My Dear Reader,
Sorry that this is a bit late. I had a hard time trying to find something to show you, but I ended up choosing this because it will give you a real taste of what this story is about. The main speaker in this excerpt is one Admiral Alexander Chapman. He, along with his brother, Professor Angus Chapman, is trying to resurrect a special cadet training group (Red Squad) that had previously been banned because of scandal. In this scene, Admiral Chapman is addressing a number of advanced students whom he has hand-picked to try out for the team.
“We stand here today in full view of the Golden Gate Bridge for a reason. This structure, as many of you are aware, is more than a way for people to get across the bay: it's a symbol of Starfleet's heritage. Starfleet, as an organization that has been around longer even than the mighty Federation of Planets, was built by our intellectual and cultural ancestors, and their ancestors built this bridge. A marvel of its time, it has withstood the test of time better than its designers dreamed. The Golden Gate Bridge, an icon of an age, was all but destroyed in our conflict with the Dominion. Slowly, it will have to be rebuilt, piece by piece, until it is restored to its former glory. Starfleet has a similar fate. Starfleet will also have to be rebuilt with young people like yourselves. You are each here because Professor Chapman and I have reviewed your Academy applications and believe that you could be an integral part of this rebirth. Together, we will form a team that will train the best the Academy has to offer so that they, in turn, will have the skills to serve in Starfleet to the best of their ability. This team, this agent of renewal, will be called 'Red Squad.'”
Red Squad? That was why she was there? A chill ran down Carlotta's spine at the thought. There was a lot to learn when you were waiting tables so close to Starfleet Headquarters—she had heard all the rumors, and she knew most of them were true. She had a sudden urge to just turn and run away, but she decided instead to stay and listen. The bridge that Admiral Chapman had talked about had belonged to her, in the way it belonged to everyone in the Bay. The admiral had talked about intellectual ancestors, but she was the direct descendant of some of the original workers. The blood that built that bridge was now in her veins, and it seemed to speak to her as if carrying the voices of the dead. Her ancestors had built this city, and some had even had a hand in building Starfleet. It was her inherited responsibility to keep their legacy in tact. So, even though her instincts told her to flee, she decided to stay. She would listen to this man, and if he told the truth, she would give him a chance.
“Now, I know what some of you are thinking. This idea is not new, nor is the name. In fact, I'm sure that most of you have heard the sad tales of what happened to Red Squad in the past. I assure you, though, that this will not happen again. Red Squad, in hindsight, wasn't a mistake, but it was dangerous. The idea behind it was to take the red cadets—the command-oriented students—and put them in a position where they would get more opportunities to lead. It worked on paper, and for a couple of years, it worked in the field. Once the war started, everything changed. Students from other concentrations were added with the rationale that they would compliment the command students, but this was twisted into the idea that they were a crew unto themselves. Red Squad went rogue—used by a radical for his own ends, the cadets stuffed with enough hubris to make them believe they could act alone. They were put on a ship, made a crew to fight the war on their own, and all but one died. Red Squad was created to breathe new life into the next generation of officers, to give the exceptional students the chance to excel. Instead, their lives were wasted in an ultimately meaningless pursuit. But we need that breath now more than ever. It's not just San Francisco that's being rebuilt—it's the Federation itself. It's the fleet. Each of you has a chance at becoming part of that process.”
The admiral stopped to take a drink of water and give his brother a glance before he continued.
“It's true that we're still going to call it 'Red Squad.' The name hasn't changed, but the meaning has. Those of you who wish to try out for this project will need to understand this new meaning before you apply. Red means much more than command, more than just the true color of this bridge . . . it has a deeper, more primal meaning. It means courage, passion, and for many species,” he nodded at Saraal* as if to admit that she was about to be an exception, “red also is a symbol for the blood of those lost. The cadets that died trying to fight the wrong war—they deserve redemption. All of those who died in the war do. So when you think about joining Red Squad, know that we will be a team stained with the blood of our betters, of those nobler and abler, and that our true mission is to do whatever we can to to honor the lives lost. Many of you knew one of those lives.”
He looked out over the crowd, and saw heads bowed reverently as he invoked memories of the dead, some out of respect, some out of agony. The noticed that the Esposito girl looked especially grim, almost pale.
“As you go through the application process, I want you to think of those who you've lost. I want you to think of what you need to be in order to truly honor them. That drive is what you will need to join Red Squad.”
The admiral finished his speech and sat down, with Professor Chapman seamlessly taking his place.
“Thank you, Admiral,” he nodded to his brother, “Now, for the practical portion of this meeting. In order to be a candidate for Red Squad, you must enroll in my Survival Skills class. You may be aware that this course is normally reserved for second-semester students, so you will need to have special permission in order to enroll. There are thirty spots in the class, given to the most worthy applicants. Out of those thirty, only nine will be chosen for Red Squad. There will be no changes in the number of students allowed in the class, or to the number allowed in Red Squad. In order to request a seat in my class, please fill out this PADD and turn it in to either Admiral Chapman or myself by the end of the day. Dismissed.”
Regards, best wishes, and honor!,
-Cecily Jane
*Saraal is Vulcan. Vulcans have green blood.
Carlotta tried to smile sweetly at Abigail, but the corners of her mouth twisted into a look of contempt. She couldn't help it. How long had she been trying to be patient to this girl? There were times you were supposed to turn the other cheek, and no one could deny that she'd been doing plenty of that, but there were also times when you had to go to the moneychangers and overturn a couple of tables. There were times when being meek was the wrong thing to do, and now was one of those times. Now was the time to act with boldness in order to stop something and make it right.
You know the feudal system is over and done with, right?”
Excuse me?” Abigail showed Carlotta a face writhing in disgust.
The feudal system, you know—knights, princesses, and serfs? We don't do that anymore. It went out of style, oh, about a few hundred years ago.”
You are an idiot. Why don't you just go back to your kitchen?”
"Funny thing: first of all,” Carlotta wagged a finger at Abigail, “it's my father's kitchen, and it's a noble family history that has preserved and enriched the history of our culture. Second, you may have heard of something called the American Revolution? And maybe, you've heard of the Constitution of the United States of America?” Her voice was ironic and playful, making a great distinction from Abigail's poisonous, vicious tone. “It was seven hundred years ago, but you may have missed it, seeing as you're just the daughter of an admiral. Maybe he couldn't send you to the right schools.”
Abigail's anger was boiling over, and she pounded the table when her rage seeped over the edge. Carlotta wondered if Abigail was being violent in an attempt to intimidate her, but even if it was, the admiral's daughter should have known that it wouldn't work.
"If you were smart enough, and if you had paid attention in school, you would have been able to figure out for yourself that for the better part of a millennium, the rest of us humans have been intelligent enough to understand that all human beings are created equal. Should I look that word up for you?”
Abigail responded with a cold, hard stare that tried desperately to mask the fiery emotions within.
"And because all of us are equal, things like occupations, place of birth, and trivial things like that don't matter. You know why? Because we're not a feudal community anymore. We don't need to have a small, wealthy minority stand on the backs of the weak and emaciated. We no longer have to push others down in an attempt to catapult ourselves upward. Instead, we have a society of equals, where we each have an equal opportunity to be judged based on the factors we can control. Not the things we were born with.” She leaned over until she was only a few centimeters from Abigail's nose. “And it seems to me that only a person who was afraid of being deficient would resort to an attempt at weeding out the competitors based on characteristics that have absolutely nothing to do with the prize. So, Princess, it doesn't matter that my dad is a chef and yours is an admiral. What matters is what we've made of ourselves since we came out of the birth canal, and from a purely objective standpoint, I have managed, through my own hard work, to get higher test scores than you have. That, my dear, is a fact.”
By this point, Abigail's face had turned bright red in a heated rage, and it looked like she should have had steam coming from her ears. Carlotta saw it plain as day, but she didn't let it shake her resolve. She aimed to be heard, and she wasn't going to let Abigail stop her from reaching her goal—not now, not ever.
"Now, maybe you're right about the whole kitchen thing after all. Maybe, because I grew up in an environment where I had to work hard, and where I didn't expect to just be handed things out of status, I was better suited to do my own work when I got here. But what's absolutely clear is that I am proud of who I am and where I came from, and I'm proud of who my friends are. You may feel threatened by my success, but you can't stop it. You won't intimidate me, you won't humiliate me, and if you continue to try to destroy me, you'll find that you've merely wasted valuable time and energy on a pursuit destined for failure. Instead, you'll realize that you could have taken at that time you threw away trying to tear me down and spent that time working hard to improve yourself enough to actually compete with me. And if you take too long to notice that, you may find yourself old and alone, without any skills outside of intimidation and manipulation, which you will then realize are useless. You will have made a life for yourself that will be empty and worthless, with the blame squarely on your shoulders. Then, people won't look to you with the worship you crave, but they will see you as a harbinger of destruction by ego, and take you as an example of how not to live. The only true tragedy will be in the fact that you will see this for yourself only after it is too late to change it, but the cold, hard facts of the matter are that sooner or later, the piper must be paid, Your Highness. So I would think a bit about your future payment options before you run up too much debt in the present.”
And with that, Carlotta shrugged, and left Abigail alone to think about what she had said.
Regards, best wishes, and 11,741 words to go,
-Cecily Jane
Carlotta stayed on the ground after she fell, after the announcement had told her that there was an attack on Earth. The voice had said that the Breen were coming for Starfleet Headquarters, and if that was true, the entire restaurant could be flattened along with it. Where was Mike, now that she needed him most? How could he leave her in charge when the world was coming to an end? Crippled with fear and covered in the flour she had been carrying, Carlotta thanked God that her brothers and sisters were out of the city and pleaded with Him for the strength to do what only she could. Then, she forced herself to jump up and take command.
“Everybody, quiet!” Living in a large family had required Carlotta to learn how to be loud. The patrons and employees turned to look at her, a small teenaged girl standing on top of a counter, shouting orders at them.
“There is an emergency shelter underground, if everyone will follow me . . .” the crowd, scared for their lives and hungry for relief, started running at the back of the restaurant in chaos. Carlotta took a deep breath. “I'm the only one who can open it!” she boomed, her voice ringing against the pots and pans and stopping the stampede in its tracks. She got down and she led them to the shelter, giving each person she met as threatening a glance as she could muster. It was a look that had been forged by countless hours of babysitting, a face that told people to behave or else. She tried to hide her surprise when it worked on adults as well as it had on children.
She led them all to the door of the vault, quickly and with order, and put in the code to open the doors and let the others in. She would be the last. It was something she had always imagined doing but never thought would actually happen—opening the door to the bomb shelter her great-great Espositos had built back when the Earth was split into nation-states and every day was filled with fear. They had built it with their bare hands, and through the centuries, other Espositos had kept it stocked with food and supplies, just in case. This would be the first time since the Bell Riots that it would be used.
The crowd, about fifty in all, took no time getting inside. As they started pouring in, she remembered the protocol her father had taught her in a family meeting, when she was bored and complained about the uselessness of learning such procedures. With the door closed and everyone inside, she was now to check the restaurant and make sure that no one was left behind. As the only Esposito in The Stradivarius, it was her duty to make sure everyone was safe. The kitchen was empty, but when she went out to the front entrance, she found Eva sitting at a table, staring hopelessly out of the large windows.
“Eva, come on! We have to go now!” Carlotta grabbed her hand and pulled her up, noticing the tears that were in Eva's eyes.
“Mike, he's out there.” Eva's desperate words made Carlotta pause. He was out there. How far could he have gotten? Was he in a safe place? What would Mike do if he was in her position? She didn't have much time to think.
“I know, Eva. But he'll come back. He knows the code to the door, he can get in even if we close it up behind us. We'll all be safe there, and there's enough food for us to survive on for years. We'll wait for him, and when he comes, we'll wait out the attack.” Carlotta took hold of Eva's hand a second time and pulled her away from the windows. Eva struggled to stay where she was.
“No, Carly, we can't leave him behind. I won't!” Photon torpedoes might explode on them at any moment, and there they were, playing a desperate tug of war. Carlotta looked at the woman who was soon going to be her sister and already was in spirit, the woman who knew her well enough to have to privilege to call her by her favorite name. Carlotta had learned to love her like her own sisters after Eva and Mike started dating seriously—he had seen to that. She had to save Eva now; Mike would want her to. She would force Eva in the door, and go looking for Mike herself. She just had to get her in there.
It must have looked strange to a passerby—both women were thin, but Carlotta was small, and Eva was almost a foot taller. If it weren't for the hours she spent training for soccer, Carlotta probably wouldn't have had a chance, but as it was, she was making progress. Eva was wearing heels, and she was too frantic to focus on her freedom from Carlotta's grasp, but she had managed to dig her heel into a groove in the floor, and Carlotta was pulling on Eva's sweaty, slippery hand harder than she had ever pulled anything before.
They were almost to the hallway when the first volley of attacks came, shaking the earth harder than an earthquake and breaking the beams that supported the ceiling. Three seconds later, and Carlotta would have had the two of them safe in the hallway. Thirty seconds later, they would be safe inside the shelter. But when the first strike came, the crumbling beams started to collapse, one of them less than a meter from the two women. Out of the corner of her eye, Carlotta saw the beam coming at her, like a tumbling column from the Parthenon, and she put all of her strength into one last tug.
It wasn't enough. The momentum that Carlotta achieved in her last push to safety had gotten her out of the way, but the beam had crushed into Eva head on. Carlotta was thrown to the floor and hit her head, but she got right back up again, and turned to face the sight that would haunt her the rest of her life.
Eva was lying underneath a beam so heavy that countless bones had been crushed. Was this what Martirio Esposito had looked like after the car crash? Carlotta had never seen so much blood, didn't know there could be so much, and she felt her self shut down at the sight of it all. Eva's broken body, her legs and arms in an unnatural position, the life spilling from her . . . Carlotta heard a thump! in her brain, and she felt her knees become numb and buckle, taking her to the floor. Her strength was draining out of her faster than Eva's blood, and soon, she would be in oblivion. She was slumped on the ground, her eyes only centimeters away from Eva's, which looked at her as her lips formed the smile of the dead.
“You have to find him, Carly. You have to bring him back,” Eva said with her last breath, her hand stroking Carlotta's soft hair before the darkness overcame the young Esposito.
Eva's dead body was the first thing Carlotta saw when she came to, and she screamed so hard she thought her throat was bleeding, but was filled so deeply with horror that she couldn't stop. Peter was there, burying her in his chest, stroking her hair as Eva had, when Carlotta heard her final words. Peter shielded her eyes and dusted off the debris, hoping the relief he felt at seeing her alive would be enough to soothe her fear.
She had looked dead when they got there, lying in a pool of blood next to Eva. Both women were still and pale, and Peter couldn't help weeping uncontrollably when he saw them. His father had run with him all the way, though the streets where shrapnel was flying from every direction. By the time they got the The Stradivarius, the attack was over, and the city was quiet and cold. It took the two of them to force the doors open, and to create a path through the destruction to where Carlotta and Eva were. Now, he was cradling his friend in his lap, and wailing like he never thought he could. Howling like an animal. His dad was standing over him, eyes full of sympathy, and he leaned down to close the eyes of the deceased Eva and comfort his son with a warm squeeze. Peter saw him, distorted by tears, as he gently picked up Carlotta's arm and started to examine her.
“Peter wait, a pulse! She has a pulse!” He looked at his dad in disbelief, and feeling for himself that it was true, felt himself fill up with joy that dispelled the anguish. He wiped the tears away.
“What? A pulse? But the blood . . .”
“The blood is Eva's. Carlotta must have passed out. I'll try to get us some help.”
The medical team seemed to take forever, but they came. They found Peter still holding Carlotta as if she were a child, singing her a song she had sung to him whenever he was very sick. He tried to sing it as sweetly as she had, but there was too much emotion going through him for him to keep his voice steady. How many times had she picked him up when he had fallen? How many time had she hugged him when he was sad? Memories of finger paint and finding worms after the rain were filling him when she woke up, when she started wailing with the same force he had at first, except with a violence that only true suffering could bring. He pulled her closer. He'd teased her a thousand times about blood, but he knew that her fear was real. He'd never seen such agony on a face before. He would protect her from that, since he couldn't protect her from the Breen. Since he had already failed her once that day. He wasn't sure how long they had sat there, holding each other while his body muffled her screams, when the medical team pulled her away from him. She reached for his hand, and he didn't let go. He would follow her as long as she needed him.
“Mike! Mike, come back!” Somehow, Carlotta had escaped from the people who were trying to examine her and was tearing out into the street, calling for her brother. It shocked Peter, but he recovered quickly and went after her. She was standing in the street, surrounded by crumbling building and covered in blood, looking as lost as a women starved in the desert. Once again, Peter pulled her in and wrapped his arms around her, and for the second time he could remember, she was soaking his chest with hot tears.
“I saw, him. I saw Mike,” she said.
“Where?” Peter looked all around, but saw no one. “Are you sure you saw him?”
“He hates me for what I've done. I killed her. I killed my sister!” She had lost all her control, all of her strength, and Peter didn't know what else to do but stand there are give what strength he could to the sobbing girl who was, in all intents and purposes, his sister.
Regards, best wishes, and 15,201 words,
-Cecily Jane
You clicked one of the options, and it would pop out a status with your option and "[Your name] is" as a prefix, like "Cecily is studying," or whatnot. It was a small thing on the sidebar, and who would have guessed that it would eventually outshine every other feature Facebook had. Soon, everybody was choosing the custom option, writing things that fit the "[Your name] is" prefix. It was fun and different, and it became everything that Facebook was about. And then a rival website, Twitter, popped up that had just the statuses, it was so big. But it's easy to understand, at least to me. The reason is simple:
Facebook statuses make me feel like some omniscient being is narrating my life.
I mean, if you think about it, Facebook statuses are, by default, in third person. The "is" is now optional, but you still have to start out with your name, which equals third person. So, in a way, it's like you're writing your own narration to your life. I think that's pretty cool. I'm a documentary on penguins or and eighteenth-century romance novel. And that's how I imagine it as I read them to myself. Well, as you know, narration is really only as good as the narrator. I mean, would you listen to anything narrated by Gilbert Gottfried? So I thought long and hard about who I would like to "hire" as my narrator, and I came up with . . .
George Takei.
Yup, Sulu from Star Trek. He has one of the best voices I've ever heard.
And that got me to thinking: who would you like as your Facebook narrator, Gentle Reader? Tell me, and maybe we can put together a quiz that you can annoy your friends with, courtesy of Plain Vanilla. But seriously, I want to know, so tell me in the comments. And I might actually do a quiz, so there. Trust me, the world needs to know who your narrator is!
Okay, I think that's enough frivolity for now. Come back next week for something serious and involving Batman. Honest.
Regards, best wishes, and awesome narration,
-Cecily Jane
You see, Gentle Reader? Sure, the whole world is going crazy, but if you mix one part optimism with five parts bemused sarcasm, you get an anti-depression potion so strong that even the destruction of modern civilization gets bearable. Even Snape would be proud hold back his usual sneer! After all, a good sense of humor is often our best line of defense.
