Space Battle

Butchery, no matter how justified, is ugly and colorful in a macabre way.
Master Sergeant Tereza and four Marines in full combat dress entered the hallway.
“My Marines are flushing out the last of the Constabulary,” she reported to Warlock. “How’s the Councilor?”

Deciding not to be an invisible voice in the corridor, I ducked into the suite and spoke from the other room.
“Tereza, I’ve got it on good authority the Constabulary has sympathizers in the crew,” I warned. “We need armed Marines with Captain Haitham, Captain Tuulia, our Chief Petty Officer, and your Staff Sergeant. Plus an armed guard with you. I’ll check to see if we can add Druids to the duty.”
The senior sergeant, as I knew she would, accepted all the commands except one.

“Sir, I don’t need a bodyguard,” she insisted.
“You are the senior NCO of Marines on a BattleShip being retaken,” I reminded her. “Making you essential personnel. No argument, you will have guards on you around the watches. Clear, Master Sergeant Tereza?”
“Aye, aye sir,” she answered reluctantly.

Warlock and Tereza got busy planning the move of Councilor Peng to the Bridge. They didn’t need me. I pulled down the cowl, stepped out of the suite, and left the VIP deck.
In the corridors, I witnessed the aftermath of the Striker’s and Marine’s assault.
Butchery, no matter how justified, is ugly and colorful in a macabre way.