Sandhurst’s hotwired a-grav farm truck came to a stop at the defense line’s assembly area after passing through a properly manned security checkpoint on the roadway.

As he and Votor assisted a pair of med-techs with removing the unconscious Rennenger and Lar’ragos from the vehicle, Sandhurst mused that given the appropriate security cordon they’d encountered, if not for Votor’s impulsive attempt to incapacitate Pava, it might not have been necessary to stun the man.

Fortunately for the both of them, given the circumstances nobody even thought to ask what had happened to either of the insensate men, and neither he nor Votor were volunteering any information.

Despite the darkness and open light prohibitions, it took only a few moments for them to locate Cadet Bartolo. The older midshipman was coming from a small conference of squad leaders that had just broken up.

“Mister Sandhurst, you survived!” Bartolo exclaimed, sounding genuinely relieved.

“Only four of the ten of us that went up the hill, sir,” Sandhurst replied acidly, unable to filter the bitterness from his to voice.

“I’m sorry, Donald,” Bartolo offered. “For what it’s worth, your efforts up there allowed everyone you see here to retreat from the commercial complex. We’d likely all have been dead or captured otherwise.”

Sandhurst absorbed the words but did not react.

“What is our situation, sir?” Votor asked.

“We’re establishing a skirmish line to meet the Cardassians main thrust towards the colony proper. The civilians behind us are building defensive fortification for us to fall back to. This is Line Alpha. Behind us is Line Beta, and Line Charlie is our final stronghold at the water reclamation center. We’re going to try and blunt their advance by falling back in stages, causing them as many casualties as we can while we stall for time.”

“Time for what?” Sandhurst asked.

“For Starfleet to get reinforcements to us,” Bartolo replied, letting Sandhurst’s incredulous tone pass.

Sandhurst challenged, “And if they don’t?”

Bartolo stepped forward to make out Sandhurst’s features in the dim moons’ light. “Then we fight as hard as we can for as long as we can to protect the colony. That’s our duty.”

Again, Sandhurst’s expression was impassive, something Bartolo recognized as the cumulative shock of the situation finally descending upon the younger cadet.

“Mister Sandhurst, we’ve got some damaged phaser turrets we brought with us when we fell back and a couple of crates of replacement parts. Do you think you can get to work repairing them?”

“Sure,” he replied distantly. Then, he seemed to remember protocol and answered more forcefully, “Yes, yes sir. I can.”

“Good. Mister Votor, please take Mister Sandhurst to get something to eat and then report in to Ensign Singh. She’s in charge of this sector of the defense line and she’ll get him set up. Then come back to me.”

“Aye, sir,” Votor said, placing an arm around Sandhurst’s shoulders to direct him away.

There was a brief exchange of plasma and phaser fire from almost point blank range as Var’s squad stumbled into a formation of defenders in the dark who had somehow masked their life-signs.

Var discharged a burst into a humanoid silhouette rising from behind a nearby bush in the dim light. There was a groan and the silhouette collapsed. Another form advanced quickly towards Var, yelling savagely, its rifle raised like a club.

Without thinking, Var parried the blow with his own weapon, directing the attack downward and then smashing the buttstock of his own rifle into the figure’s face. The attacker cried out as he collapsed, giving Var the opportunity to take two steps back and fire into the man’s prone form.

The firefight had been brief, with one of Var’s squad killed and another slightly injured. Five of the enemy had paid for the poorly coordinated ambush with their lives.

Var’s defensive reaction had not required thought, only reflexive response honed by endless hours of training. Var had fought other children in his age cohort, both in organized competitions at school and in the streets. He had wielded both wooden weapon replicas as a child on the youth practice fields and the genuine articles during intensive military training provided even the most basic Cardassian conscripts. Despite the grinding poverty of Cardassia, they had been raised in a martial culture where the individual was subordinate to the state, a state which only rewarded the strong.

Urtrim had been right, he reflected. The Humans of the Federation were softer than his people. However, their technological superiority still made them a dangerous foe. Their losses thus far attested to that. Var would not allow himself the luxury of overconfidence.

Arvik stepped forward to examine the enemy dead. “Starfleet?” he asked.

Var knelt next to one of the defenders, a female garbed in a dark uniform worn under a tactical carryall vest. “No,” he said, gesturing to the insignia patch on her shoulder. “Local defense force.”

He moved to the man who had attacked him with the rifle, finding the weapon had exhausted its power-cell despite the man having additional power-cells visible in vest pouches. It was obvious that he had simply neglected to check the weapon’s charge before the ambush. Not even the most raw Cardassian recruit would make such a mistake.

“They may be fighting as best they can,” Arvik acknowledged, “but they are not bred for such things. We will crush them, my friend.”

Var grunted in response, standing. “The Bajorans were peaceful farmers before we seized that blighted world. How many of our soldiers have spilled their blood on Bajoran soil since?”

“Meaning?”

Var looked back at Arvik in the dim light. “Underestimate your enemy at your peril.”

“Message from So’Dal Urtrim, sir,” reported one of Var’s soldiers. “The enemy is establishing a defensive line just ahead. He is coordinating an attack with our three remaining gunships.”

“The final push,” Var noted with satisfaction. “Fates willing, this should all be over soon.”

Lar’ragos woke with a start, his first instinct being to lash out at a perceived enemy before he was fully aware of his surroundings. Instead of connecting with his intended strike, he flailed helplessly against a force securing his limbs to his torso.

“And that,” a male voice sounded from above him, “is why I always carry a portable restraining field. You notice how his EEG readings in his cerebellum were elevated? You tend see that a lot with people who are more apt to lash out when regaining consciousness.”

Lar’ragos opened his eyes to see an older male Human wearing a medical smock looking down at him. Beyond him, stars twinkled in the night sky overhead. “It’s okay, I’ve just finished tending to your injuries,” the man said. He held up a small device in one hand. “I’m going to deactivate the restraining field now. Please try to remain calm.”

The man thumbed a button on the device and Lar’ragos felt the barrier binding his limbs release. He took a deep involuntary breath, then nodded his thanks to the medic.

“You had three fractured ribs, a low-grade concussion and your right hip was partially dislocated. I’ve fixed all that to the best of my ability, given the uh- austere conditions here.” The man swept his arm around expansively, gesturing to the makeshift encampment that surrounded them.

“Thank you,” Lar’ragos answered, his head still feeling fuzzy. “How… how did I get here?”

“I haven’t the faintest,” the man replied. “Someone brought you in on a litter and asked me to help you.” He looked to his assistant, “You remember who brought him in?”

She nodded. “Yes, Doctor. It was a couple of Starfleet cadets in a farm truck. Someone said they were the last people to make it back from the fight at the Galleria.”

The doctor sighed, his expression suddenly morose. He looked back down at Lar’ragos. “I don’t suppose you saw a Bolian restaurant there during all that? I’d dearly love to know if it’s still standing. Bolarus Bloom, it’s called.”

“Uh, no,” Lar’ragos replied lamely. “Soon as we arrived my team and I were sent to the top of the hill overlooking the commercial development. There wasn’t much down there that wasn’t on fire when we retreated.”

“Ah, well. Que sera, sera, eh?”

Lar’ragos sat up with effort, which elicited a soft groan.

“Normally I’d tell you to take it easy for a while,” the doctor offered with a fatalistic smirk. “But under the circumstances…”

“Do you know where the Starfleet contingent is?” Lar’ragos pressed.

“All around you,” the doctor said. “They’re setting up to fight the Cardassians, and the rest of us support types are going to be falling back to the water reclamation center.”

Lar’ragos reached down, comforted by the presence of his 23rd century-era phaser pistol still strapped to his thigh-holster. “I’ve got to get back on the line,” he muttered, more to himself than to the medics tending him.

“Well, take it easy, so—” the doctor caught himself in midsentence and chuckled. “Almost called you ‘son.’ Sorry, bad habit for a codger like me. From the looks of your scans, you’re a damn sight older than I am.”

He and his assistant helped an unsteady Lar’ragos to his feet. Civilian comm-links on both their persons began to chime simultaneously, prompting the doctor to note, “That’s the alert for us to fall back. I wish you the best of luck out there, soldier.”

“I’m not a—” Lar’ragos’ voice fell away. He turned to look at the doctor and held the man’s gaze for a moment before nodding silently. He drew himself up, took a breath and pulled his phaser from its holster. “Are you a spiritual man, Doctor?” he asked.

“After a fashion,” the man allowed. “You want me to say a prayer for you?”

“For the Cardassians,” Lar’ragos said flatly, before striding off into the gloom in search of his comrades.