This story was written just for fun and is not an attempt to make money or infringe on any copyrights or trademarks. Only the original ideas contained within the works on this nonprofit web site are the property of their authors, and please do not copy these stories to any other website or archive or print without permission of the author.

 by Angela Field.

seaQuest, North Atlantic Ridge

            Miguel Ortiz stared in silent disbelief at the scrap of brightly coloured paper in his hand that contained his officer's exam marks. He could hardly believe what he was reading. He couldn't have failed that badly, surely? True, it had been a tough exam: tough enough to make him have a few qualms when he read the first questions. But once he had got into the swing of it, he thought he had done reasonably well. Certainly he had been fairly confident of getting a good pass mark. But eight percent? Eight lousy percent out of one hundred? That wasn't missing the grade, that was a complete and utter failure!

            That'll teach you to get cocky, a malicious little voice in the back of his head sneered and Miguel winced miserably. 

            "Ortiz?" Jonathan Ford peered anxiously across the desk at the Sensor Chief. "Miguel, are you okay? I know the results were bad, but it is a tough exam. You'll do better next time."

            "Next time?" Ortiz gave him a numb look. He felt like a complete and utter fool. He had bounced in to see the XO with all the confidence in the world, now he felt like a jellyfish left on the beach at high tide.

            "You can't give up on something this important to you."

            Miguel took a deep breath and looked away from Ford's sympathetic gaze. "Guess I'm not cut out to be an officer after all," he mumbled.

            "Don't be stupid. If you weren't officer material do you really think the captain and I would have let you sit the boards at all?"

            But I am stupid, aren't I? I totally screwed up on this exam. "No, sir," he said                    tonelessly. "Can I go now, commander?"

            Ford sighed. "Yes. But think about what I said. You should re-sit them. It was probably nerves. It isn't like you don't know your stuff."

            Ortiz forced a smile and nodded as he let himself out, scrunching the paper into a tight ball that he shoved into his pocket and wished he could burn. Closing the hatch quietly behind him and gritting his teeth, Miguel lifted his head high and stalked down the corridor, heading for his own quarters and some privacy. He felt like someone had hauled off and punched him in the stomach and was on autopilot as he entered the Mag Lev, his mind spinning with disbelief. He sat in bewildered silence, staring at the bulkhead without really thinking about where he was going until the doors hissed open. He roused enough to spit a curse at the female voice of the automated system as he got out, in no mood to have anyone or anything being cheerful.

            "Hey, Cube! Hold up!"

            Ortiz froze in dismay as he the doors slid shut again, his heart sinking as Lieutenant Krieg hailed him. He only hoped Krieg hadn't found out about the exam results yet. The last thing he wanted was for Ben to go into morale officer mode and start 'cheering' him up. Krieg breezed briskly towards him, his usual carefree smile plastered over his face in a way that Miguel abruptly found irritating in the extreme.

            "Don't call me Cube," Ortiz muttered as Ben reached him.

            "Whatever." Krieg shrugged casually, missing the belligerent expression darkening the younger man's face. "I've been looking for you. You up for poker tonight or are you planning on having your head stuck in the rule books again?"

            "I'm not in the mood for being teased," Miguel told him curtly as the gentle barb stung him in a sore spot. He had studied hard both before and since for the exam, stoically ignoring all the teasing because he desperately wanted to make Officer grade and had excitedly anticipated passing. Knowing his rank was equivalent to junior grade lieutenant was one thing; actually having it acknowledged was another. Sometimes he thought that if he had known the U.E.O. would forget he had originally been a Cuban Navy ensign, he would never have transferred to them at all. Being made up to full Chief had been exhilarating, until it belatedly dawned on him that his promotion should have been to junior grade lieutenant. Recently it had started to irritate him and it had been O'Neill who gently started pushing in the direction of taking his officer boards.

            "Who’s teasing? You've become as bad a bookworm as O'Neill. Next you'll be telling us senior officers how to do it by the book." Krieg was grinning as he said it and was unprepared for the filthy look the Cuban gave him.

            "Very funny, lieutenant," Ortiz snarled. "I wouldn't want to insult you by expecting you to play with the lower grades, sir."

            "Ooh, it bites too!" Krieg mocked, "Whose bed did you get out of the wrong side of this morning, muscles?"

            Ortiz jerked a step towards him and then caught himself, startled by the sudden white hot flash of his temper and the knife sharp urge to knock the grin off the Supply Officer's face. He had been getting awfully tired of sexist comments lately too and was surprised to realise how touchy he was getting on the subject. "What do you think I am, Krieg? seaQuest's gigolo?"

            Krieg stopped smiling, finally noticing the Cuban's tension. "It was a joke, Miguel," he said gently. "What's wrong?"

            "Wrong? Why should anything be wrong?!" Ortiz hissed. "Maybe I'm tired of being treated like a second class citizen! I'm a damn sight more than pretty faced bimbo!"

            "Who said you weren't?" Krieg asked in genuine bewilderment. Everyone knew Miguel tended to be hot tempered, but bad tempered was something else. Normally the good looking younger man put up with teasing about his looks with a combination of shy disbelief and embarrassment.

            Ortiz glared at him mutely, clenching his fists and really, really wanting to lash out and hit something.

            "Miguel!" Tim O'Neill came hurtling around the corner, bathrobe flapping as he skidded breathlessly to halt. "There you are!"

            From the faint air of sleepy befuddlement hovering around the edges of the empathic 'link' he and Tim shared, Miguel guessed the comtech had been woken up suddenly, probably by the Cuban's rapidly oscillating emotional state. Tim's presence usually acted as a balm on his temper - which was probably why O'Neill had come running to calm him down -  but all it did now was annoy him even more. He didn't need anyone telling him to calm down, psionically or otherwise. "Yeah, here I am. As usual. So you found me, big deal. What do you want? A prize for being the best telepathic bloodhound?"

            "Uh...." Tim looked slightly hurt as he gazed at him blankly, then he glared at Krieg with a flash of exasperation. "Did you do something to upset him?"

            "Oh, sure I did. I asked him to a poker game and nearly got my head bitten off."

            "Oh...."

            "Don't talk about me as if I'm not here," Ortiz snapped icily.  "I'm not a lower life form!" He stabbed a finger at O'Neill. "Nor do I need to be on leash! Get out of my way!"

            O'Neill stepped back automatically, pressing against the bulkhead as the Cuban stomped past him and headed for his own quarters.

            "If you ask me he should be on a very short leash," Krieg muttered, frowning after the Cuban before glancing at O'Neill. "He must have been emoting pretty loud to wake you up."

            Tim looked up from knotting his robe around his midriff. "Very," he admitted awkwardly. The comtech had recently emerged as an empath and was still finding it hard to handle.

            "Any idea why?"

            "Not yet. I'd better go talk to him."

            "Maybe you should let him calm down first."

            Tim tilted his head to one side, contemplating this from the twin angles of long time friendship with Ortiz and what his empathy was telling him. Beneath the bitter frosting of anger, he could tell that Miguel was feeling deeply upset and hurt about something.  "No, I think now would be better," he decided and trotted off in pursuit.

            Krieg sighed heavily and decided that he had better find someone else to make up the numbers for the game.

                                                                        * * *

            Ortiz flinched at the polite tap on the hatch. He knew it was going to be O'Neill, even if the comtech was being polite by restraining the 'link's' announcement of his arrival. To be honest, Tim didn't need to be an empath to know how the Cuban was feeling. They had been friends too long for him not to notice. A small part of Miguel wished he would leave him alone, but a larger part wanted a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.

            "You might as well come in, O'Neill," he growled bitterly as he sprawled on his stomach on his bunk: his chin propped on his hands as he glared at the wall. "I know you're not going to go away even if I pretend I'm not here."

            After a second the hatch eased open and Tim padded in. Pushing it shut behind him, the comtech leaned back against the cool metal and studied Miguel's tension hunched shoulders. "You're going to get a stiff neck lying like that," he observed.

            "That's my problem, know it all."

            "Forget the insults, Mig. This is me you're talking to. I'm not that easy to get rid of."

            "Pity."

            O'Neill sighed, swept a pile of technical readouts off a chair and settled into it. "Okay, tell your friendly neighbourhood comtech all about it."

            "Push off, snoop."         

            O'Neill said nothing but Miguel felt a flinch of hurt on the 'link' that Tim couldn't suppress. With a groan, Ortiz burrowed his face into his pillow. "Sorry," he mumbled miserably.

            "You must be hurting pretty bad," Tim said softly, however. "What   happened?"

            "It wasn't a girl if that's what you're thinking!"

            "It hadn't even crossed my mind that it would be. You've barely noticed there are any on board since....."

            It was Ortiz' turn to wince as O'Neill paused thoughtfully. Trust Tim to figure it out. If only the comtech didn't know him so well.

            "....since you took your officer's exam," the comtech concluded. "Did you get the results?"

            "Maybe."

            "You didn't get quite as good marks as you were expecting?" Tim went on carefully.

            "That's one way of putting it." With a bitter laugh, Ortiz rolled over onto his back, appalled to feel the sting of tears in his eyes. It hurt, damn it. He had wanted that pass so much he could taste it.

            "What did you get? I won't repeat it, you know that."

            Miguel hesitated. Ford had said the results would be kept secret, but it wouldn't take anyone long to figure them out once the promotions were announced. His heart ached as that thought hit him. He didn't think he could take the humiliation of watching everyone else get promoted over him. What on earth was he going to do?

            "If you don't want to tell me, it's okay," Tim said cautiously.

            Lifting his head Ortiz gazed at his best friend woodenly for a moment. "I got eight percent," he said finally.

            Tim blinked. "Eight percent wrong isn't bad...." he began.

            "No, Tim, eight percent right. I completely and utterly screwed up and for the first time in my life failed an exam. The most important exam of my life at that!"  Ortiz was watching O'Neill closely, waiting for the sympathy and the pity, instead he got total disbelief followed by such rapid and genuine indignation that it made him feel a little better.

            "That's ridiculous! It's impossible. You practically memorised that damn rule book! You can't have failed. What went wrong?"

            "That's what I keep asking myself and I don't know." Ortiz' frustration spilled over and he bounced out of his bunk, pacing the cramped confines of his cabin. Space was another sore point. While being a Chief entitled him to single quarters, it didn't entitle him to large ones. "I was so sure I answered all the questions right." He whirled to face the American. "Even you said you thought I'd done okay when I told you how I'd answered."

            "I figured you had," O'Neill agreed, frowning. "I don't see how you could have gone wrong."

            Ortiz shook his head, his black curls flying. "Neither do I, but..." His eyes went wide. "Tim, you don't think they thought I was cheating, do you?"

            "You? Cheat? You wouldn't know where to start."

            "Yes, but you're a telepath.”

            "Empath," Tim corrected firmly.

            "Same difference."

            "Not from my side of the tracks it isn't."

            "So you took a different route, you still end up at the same destination. And don't change the subject. We're talking about me cheating!"

            "Did you?"

            "NO!"

            "Then why worry about it?"

            "Because they might think I did."           

            "I don't see how."

            Miguel groaned. "Sheesh, I should have thought of it before! Because of the 'link' they might have thought you'd feed me the answers somehow....."

            O'Neill coloured. "Oh that. No, not likely."

            Ortiz gave him a sharp look. "What does that mean?"

            Tim took a deep breath and gave him a weak smile. "The captain thought of it even if we didn't."

            "You mean he didn't trust us!" Miguel flared angrily.

            "Of course he does, but he wanted to make sure there'd be no comebacks on you if someone else didn't. Apparently, it's standard security to have a telepath scanning entrants taking the exam though. Besides which I spent the day in Medbay dosed up on neural suppressants."

            "You did what?!"

            "You don't have to get hysterical," Tim said reproachfully. "Levin and Westphalen were there all day. I was in no danger."

            "You were dosed up on neural suppressants and there was no danger? They're risky! What kind of an idiot do you take me for? You'd have been in danger from me if I'd found out!"

            "That's why we didn't tell you," O'Neill muttered.

            Ortiz wasn't listening. "Hell, I didn't even notice!"

            "You were too nervous."

            Miguel turned back to look at him. "You loathe taking those things," he observed bitterly. "If I'd known....."

            "What would you have done? Not taken the exam?  Levin wanted to run a couple of experiments on me anyway."

            "Wouldn't have made much difference if I hadn't taken the exam as it turned out," Miguel pointed out gloomily, slumping back onto his bunk again.

            "So you take it again and do better next time. It's not the end of the world," Tim said gently, moving over to sit beside him and put an arm around his shoulders.

            It was an offer of comfort that Miguel was glad of. He had been raised to express his feelings openly and touching and hugging were part and parcel of who he was. Not everyone appreciated that though. Tim was used to him, however, and had gradually opened up to the Cuban while he kept his personal feelings hidden from everyone else. It wasn't easy for the naturally reticent comtech to be an empath.

            "I don't know if I can face taking it again, Tim," Miguel admitted miserably.         

            "So your self confidence took a bit of a battering. You'll bounce back. You always do, amigo. Nothing ever keeps you down for long."

            "You mean I'm all surface and no depth?" Ortiz snapped with a flash of temper that surprised them both.

            "I didn't say that," Tim protested.

            "Seems like everyone else does though." Springing back to his feet, Ortiz started to pace again, finding himself weighing up everything that might be considered a slight. It wasn't like him and he knew it, but he felt bitterly depressed and convinced the U.E.O. was out to get him.  "Tim, how am I supposed to face everyone else getting promoted while I'm stuck on sensors?"

            "Who says anyone will get promoted?" Tim said gently.

            "I know at least three people on board who took the exam. I'm going to have to salute them!"

            "Why? You never salute me," O'Neill pointed out sardonically.

            "You know what I mean!"

            "I know promotion time never bothered you before."

            "I never took the exam before either." Ortiz shook his head in an explosion of self disgust. "What an idiot! I get tired waiting for a promotion to come to me so I take the exam: and what happens? I fail miserably. It only proves Bridger was right not to promote me!"

            "You are not an idiot, Miguel! Bridger doesn't give out field promotions anyway. You were right to take the exam."

            "I failed, Tim! Weren't you listening? I failed."

            "It's still only an exam. It doesn't change anything."

            "Yes, it does. It changes everything. Eight percent, Tim. Eight lousy percent. I'm not even qualified to be running sensors. I'm surprised I haven't got us all blown up!"

            "Now you really are being ridiculous!" O'Neill said sharply, determined to cut off this bud before it could turn into a poisonous blossom. "You're the best sensor technician in the fleet. Why else would you be on seaQuest?"

            "Because someone screwed up." Ortiz closed his eyes and covered his face with his hands. "Oh, man, I bet that's it. Placate the S.A.C. time by having someone on the flagship. Let the Cuban play with the sensors and keep his confederacy sweet."

            "Ortiz, if you don't stop this I'm going to knock some sense into you," Tim snapped impatiently.

            "Oh, very sympathetic."

            "Bull. If I start letting you wallow in self pity I know you'll do something stupid." Lifting his head Ortiz glared furiously at his friend and found calm hazel eyes gazing back at him with genuine affection. "Miguel, I know how you've been feeling. I know how frustrated you've been. But it's only an exam when all's said and done. Maybe it wasn't the right time to take it after what happened in Hawaii."

            Miguel gazed mutely at the comtech for a long moment. "I can't use Saran kidnapping us as an excuse," he said finally. "I don't know what went wrong in the exam. I know I did my best. But my best wasn't good enough. Now, I have to figure out some way to live with not being who I thought I was."

            O'Neill groaned softly and ran a tired hand over his face. "You haven't changed, Mig. Believing an exam outlines who and what you are is stupid."

            "According to that exam I am stupid," Ortiz pointed out grimly.

            "You didn't think or feel you were until you saw those results. I know I didn't, nor does anyone else on this boat."

            Ortiz snorted. "No, but half of them think I'm a gigolo!"

            "Excuse me?" Tim blinked up at him in astonishment at that remark. "Where did that come from?"

            "Come on, Tim, look at me."

            "Must I?"

            "Bird seed Krieg called me the other day!"

            "Boasting, are we?"

            "No! Do you know how often I get propositioned for a one night stand?"

            "This is suddenly a problem?" O'Neill said dryly.

            Miguel coloured. "You know what I mean," he mumbled, embarrassed.

            O'Neill grinned. He did know. Despite his striking looks, Ortiz was a romantic rather than a romancer. One night stands weren't his scene. It had startled the hell out of the Cuban when new civilian arrivals started dropping none too subtle hints about late night boarding parties: not all of them were female either. "There is always the magic word: no," Tim reminded him serenely.

            The Cuban sighed heavily. "Which has probably earned me a reputation for being arrogant."

            "Or not easy," Tim corrected. "Anyone who knows you knows you're more than a pretty face."

            "You do maybe. But I'm not so sure about the others. A pretty face can wreck your chances of a promotion if someone sees you as competition."

            O'Neill raised a sardonic eyebrow. "You think this is the captain's problem? Or maybe Ford's?"

            Frustrated, Ortiz flapped his arms at the bulkheads. "Maybe they're worried about me sleeping my way to the top!"

            "With Bridger?!" Tim couldn't quite manage to suppress a giggle at that image and Ortiz shot a furious glare at him.

            "It isn't funny!" he spat in outrage.

            "Sure, it is. You nearly flattened an Admiral for that suggestion once. And she was female!"

            Ortiz blushed and subsided. "Maybe I should have taken her up on the offer; it's probably the only way I will ever get promoted!"       

            "You're going to be a captain one of these days. Why rush it?"

            Miguel gave the comtech a thoughtful look, surprised by the rush of certainty on the 'link'. Tim genuinely believed in his friend's abilities and it gave Miguel a much needed ego boost that let him sketch a smile on his face. "I don't know. Frustration I guess. Fraternal competition, maybe. Tomas was a junior lieutenant at my age."

            "Oh hark at this: at my age. You're not exactly ancient now. And Tomas wasn't serving on the flagship as Sensor Chief!"

            "According to him, U.E.O. isn't proper Navy."

            "And I've heard you telling him exactly what you think of that idea too! Besides, since when do you listen to your brother?"

            "But if I'd stayed with the Cuban Navy....."

            "You'd be playing with ancient hydrophones and wishing you'd taken a transfer."

            "I'd have a better chance of a field promotion though," Ortiz mused, half tempted.

            "Don't you dare start thinking about a transfer down there."        

            "You make it sound like the ends of the earth!" Ortiz made the effort and managed a laugh.

            "It might as well be. You know very well that half the S.A.C. Navy is lurking off Antarctica. They'd send you straight down there into a combat situation and you'd get yourself blown up. Fat lot of good a promotion would do you then!"

            "I love the faith you have in me. I wouldn't get myself blown up."

            "No, someone else would do it for you. I do have faith in you, amigo. You'll get your promotion. This is only a time out. It's not the end of the game. You promise me not to transfer back to Cuba or the S.A.C."

            "Tim..."

            "Promise me, Ortiz."

            Ortiz glared at him. "Okay, okay, I promise," he muttered sullenly, irritated without knowing why. He had noticed O'Neill reacting badly to news from Antarctica recently and it had him baffled. So half the countries on the planet had a stake of one kind or another in the polar regions. They had been arguing over it forever and nothing ever came of it. No-one else seemed worried so he couldn't understand why it made O'Neill so jumpy.

            Tim let out a small breath of relief and slid to his feet. "Good," he sighed, giving the Cuban a grateful smile. "Look, we're supposed to be on the bridge soon. You going to get ready?"

            "I've got a free day."

            "Oh, right" O'Neill eyed him anxiously. "I'll meet you for lunch then, okay? We'll talk and figure out what to do."

            Miguel grunted and nodded reluctantly, folding his arms.

            "Don't do anything drastic, Mig. Please?" Tim coaxed.

            "What? Like jumping out the airlock?"

            "That isn't funny."

            Ortiz grimaced. "No, I suppose it wasn't. Forget it. You know I'm in a bad mood. I'll be a good boy and meet you for lunch. Don't worry."

                                                                        * * *

            After O'Neill had gone to take his watch, Ortiz sat and moped for a while, worrying the problem over like a wolf with a bone. He couldn't see any way around the fact that he was going to have to put up with the teasing and the embarrassment of missing out on a promotion. Short of jumping ship there didn't seem to be much else he could do. Maybe he was being oversensitive and it wasn't as important as he felt it was. Running away from a problem had never been his style, he reminded himself, and it probably wouldn't help if he did. This kind of problem tended to follow you. Transferring to another boat wouldn't improve his promotion prospects. His only other choices seemed to be taking a shore position at one of the research bases: hardly a challenge to someone with his expertise in sensor technology. What expertise? sneered the little voice, the one he was doing his best to ignore - or quitting the U.E.O. all together in favour of a civilian role.

            That idea gave him the shudders and he rolled off the bunk where he was stretched out. All his thoughts were going in circles and getting him nowhere. What he needed was something to take his mind off things. He half wished he was on watch with O'Neill. At least that would give him something to think about.  Right, assuming you don't crash seaQuest into a sea mount you've missed....

            Feeling like belting himself in the head to shut up the doubts of his own self conscious, Miguel slammed out of his cabin and headed for the Mess Room.

            Between watches there was hardly anyone around and the Mess room was empty when he arrived, allowing Ortiz to order a chocolate sundae with extra toffee sauce without queuing.

            "Bad day?" the crewman who served him asked.

            "The pits. Does it show that much?"

            "You asked for extra sauce."

            Miguel smiled weakly. "It's an extra sauce morning," he said gloomily and headed for a table. He wasn't in the mood for socialising. Sitting in a corner with his back to the bulkhead, he dug into his sundae, taking his time over each spoonful.       

            "Ortiz? I've been looking for you."

            Ortiz sighed and looked up reluctantly into the craggy face of seaQuest's Security Chief. "Everyone seems to be looking for me, chief," he commented as Crocker out down his coffee and sat down at his table.

            "You're a popular guy," Crocker observed, giving the younger man a thoughtful look. "You look a little down, Miguel. Problems?"

            Miguel considered for a moment, then dug a vicious spoon into his ice-cream. Maybe Crocker had some answers for him, if he dared to ask. "Chief, have you ever minded not being an officer?" he asked cautiously.

            "Minded how?"

            "By not getting a promotion."

            "You mean to officer grade? A cross transfer to equivalent rank?" Ortiz nodded and Crocker chuckled. "Can you imagine me as an Ensign?"

            "No," Miguel admitted with a rueful smile. "But didn't you ever think about it?"

            "When I was married to my first wife...no, tell a lie, it was my second wife. She was the nag with the ideas. She wanted me to be an officer. I was regular Navy then. I considered it to shut her up."

            "You ever take the exams?"

            Crocker shook his head and grinned. "I found an easier way. I got a divorce." Seeing the faintly exasperated look Ortiz gave him, he went on. "After that, it never seemed important enough. I've always been in security, kid. It's what I know. What I'm good at. I couldn't run a boat like this. I guess I found the niche where I'm happy."

            "What if you hadn't been happy in your niche?"

            "I'd have looked for another one. Everyone gets restless now and then, Miguel.  The trick is to look before you leap and don't burn your bridges while you're still standing on them."

            "Platitudes?"

            "They work."

            "Right now I can hear the flames crackling," Ortiz groaned under his breath.

            "Your exams didn't turn out the way you planned?"

            "You heard?" Miguel glared at him indignantly.

            "I guessed from the way you're talking. It wasn't hard." Crocker considered him for a moment. "Look, Miguel, I've seen a lot of officers in my time: good ones and bad ones. I've seen bad ones pass their exams first time and good ones screw up worse than you can imagine."

            "Not as badly as I did." 

            "It's only an exam. Take it again."

            "That's what O'Neill said."

            "Then take his advice."

            Ortiz shook his head. "I'd only make myself look like even more of an idiot by chasing something I'm not good enough to do."

            "Who says?" Crocker demanded sharply. "You're a good officer now. You think you need a star to prove it?"

            "I don't know what I need. A change maybe?"   

            Crocker sat back in his seat and frowned at the Cuban in concern. He had encountered lots of young crewmen in a situation like Ortiz', facing in trepidation what they considered a major crisis over their career. A few had had good reasons for their doubts, some had simply been scared and in need of a bit of ego boosting, a fair number of them had been egotistical rank chasers, but Crocker had never considered Ortiz to be among any of them. The Cuban knew what he wanted and was simply careful about doing anything about it. Crocker had always thought Miguel belonged on the fast track and he knew Bridger shared his opinion. He knew the captain had been pleased when Ortiz applied for his officers boards. Nathan was all for encouraging the cream, regardless of their status.

            "What are you looking at me like that for?" Ortiz demanded, growing uncomfortable under the older man's gaze. "Maybe I don't want to be stuck as a sensor chief for the rest of my life. Is there anything wrong with that?"

            "No," Crocker said mildly. "What else did you have in mind?"

            "I don't know. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a submarine officer after all."

            "Surface Navy then?"

            "Maybe."

            "Or a transfer to the U.S. Navy?"

            "Cuban Navy, I think. I still have my Cuban rank."

            "And then what?" Crocker asked carefully. "Won't they put you straight back on sensors? They'll want what you've learned in the U.E.O.. You'll be in exactly the same position as you are here."

            Ortiz looked up at him uncertainly, suddenly feeling trapped. "But I'll have an officer's rank."

            "On a strange ship that isn't the seaQuest with all her sensor technology. You may upgrade to officer, but you'll downgrade elsewhere. Then you'll have to think about moving...."

            "Moving?" Ortiz repeated blankly.

            "They're not going to let you live in the U.S. once you're back in the Cuban Navy. You'll have to move to Cuba. And you probably won't be doing world tours any more. They tend to stick to S.A.C. waters."

            Miguel blinked.  Fixated on thoughts of his career, he hadn't got around to considering the wider picture that Crocker was painting in stark black and white. When he moved to California with his family, he had been too young to understand the problems he was leaving behind and too old to appreciate the upheaval of the move away from his friends and home. Deep down he harboured a romantic view of Cuba that had made him join the Cuban Navy as an idealistic teenager without stopping to think about what he was getting in to. Time had made his views of his homeland a little more realistic if no less fervent. He had been happy enough while he was in the Cuban Navy and he had enjoyed living on the island. It had been an adventure for him, but looking back now he realised he hadn't had time to become disillusioned with it before he was transferred to the U.E.O.. If he went back now, he would be cutting himself off from his friends and family for a large part of the time.

            "Maybe that's not such a good idea," he mumbled, shaking his head bitterly. "I guess this is the look before you leap part? I'm too impetuous to be an officer."

            Crocker smiled at him indulgently. "I don't think so. I've known worse. Besides, I may have the very thing you're looking for."

            "Don't tell me. Krieg's challenged security to another volleyball match in the moon pool?" Miguel struggled to be cheerful.

            "After the thrashing your lot took the last time?"

            "That was only because Phillips lost his shorts. He still wants to find out whether it was Myles or Sorgesson who debagged him!"

            Crocker shrugged and did his best to look innocent. "I have no idea," he said mildly.

            "Sure, chief. I believe you." Ortiz rattled his spoon around his sundae dish and reluctantly pushed it away; conceding that it was empty and no drips remained.

            "Remember what we were talking about the other day?" Crocker prompted gently when the Cuban started to look depressed again.

            "Nope." Anything around exam time had tended to fade into obscurity for Ortiz unless it concerned sensors.

            "You said you were going to think about it," Crocker reproached.

            "Sorry. Remind me?"

            "The fighter sub course. You said you were interested, remember? You took the aptitude response tests with Levin."

            "Let me guess, I failed?"           

            "No, you were the only one who passed. They want to know if you can make the start of the course."

            "What?" Ortiz stared at him blankly, completely thrown off track.

            "It starts in two days. They've had someone drop out so they have a space to fill. Your name was top of the list for the next course, so...." Crocker slapped a sheet of plastic printout down in front of him. "If you want it, it’s yours. The U.E.O. is pretty gung ho on this, so it's top priority. You say yes and the captain can't refuse your transfer."

            Slowly Miguel picked up the printout, staring at his name on the formal request. In the mad whirl of exam preparation, he had said yes to Crocker's request without thinking: figuring it was the quickest way of getting him off his back. He hadn't given it a second's thought since. "They want me?" he said in awe, impressed despite himself. Everyone knew the sub fighter pilots were the U.E.O. glamour boys. They had to be the best to make the grade and even being invited on the course was an honour.....

            But if he failed to pass....

            Ortiz shuddered. "Let me think about it," he said weakly.

            Crocker frowned. "Okay, but I can't give you long. You want it, you have to be on your way today."

                                                                        * * *

            Feeling dazed, Miguel headed for the gym, confused by the pressure of needing to make a sudden and drastic decision about his life. Last night he had been happily anticipating a career as an officer, today he was considering the prospects of either being a Chief for the rest of his life or a Navy Fish Boy who stood a good chance of getting blown out of the water. Glamour and reputation aside, Miguel knew that the fighter sub pilots were combat officers when it came down to it and he had never considered himself taking on a role as a combat officer. Ortiz blinked thoughtfully as he stopped outside the gym doors. The keyword was the one he had been missing: officer. Fighter sub pilots were paid well and promoted fast.

            "How about Ortiz then? Now there's a fine example of the male of the species," a husky female voice commented.

            Alerted by hearing his name mentioned, Ortiz looked up and round, taking a moment to realise that the Fitness Room was occupied.

            "I had noticed," came the dry response.

            Miguel sighed, recognising the voices as two of the new civilian scientists who had come aboard. He recognised the tone of voice too: lust. He was so tired of being treated as nothing more than a pretty face! He wasn't sure he could cope with exercising in front of salivating strangers today and was about to go when Dr Hantwick spoke up, sounding breathless as if she was on the treadmill.

            "Who hasn't? He's a wonderful anthropological specimen. Good looking, broad shoulders, narrow hips..."

            "Tight buns..." giggled her colleague.  "With obviously plenty of thrusting power....Have you seen his wiggle?"

            "No, but I'd like to," Dr Hantwick responded with a wicked laugh. "I'd certainly love to experiment on him in a dark room."

            "I doubt if he'd object all that much. I wonder how good he is in bed."

            "Bound to be incredible. With his looks he must get plenty of practise."

            "Not to mention exercise if he's smart!"

            "Smart enough to take advantage, I'd say."

            "Oh, he can take advantage of me any time he wants: smart or not! Thinking about that stud muffin is enough to give me the hots!"

            Ortiz went scarlet and backed away. It was bad enough wrecking his own chances of promotion, without being viewed as little more than a sex toy! His temper surging in direct competition with his humiliation, he strode away down the corridor without hearing the two women continuing,

            "And what about Ford? Now that is a prime specimen....."

                                                                        * * *

            Nathan Bridger was used to facing crisis. He could take giant squid in his stride, face on coming enemy submarines, brave the worst Admirals and make them nervously back down, but he had no idea how to handle his belligerent and basically depressed Sensor Chief when Ortiz came knocking with grim politeness of his hatch and demanding a transfer that he couldn't refuse.

            "Ortiz, are you sure about this? You've never expressed the slightest interest in fighter subs before."

            "I've had other fish to fry, sir. Now I've realised I've been making a mistake and I'd like to rectify that as soon as possible."

            Bridger leaned back in his chair, studying the younger man as he stood rigidly at attention in front of him. "Sit down, Miguel," he said gently, waving the Cuban to a seat. "I think we need to talk about this."

            "I don't think there's anything to talk about, sir," Ortiz answered as he sat down. "Chief Crocker says the U.E.O. has given this training programme top priority. I've looked over what they hope to achieve and what they require of new pilots. I think I can handle it."

            Think? Not know? That doesn't sound like you, Ortiz. What's dented your self confidence so badly? "I know all about the course," Nathan said quietly, keeping his thoughts to himself. "But I never expected you to want to go on it."

            "Why not....sir?" Ortiz caught himself before the truculent demand got him in trouble.

            "You don't seem the type to join the Glory Boys," Bridger said mildly.

            "With all due respect, captain, what type am I supposed to be? The U.E.O. doesn't seem to be inclined to give me a promotion for my looks and they're sure as hell not going to give it to me on the basis of my officer's boards!"

            And that of course is the dent. I wish this was only his pride that's hurt. Jonathan didn't realise how deep this cuts. Bridger held back a sigh, listening politely as the Cuban leaned forward with an earnest expression on his face as he continued,

            "Crocker's pulled me for security details before. He seems to think I'm good at it. Levin says my aptitude scores for fighter subs are perfect. I rate high on physical and mental reactions. I'm qualified on all our submergence vehicles: including the Stinger! And I can handle the technology. I've got the mental mindset for this. I'm a soldier. Like O'Neill says, I'm all barbarian under a thin veneer of civilisation."

            Bridger frowned slightly. "Soldiers only take orders, they don't give them," he pointed out. "Fighter sub pilots are a lot more than that. You'll be on your own out there, responsible for your own safety as well as your team mates."       For a split second Nathan saw Ortiz hesitate before he answered.

            "I'm good at aggression," he said shortly. "I act first and think second. I always have done, sir. That's good in a pilot, lousy in an officer."

            "I hadn't noticed a tendency for you to be lousy at anything," Bridger commented as he reluctantly picked up the Cuban's release papers. "You've always been a good officer. What you see as aggression, someone else might see as decisiveness."

            "Thank you for being polite, sir, but I want  to do this. I want the transfer."

            "Are you sure? I don't think this course is going to be quite what you think it is."

            "I think a change of direction would be good for my career at this point."

            "If you're bored on Sensors you could take an internal transfer. Hitchcock would happily take you in Engineering. And I'm sure Crocker would be delighted to have you in Security." Picking up his pen, Bridger gave him an expectant look.

            Ortiz flinched slightly at the suggestion he would willingly abandon his beloved sensor technology. "I'll be honest, captain. I want a promotion that I'm not going to get it on seaQuest. I need a fresh start which I can't get here."

            Nathan tapped the pen slowly on the release papers while Ortiz held his breath, then he signed them briskly.  When Miguel reached for them though, he held on. "I haven't finished, Ortiz," he said sharply. "I will allow you to go on this course because you obviously need some time to assess your future. But I will not accept your permanent transfer without a damn good fight."

            "Sir?" Ortiz gazed at him in astonishment.