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 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.           

            "I don't let good officers slip through my fingers, Miguel. Screwing up on an exam doesn't mean you'll never make the grade as an officer. In my opinion, you've got what it takes to make a good captain one of these days. Right now you've got doubts and you're second guessing yourself. That happens to us all. Even Admirals have second thoughts sometimes. But none of us are prefect. Remember that." Nathan released the forms into the Cuban's hands, glad to see the flicker of uncertainty in his black eyes. "Go take your course and be the best damn pilot of the bunch. Make us proud of you. And when you figure out what you want, there will still be a position on seaQuest for you. Now, go. If you want to make this course, you'd better go pack."

                                                                        * * *

            Miguel could feel a whole covey of butterflies fluttering around inside him as he stuffed the last of his belongings he was taking into sea bag. Crocker had warned him to take only what he could carry easily. There wasn't much of a night life on the underwater base where he was headed and as he would spend most of his time in uniform anyway, he wouldn't need many of his own civilian clothes. Leaving his seaQuest uniform behind gave him an unexpected pang of hurt, but he had forced it down and changed into his U.E.O. shore uniform.  Taking Crocker's advice, he had packed mostly personal and 'luxury' items: his MD/game player and discs, books, his laptop and his sketchbooks.

            His fingers were clumsy as he struggled with the fastener. He couldn't remember the last time he had been this nervous.

            "You had to do it, didn't you? You couldn't wait!"

            Ortiz jerked in surprise. Sunk in his own thoughts, he had missed the comtech's approach. Now he looked up to find O'Neill looming in the hatchway of the Cuban's quarters. Miguel eyed him warily, startled to find that the comtech could loom. "Sorry?"

            "You'd better be," Tim stalked into the room and Miguel could feel the bitter vibration of the 'Link'. O'Neill was well and truly mad with him this time. "I told you not to do anything drastic, so what do you do? Go off and join the Fish Boys! You couldn't even tell me yourself!"

            "Don't call them that," Ortiz protested.

            "Why not? Everyone else does!"

            "I'm one of them now. And I only promised not to transfer to Cuba or the S.A.C."

            "Oh right. Silly me. That makes going off to get yourself blown up in a mini-sub all right. I should have known."

            "Now you're being sarcastic. I am not going to get myself blown up."

            "Of course not! Someone else is going to do it for you! Everyone knows how safe being a Fish Boy is!"    

            "I'm warning you...." Ortiz spluttered.

            O'Neill gave him a sharp look. "Warning me about what?" he snapped.

            "Calling me Fish Boy!"  

            "Well, you'd better hurry up and get used to it, hadn't you?! That's what you're going to be from now on! One more poor sucker playing tag with torpedoes!"

            "You know nothing about it!"

            "I know as much as you damn well do!" O'Neill took a sudden deep breath and his anguish suddenly showed in his hazel eyes. "Why, Mig? Out of all the things you could have done, why does it have to be this?"

            "Because I can do it." Stubbornly, Ortiz turned away from the look in Tim's eyes. "And it's better than sitting around here feeling useless."

            "You didn't feel that way before the exam results."

            "Well, I do now. If I pass this course and I think I can, I stand a good chance of getting a fast promotion. The attrition rate......"

            "The what?!"

            Miguel winced at the emotional twang of the 'Link'. "Calm down, Tim. I don't mean anyone getting killed. I meant the attrition rate of burn outs. a fighter pilot career is hard and fast. Once your reflex rates start to drop....."

            "Oh great. So you burn out and then what? Sit around discussing battles you have known while counting how many replacement parts you've got?"

            "It isn't like that!"

            "Isn't it? Why do you think the course has got such high priority? The U.E.O. is desperate to build up Fighter Command before the Antarctic situation explodes. Why do you think the pays so good and the promotions so fast? Because it’s the only way they can keep their pilots!"

            Miguel bit his lip. "I have no idea why you're so wound up about Antarctica," he began.    

            "Don't change the subject."

            "I'm not. You mentioned Antarctica. You're paranoid about it."

            "That's because you're not a comtech and you don't hear the broadcasts," Tim snarled. "The situation down there is heating up fast. If the diplomatic conference doesn't calm things down, the U.E.O. is going to be sent in to keep the peace. That means problems left, right and centre. then you get the blockade runners. Then the shooting starts and there's another Livingstone Trench to deal with. Your precious Fish Boys will be called in pretty soon then. How are you going to feel about personally blowing ships out of the water? Or hadn't you thought of that?"

            Ortiz shot a ferocious glare at him. Tim might be his best friend, but he had an irritating way of digging out his conscience. Miguel had been doing his best not to think about that. "It won't come to that."

            "No? What do you think fighter subs do? Herd fish?"      

            "There isn't going to be another Livingstone Trench."

            "Sheesh, Mig. I know you're not stupid, so why ignore the obvious? Why would the U.E.O. waste time and money training fighter sub pilots if they didn't think they needed them?"

            "Raiders," Ortiz said desperately. "Fighter subs protect underwater colonies from Raiders."

            "Hah! Admit it, you've made a mistake. Tell the captain you've changed your mind and forget this crazy idea. You know you're wrong."

            "No, I am not!" Ortiz' temper flared and he grabbed up his sea bag. "I'm going on this course and you can't stop me." Rudely shoving past the comtech, Ortiz barged out into the passageway and stomped off on the direction of the Launch Bays, muttering savagely in Spanish under his breath.  

            "Kuzo," Tim muttered as he gazed after him miserably, gloomily aware that in his fear driven anger he had said the wrong thing and driven his friend away. There was no chance of convincing Ortiz to stay now he was out to prove he was right. With an unhappy glance around the Cuban's quarters, O'Neill closed the hatch behind him and headed for his own cabin.

                                                                        * * *

            Half an hour later and Ortiz stood woodenly staring at the gaping hatch of the Launch, waiting to be called to board. He wanted to pace, but as nervous as he was he felt sure he would trip over his own feet. Deep down he was starting to doubt this whole idea was worth it. Was he so hungry for promotion, he would do anything to get it? The last thing he wanted was to be one of the egotistical rank chasers that so disgusted him.

            Shivering in the perpetually damp air of the Launch bay, he dug his hands and slid a look at the entrance hatch, hoping to see O'Neill's familiar figure. For all their hot words, he still harboured the hope Tim would come and see him off. But as yet there was no sign of him.

            "Ortiz?"

            Krieg's voice was a welcome distraction as he bustled in, but Miguel couldn't help remembering how he had talked to him that morning and his smile of greeting was wan as the Supply Officer came up to him.

            "I heard about this transfer. You in trouble?" Ben's blue eyes were for once concerned about someone other than himself and showed no indication that he even remembered their earlier conversation.

            "No, I asked for it. I'm going to...I'm going on a training course." Somehow Miguel couldn't face hearing Krieg disapproving of his decision as well as O'Neill.

            "Away from your WSKRS?" Krieg pretended to be shocked.

            Miguel only nodded. "Better make sure they get their saucer of milk," he said before the Supply Officer could get in the standard taunt. 

            "They'll miss you."

            Ortiz looked up from studying the deck at his feet, surprised to hear the affection in the older man's voice. "You will?"

            "I meant the WSKRS," Krieg said, colouring slightly.

            "I know what you meant. Thanks, Ben."

            Krieg snorted and dug his hands into his pockets. "Does Tim know about this?"

            "He heard about it, yeah." Miguel winced.

            "He took it well, I take it?"

            "Not really. I don't think he's talking to me." Ortiz shot a quick glance at the far hatch.  Still no sign of the comtech.

            "He'll get over it. He usually does."

            Miguel gave him an anguished look. "I don't have time to wait, Ben. This is my launch." He gestured at MR5.       

            "Call him on the intercom then."

            "I'm not sure I should."

            "Mig-uel...."

            "Look, if I decide not to come back to seaQuest, it's got to be better for Tim to think I'm a rat. He's an empath. Moping is bad for him."

            "Who says he'll mope? Last time you make him mad, the entire boat spent all their time ducking. I think you should apologise before you go for our sakes!"

            Ortiz gave him a frosty look. "I don't have anything to apologise for," he snapped and then flinched as Sorenson stuck his head out of the launch hatch.

            "All aboard, chief," he called the Cuban. "You don't want to miss the in flight catering."

            "You'd better go," Krieg prompted when Ortiz froze. He picked up the Cuban's bag and put it in his arms, then gave him a push towards the launch. "I'll talk to Tim."

            Ortiz gave him a miserable look and padded reluctantly towards the launch. He was halfway through the hatch when the 'Link' twitched a second before O'Neill hurtled into the Launch bay.

            "Miguel!"

            Ortiz dropped his sea bag and instinctively braced himself, surprised to find himself on the receiving end of a Cuban special for once. O'Neill gave him a fierce bear hug.

            "Stupid Cuban," he scolded.

            "Dumb American," Miguel responded in kind, relieved to find O'Neill wasn't mad at him after all.

            Tim stepped back, clearly embarrassed. "I couldn't let you go without saying anything," he muttered. "Tell me one thing, is this some dumb macho Cuban thing?"

            Miguel shook his head. "No. I know you don't understand, Tim, but it's something I have to do."

            "Okay, whatever you want. I won't say another word," Tim sighed and dug into his pocket. Producing a paper wrapped oblong object, he shoved it into the Cuban's hands. "Here, chocolate for the trip. Don't say I never give you anything. Now, scat."

            Ortiz grinned and gave the comtech a one armed hug round the neck. "I'm going to miss you, buddy."

            "Oh sure. You'll be too busy to even think about a poor little empath like me."

            "Projective empaths: you have to feel sorry for them," Ortiz shot back.

            Tim laughed, then sobered. "Take care of yourself, Miguel. And promise me you'll come back safely."

            Ortiz nodded soberly and wondered why he felt a sudden chill run down his back. "Promise. And the same to you. You'll pick up the stuff I left?"

            "Naturally. And lug it home."     

            Miguel smiled, glancing into the launch and suddenly not wanting to go. The hatch started to close as Sorenson dropped them a none too subtle hint that he wanted to go. "I'll call you."

            "I'll be here." O'Neill inclined his head and stepped back, moving out of the airlock. Ortiz' last sight of seaQuest was of Krieg coming up behind the comtech and putting a consoling hand on his shoulder.

            "Come and buckle up in you want a front row seat, chief," Sorenson called from the cockpit. Shaking himself out of his gloom, Ortiz went to join him. He always enjoyed watching the Launch slip from seaQuest's brightly lit bays into the dim coolness of the ocean: the sheer awe of the moment wrapping itself around him and submerging all else in the wonder.

                                                                        * * *

Narwhal Bay Train8ng Base

            Ortiz looked slowly around what were to be his new quarters and shoved his armload of new equipment and clothes on a chair against the wall. If anything the cabin was smaller than his quarters on seaQuest and reminded him of the cramped rooms he had shared with O'Neill back at the Academy. The walls were a drab pale blue, there was a bunk with a stack of blankets and sheets piled on it, a desk with a vid-phone, one closet and a set of drawers under the bunk where they took up less room.

            "Home sweet home," Miguel sighed, suddenly missing seaQuest.

            Dumping his sea bag on the floor, he slumped onto the bunk and put his feet up with a sigh of relief. It had been a long trip South to the Antarctic where the underwater training base had turned out to be. Miguel was glad he hadn't known in advance. With O'Neill's current paranoia over the polar territory, the empath would probably have picked the information out of his thoughts and become hysterical in nothing flat. Check in had taken over two hours by the time all the formalities of identification and outfitting him were dealt with. A brisk Lt. Commander had directed him to his quarters in what appeared to be an empty corridor and had then left him to his own devices.

            Now Ortiz had time to contemplate his next move, he felt a little lonely. Remembering the chocolate O'Neill had given him. Trust the empath to know he would need cheering up. Smiling ruefully, he sat up and rummaged through his sea bag where he had tucked it for safekeeping until he found it. Stretching out again, he unwrapped the candy and was startled when a tissue wrapped object fell out and landed on his chest. Miguel sat up to unwrap it curiously.

            Inside was a silver chain from which was suspended a round pale green stone with an engraved silver centre. Holding it up Miguel caught his breath in astonishment as he realised that Tim had given him his jade Chinese luck piece. It had been given to the comtech when he was a very young on leaving China. The intricate calligraphy engraved on the central plaque was a spell for a traveller's safety while the dragon engraved on the reverse was for good luck. It was worth a fortune in itself and, more importantly, Miguel knew how precious it was to O'Neill. Stunned by the gift, he scrabbled through the tissue until he found the folded up note Tim had left him.

            You need this more than I do now. Look after it. It's important to me. Remember, no promotion is worth getting yourself killed for. Be careful, mi amigo, and come back safely. Tim.

            Miguel wrapped his fingers tightly around the talisman, feeling his eyes sting with tears suddenly. (Over emotional Cuban,) he scolded himself impatiently. Scrubbing one hand across his eyelashes, he squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then unfastened the catch and carefully hung it around his neck. It was cool against his skin when he slipped it under the neck of his shirt, but started to warm quickly. He could have tucked it away somewhere for safekeeping, but somehow he didn't want to let it out of his sight.

            A sharp rap at the door before it was thrust open made him look up warily.

            "Sorry." The stocky, brown eyed man sticking his head round the door looked anything but. "You must be the new recruit: Miguel Ortiz?"   

            "Yeah." Ortiz slid to his feet and took the hand thrust towards him.

            "Ham."

            "Excuse me?" Ortiz stared at him in vague affront.

            "Short for Abraham: Abraham O'Brien. Call me Ham."

            Ortiz relaxed. "Call me Mig."

            Ham grinned hugely. "Yeah? Fancy yourself a jet-fighter, do you?"

            "No, not really. It's short for Miguel."

            "Ah, no sense of humour. I'll bet the ladies love you."

            "This is from someone called after a pig?"

            O'Brien gave him a startled look, then chuckled. "I suppose I deserved that. Look, I came to get you for dinner. The course starts straight after breakfast, so you'll want to meet the rest of the team. Orders from those on high, otherwise known as our instructors, are that we all have to get to know each other."

            "Is that likely to be hard?" Miguel asked cautiously as he followed O'Brien into the corridor.

            "Depends.  You seem easy enough to get along with. You'll probably manage."

            "They're that bad?"

            Ham glanced at him and smiled. "There's always a couple. Settling in always takes time. I'll let you form your own opinions."

                                                                        * * *

            Fifteen minutes later, Ortiz had decided that Ham was probably right. The new team of recruits were a mixed bunch from various ranks and professions.

            Chico Torez was Spanish, rather than the Mexican Ortiz had first taken him for. He was a weapons officer in surface ships and Miguel decided he was looking for fame and glory as fast as possible and never mind who got in his way. He was shorter than Ortiz and powerfully built with brooding, dark looks.

            Ortiz wasn't surprised to find that the tall and slender Vernon Byron with the cool grey eyes, a forest of black curls and the looks of a Romantic poet was a Communications Officer. He reminded the Cuban of O'Neill in some way that he couldn't quite figure out.

            The violet eyed, black haired Southern belle called Cherry Lea was from Georgia and, like O'Brien, was an engineer. Miguel caught the full impact of her eyes the second he walked into the Mess Room and hastily avoided acknowledging the attraction. That kind of trouble was the last thing he needed.

            Introductions made, O'Brien took him over to get something to eat from the galley, then led Ortiz over to an empty table. "Cherry wants you," he chuckled.

            "She'll have a long wait. I'm not into that right now." Ortiz answered grimly as he put his meal tray down. The food - a lasagne with French Fries and a blue cheese salad - looked good and his stomach was rumbling in anticipation. He placated it with a sip of coffee as he sat down.

            O'Brien sat down slowly across from him. "Um, all the nice boys love a sailor?" he said cautiously and then winced as he caught the full megawatt impact of Ortiz' laser like stare. "Oh, that's a relief," he said brightly. "Let me guess then: girlfriend back home?"

            "No-one special. I'm not in the mood, that's all. I'm here to pass this course, not chase women."

            Ham frowned. "Everyone needs a break now and then."

            "So why don't you chase her?"

            "I'm married. But you....? What's your excuse?"

            Digging into his lasagne, Ortiz shook his head. "Not me. I want to concentrate."

            O'Brien stabbed at his lemon chicken and frowned. "A little intense, aren't you? What are you planning on doing if you pass?"

            "I haven't decided yet."

            "I see. Me, I'm back to my old base and my air filters."

            Miguel raised an eyebrow at him. "Why come here at all then?"

            "Like I said, everyone needs a change now and then. If you can't fly 'em, you can't fix 'em, that's my motto. See how the other half lives."

            "Bet your wife appreciates you being here."

            Ham grimaced. "She flies the damn things," he muttered, then shrugged. "Sore point. What made you come?"

            "Another notch on my belt," Ortiz answered noncommittally. "I'm a Sensor Chief. It was a way to get out and about for a while."

            "What are you planning on doing if you pass?"

            "I don't know yet." Ortiz was saved from having to go on by a burly, craggy faced man stomping into the Mess Room.

            "That's Lt.Commander O'Malley, our main instructor," O'Brien said quickly. "When he says jump, you ask how high."

            "If I can have your attention, please," O'Malley said briskly. "You'll be starting the first part of your training at 0800. There will be an Orientation lecture in the Main Room beginning at that time. You will then be spending the rest of the day in HR simulations, where we will be assessing your initial aptitudes and assigning you a wingman for the next part of your training. Anyone who is late for orientation is out. That's it. I suggest you finish your meal and then turn in."

            "Sheesh, it's like being back at the Academy," Byron mumbled once O'Malley had stomped out again.

            "We're officers. He shouldn't treat us like that," Torez complained loudly, then shot a look at Ortiz. "Some of us are officers anyway."

            Ortiz bristled instinctively and was surprised when O'Brien tapped quelling fingers on his arm. "Knock it off, Chico," he warned mildly. "Right now we're all students. None of us has any rank."  

            "That's easy for you to say...."

            O'Brien's eyes narrowed. "Yeah. But if you want to make an issue of it?"

            Torez hesitated, then scowled and turned away. Cherry frowned at him as she started to stack her dishes back on her tray. "If they're going to make us into a team, we should start by getting along with each other," she pointed out.

            Torez gave her a speculative look and then pushed his own dishes towards her. "Sure, honey," he said with a smirk. "Take my tray back for me, will you?"

            Lea met his eyes coolly. "Take it yourself," she told him and headed back for the galley. Byron scooped up his own tray and followed her, catching her up at the hatch and making a low comment that made her laugh. Torez snarled under his breath and grabbed his own tray, hurrying after them.

            O'Brien chuckled softly. "I don't think you have much to worry about, Mig. Cherry's going to have enough to cope with, with those two slavering after her."

            "What did Torez mean?" Ortiz wondered however.

            "About what?"

            "About it being easy for you to say?"

            "Oh, that. I out rank the junior lieutenant. Byron's a junior lieutenant too." Ortiz held his breath with the horrible feeling that he was probably the most junior of them all. "Cherry's an engineering chief. I'm a full lieutenant. I shouldn't let it worry you. Torez is newly promoted and rank conscious. It doesn't matter here. Like I said, we're all students. Now, do you want dessert? I hear it's peach melba."

                                                                        * * *

            The chasm opened up ahead of him, a dark gorge of dimly illuminated red rock and seamed cliffs. The lights of his subfighter barely picked out the ocean floor unrolling ahead of him with a carpet of thick grey mud. Gritting his teeth, Ortiz glanced down at the instruments in front of him, swiftly interpreting the information from the numerous readouts and comparing it with the sonar display.

            Straight ahead would be the swiftest way to the underwater base he was returning to, but swiftest wasn't necessarily the safest. Making a rapid decision, Ortiz angled the nose of the subfighter left and up, powering it into a climb over the ridge and out of the menacing ravine. Increasing the power outlay, he accelerated the craft on the new course, continually checking and rechecking the displays. Two minutes later and the sonar went crazy, relaying information of an underwater quake in the area behind him.

            With a flicker of satisfaction, Ortiz eased on a little more power and headed for the dimly flickering lights of the underwater base as it appeared on the other side of a ridge below. Rather than descend immediately to land, he circled above the shiny dome and hailed them over the radio, waiting for confirmation from the base before he started final approach.

            The lights were failing as he skimmed in over the illuminated lock approach and he frowned uncertainly, then flipped off the autopilot guiding him on his landing path and concentrated instead on what his readouts and own visual impressions were telling him until he was finally gliding the subfighter to a touch down on the airlock floor and waiting for the water to be drained off.

            The sudden flash of the lights coming back on made him jump and look up as the holographic illusion surrounding the subfighter faded out around him. The hatch of the mock up was popped and O'Malley peered in at him thoughtfully.

            "Congratulations, Mr Ortiz. You confounded the odds," he observed dryly as he leaned on the edge of the cockpit. "You sure you haven't done this before?"

            Miguel blinked at him. "No, sir. Why?"

            "Most recruits fail this one the first couple of times. Why didn't you follow your assigned, recommended course through the chasm? It was the quickest route to your base."

            "Quickest wasn't safest, sir," Ortiz said carefully.

            "I know that. But how did you know?"

            "I paid attention to what my readouts were telling me. I've studied quake activity and I know the kind of readings you get from such sea bed disturbances. That chasm was a quake waiting to happen. I figured the risk wasn't worth it."

            "Smart. And why did you switch off your autopilot?"

            "The base was having trouble maintaining lighting on the approach path. I figured there was a good chance they were suffering from power shortages caused by the quake. I didn't want to risk the automatic landing systems failing and smashing me into the sea bed. I'd rather land myself."

            O'Malley startled the Cuban with a sudden grin as he slapped him on the shoulder. "You're a natural at this, Ortiz. You've earned yourself an early lunch," he told him warmly as he helped Miguel unplug himself from the various monitor devices of the simulator.

            "I'm not sure I understand," Miguel said slowly as he climbed out onto the decking surrounding the machine.

            "Handling a simulator is pretty close to the real thing. You've proved you can handle the piloting. More importantly, you've also proved you can think for yourself. That's the hardest lesson of all to learn." O'Malley jerked his thumb towards the other three simulators in the bay. "That's why we stick new recruits into these things. If they can't figure out a way to survive this first run, they're no good to us."

            Ortiz blinked. "We only get one chance?"

            "If you'd gotten yourself blown up, I wouldn't have told you why, but you'd have got a second chance with a new scenario."

            "And if I'd been destroyed on the second?"

            "You'd have been out. You don't get a second go in real life."

            Ortiz nodded soberly. "Has anyone failed yet?"

            O'Malley gave him a cool look. "That would be telling. Go have your lunch. Report back here afterwards and we'll run a few more scenarios on you. You've made a good start, but don't think you've passed yet. We'll see what you're made of."

                                                                        * * *

            "I hope the real thing has more leg room," Cherry Lea complained as she pressed one hand into the small of her back and arched backwards. "Those simulators are tiny."

            "I could give you a massage if you like," Torez suggested with a barely concealed leer.

            Cherry looked down her nose at him. "I think I can manage without," she said dryly, glancing across the Recreation Room at Ortiz as he came in with Byron. "Hey, guys. Did you pass?"

            "With flying colours," Byron said smugly. "Second time around anyway. Did anyone else screw up on that 'quake scenario?"

            "I don't see how they could expect anyone to predict a quake," Torez complained.

            Cherry nodded her agreement. "How about you, Miguel?"

            "I passed." Miguel admitted shyly. "Has anyone seen Ham?"

            "He's probably failed," Torez observed maliciously.

            "He looked happy enough when I saw him. He was calling his wife," Lea said briskly however. "So, tonight we study."

            "I know what I want to study," Torez muttered.  

            "Lay off, Chico," Byron said sharply. "I thought we should go over the sub blueprints like O'Malley suggested. Maybe a joint study session in here?"

            "Sounds good to me. Miguel?" Cherry once more turned to Ortiz. "You okay? You've been pretty quiet."

            Ortiz smiled weakly, aware of the smiling invitation in her smoky eyes. He knew why she kept including him in the conversation and he wished he could arouse some interest in her. "Things are moving fast around here. I guess I'm tired."

            Torez snorted. "I wouldn't have taken you for the quiet, stay at home type, medallion man," he commented.

            "What?" Ortiz gave him a baffled glare at the Spaniard stalked over and flicked a derisive finger against the jade talisman that had slipped out of his collar to hang against his burgundy coverall.

            "This. Who are you looking to impress with cheap imitations, Ortiz?" he sneered.

            Miguel closed his hand tightly over the talisman. "It's jade," he grated.

            "Oh come on, who conned you into believing that? What kind of an idiot, are you? How much did you pay for it anyway?"

            "I'll give you twenty bucks for it. It's pretty, but that's all."

            "It's not for sale!" Torez was lucky Miguel was on his best behaviour or the Cuban would have decked him.

            "Oh, leave him alone, Chico," Cherry snapped impatiently. "He can wear what he wants."

            "May I?" Byron tapped Ortiz' hand, asking him to release the pendant. When the Cuban reluctantly did so, Vernon lifted the talisman carefully by its edges between thumb and forefinger and examined it. Pursing his lips in silent awe, he looked up at Miguel's anxious expression. "This is real jade and an expensive piece too," he commented. "You don't buy this in some store."

            "Come off it, I can tell...." Torez began.

            "No, you can't. But I can. This is a handmade original piece: totally unique I'd say. This engraving is not the standard inscription either. Where'd you get it, Mig?"

            "From a friend."

            "And what did you do to earn it?" Torez mocked.           

            "I don't know," Miguel admitted quietly, tucking the talisman away carefully.

            "Lucky you having a friend to buy your favours."

            Ortiz' head shot up and he stared murderously at Torez. "You take that back, Torez, or so help me I'll make you eat your words!"

            "It fights back! You and who’s navy?"

            "I won't need help!" Ortiz took a long stalking step towards the Spaniard and bumped straight into Cherry. Byron grabbed his arm, determinedly hanging on to the Cuban.

            "That's not a good idea," Lea scolded.

            "You keep your hands off her!" Torez snarled, angling to get around the woman.

            "And you keep your hands to yourself!" Cherry snapped at him. She gave Ortiz a forceful push in the chest to make him back up, then planted herself firmly between the two men. "You're out of line, Torez. You've been picking on Ortiz since he arrived. All this alpha male stuff impresses no-one, least of all me."         

            "He started it."

            "Oh, don't be ridiculous!"

            "What is all the yelling about in here?" O'Brien's voice cut into the brooding atmosphere as he strolled in. "You want to keep it quiet before O'Malley hears you."

            "It's nothing, Ham," Cherry sighed. "Male posturing, that's all."    

            "Torez is looking for a fight and he nearly got one," Byron commented, loosening his grip on Ortiz' arm now that he was no longer looking quite so infuriated. "Come on, Mig, I'll buy you a cup of coffee while we let the peasant calm down."

            "Who are you calling a peasant?" Torez screamed.

            "Oh, sorry, it's peon in Mexico, isn't it?" Byron mocked. Ortiz flinched, grabbed the comtech's arm and hastily hustled him out onto the corridor, relying on O'Brien to hang onto Torez until they were out of reach.

            "That was nearly racist," Miguel hissed at him as Byron let him drag him towards the lift.

            "Oh, don't worry. I insult everyone freely," Vernon said cheerfully. "Besides, Torez is a jerk and he deserves it. I wouldn't have bothered if he didn't."

                                                                        * * *

            The following morning was packed with five solid hours of lectures, covering every possible aspect of design and specification of the Hatchet class fighter subs. Every system was gone into detail, blueprint by blueprint. After a break for lunch, they then went on to the practicals: spending the afternoon stripping down and examining a fightersub part by part. Cherry and O'Brien were in their element and Lea took great pleasure in taking Ortiz to one side as often as she could to explain the mechanical workings to him. Miguel was already happy with the electronics involved and well aware that he would never be called on to deal with the mechanics of the subs, but he still took a certain perverse pleasure in watching both Torez and Byron bristle with misplaced jealousy.

            By the time they broke for the day, Miguel was exhausted and his head was spinning with facts and figures. After the evening meal, he backed out of the study session Cherry wanted to organise and headed for his own quarters. He didn't think he could handle watching Byron and Torez competing over Cherry again.

            He was lying on his bunk, staring blankly at a diagram of the Hatchet's weapons system and thinking wistfully of his WSKRS back on seaQuest when the vid-phone bleeped. Startled he sat up and pushed the button.

            "This is Ortiz," he said cautiously, surprised by the call.

            "Ortiz, I have a call......Miguel?" Familiar wide green eyes in a copper face looked up at him in astonishment from the screen.

            Ortiz blinked and felt his breath catch in his throat with pleasure at seeing her. "Amber?" he said in awe. "Amber Greenleaf?" The last time he had seen the Apache woman had been across a restaurant table in Hawaii before she shipped out for her new assignment.

            "Well, if it isn't the guy who puts the oh in Oahu," Amber grinned in genuine pleasure at seeing him. "How have you been, handsome?"

            "Okay. What are you doing here?" Ortiz could feel his face warming at her teasing compliment.

            "I run Communications for the base. Oh rats...." Amber dropped her head and fiddled with something on her panel out of sight of the screen. "Look, sugarcube, I have a call for you from seaQuest. It's your friend, O'Neill, and he's getting impatient. I'd better put him through."

            "Amber, wait...." Miguel stopped, surprised to realise how much he wanted to talk to her.

            She gave him a cool look, then smiled slowly. "I haven't forgotten about our little cabin rendezvous," she commented teasingly. "Now I know you're here, I'll drop by and see you."

            Miguel nodded, aware of a daft grin of anticipation spreading over his face as the picture shimmered and changed to O'Neill's no less welcome face.

            "I take it that grin isn't for seeing me," Tim observed dryly. "You saw Amber?"

            "I didn't know she was here," Ortiz purred happily.

            Tim smiled back at him. "Obviously, you still have a sex drive then."

            Miguel gave him a sheepish look. "And it's gone into overdrive."

            "Good. I was starting to worry. I thought I'd call to see if you needed cheering up, but I can see I needn't have bothered."

            "Oh no, Tim. I'm glad you called. I miss the WSKRS and seaQuest."

            "Well, I guess that puts me in my place," Tim commented sarcastically.

            "You know what I mean," Miguel chuckled as he tilted the screen and sat down on the bed. "How are things going?"

            "Oh well, you know. The WSKRs are pining. MacCreedy's going power mad on sensors. The usual. How about you?"

            "Okay, I guess. I haven't had to study so hard since the Academy." Miguel wasn't going to include his officer’s boards, having decided that he obviously hadn't studied hard enough for them.

            "Met anyone interesting yet?"

            Ortiz smiled faintly and told him about the others. "Torez is a jerk. I get on okay with the others. Cherry's nice...."

            "I thought you weren't interested."

            "I'm not. It's awkward getting involved in the middle of something like this. Then there's Byron, he's a comtech like you....."

            "Vernon Byron?" O'Neill interrupted curiously. "Tall guy, looks like a poet?"

            "Yeah, you know him?"

            Tim laughed. "Yeah, I know him. He was at Shipping Control back in Hawaii same time as I was. His nickname is Animal. He's a nice guy. Tell him I said hi."

            "I will do. How come he's called Animal?"

            "You'll have to ask him that. Ask him how the Admiral's daughter is. So, when do you get to go out in a sub?"

            "I don't think they trust us that far yet. Tomorrow is some kind of EVA thing though. Tim?"

            "Yeah?"

            "Thanks for the talisman."

            "Ah...." O'Neill ducked his head uncomfortably, then looked up with a rueful grin. "I want it back, you know."

            "I'm taking real good care of it," Ortiz promised, patting its rounded shape under his uniform. "Er, you know where I am?"

            "Yes. I should have known you'd end up smack in the middle of trouble."

            "It's pretty quiet down here."

            "You're on the bottom of the sea under the ice cap, of course, it's quiet. You may find the water getting a little warm before long though."

            "Oh, how come?"

            "The N.A.C. is on the verge of pulling out of the talks and the S.A.C. looks like following them. seaQuest's on her way down there right now."

            "What for?"

            "To ease diplomatic relations, quote, unquote. We have a whole flock of delegates on board who want to see the Antarctic for themselves."

            "Personally I can't see why anyone would want to visit an icecap. It's cold!"

            "It is supposed to be beautiful. But all these people can see is profit. I think I'm on the side of the conservationists. Leave it to the penguins."

            "You a secret fern fondler, Tim?"

            "Tree hugger if you don't mind," O'Neill sniffed haughtily and then laughed. "And what are you if you're not a coral cuddler? I've heard you yelling over reef preservation."

            "Cuba has the best reefs outside of Australia."

            "I believe it was Australia you were yelling over at the time."

            "Wreck one, they wreck them all," Ortiz retorted hotly, knowing perfectly well that he and O'Neill shared the same views on protecting the planet's natural resources. "The same goes for the Antarctic. All these people are going to do is mine it."

            O'Neill gave him a teasing grin. "Suppose they find the lost continent underneath it all? Atlantis could be under the pole, you know."

            "So could Santa's grotto."

            "Nah. Everyone knows Santa's grotto is at the North Pole. Better brush up on your geography, Mig."

            "If you were any closer, I'd hit you!"

            "Promises, promises," O'Neill chuckled, then broke off with a growl at a soft beeping noise and snatched at something out of Ortiz' view.

            "Tim?" Miguel prompted.

            "I'm sorry, Mig. I've got to go. Someone probably needs the translation for what's for dinner again. I'll call you tomorrow same time. Okay?"

            "Okay. Don't let them wear you out."

            O'Neill gave him a rueful grin and quick wave before he blanked the screen. Left alone in the silence of his cabin, Miguel sighed miserably and flopped back on the bunk, feeling even lonelier than before.

            "No point in lying around feeling sorry for yourself," he muttered aloud after a minute or so and rolled to his feet. Gathering up his laptop and study sheets, he headed for the door and some company in the recreation room.

                                                                        * * *

            The following morning the Mess Room was empty when Miguel arrived for breakfast. Choosing French toast, bacon, hash browns and eggs he headed over to a table and settled in with his book as a change from too much studying. His eyes were widening over one paragraph when a finger hooked the top of the page and pulled the book down.

            "Hiya sexy," Amber Greenleaf greeted him warmly as he stared up at her with poised fork.

            "Amber!" Miguel bounced instinctively to his feet and held her chair so she could sit down. "What are you doing here?"

            "Looking for you. I didn't know you were on the training programme."

            "It was a sudden decision. Are you supposed to be talking to me?"

            "You're not exactly exiles, you know," Amber chuckled as she sipped her coffee. "You haven't left seaQuest permanently this time, have you?"          

            "I....I don't know yet."

            "O'Neill didn't seem to think you had."

            "Oh? You two talked?"

            "He seemed to think you might need cheering up. He didn't say why though. Did someone transfer you onto this course when you didn't want it?"

            "No, it was my idea. It's a long story and I don't really want to talk about it."

            "Okay." Amber wasn't the kind to be insulted by a simple refusal to discuss secrets. She tapped the book instead. "Why a study on wolf behaviour?"

            "Because I couldn't get one on training dragons," Miguel replied dryly. "It's a fascinating subject. Wolves have an incredible sense of smell for a start. And when it comes to sex....." He stopped and coloured, suddenly aware of the way she was watching his lips and eyes.

            "Sorry. What were you saying?" Amber blushed too.

            "It wasn't important. Your breakfast is getting cold."

            Amber glanced at her buttermilk pancakes and picked up her fork. "So's yours."

            Miguel nodded absently and took a mouthful of French toast. "You like it down here?"

            "The place has improved remarkably recently," she replied with a mischievous little grin, daring to nudge his knee with her own under the table.

            "This course has been pretty much holding my whole attention. I don't have much time for anything else," Ortiz said carefully.

            Amber gazed at him with a half smile. "It's a hard course," she agreed huskily. "But you don't want to spend all your time studying."

            Miguel shifted in his seat and took a deep breath before grabbing his coffee. "Apparently we're doing EVA today."

            "Oh, that'll be the suits. You'll have to wear your fighter uniform for that. I wish I could see you in it."

            "Is it hard?"

            Amber's smile widened and she winked at him. "You tell me," she said with way too much innuendo for Miguel's comfort. "I've never been out in one."

            "Amber, please, don't tease," he protested feebly.

            For a moment, she met his eyes, then she frowned. "You really are uptight about this, aren't you?" she said gently. "You sure you don't want to talk about it?"

            Ortiz shook his head. "I can't. I need to pass this course to prove something to myself if not to everyone. That's why I need to concentrate on it."

            "I understand. But don't get so wrapped up in it that it becomes all there is. You've got a lot going for you, Miguel, and you can do a lot better for yourself than a sub pilot. Don't put yourself down."

            "Sometimes I wonder about that. Especially when I remember everyone out ranks me."

            "Are you jealous of Tim, is that it?"

            Miguel gave her a surprised look. "It never occurred to me," he admitted. "Why would I be? He's a nice guy."

            "So are you."

            Ortiz half shrugged. "So maybe I should stop being a nice guy if I want a promotion. They say nice guys finish last."

            "And bastards sometimes finish first and end up real lonely. Don't you go changing for the sake of a star or two or we comtechs will gang up on you."

            Miguel blinked. "We comtechs?", he echoed warily.

            Leaning across the table, Amber tapped him on the end of the nose  with one slim finger. "Like I said, Tim and I had a little chat about you."

            "Rotten sneaky American," Miguel growled under his breath.

            "I think he's worried about you underneath it all. He thinks you're going through some kind of emotional crisis and you've moved yourself out of reach deliberately. He's not sure whether you want him to leave you alone for your own sake, because he's done something wrong, or because you want to protect him from how you feel."

            "That's ridiculous!"

            "Maybe to you it is. I didn't get the impression he thought it was."

            "He seemed fine when I talked to him," Ortiz muttered, suddenly suspicious of how quiet the 'Link' had been. He hadn't give it much thought, he had to admit. He had assumed O'Neill was being his usual discreet self and leaving him to himself for a while.

            "Well, he'd hardly tell you otherwise, would he? Besides, I think these diplomats they've got on board are bothering him."

            "You know about that?"

            Amber laughed. "Everyone knows about it. It's not exactly a secret. From what I've heard none of them speak much English, so they're probably running your friend ragged. How many languages did you say he spoke?"

            "I lost count," Miguel muttered, frowning to himself. "But I'm going to teach him a few new words when he calls me later."

            Amber smiled with a flicker of satisfaction: pleased that she had managed to distract him from his own problems for a little while. Although they hadn't had much time together before their careers parted then, she had learned that Miguel could tie himself into knots worrying over his problems: nervous of telling except O'Neill about them out of fear they would be considered foolish. Steering him onto some new problem was a good way of helping him clear the desks.

            Sliding to her feet, Amber dropped a friendly kiss on his cheek. "I'm supposed to be on watch in a few minutes, so I have to go. Give me a call if you want someone to talk to. You should know by now I'll come running."

                                                            * * *

            An hour later, Ortiz stalked into the EVA bay, feeling distinctly self conscious in the scarlet flight suit all the trainee pilots had to wear. The soft fabric clung like a second skin and he felt as if the only way it could have fitted him more closely was if it had been spray painted on. True, it was incredibly comfortable to wear and undoubtedly gave him absolute freedom of movement, but he still felt as if he was walking around stark naked despite the black vest he wore over the top.

            "Hubbah, hubbah," Cherry's sultry voice greeted him as he entered. "Now there's the best thing to happen to a flight suit in a long time."

            Ortiz coloured as he turned to meet her with a hot retort that practically choked him as he focused on her. Gazing at Cherry's immaculate figure as she lushly filled out her own flight suit, he could feel his temperature rising. "I could say the same thing about you," he managed to stutter lamely at last.

            "Ooh, a compliment at last." Lea fluttered her sooty eyelashes at him and smirked.

            "Where is everyone?" Ortiz asked, desperate to change the subject as he peered around the launch bay.

            "Probably sucking in all those extra pounds so they look as good as you do," Cherry grinned, tugging at the stretch fabric of her own suit and letting it pop back against her skin. "These things are so unforgiving. A tiny bulge looks like the Himalayas. Not that you have any bulges. You must work out."

            "I starve myself of luxuries," Miguel said firmly as she stepped closer. She was breathing deeply, he noticed uncomfortably, deliberately deep. Her lips were parted slightly, wet in the lights of the bay.

            "Really?" she purred with an invitation in her eyes that he couldn't miss. Miguel didn't reply to her RSVP however.

            "You are definitely a luxury, Cherry, and bad for my diet," he told her grimly and stepped out of her reach. He led the way towards the first of the EVA suits, gloomily aware that she was watching his rear view with avid interest. "You know anything about these?" he asked as he gazed up at the fluorescent orange paint scheme of the EVA suit. Its sturdy, headless shape towered over him like some ancient giant waiting to crush him, menacing in its implacable stillness.

            "Oh yeah. We use them all the time for rig inspections. You ever use one?"

            "I'm checked out in EVA suits. But nothing as big as these."

            "These are modified deep dive suits. You're supposed to be able to stay down for days in one of these."

            Ortiz gave her an uneasy look, unnerved by the cold shiver that ran down his back at the comment. "I'd rather not."

            Cherry sobered surprisingly enough and nodded her agreement. "No, me neither. I got stuck for a couple of hours in one once.  That was long enough let me tell you: and I had someone with me to stop me going crazy."

            "What happened?"

            "The servo motors failed. And once they seize up you might as well be a block of wood for all the movement you've got. I was too deep to get out so I had to wait until they could find a way to haul me up. If the power had failed and I'd had no lights....." Cherry shuddered and folded her arms, concealing the spectacular view of her chest to Miguel's relief. "You ever used a mechanical loader?" she asked abruptly.

            "A few times, yeah."

            "Then you can handle one of these. Why don't you slip into something more comfortable, Ortiz?"

            "Excuse me?!"

            Cherry laughed, taking his arm and pulling him over to the steps alongside the suit. "Get into a suit and I'll show you some moves."

            "Hang on! Aren't we supposed to wait for the instructor?"

            "Familiarise yourself with the equipment O'Malley said. I thought I'd give you a hand. Slip your delectable butt into the saddle, Ortiz. Trust me. I know what I'm doing."

            Ortiz gave her a deeply suspicious look, but she sounded confident so he followed her instructions and climbed up the access steps to the suit, popping the seals open. The front part of the suit swung open and he peered in curiously, surprised by the padded black cushioned comfort of the pilot's seat. Cherry's hand patting his rear end nearly made him fall off the steps.

            "Mount up," she urged. "And I'll show you how to strap in."

            "I think I can manage on my own," Ortiz growled at her as he quickly slid into the suit, sliding down into the cushions that folded in around him. Cherry hung over him with a smile.

            "Now that I have you where I want you," she said lightly.

            "That's what you think," Miguel snarled under his breath.

            "The EVA instruments are all standard," Cherry went on blithely. "Any questions there?"

            Ortiz scanned the instrument panel in front of him and shook his head. There was nothing outstandingly different that he could see: depth gauge, speed, air....

            "Okay. O'Malley will give you the specifics. Now this particular model uses sensors to detect your movements like a cargo handler." Cherry reached into the suit and pulled down a handful of sensor leads from the clips. Deftly she fastened them about his biceps, then shoved him how to slide his fingers into the mechanical gloves and fit sensors to his wrists.

            "Like a HR probe," Ortiz decided as he flexed his fingers.

            "Right. Only there is external view from these things. So if your screens go down at least you can watch the sharks circling."

            "That's reassuring. Or do you want to scare me?"

            "Is it working?"

            "No."

            "Darn. You're not going to scream and snuggle up to me then," Cherry said lightly, then reached down for his leg straps. Before Miguel knew what she was doing, she was fastening the sensor strap around his thigh, deliberately pulling it skin tight as high up on his leg as she could and leaving her fingers to linger on the taut fabric of his suit.

            Miguel swallowed hard as he glared at her, meeting her hungry gaze. Anger flashed hotly through him, exterminating any thoughts of arousal. he wasn't a sex toy, damn it! "You know, if our positions were reversed, you'd slap my face for taking advantage like that," he said coldly.

            Cherry's eyes widened, then she blushed furiously and snatched her hand away. She was saved from having to explain herself by the arrival of O'Malley, with Byron and Torez in tow. the flight suit suited Byron's slender figure, but Torez bulged: not with fat but with muscles that made the suit looked as if it had been semi inflated around his chest.

            "Balloon man has arrived."

            Miguel glanced up at Cherry in surprise as she giggled. Despite her blatant efforts to seduce him, he thought she was a pretty nice person. He figured he could work with her as a team-mate, if he could only convince her he wasn't interested in sleeping with her. It wasn't her fault that she had picked the wrong time. A few days ago he would have been happy to flirt with her.

            "Time to suit up, Lea," O'Malley ordered briskly as he strode over. Cherry obediently started to scramble down and looked at Byron in surprise as he shot over and gallantly offered her his arm to assist her. She looked somewhat dazzled by his smile as he politely walked her to the next suit in line. Torez glared at them sullenly, then pretended he hadn't noticed and headed for the EVA suit opposite.

            O'Malley grunted as he climbed up the access steps and leaned over Ortiz to check he was settled in comfortably. "She wants to get into your pants, kid," he commented dryly.

            "Sorry, sir."

            "Sorry for what?" O'Malley looked at him in surprise. "It's a tough course. Recreation is recreation. And you're too tense for your own good. It'd do wonders for the pair of you."

            "I'm not interested," Ortiz mumbled bitterly.

            "You don't seem the type to say no to a pretty woman who wants you."

            "What type am I then?" Ortiz snarled before he could stop himself. "I'm not that easy!"

            O'Malley drew back slightly and pursed his lips, Instead of bawling him out though, he smiled faintly. "So that's your problem, is it?" he said kindly. "They see a pretty face and you're too smart to be happy about it. You want to get yourself a steady girlfriend to fend off the predators."

            "That's easier said than done," Ortiz muttered gloomily. His relationships tended to be passionate love affairs that ended with amicable partings, or he affectionately dated women who became friends instead of lovers. The depths of love and passion he looked for had never been there yet. He suddenly found himself thinking of Amber and her encouraging smile at breakfast though, wondering at the possibilities that lay in her green eyes.

            "Right. You're all suited up and ready to go," O'Malley said, satisfied that he had given the Cuban something to think about. "Sit tight while I check on the others."

                                                                        * * *

            It was cold and dark on the sea bed, only the brilliant white high beams of the EVA suits casting any illumination at all. As Ortiz steered his suit carefully back towards the airlock, he could hear Lt Commander O'Malley bawling out Torez  for the third time. The Spaniard was having enormous difficulties handling his cumbersome suit and had done nothing but complain all afternoon about how uncomfortable and restricting they were. Miguel found his quite the opposite, finding the quiet darkness soothing. despite his sociable nature, he was enjoying being more or less alone for once.

            Hearing O'Malley's voice go up a notch in exasperation, Miguel turned him out, concentrating instead on the glittering shapes of ice revealed by the spotlights of his suit. With every step he took, the seascape changed, reflecting back a glittering panorama of blues and whites. There were shades in the ice that he hadn't thought possible and for once he could actually admire the crystalline perfection of the ice without having to worry about the cold. Outside the suit he knew the water temperature was way below anything he could survive in, but inside the suit maintained a nicely even comfortable warmth.

            Common sense brought his full attention back to the suit and he checked the instruments warily: air, water, temperature settings all still in the green. He lifted his gloved hands, watching as the suit followed his movements and stretched out to lightly touch a descending spear of ice. It awed him that a tiny movement of a hands could flex mechanical muscles that could tear down chunks of ice, or pick up a mere sliver of rock.

            "Ortiz! watch it!" O'Malley's crisp shout of warning blasted his ears with shocking suddenness. Ortiz responded instinctively by tucking the vulnerable arms of the suit in around the unit's chest a second before a massive weight slammed into his back and sent him crashing face first into the spire he had been so admiring.

            For a horrible moment everything went totally black, including his instruments: even the hum of his air supply cut out. Then a dull red flicker appeared, illuminating the suit enough for him to see that the shields had slammed shut across his face panel, sealing him inside. More importantly, he had lost all main power and the suit had switched over to the emergency back ups. The air came back on with a noisy hum that made him shudder in relief. Finding that he couldn't use his hands, he struggled to get them out of the gloves, spat out a frightened swear word and toggled his throat microphone. "O'Malley? Sir?" No answer. "Anyone?!"

            There was a clunk against the outer hull of his suit, a scraping sound and then Cherry's voice sounded into his ear. "Ortiz? Miguel, are you okay? Say something."

            "Hell, Cherry, I'm okay. What happened?" He didn't feel okay, but he wasn't actually hurt, only scared.

            "That son of a bitch Torez lost control of his suit. He hit his emergency booster and slammed straight into the back of you. He's wrecked your power pack by the look of it. What's your situation?"

            "I'm on emergency power. My shield is down and I can't see anything. I can't raise O'Malley either."

            "Your radio's probably wrecked. I'm tapped in on the physical link up. Guess we're going to be pretty intimate after all."

            "Damn it, Lea....!" Ortiz wasn't in the mood for any more innuendos.

            "I know, I know. This is neither the time nor the place, but I thought we'd lost you for there for a minute, hunky. I'm going to put my knee in where it'll do some good the first chance I get to get near Torez....Uh, hang on, got to talk to O'Malley."

            Ortiz closed his mouth tight and swallowed, hearing the note of genuine concern creep into her voice. He could hear her voice sounding faint and tinny in the distance and he shivered, suddenly glad he wasn't alone down here.

            "Okay. I'm back. You think you can make this metal monster move?"

            Miguel scanned his instruments uncertainly. "Probably," he agreed. "But I can't see...."

            "Mmmh, hold on. You're into sensors, right?"

            "Yeah?"

            "You got sonar?"

            "Oh, er....yeah." Thrown by his strange environment, Miguel hadn't thought for a moment, but now he glanced at the screens. "Ah, right, I'm with you." The sonar was relaying a 3D map of the suit's surroundings, with the suit itself marked by a steady green blip. It was enough for him to navigate by if he knew what he was doing with sensors.

            "I thought you might be. Look, I'm going to stay linked to you. Your arms working?"

            "Arms?" Miguel glanced at his own hands, then grinned ruefully as he realised she meant the suit's arms. "No, I'm afraid not."

            "I didn't think so. Look like they're locked tight on automatic. You need to be careful: these suits tend to be a little top heavy. We're going to have to pull you upright. Can you hold on while I get Byron? O'Malley's got his hands full with Torez."

            "Is he hurt?"

            "No."

            "He will be when I get hold of him," Ortiz growled, his normal self confidence reasserting itself after his shake up.

            Cherry laughed softly. "Good for you. His suit's a mess though. O'Malley's going to have to walk him back too. Now, hold on. I'm not leaving you, but I need to tell Byron what to do."

            Miguel ran a shaky hand through his hair and took a deep breath. It occurred to him as he felt his panic subsiding that he had probably blasted his 'Link' with O'Neill with pure adrenalin and he  concentrated on it gingerly, wondering if O'Neill could even sense him at this distance and how he would react if he could. Immediately he felt O'Neill's alarm and urgently questioning emotions surging around him, probing and seeking for confirmation that he was all right while preparing to go into orbit if he wasn't.

            Miguel did his best to tell Tim to relax, sending calming thoughts down the empathic airwaves to his distant friend. At first it didn't seem to connect, then there was an explosion of mental flavours:  Turkish delight concern, the plain chocolate tang of 'what the hell do you think you're doing?!' and above all, honey tasting relief.

            "Ortiz?" Cherry's voice hauled him back to his immediate surroundings. With a quick reassuring mental pat to the distant empath, Ortiz politely tuned him out and turned his attention to getting himself back to dry land.

                                                                        * * *

            Three hours later, Ortiz could feel his bruises stiffening up as Byron walked him back to his quarters. Until the adrenalin rush had finally left his body, he hadn't even realised he had any bruises. It had taken him an hour to get the suit back the hundred yards or so into the airlock. Half the servo mechanisms had decided to fail and he had felt like he had been wading through molasses as the pressure of the deep water closed in around him. He had been shaking with exhaustion and sweating all over by the time he steered the clunking suit into the bay where the mechanics were waiting to hustle him out of its confinement with all the haste he had been fantasising about. At that point, O'Malley had still been outside with Torez and Lea had gone back outside to help. Byron had taken the Cuban down to Sickbay despite his protests, then waited until he was released and walked down to the Mess Room with him.

            "You don't have to follow me everywhere," Miguel muttered as Byron strolled along beside him. "I'm fine."

            "Only doing what I'm told to. The medic said make sure you rested. If you don't behave, I'll even tuck you into bed later." Ortiz gave him a filthy look. "Look, don't complain. You had to get checked over. You got slammed down hard."

            Ortiz snorted and glared at him. "You sound like O'Neill, you know that? All comtechs must go to some school so you sound alike."

            "O'Neill?" Byron gave him a blank look then grinned. "Say, that's right. You're from seaQuest, aren't you? You must know Tim O'Neill. How's my poker buddy doing?"

            "Still winning." It was on the tip of Ortiz' tongue to say the comtech had also emerged as a fully fledged empath, then he thought better of it. Tim liked his privacy and he still wasn't comfortable about letting all and sundry know he was a Psi. "He said to ask you how the Admiral's daughter was?"

            Byron shot an incredulous look at him and laughed. "He would remember that."

            "He also told me to call you Animal."

            Byron coloured, then pulled a rueful face. "Serves me right, I guess," he muttered. "My reputation again precedes me.

            "What's this about the girl?" By now Ortiz was curious enough about his reaction to want to know more.

            Byron shrugged. "She's the reason for the nickname. She was chaste, so I chased her. Trouble was, she didn't run too fast and she caught me."           

            "And the Admiral caught you?"

            "With my pants down: literally. Good thing he couldn't recognise me from that angle."

            Ortiz laughed as Byron's humour brightened his own dark mood. "You do that kind of thing regularly?"

            "I tend to be a little more discreet these days. And speaking of discreet?"

            "Are you?"

            "What's with you and Cherry?"

            "Nothing," Miguel said stiffly.

            "She wants there to be."

            "Experienced man like you should know there's a difference between wants and is."

            "Ah...." Byron looked thoughtful for a moment.  "I think she's soft on you, Miguel. Women have a way of knowing when a guy's looking for a serious relationship."

            "All she wants is to drag me into bed," Ortiz snapped as he came to halt outside the Mess Room.

            "There's no harm in her showing she's interested. Maybe she's made a mistake in the way she's gone about it, but...."

            "Vernon....." Ortiz interrupted.

            "Please. Call me Animal. Or even Byron. Anything but Vernon."

            "Whatever. I don't want to hurt her feelings, but Cherry's not my type.

She's too...." Ortiz shrugged helplessly, unable to put his own feelings into words for once.

            "Pushy?"

            "Predatory," Miguel blurted. "I'm really not interested."

            Byron gazed at him thoughtfully for a moment, then nodded in understanding. "Okay. No problem. I thought I'd better ask and make sure I wasn't upsetting anything. I don't think you're the kind of guy I want to end up in a fight with."

            Ortiz considered this thoughtfully. "You think Torez is?"

            "I think it's blatantly obvious to everyone except Torez that Cherry isn't interested in him. I'm curious to know what O'Malley says when the medic gets through with him though."

            "Torez was hurt?"

            "No. But if O'Malley thinks he rammed you on purpose, he is going to be furious with him."

            "I thought it was an accident."

            Byron smiled faintly at Miguel's baffled expression. "It probably was. Torez may be jealous, but he isn't stupid. Look, you may have got the rest of the day off, but I've still got studying to do. Are we going to eat or not?"

            Miguel smiled faintly, realising that he was actually hungry as he followed the comtech into the Mess Room. The first thing he saw however was Cherry and Amber squaring up to each other and his stomach crashed into his boots in dismay.

            "Uh, you're on your own," Byron muttered as he saw the two women. "I'll get you something to eat. You find a table."

            Seeing Miguel hovering in the hatchway in conversation with Byron, Amber pushed aside her chilling coffee and started to go and meet him. Halfway across the Mess Room she found Cherry Lea in her way. The dark haired woman gave her a coolly insulting look.

            "He's one of ours, honey," she commented sardonically. "You're wasting your time with Ortiz."

            "I don't think so." Amber made to step around her and found the engineer once more in her way.

            "Trust me," Cherry told her, laying a hand on the comtech's arm. "He won't be interested in you."

            "Why not?" Amber demanded hotly, shaking off her grip.

            "He isn't into women."

            "Says who?"

            "Says me. Besides, you wouldn't exactly tempt his palate even if he was."

            Amber bit her lip. Her own slender darkness seemed dim in comparison to Cherry's Southern belle beauty, but pride made her lift her chin and lock eyes with the other woman in deliberate challenge. "You mean, if he isn't interested in an over blown bit of fluff like you, he won't be interested in anyone else either? Boy, are you wrong!"

            Lea stared at her, her face flaming with embarrassed fury. "What makes you think I want him?!"

            "The way you follow him around with your tongue hanging out. He's taken, honey," Amber snapped and stalked past her, heading for Ortiz with determination written all over face. Miguel watched her come with an expression of dread, but he stood still until she slipped her arm through his. Cherry's expectant sneer turned into an expression of outraged shock as she watched them.

            "What was that all about?" he asked, eyeing her suspiciously.

            "Oh, nothing very much. A minor territory dispute. She challenged me."

            Miguel glanced uneasily over at Cherry, aware that she was fuming as she glared at them. "Doesn't look all that minor to me," he mumbled.

            Amber smiled smugly and kissed him on the cheek. "Nothing for you to worry about, sugar cube. It's a female thing." Cherry turned her back on them in disgust and headed for the galley. "Now, Miguel, what was all this about you having an accident today?"

            "I'm not entirely sure it was an accident," Miguel muttered, explaining what little he knew about what had happened.

            Amber looked worried as she led him over to a table and made him sit down. "It sounds dangerous to me. You're not hurt, are you?"

            "Only bruises."

            "Need help counting them?" Amber teased.

            "You'd only keep me up all night." Ortiz smiled.

            "That's the general idea," she teased. "I do a wonderful aromatherapy massage that'll get you tingling all over." Ortiz ducked his head, feeling himself blushing at the invitation in her eyes. "You never used to be shy, Miguel," Amber said gently, reaching across the table to take his hand in hers. "Is it me?"

            "No, it's me," Miguel sighed regretfully. "I am interested and I want to, but not here. Not now. I've got to many things to work out and you...."

            "I distract you?"

            "Exactly," Miguel admitted miserably.

            "Hmmh," Amber gazed at him thoughtfully. "You know, among my people I'd make you go to a sweat-lodge, then I'd take you up off the mountain and make love to you all night long. That usually fixes everything. And if doesn't...." She shrugged and her nose wrinkled with a mischievous smile. "Well, you'd be too darn happy and exhausted to care."   

            Despite himself, Ortiz grinned back. Somehow he knew Amber didn't think of him as merely someone to sleep with. There was an element of caring in her words that made him feel warm all over. She had seen him at his worst and still come back for more. That meant more to him than he had realised. "I think I'd like to take you up on that: if I get through this course."

            "I don't see how you can doubt that you will," Amber told him firmly, glancing at Byron as he came over with a tray.

            Byron hesitated as he saw her, then gave her a wistful smile, his grey eyes widening innocently. "Hello.  I don't think we've met," he greeted her politely. Taking her hand, he bent over it, locking his eyes with hers. Miguel could practically see Amber melting into his romantically intense gaze.

            "This is Animal," Ortiz growled swiftly, giving his fellow student a warning glare. He knew lust when he saw it, never mind what Byron called it. "Animal, this is Amber Greenleaf. A friend of mine."

            "Oh? Oh ho," Byron caught on with a quick glance at the Cuban. He none the less gave Amber a devastating smile. "Ah, but such beauty is so rare and it would be so selfish for one man to keep it all for himself. How can a man resist such charm?"

            "Resist away," Ortiz ordered.

            Byron lifted Amber's hand to his lips. "I am afraid I must succumb to such loveliness. I am bewitched by your charms, enchanted by the spell of your eyes, beguiled by the magic of...."

            "Really? The enchantment isn't working then," Amber interrupted mildly.

            "I can assure you it is," Byron purred, recovering from being interrupted in mid flow with barely a hiccup.

            "Nooo, really. It isn't. You haven't turned into a slug yet."

            Byron blinked and his smile turned a little hesitant. "Surely you tease me."

            Amber smiled at him sweetly. "Surely not. You know what Apache women do when they want to discourage the unwanted attentions of a male?" she asked politely.

            "Er no, can't say I do," Byron admitted.

            Neither did Ortiz and he stopped bristling long enough to listen avidly.

            "Well, it involves a rusty knife, a length of wire and a very hot poker...."

            Byron paled and let go of her hand so fast it might have been on fire. "Isn't that a little.....excessive?"

            "Extremely effective though. We don't get bothered twice by the same man." Amber told him innocently and then laughed. "Oh sit down and stop looking so scared. I won't hurt you. I'm supposed to be civilised now. I said, sit."

            Byron sat down so fast the chair rocked.

            "You're quite sweet really," Amber said in amusement, then turned her attention back to Ortiz. "You, of course, don't need to worry. I don't find your attentions at all unwelcome."

            "I'm relieved to hear it," Miguel muttered truthfully.

            Amber giggled. "I've got to get back to the Control Room, sugar cube. I only stopped by to make sure you were okay."

            "Thanks," Miguel said with genuine warmth for her concern.

            "No problem." Standing up, Amber leaned across the table, caught Miguel's face between her hands and bestowed a long sweet kiss on his mouth that made his toes curl in pleasure. "I'll see you at breakfast," she told him and then sashayed out, swinging her hips in deliberate provocation.

            "'Friends' huh?" Byron said dryly. "She's got you staked out, Ortiz."

            "Mmmmh," Miguel gazed after Greenleaf dreamily, his mind full of pleasant speculation.

            "Gone, totally gone. Cherry doesn't stand a chance." Byron studied him for a moment, then shrugged and started to take the lasagne plates off the tray. He could see Cherry's outraged expression across the room and figured he knew exactly why Amber had kissed the Cuban. Byron was a great admirer of intelligent women. Amber had blatantly pointed out her attachment to Ortiz not only to Cherry but to Byron as well. He knew when to keep his hands off. He only hoped Cherry had got the message loud and clear, otherwise there would be trouble for sure.

            A faint sound from Ortiz made him glance up, however, and follow the Cuban's glare towards the hatch where Torez had appeared. Byron was a split second too late to catch Miguel as he jerked to his feet and stalked towards the Spaniard.

            "Torez, I want to talk to you," Ortiz hissed as he approached, ignoring Byron as he scrambled after him.

            "I don't have anything to say to you."

            (I think you do,) Ortiz switched to Spanish.

            Torez hesitated. (Your accent is atrocious,) he began.

            (My accent is authentic Cuban,) Ortiz shot back. (You want to know what my people do to people like you? People who cause accidents without apologising afterwards?) By now Ortiz and Torez were standing nose to nose and Byron, who was hovering as close as he could, had a strange feeling that Ortiz  was growling.

            From the nervous expression on Torez' face he thought so too. (No....) he said uncertainly.

            (It starts with a very large, very sharp knife about here....) Miguel gestured across Torez throat and the Spaniard went a sickly green colour.

            (I apologise,) he said hastily. (Something went wrong with my turbo servos. I didn't mean to crash into you.)

            (No, you probably meant to scare me. You don't seem the kind to risk your own hide.)

            Torez bristled, then took a deep breath at the glint that appeared in the Cuban's dark-fire eyes. Ortiz was spoiling for a fight after the frustration of the last few days and it showed. All it needed was a spark and his temper would be blazing out of control. "Look, I said I apologise," he said levelly. "What more can I say? If you don't believe me about the servos, ask O'Malley. He made me strip down the servo with the mechanics and prove it."

            Ortiz glared at him. He really wanted to punch Torez in the teeth, but common sense warned him against it. He didn't actually need Tim to be there warning him either: the thought of what the comtech would say if he heard about it was more than enough. Tim made a very good conscience: even at long distance. Ortiz sighed bitterly as Byron touched his arm. "Miguel, come on. Let it to. He's apologised."

            Miguel nodded jerkily and shot a fiery look at the Spaniard. "Stay out of my way, that's all," he snapped and stalked away, oblivious to the way Torez retreated hastily in the direction of the galley.

            "You okay?" Byron asked as he tagged after the Cuban.

            "Fine."

            "You'd have hit him if he hadn't apologised, wouldn't you?"

            "Yeah," Ortiz admitted. "But he did it in English so everyone could hear and ruined my fun."

            "Well, he has to be smarter than he looks," Byron soothed as he retrieved his own chair and sat down across from the Cuban. "I dolt have to call for the chains to restrain you or anything, do I?"

            Ortiz gave him a hot glare, caught his wary expression and then laughed. "No, like Amber I'm almost civilised too." He glanced at his meal and smiled ruefully. "I wonder if they've got anything chocolate for dessert? I need soothing...."

                                                                        * * *

            An hour later, Ortiz watched the comtech stroll off down the corridor, before he slipped into his own quarters and stretched out on his bunk with a sigh of relief. All he really wanted to do now was sleep and if it hadn't been for one persistent thought nagging him, he would probably have turned over and done so. The trouble was, he couldn't figure out why O'Neill hadn't called him yet. He had half expected to have a call waiting for him the moment he came through the airlock, but there had been nothing. At least Amber had checked up on him. Left to himself to think too much, Ortiz was starting to feel extremely disgruntled again when the vid-phone chirped.

            For a moment Miguel was almost tempted not to answer it, then he rolled over and stabbed at the button. "Yeah?" he growled at the fresh faced young man who appeared on the screen.

            "Call for you from seaQuest DSV. It's a Lieutenant O'Neill, sir. Do you want to take it?"

            The crisply efficient 'sir' made Miguel feel a touch better. "Put it through," he urged and sat up to take the call. After a second O'Neill's face appeared. "About time you called," Miguel began stiffly, then paused as he took in Tim's frazzled air. "Tim? You okay?"

            "Fine. And I did call. You were with the medics. Amber said you were okay. You could have called me instead of letting me sit here and worry."

            Ortiz blinked, startled to find himself feeling defensive, then annoyed for the sensation. "Hang on! I was the one who nearly got pasted!"

            "But you didn't. I could feel you were okay. What am I supposed to do? Call every five minutes to check? I was busy, Ortiz. I warned you what could happen when you went down there, but did you listen? Oh no. Too busy being macho...."

            "I wasn't...." Miguel began plaintively.

            "I can't even let you out of my sight for five minutes without you getting into trouble...."

            Ortiz stared at the comtech in blank astonishment, totally baffled by O'Neill's outrage. With a twitch of resentment, he reached for the 'Link' with the urge to give it a good yank to warn the comtech off. Instead he found it in turmoil with a combination of panic, anguish and self recrimination. It took Miguel a moment to register and sort the chaos, then he understood intuitively what had happened.

            Once he had established mentally that Ortiz was all right, Tim had politely backed off. He knew Miguel valued his private space and hadn't wanted to intrude by fussing and so hurt his pride. As a result, the comtech had probably spent the last few hours desperately fighting his own instinctive reaction to call and first scream at, then commiserate with his friend. That had probably been bad enough for the empath to cope with when he had his own tasks to deal with but on top of that, when Miguel had started to feel depressed because he hadn't called, Tim would have realised he had made a mistake and been utterly miserable: probably without even knowing why.

            "Shut up, Tim. You've been over compensating again, you idiot," Miguel interrupted firmly, suddenly feeling a whole lot better as he realised that O'Neill still needed him even if he had Hatched. "I'm okay. I understand why you didn't call. It's no big deal."

            "I....but...." O'Neill stopped and gave him a forlorn look. "I wanted to call back again," he said sadly. "But I haven't had the chance. Every time I turn around there's another stupid delegate under my feet wanting something. I'd still be stuck with them if the captain hadn't told me to stand down."

            "Good for Bridger," Miguel said briskly. "Someone's got to watch you when I'm not around. What's going on?"

            "I'm not supposed to say," Tim sighed. "Mig, you did see the medics? You're not hurt?"

            "I'm fine. Only bruises. I'm supposed to rest, that's all."

            "You want me to go?"   

            "No!" Miguel protested hastily, wanting desperately to talk a friend who understood him without needing to be told. Tim wouldn't second guess his every comment. "I want to talk for a while if you've got time."

            "Always. It was scary, huh?" O'Neill had started to settle down as he felt Miguel's emotional state improve, the enervated glaze to his eyes starting to fade as Ortiz' relief filled the 'Link'.

            "Very," Ortiz finally admitted with a shudder. "Cherry helped me get the suit back."

            "Isn't she the one with the hots for you?"

            "You remembered," Ortiz said dryly.

            "You know, I think I know why she's turning you off."

            "Suddenly you're an expert on women?"

            "No, only on you," Tim gave him a consoling smile. "I've noticed it since Carla kidnapped you. You probably haven't thought about it enough to rationalise it though. Predatory, pushy women turn you right off because they remind you of the way Carla used you. First you get scared, then angry because you're scared. How's your sex drive supposed to cope with that?"

            "Tim! You said the s word!" Miguel forced a laugh.

            O'Neill gave him a solemn look. "Yeah, so I did," he said dryly. "But do you agree with me?"

            Ortiz hesitated, then inclined his head a fraction. "Maybe," he said unwillingly.

            "I don't think it's helping you with this promotion thing....."

            "Hell, you and O'Malley are both at it. You think sleeping with someone is going to make me unwind and solve everything!"

            "No. I think getting back to regular dating is going to make you feel better and that will help."

            "Hah! You've been listening to Levin again."

            O'Neill raised an eyebrow at him. "Very logical."

            "It's a perfect expression of how I feel!"

            "I noticed you didn't get turned off by Amber," Tim pointed out mildly however.  "I think she could be good for you. You could do worse than to marry her."

            "Marry her? What? O'Neill, you're a closet matchmaker!"          

            "Everything I know, I learned from you," Tim answered with serene self confidence. "Amber really cares about you. She has a nice 'feel' about her."

            "You've been 'feeling' her without my permission?"

            "Only empathically: the last time we met. And you know perfectly well what I mean! I don't have dirty mind like you." Tim retorted haughtily. "She 'feels' like......like a sheepskin rug by a fire on a cold night."

            "I think that's the s word again, Tim." Ortiz muttered, feeling himself go hot all over at the image. He had a pretty fair idea that O'Neill had selected it as one that would appeal directly to the Cuban as well. That was how Amber made Miguel feel. "And you've been peeking."

            O'Neill blushed. "Yeah, well. It'd do you good anyway."

            Miguel shook his head helplessly. "When did you get to be so smart?"      

            "I'm not. Only worried about you. I wish you were back here, then I could do something about making you feel better.

            "You already are," Miguel scolded gently.

            Tim gave him a small smile in reward. "I could do with your back up."

            Ortiz gave him a sharp look. "If these delegates start getting to you, you tell Bridger," he warned.

            "I'm not a Hatchling any more. I should be able to cope."

            "You're barely out of the shell and still fluffy."

            "What's that got to do with it?"

            "Everything," Ortiz told him sternly. "This is the first time you've had to cope with this sort of thing since you Hatched and I'm not there to help. So, you be careful."

            "Only if you are."

            "I already promised I would be. What happened today was an accident." Miguel certainly wasn't going to tell Tim what Byron had hinted at about Torez. That was something he had to deal with for himself.  "Now, talk to me about normal stuff. Give me the gossip. I think we both need cheering up."

            Realising that O'Neill was tired the third time he used a foreign word Miguel didn't know, Ortiz reluctantly ended the call with the excuse he had to be up early to start fightersub training, he was feeling tired and relaxed at last. Talking to O'Neill had done wonders for his morale. He was glad to know that the comtech still needed his friend as much as ever     He crawled into bed feeling warm all over with contented friendship. Settling back comfortably, he tugged the covers up, yawned, stretched and closed his eyes, willing his bruised body to relax. The thought that he could have done with Amber giving him a massage fleeted through his mind, disturbing his drift towards sleep. With a growl of frustration, he flipped over onto his stomach ad closed his eyes, tapping lightly into the 'Link' in the hopes that O'Neill would be doing something boring enough to distract him.

            What he got distracted him all right. It very nearly made him reach for the vid-phone to call his friend back.

seaQuest, Antarctic Peninsula

            Ending the call to Ortiz, Tim sat back in his chair, slipped off his glasses and ran a tired hand over his eyes. His head felt full with foreign words buzzing around like annoyed bees and he had noticed a tendency towards the end of his conversation with his friend for the odd foreign word to sneak onto his tongue. Miguel hadn't said anything - the Cuban had long ago learned how to pick up context without necessarily knowing every word - but he had obviously noticed from the way he told the comtech to go to bed.

            A loud repeated bonging noise from his hatch made him twitch in surprise, then scowl as he felt the emotional snarling echoing in his senses. Over the last few days he had got to the point where he could pick this particular empathic signature out of the melee with ease. He yanked his bathrobe around him, then shoved his glasses back on and took a deep breath to calm himself before padding over to open it. The short, plump shape of S.A.C. Ambassador Delgardo was outside, bristling with his usual air of self importance.

            "There you are at last, lieutenant," he snapped before Tim could say a word. "And out of uniform too. Do you realise I have been paging you for the last ten minutes?"

            "I'm sorry, but..." Tim did his best to be polite and calm even though he could feel his teeth grinding under the emotional pressure of the man.

            "Ten whole minutes, lieutenant. That is hardly very efficient now is it?"

            Tim bristled instinctively, responding to the man's threatening voice and body posture and feeling Delgardo's hostility hammering on his empathy the same way the Ambassador had hammered on his   hatch. The comtech had good cause to distrust Brazilians in the first place and he was none to happy to this obnoxious twerp outside his hatch in the middle of the night. "Now you look here Ambassador," he began irritably. "I happen to be off watch, which is why I am not in uniform...."

            "And we need you to translate. Your captain told you to see to it that you were always available...."

            "I believe my exact words were 'see that the Ambassadors are comfortable'," Bridger interrupted the Ambassador in mid harangue as he came around the corner and took both men by surprise. "That does not include giving you the right to harangue my officers or expecting them to be available every single minute."

            "I have been paging him for ten minutes without an answer...."

            "O'Neill, did you have your pager off?" Bridger asked the comtech mildly.

            "Yes, sir," Tim growled bitterly.

            "Good." The captain's briskly cheerful response made Tim blink and Delgardo look startled. "Ambassador, I told Lieutenant O'Neill to stand down from his watch a good hour or more ago. That means he turns his pager off, eats, sleeps and does whatever else he feels he wants to do to relax. It does not    mean he is at the beck and call of you or anyone else on this boat. Is that clear?"

            "Captain Bridger, I....."

            "Is it?"

            Delgardo blinked. "I suppose so. But we need...."

            "I was not aware there were any discussions scheduled at the moment."

            "Well, no, but...."

            "Then what is so urgent that you need my communications officer as this precise moment?"

            "I...." Delgardo shifted uncomfortably.

            "Was it in fact that you needed him to translate? Or for some other purpose?"

            "I need to send a message...."

            "There is perfectly good radio on the bridge. Ensign Magee will be quite happy to send any messages for you." Bridger glanced round and briskly hailed a passing crewman. "Hendricks, show Ambassador Delgardo back to his quarters, will you? I wouldn't want him getting lost again. Officers country is after all off limits to passengers."

            "Aye, sir." The crewman saluted, then gave the Ambassador an expectant and slightly pointed look.

            Delgardo glared at him indignantly, but Bridger had made the rules clear when they boarded and the Ambassador knew perfectly well he was in the wrong. Ignoring O'Neill and Hendricks he stomped off down the corridor. Bridger watched him go for a moment, then turned back to O'Neill. "You're going to have to do something about your volume control when you're tired, O'Neill," he said blandly.

            Tim winced apologetically. "I'm sorry, captain. I didn't mean to broadcast. But his shields are as thin as tissue paper and he really rubs me the wrong way."

            "I noticed. Tim, are these delegates causing you any problems?"

            "Delegates usually do, sir."

            "I meant more so now you've Hatched. You haven't been a full empath for very long and, if you're hypersensitive about being in contact with this bunch of opinionated wind bags, I'll be quite happy to give you permission to stand down. They're a spoilt bunch of attention seekers anyway. They're more interested in playing power games than settling anything."

            "I can handle it, sir. As long as I get a break now and then."

            Bridger gave the younger man a thoughtful look and smiled. "It's a pity Ortiz isn't here to run interference for you."

            O'Neill lifted his head proudly. "Oh, I can manage without him. He's doing fine on the course."

            "I'm glad to hear it. He needed something to cheer him up."

            "Yes, sir. Um, captain, could I ask you something?"

            "Go ahead."

            "Would you say his exam results would have a bearing on his career? Only, I...." O'Neill hesitated uncomfortably.

            "Only you talked him into taking the exam and feel bad it went wrong?"

            "Yes, sir," Tim sighed miserably.

            "I'll tell you the same thing Ford and I told Ortiz. Those results don't change our opinion that he'll make a good officer. He can take the exam again any time he wants. Personally, I have never been happy with the idea of a computer deciding who would make a better officer on the basis of a few questions. Ford has put in an official request to have his results re-examined. Until we get a response to that there isn't  much else we can do except wait and hope this course gives Ortiz time to think things through properly."

            "I hope so, sir. Right now I'm not even sure he wants to come back."

            Bridger smiled slightly. "It'd be a pity if he doesn't. You'll have to use your persuasive talents on him, won't you?"

            "That'd be cheating, captain," Tim pointed out forlornly. "I was tempted when he left but....." He shrugged helplessly.

            "But, you're too ethical to do it, I'm pleased to say. Go to bed and stop worrying about it. Ortiz will come back when he's ready. You concentrate your efforts on keeping the delegates calm. Good night, lieutenant."

            "Good night, sir." O'Neill eased back into his cabin as Bridger strode off briskly. Closing and locking the hatch, Tim shed his bath robe as he padded over to his bunk. Turning off the bunk light, he eased under the covers. Closing his eyes, he forced Delagardo and the other Ambassadors out of his mind, letting his thoughts drift. The 'Link' twanged restlessly and Tim smiled in the darkness, sending mental reassurance in his friend's direction. "Hush up, Mig. I'm fine," he whispered aloud. Feeling the 'Link' surge with warmth in response, then settle down into its normal stand by mode, Tim turned over and curled up, sinking peacefully into sleep.

                                                            * * *

            The following morning Bridger was sipping coffee in his quarters and catching up on some paperwork, when there was a light tap on his hatch.

            "Nathan? Can I come in?"

            The sight of Kristen Westphalen sticking her head round the hatch was enough to make the captain sit up and smile, waving her inside. "Of course, Kristen. I was doing a little work before I take the watch. Is everything all right?"

            "I'm hiding from that Alaskan idiot." Westphalen told him as she closed the hatch, then helped herself to coffee from the pot.

            "Ambassador Pinook?" All Bridger ever seemed to hear about the delegates were complaints. Pinook was one of the quieter ones though.

            "The man has more hands than an octopus," Kristen explained as she perched elegantly on a chair beside his desk.

            "Ah," Bridger frowned with a flicker of irritation. "You want me to speak to him? I've already got the reputation of being an ogre with them, I might as well work on it."

            "Oh, no. I can handle him. I thought I'd keep out of his way for once. Care to have breakfast with me and give him totally the right idea?" She gave him an impish smile.

            "I'm not sure...."

            "Oh, come on, Nathan. Three quarters of the boat has a betting pool going on us anyway. Breakfast together won't hurt."

            "Three quarters? It used to be half."

            "Krieg works harder when there's money involved," Kristen pointed out blandly as she fiddled absently with a couple of reports.  "I don't think Ford and O'Neill are involved. Come on, Nathan. You should have a proper breakfast, not coffee and toast every day."

            "I should have known you'd have an ulterior motive, doctor," Bridger observed dryly as he pushed to his feet.

            "I have to stay in practise," she said lightly as she held up a sealed paper packet with Bridger's name on it. "Exam results? Not going for Admiral, are you?"

            "No. I took the exam as a control on the results. Noyce asked me to do it."

            "And you couldn't say no?"

            "He offered me a champagne brunch as a bribe, what could I say?" Bridger chuckled as he shed his bathrobe and started to pull on his uniform.

            "What were your results then?" Kristen asked, curiously turning over the packet.

            "I don't know. I haven't bothered to open them yet. I've been busy."

            "Can I open them?"

            "Sure, go ahead." Nathan shrugged his uniform over his shoulders, wishing they were a little easy to get into as usual. Paper ripped behind him as Kristen tore open the packet and started to read the results. A second later there was what might have been a snicker. "Kristen?" Puzzled, he glanced at her, taking in her contorted expression. "Are you all right? What is it?"

            "I'm sorry, Nathan, but...." Westphalen gave up and exploded into a fit of giggles as she sat back in her chair and helplessly flailed the packet at him. "Your results....." She spluttered, then burst into a howl of laughter.

            Stunned and more than a little annoyed, Bridger snatched the page from her fingers and read it for himself. "Nine percent?" he gurgled aloud. "I got nine percent?!"

            "You're slipping, captain. Or should that be ensign?" Westphalen gasped.

            Bridger snarled incoherently and headed for the hatch, slamming it open with one hand before he strode through it. Struggling to collect herself, Westphalen hurried after him, curious to see where hew as going and what he was going to do when he got there.

                                                                        * * *

            Ford was in a good mood. He had managed to have breakfast without so much as a sign of any delegates being around and had made a mental note to eat in the Ward Room more often: at least until the conference was over and things got back to normal. Having relieved Hitchcock of the watch, he strolled over to the Communications Bay to see what O'Neill had picked up on the U.E.O. bulletins.

            "On a world wide basis, nothing any more interesting than the usual stuff, sir," the comtech reported when he asked. "But things are rapidly getting worse down here. Several Confederacies are moving more men and equipment  into the Antarctic area. Even countries that have barely bothered with a weather beacon before are now setting up prefabricated bases and moving in as fast as they can."

            "Everyone wants their flag to be seen, Tim," Ford guessed, feeling his good mood evaporating. "No-one wants to lose out when they finally start drawing lots to see who gets what. To think, this all started because the Canadians built their new underwater base two hundred feet over the line into Brazilian territory."

            "Territorial disputes have been going on for a long time down here," O'Neill pointed out cautiously.

            "I know, Tim. But basically they wanted an excuse to fight over it and the U.E.O. got stuck with keeping the peace." Ford leaned on the rail, studying O'Neill's faintly worried expression. "Whatever it is, say it, Tim," he prompted gently.

            "I keep thinking about the Livingston Trench crisis," O'Neill said sotto voce. "That was no more than a squabble over territorial rights that got out of hand and look what happened there."

            Ford nodded. "I know what you mean," he said steadily. "It wouldn't surprise me if a lot of the tension is caused by these confederacies wanting to find out how far they can push the U.E.O.. We have a lot of power over them and some of them aren't happy with the situation. The question is whether we can afford to let them sort it out among themselves, or step in and take the high hand."

            "Either way we end up stuck in the middle."

            "I'm afraid that is always going to be the problem. It's a failing of our species that we're never content with our lot." Ford straightened up, aware that their conversation was being curiously watched. "Any other news?"

            "Raider activity is increasing in the area," O'Neill said briskly, glancing at his computer screen. "There's a general report to watch for a Javelin class attack submarine. U.E.O. thinks the Raiders have got hold of one and are sniffing around the pole."

            "Javelin class?" Ford quickly jogged up the steps and leaned over O'Neill's shoulder, watching the blueprints scroll across the computer screen as O'Neill replayed the message for him. "Any word on how she's armed?"

            "U.E.O. thinks normal torpedo compliment." O'Neill glanced up at him anxiously. "Is it a problem?"

            "Those suckers are bad," Ford muttered. "And my suspicious nature suggests they're down here looking for us. The Raiders would love to get their claws into a piece of choice Antarctic territory. Blow  the seaQuest out of the water and they'll have practically a free run of the polar sea. Plus they send a nasty warning to anyone else who wants to interfere with them by blowing up the delegates."

            O'Neill fiddled absently with a control setting, frowning at the screen. "There are rumours that the Raiders want to declare themselves an independent confederacy," he murmured uneasily.

            "Where'd you hear that?" Jonathan gazed at the comtech in surprise.

            "It's on the Infonet if you know where to look. They recruit through it sometimes. And every once in a while someone will pick up a radio message or two that the Raiders don't know about." O'Neill smiled faintly, a wolfish glint appearing in his eyes that reminded Ford of Ortiz for a second. "In U.E.O. we trust, all others we monitor."

            Ford blinked and drew back slightly. It was very easy to be fooled by O'Neill's mild appearance into forgetting the razor sharp mind behind the glasses.

            O'Neill blinked too and looked past Ford at the clamshell doors. "Captain approaching," he commented, then frowned slightly and started setting up an outgoing line. "Uh, very angry captain approaching, commander."

            "Angry?" Ford echoed and shot towards the command station as Bridger stalked through the clamshell doors. "Captain? Is anything wrong?" he began hesitantly as Bridger strode past him.

            "Nine percent," Nathan hissed and then swung towards Communications. Ford gave a smiling Westphalen a baffled look as she tripped happily onto the bridge behind the captain. "I didn't know it was possible to slam those doors," he murmured under his breath as he glanced after the captain.

            "O'Neill, get me Noyce!" Bridger bellowed at the comtech, making everyone within range duck warily.

            O'Neill didn't bother pointing out that it was the middle of the night in Hawaii, he simply scrambled the call as top priority through to Noyce's home number. Unlike everyone else on the bridge he could at least tell that there no worry tingeing Bridger's fury so it was unlikely to be anything to do directly with seaQuest's safety. Nor was his fury aimed at the comtech. "There's a call hold on," he had to report however.

            "Then break it."

            "Sir?" O'Neill was genuinely surprised by the order.

            "I know you can, lieutenant, so do it."

            Tim met the captain's infuriated blue eyes for a split second, then ducked hastily back to the board to do his best. He wasn't supposed to do this except in emergencies, but he figured from the way Bridger was glaring at him that this probably counted as one. Bridger stalked up and down beside the bay like a starving tiger.

            "Have a computer mark me down, will he? I'll have its CPU for a trash bin!"

            "Admiral Noyce, sir," O'Neill offered warily and flinched as Bridger leaped into the bay and leaned over his shoulder.

            "Nathan? What is it? You sinking?" Noyce blinked at him fuzzily from the screen. He was in bed and had obviously been woken from sleep.

            "No, but according to your damn computer we should be with me at the helm! Nine percent!"

            "What?" Noyce stared at him in groggy bewilderment. "You're not making any sense...."  

            "I'm talking about your rotten lousy stinking computer that couldn't mark an exam paper right if there was only one question on it! If this damn machine has lost me a good officer I am personally going to come to Hawaii and dismantle it chip by chip!"

            Noyce sat up and ran one hand over his face. "Start at the beginning, will you?" he said plaintively. "I don't understand."

            Bridger took such a deep breath that Tim feared he was going to explode. "Exam. Control. Results. Nine percent," he grated.

            "Nine percent?" Noyce echoed.

            "Computer's suggestion: reassignment. Do you want the world to know that your flagship is run by a captain who only got nine percent on an officer’s board exam?!" Bridger snarled.

            "There must be some kind of a mistake."

            "I'll say!"

            "I knew some of the results hadn't been quite what we expected...."

            Bridger groaned. "Don't tell me you've actually promoted people on the basis of this?"

            "Well, no....but you're the only control who’s reported....." Noyce paused as Bridger gave him a filthy glare. "Perhaps I should check with some of the others."

            "Perhaps you should. And you'd better get the exam re-marked as well."

            "Oh boy, if the results are wrong...."

            "If?!"

            "Okay, okay. Calm down. It isn't my fault," Noyce protested. "I'll have it checked and get back to you."

            "You'd better make it fast. You've already given Ortiz an inferiority complex. I dread to think what other damage it's done."

            Noyce scowled in irritation, then nodded. "Point taken. I'll talk to you later, Nathan." The screen blipped and dropped back to the waiting signal and O'Neill surreptitiously sneaked one hand over to cut the comlink. Bridger gave him a slow look and straightened up, abruptly aware that apart from O'Neill who was ostentatiously keeping his head down, the entire bridge crew was staring at him.

            "Thank you, lieutenant," he said politely. "Let me know when the Admiral calls back." Holding his head high, Bridger stalked gracefully down the steps and headed across the bridge and down the corridor  to the Mag Lev. There was an audible exhalation of breath around the bridge as he disappeared from view.

            Ford gazed after him in awe, then turned his attention to Westphalen. "What happened, doctor?"    Kristen gave him a dazzling smile. "That would be confidential, commander. Why don't you ask Lt. O'Neill?" she said sweetly and swept off the bridge. Jonathan gazed after her thoughtfully, then turned his gaze on O'Neill and headed for the bay, amused to see Tim eyeing him in horror. Ford gave him a coaxing smile. "Now, Tim, I know you would never listen in the captain's private calls, but you were right there next to him. All I need is one little hint....?"

                                                                        * * *

Narwhal Bay Base, Two Weeks Later

            "Did you see that barrel roll?" Byron laughed in excitement, sketching the manoeuvre in the air with his hands.

            Ham snorted. "I saw it. There would have been no need for it if you'd been watching where you were going. You nearly piled straight into that stalactite!"

            "My ice sonar was off," Byron replied haughtily. "Mig? You still with us?"

            "Huh? Sorry?" Ortiz looked up from the Mess Room's vid-screen where he was catching up on the news. The entire day had been spent in the water, running exercise after exercise in the fighter subs. For the last two weeks he had eaten, slept and dreamt fighter subs and he was longing to get back to the quiet precision of his WSKRS movement. Every chance he got he scanned the news and U.E.O. reports for word on seaQuest. O'Neill had had to stop calling a week ago as the security black out came down on communications.

            "We get our results tonight. Aren't you looking forward to them?" Byron prompted eagerly. "O'Malley seemed to think we'd all pass. Even Torez."

            Ortiz grunted, staring at the vid-screen again.

            "Aren't you even a bit excited?" Byron demanded, nudging him impatiently.

            "He's worried about his boat, Animal. Leave him alone," O'Brien said soothingly. "Why don't you get us some coffee?"

            Byron wrinkled his nose, but shrugged and went to fetch it.

            "Ortiz?" Ham prompted the Cuban gently. "You okay?"

            "Hmmh? Oh yeah. Ham, do you think they'd send us into battle if we pass?"

            O'Brien blinked at the sharp question and thought about it. "Technically, if we pass, we're qualified. They can do it if they want. Everyone has to get combat experience sometimes. There's a first time for everything."

            "As the poet said to the virgin," Byron chuckled as he came back with three coffees balanced on a tray.

            "Oh yeah, like you'd know," O'Brien scoffed.

            "According to the odds, everyone has to sleep with a virgin at least once," Ortiz commented absently.

            "Where'd you hear that?"          

            "Phillips, our Weapons officer, told me," Miguel answered.

            "Our is us now, Miguel," Byron pointed out. "You're a Hatchet sub pilot or about to be. Not a sensor chief any more."

            Ortiz lifted his head and gave him a miserable look. "Maybe I want to be a sensor chief after all," he sighed.

            "You'd feel better if you could get word from seaQuest," Ham observed as he sipped his coffee.

            "Yeah, but it's not only that. So many confederacies have boats and ships down here it's only a matter of time until something gets sunk." Ortiz gave Byron another look. "It isn't a game any more, Animal. When this thing starts, it's going to happen right here and we're going to be stuck right in the middle of it."

            Byron frowned. "You really think so?"

            Ortiz nodded. Picking up a napkin and fishing a well chewed pen from his pocket, he sketched in a rough map of their position and the surrounding territory. "This is our base, right in the entrance to Unclaimed Water. Narwhal Bay here is perfect for a submarine base."

            "Which is why we're here," Ham commented.

            Miguel nodded. "One of the things the U.E.O. has been angling for is permission from the confederacies to establish itself a proper submarine port here. If it's allowed to, it also gives us priority over the unclaimed territory surrounding the bay. In the meantime, our presence means this is safe water. If fighting breaks out, half the confederacies will want this bay as a base."

            "Won't they have their own?" Byron wondered.

            Ortiz shook his head. "Don't forget, most of Antarctica has been labelled for scientific use only. There are a few military bases here, but the U.E.O. made them downgrade after the Livingstone Trench. There aren't any submarine bases that we know of around here."

            Ham eyed the Cuban's sceptical frown with a faint shiver. "You're not so sure?"

            "The Raiders could have one if not more. And with them making hints about this big announcement of theirs...." Ortiz shrugged and finally picked up his coffee. He really wished he could talk to O'Neill. The comtech was the son of a one time Ambassador and had travelled the world when he was little in the company of various foreign delegations. It had left him with an uncanny grasp of relations between various countries that enabled him to pick up the political and diplomatic nuances before they became apparent. No wonder he had been so nervous about Antarctica, Miguel reflected, the comtech had seen the whole thing coming.

            "If I can have your attention, please," O'Malley's voice made Miguel look up in automatic response. "I have a list here of who has qualified as fighter pilots. If your name is not on this list, please report to Ensign Hargreaves here who will tell you what happens next."  O'Malley continued in a harsh voice, his tone bleaker than Ortiz had ever heard it.

            "Something's wrong," Byron whispered as the lieutenant commander went on. Everyone else seemed to have registered it as well, for the yelps of delight and congratulations were oddly subdued.

            By the time O'Malley had finished and Hargreaves had collected those who hadn't passed, there were only twenty men and women left in the Mess Room. Miguel's own team were all among them, even a slightly dazed looking Torez.

            "Right," O'Malley announced as he folded away the list. "Listen carefully. You are now fully fledged fighter sub pilots. Training is over. First thing in the morning you will be assigned your own Hatchet fighter. You will maintain your current rank until such time is promotions are handed out."

            "Don't we get leave?" Torez blurted.

            O'Malley fixed him with an icy glare. "No," he said flatly.  "You are required to take one full tour after qualification. Then you get leave."

            "How long is a tour?" Torez asked as everyone else groaned.

            "Normally six weeks, but that depends how long it takes before you go into battle. It's six weeks non combat. If in battle as long as it takes." O'Malley paused, grimly watching their faces. "You're all U.E.O.," he said abruptly. "Your security ratings are all good. Anyone who hasn't passed will be shipped out before morning. Tomorrow two squadrons of fighter pilots will be arriving to defend this sector if it proves necessary. This base is no longer for training only, but it a secure U.E.O. base."

            Ortiz felt as if all the air had been knocked out of him and he couldn't say a word.

            "You expect us to go into battle?" Torez exclaimed.       

            "That was the idea when you took the course. If you want out, I'll rescind your qualification. You've got time to catch the launch. That goes for anyone else who wants to leave." No-one moved. O'Malley nodded curtly.

"Good. For anyone who hasn't been paying attention, the situation down here is about set to boil over. Three ships were attacked this afternoon. One went down. As far as we know, it was Raiders making a point. They've made an announcement that they want to be granted full confederacy status and are demanding a slice of the action in Antarctica. Hopefully, the U.E.O. will be able to deal with the problem before it gets any further out of hand. They're sending the seaQuest in to look for the renegade sub. All we have to do is sit back and wait."

            O'Malley went on, but Ortiz couldn't hear him. He felt cold all over without knowing why. It was the lieutenant commander's mention of seaQuest that had done it. Before that all he had felt was kind of hot, horrified excitement as the blood of his ancestors leaped in glee at the idea of a fight.

            "Mig, are you okay?"

            Ham shaking his arm made him pull his thoughts together. "I think so. Stunned I guess."

            "I think we're all stunned," Ham agreed.

            "I've never been in combat before," Byron murmured, sounding half interested, half scared.

            "I have and I didn't enjoy it," Ortiz admitted. "But at least I was on seaQuest then."

            Byron gave him his full attention. "You worried abut O'Neill?"

            "Yeah, and the rest of my friends."

            "Ah, why worry? SeaQuest can take them." Ham slapped the Cuban's arm and gestured at the galley where everyone else seemed to be heading. "O'Malley told us we were allowed to celebrate. So    let's do it."

                                                                        * * *

            Sliding into his cabin an hour later, Miguel closed his eyes and leaned back against the hatch, grateful to get away from the crowd of noisy new pilots and Cherry's efforts to pinch his rear end. The 'Link' was humming silently in the back of his mind, content enough to reassure Miguel that O'Neill was in no danger.

            "You look very fetching standing there like that, Miguel, but aren't you going to come in properly?"

            Ortiz bolted upright and stared at Amber as she sat on his bunk, her long legs curled elegantly under her. Her eyes were travelling up and down his red flying suit covered body, drifting and lingering over every muscle until he could feel himself starting to blush fiercely enough to match the suit. "What, what are you doing here?" he exclaimed in shock.

            "I heard you passed."

            "Yeah." Miguel brightened up for a second. "O'Malley gave us all our individual results. I got a perfect score."

            Amber slid to her feet and prowled across to link her arms around his neck. "Want to make it two perfect scores?" she asked.

            "What?"

            Amber ran one finger over his lips and he kissed her fingertip instinctively, making her give him a sultry smile. "No need to study any more," she pointed out. "And there are no rules against having company on this base."

            "No?" Miguel said breathlessly as her fingers found the seal of his suit and slid it down his chest. Arousal crept through him and he felt the muscles in his loins starting to do press ups in anticipation of action.

            "No." Amber growled and pressed her lips to his, sucking gently until he opened his mouth and let her tongue in. A low whimper escaped him as she pressed closer to his body, her hands gliding over his back and hips to rest on his thighs. Releasing his mouth, she pouted up at him. "Don't you want me, sugar cube?" she teased and then dropped her eyes demurely, giggling softly. His tight fitting flight suit couldn't conceal a thing and certainly didn't conceal his arousal from her.

            Ortiz groaned and swept her up in his arms, carrying her over to deposit her on the bed. Amber arranged herself for him to look at, deliberately drawing the zip of her own suit down to waist level. Miguel growled at the view and scrambled onto the bed, kneeling over her as he dragged the suit off his shoulders. Grinning at his eagerness, Amber reached to help him peel the clinging fabric off and found herself abruptly pinned to the bed between his arms. Miguel gazed down into her eyes for a long, long moment, then touched his mouth to hers in a long sweet kiss. "Don't rush me," he urged as he came up for air.

            Amber arched and purred in pleasure as she felt his weight settling comfortably against her. "No problem, Miguel. We can take as long as you like...."

                                                                        * * *

seaQuest, Antarctic Waters

            "It's ridiculous, they can't claim they're a confederacy," Ben Krieg complained loudly. He, O'Neill and Phillips were having lunch together in the Mess Room. Knowing O'Neill was missing Ortiz, the Supply Officer had been tracking Tim down and making sure he ate. Since Phillips tended to do the same, Tim ended up feeling like he was trapped between a pair of well meaning sheepdogs.

            "Technically they can," Tim murmured as he sampled his fettuccini. "If you check the original rules for establishing a confederacy, you don't have to be a group of countries. You have to be an organised coalition of cohabitation. The raiders have their own supply and farming bases. They qualify on that level."

            "Bases that they've taken from most of the other confederacies," Phillips muttered.

            "Which is why none of the other confederacies are going to accept the Raiders proposal to join them," Krieg pointed out. "They do, they cede those bases."

            "They're not all takeovers though. The Raiders have established their own colonies. Okay, they're not somewhere you and I would want to live, but they work. Because we don't approve of the way they run things, doesn't mean we can refuse their right to be a confederacy."

            "You sound like you approve, O'Neill," Phillips said sharply.

            "I don't approve. They're a bunch of murdering pirates. But they still have the right to make the claim, even if they aren't recognised. The trouble is there are confederacies that will protest if the Raiders confederacy isn't recognised, because it's in their interests to see that they are. I figure that if they do get recognised, they're going to form a coalition with another confederacy before long."

            "Organised Raiders protected by one or more confederacies," Phillips shuddered.  "Then the U.E.O. would be in real trouble."

            "I still say they won't be able to do it," Krieg insisted.

            "There's precedent. The Navajo/Hopi coalition has members now form most of the other surviving tribes. It isn't recognised as a confederacy: yet. But it's made the claim."

            "How do you know all this stuff?" Krieg asked with sudden curiosity.

            "Informed contacts in high places," Tim replied smugly.

            Before Krieg could ask what he meant by that though, the blast of the yellow alert sounded and sent Phillips and O'Neill scrambling for the hatch and the bridge. Ben shuddered and sat back in his seat. It was the third alert that day and everyone was on tenterhooks. Sooner or later though the shock value wore off and for Ben it was already starting to wear thin. About the only good thing about being on military stand by was that it had enabled them to off load the delegates three days ago. Shaking his head, he started to gather up the plates and wondered what the alert was for this time.

                                                                        * * *

            The captain was on the bridge when Phillips and O'Neill belted in and hared past him for their respective bays. Bridger barely glanced at them as he stared thoughtfully at the navigation globe, watching the dancing patterns of lights relaying the WSKRs information to the plot.

            Ford signalled the clamshells doors to close and secure the bridge, then gave orders to stand down from yellow alert. "All secure, captain," he reported quietly as he came to Bridger side. "What do you think? Is it the Javelin?"

            Bridger turned to look at the WSKR display on the main screen. MacCreedy had Mother positioned between two sweeping curves of ice that made a spectacular curtain of white for her to hide behind. Mother was the largest and most sophisticated of the WSKRS and was currently hiding successfully from the submarine lurking ahead of seaQuest.

            "She's big enough to be the Nibelung," Bridger murmured. "And she reads right. MacCreedy? Has she noticed us yet?"

            "No, sir. She's still on passive sonar. She's topside against the ice."

            "Snorkelling. She could be recycling her air then, or maybe she's using her radio to contact a satellite," Nathan guessed. "O'Neill see if you can pick up any broadcasts."

            "Aye, sir."        

            While O'Neill worked, Bridger turned back to Ford. "The Javelin is an old style sub, Jonathan, but she's still got class. We've got her beat on technology. She'll have to snorkel to check the satellites and every time she does that she's vulnerable. the trouble is, we don't know how much work the Raiders have done on her."

            "It obviously isn't on radio."

            "She's a fighting vessel," Bridger reminded him. "If you wanted to alter a sub like that, how would do it?"

            Ford pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Armament," he decided. "Hull protection. Sensors. Rework the engines for more speed."

            Bridger nodded. "Exactly. MacCreedy. Send out another WSKR to take the Nibelung's picture in depth. I want her full signature to compare with her registered ones. Let's find out what we're dealing with here."

            "Yes, sir." MacCreedy turned swiftly back to his boards to send out Scout to reconnoitre.

            "Captain, I'm tapped in. She is sending." O'Neill called.

            "Let's hear it then," Bridger urged, heading for the bay.   

            There was a noisy crackle that faded as O'Neill did a quick bit of   tuning, then a loud voice came over the speakers.

            "The U.E.O. is being difficult. They will not grant our request as easily as you think."

            "Then you will have to push harder. Find a way to make your point more forceful."

            "See if you can find out where this call is going to," Bridger urged O'Neill quietly. The comtech nodded obediently.

            "I have a trace on it now, sir."

            "You had better make it worth our while," came the pointed reply from the Nibelung.

            "Being granted confederacy status will make it worth your while."

            "And claiming that lonely little unwanted section of Antarctica for you will make it worth your while. So what's so important about that little corner that you want it?"

            "That is none of your business. Do what you're being paid for."

            There was a loud buzz and a click and O'Neill hissed in frustration, then scrabbled frantically at his comboard. Bridger watched curiously as O'Neill typed furiously, his fingers flying over the keys. "Got it!" he yipped in sudden triumph.

            "Which is?" Bridger asked curiously as he came into the bay to lean over the comtech's shoulder.

            "The call from the Nibelung went to someone in Washington, sir," O'Neill said happily. "I've got the log on. It's a private line." He looked up at the captain. "Want me to call it back?"

            "Is there any other way to find out who it belongs to without calling it?"

            "Yes, sir. You don't want to call it?"

            Bridger smiled in amusement at the comtech's disappointed tone. "Let's not reveal our hand too soon. Find out who it is first." He patted O'Neill's shoulder and then turned his attention to the studying the main screen and the WSKR view. There was no sign of the Raider submarine moving yet. If her captain thought he was safe in his icy hidey hole he could well stay put for hours before sneaking out on another pirate raid on passing vessels. "Tim, can we send a message to U.E.O. without being detected?"

            O'Neill frowned. "I wouldn't like to risk it this close to the Nibelung, sir. I can programme a WSKR with a radio message and send that out, but it'd have to find open water to get through. The radio isn't powerful enough to send through the ice."

            "Check out this log on first, then get on it. I may need to send a message out."