in the sport made him a far more challenging opponent than PFC Soko.
But in addition to Lone Wolf’s overwhelming advantages in size and strength, was the experience of grappling for his life in desperate battles with klingons, cardassians and gem’hadar. It took several minutes for Lone Wolf to pin his commanding officer down, but after the first few minutes, the eventual outcome was hardly in any doubt.
“I’m sorry, sir. But they mean to put us seriously in harm’s way,” Lone Wolf said to his pinned superior. He helped Pushkin to his feet. “I have to go first.” He bumped fists with his commanding officer, then saluted sharply.
In her quarters aboard the U.S.S. Beagle, T’Eln, the ancient premiere emeritus of the Vulcan Science Academy was deeply enmeshed in a mind meld with the betazoid Dr. Tentis Uto. Uto had taken a series of treatments to detoxify from his addiction to sog and T’Eln was helping him not only build up his defenses against the overwhelming noise of undisciplined minds around him, but also to sharpen his focus and realize some of the abilities that his unusually powerful telepathy might make available to him, well beyond the abilities of most of his species.
On the bridge of the U.S.S. Beagle, Lt. Cmdr. Senek removed an earpiece from its mount on his panel and placed it in his ear, then turned to obtain his captain’s attention:
“Captain, we are receiving a transmission from Lance Corporal Petra Spitze, audio only.”
“Let’s hear it,” Captain Skip Howard replied from the command throne in the center of the triangular bridge.
“Repeat, this is Lance Corporal Petra Spitze, requesting rendezvous coordinates.”
“Spike, this is the U.S.S. Beagle, Skip Howard commanding. What is your situation?”
“Captain, I have Trader Pel and Private First Class Raanda Habib with me. We are in an eadh shuttle, owned by the Greater 1st Realm Regency and are seeking rendezvous coordinates to transfer myself, Pel and PFC Habib into your custody. 1st Realm Regent Martial Nalconi sends his regards and hopes at some future date to make your acquaintance.”
“You may relay that I look favorably on that potential and pass along my regards. Be advised that the U.S.S. Bluebird will be dispatched to rendezvous with you. We are sending coordinates now.”
“Thank you, sir. Please send along medical personnel. Trader Pel has been treated for wounds related to the removal of prosthetics, but is in need of additional medical attention.”
“Copy that,” Howard responded. “Well done, Spike. Safe travel to your rendezvous and I will look forward to attending your debriefing. Beagle out.”
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