The door swung open on loose corroded hinges, clacked shut. The dusty courier pulled a handful of letters from his leather satchel and placed them on the commander's desk.

"That all?"

"Yessir, that's it."

"Right. Thanks, son. You can go."

The courier bowed his head a bit, tipped his misshapen hat and went out; the door clattered behind him. Captain Blake stepped in a few seconds later - a new wave of rattling. "Sir?"

"Captain?"

The other held up a battered letter, its envelope already torn open and the contents perused. "It's from Silvertip, sir."

The commander groaned and sat back. "Let me guess: he wants to be transferred back to Jungard."

"Uh, no. He's re-"

"Requesting leave, I know. What is this, the tenth time he's asked?"

"Something like that, yes."

The other gave a heavy sigh.

"Well... sir-"

"Yes?"

"Should I give it to him?"

"Max. You and I both know we can't do that."

The captain pulled up a chair and sat down. He looked weary and uncomfortable. His hands were sweaty. "He is due for a rest, sir."

"Uh-hmm."

"And he hasn't seen his wife in three years."

"So? Neither have I."

"You hate your wife, sir."

The commander frowned. "That's beside the point."

A pause. "You know, I heard he got called away literally the moment he finished marrying her. They hardly even got to kiss goodbye."

"Oh, for goodness' sake, Max, don't be such a sentimental little girl," the commander grumbled, but the captain leaned in, an earnest expression on his face.

"You do realize what that means."

"So? If he needs her company so badly he can have his wife come out here. Arn Arther does it all the time. Tell him to quit whining and go find himself a good cheap whore if he's so desperate."

"Sir-"

"No, Max. We can't afford to let him go. Request denied."

"But sir-"

"No, Max! That's my decision and it's final! We need him here, that's all there is to it, and nothing you say is going to change that! Understood?"

"Yes, sir, quite clearly. ...But, if I may have permission to speak candidly..."

"Granted, always granted," the commander said rather grudgingly.

"Men have deserted for less than this, sir."

"So? Silvertip's not the deserting type."

"But he could become it. If pushed enough..."

The commander shook his head and waved his hand dismissively. "Not him. Everything I've heard about him says he's honorable, duty-bound, responsible, the lot. A real boyscout."

"Then clearly you haven't heard enough, sir. He's disobeyed orders on more than one occasion, and if the results hadn't been so favorable I'm sure he'd've been court-martialled long ago. He's willful and reckless, and I've personally overheard him speak of desertion to others, though he made it sound as if he spoke in jest. I wouldn't be so sure of his intentions if I were you."

"Duly noted. But I'm still not giving him leave."

"And you don't think that's cruel, keeping a man away from his wife when they haven't had even one night together-"

"Oh, spare me, Max..."

"-and at the same time granting leave to others far less deserving, who haven't been here as long and have less reason for it? Is this how we reward valour?"

"No, it's how we reward necessity. I'm sorry, Max, but that's just how things stand. Tell him he can go home when the war's over. The better he fights, the sooner he'll see his wife. And anyhow, Max, this discussion's really getting old. I feel like we go through this every time he sends us a letter. Why don't you tell him that each time he writes asking for a transfer or leave I'll add another year to his tour? Yes, that sounds like a wonderful plan. Then there'll be no more of this nonsense. Do that, Max - tell him not to write us any more. Got it?"

"Sir, that hardly seems fair-"

"I don't give a damn if it is or isn't. Tell him to quit asking or he'll regret it, and I won't have you asking on his behalf, either. Because that's exactly the sort of thing I hate, and it's exactly the kind of thing you'd do, too."

The captain gave a discouraged frown but said nothing.

"Was there anything else you wished to discuss?" the commander asked after a moment.

"No, that was it."

"Well then," the other replied, brightening. "Good day, then."

"Yes. Good day, sir."

The captain went out, trailing his disappointment. The commander resettled himself in his chair and opened the first letter in his pile without reading the address, listening to the clamourous door bouncing back into its place. When the frame stopped rattling he smiled and let his eyes fall to the page before him. "Dear Commander Mador," it read,

I am sure that Captain Blake will already have been in to talk with you, but I feel I must personally explain my case in hopes that you might be swayed by my words should his prove insufficient, as I fear they may.

Dear goddess, I could strangle the man, the commander thought, but he felt reluctantly bound to finish the letter, though he already knew exactly how it would read. With a sigh he leaned back as far as his chair permitted and went on.

I have been stationed in Kaldora for just over three and a half years now, having been put on extended duty just prior to the expiration of my original tour a year and a half ago, and not once during that time have I been allowed so much as a day's leave. Now, my intention in this is not to complain or to dispute the leadership of my superiors, but it seems to me that I am due a reprieve, however brief it may be. I have been told on numerous occasions that my conduct and performance have been exemplary, yet others who have received similar commendations - of my rank and of lesser - have been rewarded with extra leave; and I say extra because these special allowances were given on top of existing vacation allotments which I have also never received. Indeed, I am the only officer I know of who has never been granted this basic privilege. This is of grave concern to me; for by this perpetual ban on my recreation, do you, sir, intend to convey to me my guilt of some unforgivable offense of which no one has heretofore informed me? Have I been so remiss in my duties that you feel it necessary to withhold my sole opportunity for rest and relaxation as punishment? I have attempted many times to convince you of my eligibilty for such an allowance, but to no effect. Therefore I do not imagine that this letter will in any way alter your response to such a request. Instead I pray you tell me for what reason you forbid me leave, that I might at least know the wrong I have perpetrated and so strive to correct it. This is all I ask; I hope that you will be sympathetic enough to grant at least this one small concession. I appreciate your having taken some of your valuable time to read this letter, and I apologize if my words have occupied too much of it. Sincerely awaiting your reply, Lt. Erythor Silvertip.

Commander Mador crumpled the letter into a wad with one hand and tossed it at the door. Fine - if he wanted to know why he was being kept here, fine. Leverdale Mador would let him know, all right. Ingenuous little bastard. 'Sincerely', my ass, thought the commander. That kid knew exactly what he was doing. He knew just what tone to take if he didn't want to get exactly the kind of backlash Mador meant to give him. As if the commander couldn't sense the venom behind those neatly-scripted words. As if either of them imagined for a second that the lieutenant was anything but furious or that he wanted anything but his precious leave. Leverdale made an exasperated sound something between a groan and a sigh and leaned forward against the desk. What was he supposed to write? Silvertip already knew why they withheld his leave, and the smug young bastard just wanted to make his superiors tell him, flat out, how badly they needed him. They wouldn't let him go home, so he was going to get his own small consolation, his own petty revenge, in the only way he could. Goddess damn it, the commander thought. Then he took up his pen and began to write.

Dear Lieutenant Silvertip, Please do not send me any more requests for leave. The answer is no - should there be any change, I assure you you will be promptly informed of it. Until then, I ask that you remain patient and do not trouble your superiors with requests they cannot honor. This includes requests for transfer as well. If this order is not regarded, an extra year-

Well, perhaps that was too harsh. But he did want to discourage these things, didn't he?

-an extra year will be added on to the end of your current tour, prolonging your much-desired return home, which I imagine you would not want to delay. You ask why we deny you leave and keep you stationed in the DMZ as opposed to Tarnitia, where we all well know you would prefer to be. I will give you a straight answer, and you may expect to get nothing more than this: because we require you here, at the border, and not in Tarnitia, and we may require you at any time. Therefore it is essential that you not be on leave in the event of an emergency. You may notice that Captain Doctor Vod Lishnikov has also not been given leave since his deployment, and yet he does not incessantly plague us with letters begging to be let home. Your friend Mr Fletcherson may, I imagine, very likely be subject to the same restrictions. If you wanted to spend more time with your wife, Lieutenant, you ought to have gone into some field other than explosives. Wishing you success in your endeavours, particularly those military in nature, Cmdr. Leverdale Mador.

There. That ought to suit that self-certain little prick. The commander sealed the missive into an envelope with the lieutenant's name and division written on its exterior, gave it to a passing infantryman to deliver to the mailman before he left for the next settlement, and sat back contentedly. Problem solved. Now to get some real work done.

-

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