<USS Avalon> "The Heroes of Deck Five"

“The Heroes of Deck Five”
by Petty Officer 2nd Class Greg Weyland
& Petty Officer 1st Class Scott Thoma



Scott Thoma moved quietly down the hallway on deck seven. Having been dispatched to that location by Commander Javan Sierra, Scott was looking for a good amount of action. The Maquis were known to have been around many years ago and their reappearance was a mystery to even the Captain, or so he assumed. The patrol was quiet and he stood at a junction staring down two hallways at adjacent Jefferies tube entrances. "If they do all the work, I'm going to be disappointed."

Greg Weyland looked at Scott and smirked as he relaxed his grip on his phaser, "Last I heard, they're being held down at Deck Five. It seems they can't get further... for now." Greg shrugged, trying not to let the worry get the better of him. He had a girlfriend that worked in one of the labs at deck five. "How are the others?"

"Haven't heard a check-in from them. I heard they were moving towards the bridge, but I figured that they'd want to go both ways and keep the offensive on two fronts. You know, move down in the decks as well." He cracked his knuckles and then ran a hand over his neck. "As far as I'm concerned they should all come here. I'm up for a good fight."

"I’m not," Greg mumbled, "I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd like to crack a few skulls too, but..." He shrugged, not wanting to admit his agitation. Leaning his head back, "I wish the Commander would get us moving up. Sorta crush those bastards from both sides, ya know?"

"Why do we bother asking? Let's just do it and worry about it later?" A mischievous grin spread across Scott's face and cocked his rifle, the hum of the charge power cell emanating outwards in a mocking lure. He nodded a couple of times with that sinister smile on his face. "We could be on deck five in ten minutes."

"Oh, no the last time you said that, we were lucky the report wasn't sent directly to Sierra. This time..." he pondered for a moment, knowing it was useless arguing with Scott right now, "aw, hell. We get out alive, and Sierra hears this, he's not going to skin you. I will." Picking up his rifle and holstering his hand phaser, Greg motioned for Scott to get both on their way.

"It won't be that bad," Scott started as he opened the Jefferies tube. Crawling inside he laughed a bit, "If you think of it this way, they won't be expecting us to come at them from this side. They figure we'll put all our power into stopping their forward aggression. It was a failed Maquis strategy from the last time they were around. We'll take half of them out before they realize what hit them."

"Your enthusiasm is heartwarming," Greg muttered as they stopped, swung the rifle and climbed up, "So that's our whole plan: just bust in and start shooting?"

"Got a better one?"

"I did actually. It involved standing at our post," Greg responded with a dry tone. They began crawling again, reaching the hatch in a minute. They stopped, Greg moving his rifle around and double checking it's power supply and settings.

"For the Avalon," Scott said heroically as he looked at Greg and waited for the nod. One of two things would lie behind that hatch. A desolate hallway with sounds of phaser fire and explosions in the distance, or a mob of Maquis soldiers standing guard for just this type of maneuver. Granted they were rebellious, but they weren't stupid. He prayed that the offensive was worth more than their defense. "Ready?"

Greg just nodded, gripping the rifle harder.

The door busted off the hinges and slammed against the door and Scott tore into the corridor. The empty corridor. He stared down both hallways and shrugged. "Well, it would seem that the party has moved elsewhere." Checking the aisles again, Scott stepped over and tapped the wall diagnostic panel. "They're still on this deck, but they are encountering resistance near the Jefferies tubes to deck four. Shall we pinch them in the center?"

Greg nodded, and Scott gestured to the left. Both moved quickly, the sounds of phaser fire and other unfamiliar weapons fire echoing through the corridors. They stopped at the intersection, the sounds of weapons fire clear and random shouts and barking of orders. Greg looked at Scott one more time, "Ready now?"

"As I'll ever be!" He motioned and dove to the deck as Greg moved to the corner of another corridor. The six Maquis soldiers were completely surprised as two of them fell with Scott and Greg's first shots. A sick sense of satisfaction crept over Scott as he fired and destroyed those people's lives. They didn't take prisoners, why should they? "Four to go!"

They turned again, Greg taking quick aim and firing a split second after Scott. Two more down as they moved for the last ones.

Scott rolled and fired again, missing wide left to one of the Maquis soldiers. A small cylinder got lobbed at them as the man took cover behind a cargo container. "Flash charge!" Scott shouted, trying to stand to his feet. The white light vaporized the ability for him to distinguish between shapes and shades. Total whiteness surrounded him until he felt the barrel of a phaser rifle pressed to his chest. "Greg!" His last words as he heard the click, the hum, and the intense heat on his stomach. All for only a split second.

"Scott, no!" Greg cried. Out of reflex his rifle had taken aim and Greg hit the trigger without stopping. The first Maquis flew back, hitting the wall and staining the grey metal with his blood. The second made a retreat as Greg took aim and blasted through the man's chest. He fell, face first onto the deck plating. By that time, Greg was at the side of his fallen comrade. He wasn’t dead, but close to. He went for his combadge to call for an emergency medical team, but Scott managed to catch his arm.

"No," Scott coughed, his left hand holding his stomach. His finger explored the singed fabric, but his eyes remained locked on Greg's. "I was up for an adventure... I didn't realize... it would be my last."

"It isn't your last. Think of it as your first battle scar," Greg attempted lightly, He moved his hand, reaching for his combadge, but Scott began spasming, distracting Greg from his call and trying to get Scott back, "Scott, Scott! Stay with me, man."

"Battle scar," he got out before another coughing fit took his strength away. A drop of blood pooled on his lip and slid delicately down his chin. "Greg, I can't feel my legs..." He looked down, pulling his hand away from his stomach. It was enough to make anyone cower in disgust. His hand was literally holding his insides in.

"Jesus," Greg gasped as he slapped the combadge, "Weyland to Sickbay, emergency transport!"

There was a slight pause, but no transport. Scott looked up at Greg, the blood pouring over both sides of his mouth, "Greg, they must have been taken over." Another cough, more blood. "It was a wild ride, wasn't it?"

"Dammit!" Greg hissed, "Weyland to Sickbay!" He repeated, "Medical emergency." Again there was no response, and when Scott coughed again, with more blood rushing out, Greg knew Scott wouldn't last long enough for anyone to get to them. He stopped calling, instead nodding and answering Scott, "Yeah. It was a wild ride."

"Think anyone will know what I did here?"

"I'll tell all of them," Greg said softly.

Suddenly he stopped shaking, "It doesn't even hurt." And Scott Thoma's eyes rolled back into his head and his eyelids closed as he slumped down lifelessly onto the deck plating.



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