Gunnery Sergeant (WSMC) Eric Aichele stood ramrod straight and looked down at the inert form of a fallen comrade. Rage filled him at what he saw, but there was no trace of it on his silent features. His eyes appeared calm, his well-muscled body relaxed. Perhaps his jaw was held closed a bit more tightly than was normal, but not so much that a casual observer would note it. If anything unusual could be said of the way he looked, it would be that his very lack of expression carried the impression that he had been sterilized of all emotion.

He fit in quite well with his surroundings. The recovery room of the medbay practically screamed sterility; stainless steel counters, cabinets, and beds, pristine white bedding, everything. There was also the distinct smell of bleach in the air, which added to the impression of cleanliness. The lone break in the dead white and metal landscape was Marine Staff Sergeant Jill Burton lying before him.

Even there, however, the pervasive color scheme had invaded. The white sheet and blanket had been pulled up above her shoulders, but it could not hide the white bandages on the right side of her neck, face, and head. Her dirty blonde hair could only be seen on the left side. The rest was shaved clean.

Earlier that day, Sgt. Burton and Maj. Sheli Chowdhury had been ambushed just outside the security office, on their way back from the mess. Neither of them had any reason to suspect anything was amiss, but they had still reacted to the threat with the speed drilled into them over the course of many years of service. Aichele had been off duty at the time, unconscious of events elsewhere in the ship. He didn't know any of the details of what had happened, but some facts he had been able to deduce by simple observation. Glenn Morales was laid out next door, in the morgue. He recognized Chowdhury's oak-handled knife as the means of his demise. Nothing was immediately obvious as the cause of death for Carl Brandon, on the adjoining table. McIntire had recently developed a limp, and Green was not currently able to use his right arm. Eric had waited for those last two to leave the medical area before he came in.

He didn't trust himself around them yet.

During the fight, Burton had taken a blast from an energy pistol at close range. He didn't know which one of his crewmates had fired that shot, but it was a good thing for Burton that he or she was not a marksman. Most likely, it had been Morales. Whoever was best armed would have been Chowdhury's primary target. To Major Chowdhury, "target" and "deceased" were all but synonymous.

Now, Jill Burton was unconscious after six hours of surgery. She might never wake up. Even if she did, she might never use her right arm again. Maimed and in critical condition, at least she had survived and continued to do so.

The fury he had been containing struggled to free itself. Muscles tightened under his graying temples, but a deep breath was enough for him to reassert control, and his handsome features resumed their placid inscrutability. His primary assignment from Chowdhury had been to protect Burton. He could not do that if those in control of the ship suspected where his true sympathies resided. Trust would have to be earned from them, and that meant that he could not do anything to arouse their suspicion. He must appear natural and at his ease around them, and avoid saying anything that would not fit with the new image of himself as a trustworthy compatriot.

This new image of himself would not be able to include visiting a recuperating friend, who was definitely on their "not trusted" list. This would have to be his one and only trip to see her, for both their sakes. He would need some way to inform her of his status if, no, when, he corrected himself firmly, she recovered. Most likely she would be able to understand what he had done and why, but perhaps his behavior would still cause her to have her doubts. He needed some way to make his position clear to her, without risking further contact.

He could wait, he decided, for an idea to come to him or an opportunity to present itself. She would be a long time mending.

Dr. Johnson approached the bed and excused herself to cut in front of him. She quickly took several readings and marked them in a log. Eric waited patiently until he could see that she had completed her task.

"What is the prognosis, Doctor?"

She studied him intently, as if deciding how to answer. She wasn't sure which side of this conflict he was on, and hesitated lest she cause trouble for herself or her patient. There was no clue in his expression one way or the other. Finally, she decided that she would answer truthfully, but offer nothing more than clinical details. It was unlikely that would provoke either side of the issue, and would allow her to maintain her neutrality.

"She will live, almost certainly. A 90% chance that she will regain at least basic use of her right arm, 30% that full use will be restored."

"I'm glad to hear that," he said.

Dr. Johnson relaxed the muscles she hadn't realized she had tensed. Aichele's keen hazel eyes noted it, however.

"If you had not been in surgery, would you have left with the captain?" the Marine asked, seeing an opportunity and deciding that he couldn't waste time beating around the bush. The doctor was not so quick to respond, taking several long moments before giving a reply.

"Yes, I would have," she said quietly but firmly.

"Would you give her a message for me, when she wakes?"

"You could give it to her yourself. She's not going anywhere, after all. Leung has seen to that." She rattled the chain of the handcuffs, pointing out what the sergeant already knew.

"No, I won't be back. It is too much of a risk, for both of us. If you could give her a message, though, it would be appreciated."

"Certainly, then. What is it?"

"Tell her, 'Rio Bravo'."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"I don't understand."

He grinned then, the first expression she'd seen. "She's the only one on this ship who will know what I mean. It's safer that way."

She didn't argue or complain, simply nodded and went back to her office.

Jill would know what he was about when she received orders she recognized. The code word 'Rio' would indicate that she was released for independent operations. When she could, she would do whatever she was able to do, without waiting to hear from her superior first.

That accomplished, he turned sharply and stepped to the hatchway. He glanced both ways and, seeing no one in the corridor, strode purposefully back to his own newly assigned quarters.

When he had gone, Dr. Johnson replayed the strange conversation in her mind, attempting to find hidden meaning. Eventually she gave the task up and returned to her medical logs. She could see that Pathfinder was still not a united ship, and that conflict between the two opposed groups must inescapably come. It would be a challenge to remain neutral, when her emotions pulled her one direction. She told herself that it was necessary. She had taken an oath as a doctor before taking an oath as a military officer. In order to be able to help people she needed the freedom to act, and she could not maintain that freedom if she participated in the coming quarrel.

She would deliver Sergeant Aichele's message, and keep his trust, but that was as much as she would allow herself to do.