Rebecca pushed back her cowboy hat and wiped the sweat from her brow. Glancing at the sky, she gauged the sun, guessing it was near noon. Sweeping grasslands stretched hundreds of miles in every direction, broken only by the massive range of mountains to the south, Mount Ryder gleaming white under the midday sun.

She leaned against the top rail of the branding pen, resting her tired back as the dry barnyard scents of horses and cattle hung heavy in the oppressive heat. Around her, cows lowed and cowboys whooped as steel-shod hooves stirred the dust.

One of the hired hands, an older gentleman named Smitty, shook out his rope and twirled it overhead before letting it fly. He missed the calf he was aiming for, and the solid black animal jumped to the left, shook its head, and ran under its mother.

Six months ago, Smitty had shown up on their doorstep, never having seen a live cow. He wore the hollow, haunted look Rebecca had seen in too many combat veterans. He had survived the Dominion War, helped with the Romulan crisis, and fought Klingons during Operation Gatecrasher. But his second brush with the Dominion, when the Lost Fleet appeared last year, finally broke him. He couldn’t ignore the PTSD anymore and left Starfleet, seeking the farthest place from the Federation he could find—Terra Alpha.

Smitty wasn’t a natural at ranch life; he still couldn’t sit a horse without looking like a complete dude. But he worked hard and was coming along. About a month ago, at the Sunday BBQ table, Smitty cracked the first smile she’d seen. It was fleeting, but unmistakable.

The ranch wasn’t a counseling office, and Rebecca wasn’t a therapist, but something about hard work tied to the land was healing. She felt it in her bones. The former captain thought retirement would be torture, but Starfleet’s bureaucracy had worn her down, and now Rebecca regretted not leaving sooner. Sure, she missed the bridge sometimes. Hell, Starfleet had been most of her life. Missing something like that was only natural.

David Sackett, one of her husband’s nephews, rode toward her, dragging a cinnamon-colored calf with a white blaze down its face. When it was branding time, the whole Talon family showed up to help.

Sighing, Rebecca picked up the branding iron and hypospray gun as a pair of cowboys tossed the calf into the dirt. It bellowed in annoyance as Rebecca leaned over and pressed the button on the iron. The end glowed with white light, modifying the follicle pigments to grow white hair. It was painless, but it allowed ranchers to mark livestock without needing bio-scanners. Once branded, she pressed the hypospray into the animal’s thigh, injecting a cocktail of vaccinations. The cowboys released it, and the calf bolted, cussing them out in its bovine tongue.

Returning to the fence, she smiled at Captain Marcus Ming, who watched the events unfold. Ming had served under her in the Dominion War, and they’d stayed in contact over the decades. Now he was a starship captain, and Rebecca couldn’t have been prouder of her former flight leader.

She picked up a pink semi-transparent water bottle resting in the shadow of a gnarled cedar post. She unscrewed the top and took a long drink of tepid water. It tasted of plastic but, at that moment, it was the best water she’d ever had.

“So, regretting wasting your vacation here on Terra Alpha now?” she teased Marcus, shooting him a sideways grin. “Especially since you’re stranded here due to the blackout.”

Marcus smiled at his former CO. Her leadership on Denver was second to none, and he was grateful she’d become a close friend. He briefly glanced around at his surroundings and then looked back at Rebecca.

He said, “Nah.  I can’t imagine a nicer place to be stuck.  The company is pretty amazing as well.”

Rebecca chuckled and rested her arms on the top rail, staring out across the rolling plain, yellow-green grass swaying in the wind.  A hundred yards away, a windmill lazily spun, sloshing water from the aquifer into the overflowing stock tank, creating a muddy patch at the base of the galvanized basin.

“Don’t tell Command that. We were butting heads on the regular at the end. When I retired, there were probably celebrations and high-fives from the Admiralty. If you aren’t careful, you might end up with a bad reputation, too,” she teased. “You know what they say about one bad apple spoiling the whole bunch.”

Marcus chuckled at his friend’s comments.  He replied, “I guess I learned from the best.  I’ve riled the brass hats in Starfleet Command more than once starting way back when I got my second full pip.  I even got a mild telling off by Admiral Jean-Luc Picard over subspace not long before he retired.  The Admiralty likely decided to give me a ship just to get me out of their hair.  They obviously don’t know me as well as they’d like to think.”

He smiled at Rebecca as he continued. “I wouldn’t trade any of it for all the gold pressed latinum in the galaxy though.  All for the good of the Fleet, right?  That’s kind of why I opted to spend some of my leave time here.  It is a chance to give the on-high a break.  The main reason was because I get to see a good friend.”

“You’re always welcome here.”  Rebecca smirked at the man. “And when Starfleet drums you out you can come here and run cattle.”

He chuckled and watched the surrounding action for a moment before he turned to face his former captain with a slightly more sober look and asked more than said, “You’re serious?”

She sighed and shrugged. “We’ve got about 500,000 acres, give or take.  179,000 of it are owned outright, and the rest are under a long-term lease from the Colonial Park Service, which is why we have to brand. In theory, our neighbors are supposed to stay away from our lease and us away from theirs, but since we can’t fence the public lands, here we are.”

Marcus shook his head and responded, “Yeah, hopefully your neighbors believe in the honor system rather than being in the mindset of ‘Posession is 9/10ths of the law.’  You’re still here so I guess people generally follow the former rather than the latter theories.”

She shrugged.  It wasn’t like cattle rustling was inconceivable, accidents were far more likely. Besides outside the planet there was little demand for live beef.  She had a few Klingon customers who enjoyed the livers and hearts.  And of course there was the Ferengi market.   What they did with the beef she didn’t know, but she wouldn’t sell a live cow to one of them if hee life depended on it.  They were already operating in a grey area rasing beef, the least she could do was ensure they were humanely treated until the end.

“Not too worried about theft. But, one does need to know which cow belongs to who,” she said squinting into the sun as Smitty rode up dragging a calf behind him.

“You got him I see,” Rebecca teased the cowboy with the white faced calf crying in frustration at the end of his lariat.

“I did ma’am,” Smitty said.

Handing Marcus the branding iron, “Time to earn your grub Mr. Ming.”

Marcus grinned a bit warily at Rebecca and said, “Of course you want the city slicker work, eh?”

In reality Ming did find the mooos of the branded cows to be pitiful.  He also knew that the pain was short lived and was likely to be forgotten before very long as well.  He nodded up at Smitty, then focused on the calf.  He placed his left hand on the calf’s side before placed the brand against it’s haunch with the approximate pressure he’d previously.  Once it started sizzling he waited a heartbeat or two before he took a quick but solid couple steps back as it fulfilled the expected pitious moo followed by the backward’s kick as many of it’s kin had done.

The pilot smiled back at Rebecca, offering her the brand as he did so, then asked, “Something like that?”

“One last thing,” Rebecca grinned, producing a laser scalpel.   With quick efficiency, she made the bull calf a steer and nodded to Smitty, who released the tension on the calf and flipped the rope off the animal’s head.

She straightened and tossed the severed material into a nearby bucket.  “If you’re hungry, we’ve got plenty of oysters.”

Ming’s left eyebrow rose a bit in a very Vulcan-style manner.  Of course, he was aware of the nature of ‘Rocky Mountain Oysters.’  The whole idea made his legs cross if he were sitting.  He chuckled softly and said, “The concept always made me a bit uncomfortable.  Call it solidarity with my mammalian brothers.  At my age I’ve eaten much odder items and a few things I wolfed down snout to tail so….Well, as a great man once uttered. ‘My hypocrisy only goes so far.'”

Captain Marcus Ming flashed Rebecca a grin and asked, “Breaded and fried, I presume?”

Rebecca shrugged.  “We usually just let the dogs and the coyotes have their pick. I hear the old timers would just roast them over the branding fires.”

“Huh. I heard that the folks in the state of Colorado in North America used to batter and bread em before deep frying them.  I saw records stating they tasted something like….Chicken Nuggets.  Chicken MCNUGGETS, that is it.  Reference to what a company called McDonalds used to make.  Fried isn’t my go to usualy but might be worth a try.” Ming said thoughtfully.

She shrugged and something caught her attention.   To the south a thin tendril of black smoke silently rose skyward, thin and wispy at first building in intensity. “What the hell?”

Marcus spun and followed Rebecca’s gaze.  He watched for a moment before saying,”Ummmm….I am guessing that is not normal.”

As he spoke he pulled a weapon from the small of his back.  He tucked the holster on his belt at front and a bit to the side of his right leg.  He verified there was a round in the chamber before reholstering it and verified his extra clip at the front of the holster.  He then checked type 1 phaser out of his left pocket, checked the charge before putting it back in the pocket.  He noticed Rebecca and Smitty looking at him.

He armed himself with a slightly amused slightly deadpan smile, “What?  Slugs offer opportunities phasers don’t.  Hallow point 9MM slugs loaded on board and in the chamber. … the other clip has FMJ if I really wanna ruin someone’s day.  ‘Course I got a backup of something more modern just in case.”

“It ain’t a campfire,” Rebecca said dryly.  “Looks like New Milwaukee is burning to me. I hope you can ride, Mr. Ming.”

She climbed over the rail fence, swung her leg over the top rail, and dropped onto the dry prairie grass with a soft thump of her boots and puff of white dust. Her mare stood a few yards away, resting one hind leg. The mare’s ears flicked idly, and her tail swished warding off the persistent flies. Jerking the lead rope free Rebecca flung it over the black’s neck. Gathering the reins, she stepped into the stirrup and swung into the saddle with a creak of leather.

Ming tilted his head toward the bay with what looked like a white four point star on..his forehead as he noted this one was a gelding.  Smitty nodded and Marcus smoothly slipped his foot into the stirrup before sliding comfortbly into the saddle.  He said, “Since I started my teens.  Ready when you are.”

She turned back toward the others. “Smitty, tell Milo, Marcus and I are heading to the house. There might be trouble in town.”

“I will, ma’am,” Smitty replied, adjusting in his saddle and pushing his straw hat back with his thumb.

Rebecca nodded once, then looked to Ming as he rode up beside her. “You ready?”

“As I ever am.  Just waiting for your lead, Rebecca,” Ming said aimiably.