Love Thine Enemy

In a Bartokian sickbay, the four living members of the Tokyo bridge staff... Commander Baron Jones, Lieutenants Paul Thunder and Gerund Reed, and Ensign Marjorie Stemple... materialized, appraised the situation, and after an exchange of glances – with subtle expressions of "oh shit" – put their hands on top of their heads.  So much for a Starfleet rescue.

Jones was a tall, just shy of heavyset man in his forties, who wore a neatly cropped full mustache that matched his umber brown hair.  A competent officer, and a decent man.  Thunder had only gotten to know him socially the few times they crossed paths, off duty.  His normally clean Starfleet uniform was rumpled, covered with black smudge marks and dried blood from the gash on his head.

Thunder felt sorry for the people they had lost aboard the Tokyo – friends and crewmates, most of them human.  He felt sorry for the loss of Captain Carruthers... now the late Captain Carruthers, lying dead back there on his own bridge.  But at the moment, he felt very sorry for Jones.  One of the worst things that could happen to a career officer was to suffer defeat... a defeat now compounded.  The XO had a look on his face, a look that spoke volumes, realizing that his plan to get his people to safety had backfired.

Thunder, trying to be sure he read the situation right, was last to follow the first officer's example, putting his hands up.  Without a complant, he lacked private communication with the others.  He didn't receive any mental instructions Jones might have given.  Was Jones aware?  The XO's complant would have alerted him, that Thunder represented a dead-end circuit.  He didn't act like it.  Maybe the Bartokians blocked their complants.

A waifish, seemingly Caucasian blonde woman approached, carrying a Bartokian medical tricorder.  The green stripe and insignia on her uniform indicated she was, in fact, medical, with a rank of valendar.  The CMO?  She looked too young.  Jones was old enough to be her dad, if she was.  But with the genetic possibilities these days, appearances could be deceiving (and often were).  As she opened her mouth to speak, Jones cut her off:

"Jones, Baron, Commander, SM04-0690."  The filter clamped over his face, like those worn by the other three, gave the anger in his voice a metallic bitterness.

That was it – all the Starfleet people needed to say, and the full extent of any cooperation they needed to give.

But Jones said further, "I hope your ti klec knows what she's done."  Of all Bartokian commanders, Starfleet Intelligence knew about Cerina Ringo.  Name, history... most if not all of it.  "You've just started a war with the Federation."

"We didn't fire on you, Commander," said the male security chief – a big, bulky sub-braize built like a freight train.

Jones wasn't intimidated.  "But you did fire on the DeSoto."

The Bartokians decided to play evasive.  Jones could discuss it with Ringo, if the ti klec saw fit.  The doctor insisted on treating his wound.  Bartok, once part of the Federation, had all the data needed to treat Federation citizens.

Jones didn't like it, but acquiesced.  He had no reason – until now, maybe – to hate Bartokians, despite their differences... and despite the fact they had only been enemies unofficially.  The Khalindarians trashed the Tokyo, but many blamed Bartok for bringing it to a head.  And they did fire on a Starfleet vessel.

Bartokians.  They looked human.  Bartokian women were reputed to be some of the most beautiful in the galaxy.  Thunder found himself momentarily captivated by the doctor.  He couldn't help it: He was young, with that best/worst feature a young man could possess... a healthy libido.  It was almost easy to forget: They were not human.  He had to remind himself: Under that attractiveness, blue blood pumped through her veins.  Her organs were different.  Different DNA.  There wasn't an ounce of human in her.

If anyone could not forget that fact, it was Paul Thunder.  He dated a Bartokian once, at the Academy: Kayla Rondak.  He'd really liked her.  Then she went crazy.  Changed her hair.  Fucked anything with a pulse.  Tried to get him into bed, after being with umpteen partners.  What a slut.  All they had on their minds was sex, sex, sex.  It was standard practice in Earth medical clinics for humans to be treated for sexually transmitted diseases, before and after being with non-humans.  Was it any surprise?

When he found out Bartokian parents had sex with their own kids... on their birthdays, no less... It filled him with revulsion.  Disgusting.  Immoral, and disgusting.  His eyes opened after that.  And to think some people actually preferred that about them....

Any human who associated with a non-human in that way was, quite simply, a race traitor.  Morally corrupt.

The notion latched on and festered inside Paul Thunder.  It was like they were walking around in human clothing – mocking humanity, daring to resemble them.  It cheapened human sanctity... fueling his hate.  It made him feel strong... righteous... empowered.  Paula always said hate could be useful.  Hate had its place, like love.  Every person had a duty to love, she said – under the right circumstances.  And, in the right time and place, every person had a duty to hate.  Except these days, too many people had gotten their wiring crossed... loving the alien, and hating their own kind.  No wonder humans were on their way to becoming an endangered species.

Bartokian medics moved in to attend the others.  In the group of four Starfleet people, standing flanked by Bartokian security, Thunder took a careful step back behind Stemple.  His chest ached; it hurt to breathe.  But he'd be damned if he let a Bartokian get their instruments into him.  Be brave, Paul.  His sister's words girded him, gave him strength.  He closed his lips, expression stiff, and put on a steadfast face.