Lieutenant Gorman was crouching on top of a stack of exercise mats while watching his squad of Marines do their daily exercises. His sweat-soaked shirt was draped over his shoulder as he hollered the cadence for everyone to follow. Sergeant Apone and Corporal Hicks were walking around, making sure everyone actually was following along, and Corporal Dietrich followed close behind them, for the sole purpose of making sure everyone's form was proper so they didn't hurt themselves.

"I got work to do in the loading bay, sir, I can't be wasting my time here!" Spunkmeyer yelled.

Gorman gave Spunkmeyer a dirty look. "You've been evading your workouts for ten years because of that powerloader! That is not an excuse!"

Frost laughed. "He's just in shock 'cause you're an officer in better shape than a grunt, sir!"

"That's because I was a grunt before becoming an officer. Move it, people, fifty more sit-ups and I'll let you get some water. Come on, everybody! Let's see some enthusiasm! Winter can fuck off!"

Dietrich looked down at Crowe when she walked by him, and knelt to whisper. "Draw your feet in a little closer, sweetie."

Crowe gave her a big smile when he saw her. "Will do." Before she left, Crowe paused again. "Hey, Dietrich."

"What?"

"I love you."

Dietrich nodded, standing up to keep following Hicks and Apone. She looked down at the others, occasionally giving them pointers on proper form, but she kept glancing back at Crowe.

Handsome, sweet Crowe. She had a hard time expressing it, but she loved him, too. She longed for his hugs, his soft accented voice, the light scent of his soap. He was gentle, a good kisser, too. She felt she was lucky to have him.

Dietrich jolted from her thoughts when Gorman dismissed everyone. He hopped down from the mats, grabbing his jacket from a grimy, broken chair he had draped it on before following the gentlemen into the locker room. Dietrich followed the ladies into their locker room, not saying a word.

Her and Ferro were both corporals, but Ferro tended to be the one commanding the girls in the locker room or the shower. She wasn't shy, like Dietrich, nor was she mean. Like Dietrich could be at times.

The departures of Drake, Vasquez, Hudson, and Wierzbowski meant the squad got new Marines. The new combat tech was a very small woman, Private Marda, who was also training to use the powerloader. Wierzbowski's replacement was Private Towers. She was . . . friendly. Got on with Frost easily, and she probably would've gotten along with Hudson if he was still around. He would make her more unbearable than she already is, Dietrich thought.

To anyone else, Towers was far from unbearable. She was very outgoing and liked to tease, the way the others did. Dietrich was a different story-well, Dietrich had a dislike of all the new Marines, including Gorman, but Gorman was a bit different because he was an officer. The introduction of the new Marines was a disruption. After all, she'd been serving with the others for almost ten years.

It took her a long time to get along with them. Just when she started to feel like she could become closer to them, they left. They left before she could really make amends with them, and tell them how she really felt. How she really felt wasn't the constant vitriol she spat at them. Deep down, she appreciated them.

Especially Wierzbowski.

Dietrich stood at her locker. Everyone talked around her, not paying much attention to her as she changed clothes. They left before she did. She released her breath, dropping her gym clothes in a plastic bag before walking out of the room, taking the bag down to the laundry room.

Gorman was already in the laundry room, dumping his clothes in one of the washers. He glanced at Dietrich, who dropped eye contact with him as soon as his eyes fell on her. "Dietrich," he said.

"Sir," Dietrich replied, softly, opening another washer.

Gorman watched her for a second. "You can put yours in with mine. I already put detergent in."

Dietrich closed the washer she was about to use, then she walked over to Gorman, tossing her clothes in with his.

"Is there . . . something you want to talk about?"

"No, sir. Why do you ask?"

"You look like you've got something on your mind."

Dietrich shook her head. "No, sir."

Gorman glanced toward the door, then back at Dietrich. "Missing Wierzbowski?"

Dietrich didn't respond. Gorman wasn't someone she felt like discussing this with. She kept looking away. "No."

"OK. Well, if . . . you need to talk, feel free to come to me."

I don't think I ever will. Dietrich watched him leave the room, closing the lid of the washer and pressing the "start" button.

Gorman wasn't a bad guy. To get a commission while enlisted was rare, but he didn't seem like he was just promoted to officer for the hell of it. He was highly intelligent with the mentality of a "grunt," though Dietrich had heard Gorman wasn't a standard infantryman, a technician, mechanic, smartgun operator, and certainly not a medic. He was what most Marines referred to as "Vent Rats." The guys who performed difficult and often dangerous missions inside the ventilation systems of buildings, ships, and space stations. Dietrich had no idea how Gorman was promoted, or what he did to get promoted, but she could tell just by looking at him that he missed the tight, claustrophobic operations of Vent Rats. Most people shied away from stuff like that; it was obvious Gorman had loved it.

It didn't discount the fact that he was an officer. Officers have different duties to enlisted Marines. The lax operation of Apone and Hicks was . . . not as lax with Gorman around. He wasn't full-on strict, but certain things changed. Most of it wasn't his fault; there were certain things he had to abide by that enlisted Marines usually got away with.

Dietrich didn't mind the strictness, but she didn't want him finding out about things like her relationship with Crowe. Then again, Spunkmeyer and Ferro weren't shy about their relationship, though they did tone down the affection in Gorman's presence.

Even without Gorman, Dietrich was shy about being affectionate with Crowe in front of others. Crowe was OK with Dietrich's shyness. He found it endearing at times, but he understood it was a hurdle for her, and tried to help. He wasn't pushy about it. He was understanding.

Wierzbowski was understanding, too.

Why did things have to go the way they did?

When she wasn't interacting with anybody, Dietrich found her mind wandering back to all that had happened, emotionally, over the last three years.

She knew he had someone. She knew it was wrong to feel what she did for him. She harbored those feelings anyway. They felt good, but they came at such a price. A very high price.

She loved him.

It wasn't instantaneous. They kept spending time with each other, and it all started on a lazy spring day in 2176. Wierzbowski sought her out to tell her about Drake's surgery, because she was a part of the squad and deserved to know that her teammate was awake and resting so he could come home soon, even though she didn't interact much with anyone.

She was angry because he violated a rule about going into the medical storage room without permission. She didn't care about the why; Wierzbowski broke a rule and needed to know. Anyone would think that would be the end of any friendship they could've had, but Wierzbowski was better than that. He felt like there was something beneath her surface. He gave her a chance. For once in her life, someone was giving her a chance. It was truly the best feeling in the world, and she wanted more of it.

Wierzbowski ended up learning some first-aid from Dietrich. They spent more and more time together because of that. Dietrich loved it. Finally, somebody who enjoyed her company-Wierzbowski even said he enjoyed it. That meant the world to her.

Dietrich never had the best grasp on her emotions. There were very few things she could blindly focus on. So many things easily frustrated her for reasons she struggled to understand. So many things most people didn't mind bothered her to no end. Everything had to be a certain way for her. All the rules needed to be followed. If something was wrong, all consideration for others went out the window. That's just how it was for her.

And Wierzbowski didn't seem to mind. He helped her see things in a slightly different way, to think a little bit before speaking to anyone. They still had their differences. Sometimes, they fought, but wasn't that true for all relationships?

Of course, Wierzbowski had always seen it as just a friendship. Dietrich wanted more than that, even though it wasn't right.

Wierzbowski was dating a civilian woman named Eliza McAllister at the time. Now, they were happily married. Very, very happy, and it was a lovely wedding. Dietrich knew Wierzbowski was dating, and she knew he was happy with this woman. She knew that Eliza had given him more love than he had received in his first marriage. She knew that they were meant to be together. And she let herself feel something strongly for him.

She pondered her feelings about Wierzbowski in the months since they became friends. There was something she felt that she couldn't explain, even to herself. At first it was small. The more they saw each other, the bigger it got. Then she realized just what it was; a crush. Lord, she liked him. It was such a good feeling, something she wished she experienced in high school. It was a good feeling and she wanted it to blossom-

"Dietrich?" Gorman knocked on the laundry room door, even though it was open. "Chow time. Everything OK?"

"Yeah . . . yeah . . . just . . . thinking," Dietrich replied, gradually emerging from her thoughts. She glanced at the washer before following Gorman out to the hallway. Keeping her gaze on the floor, she walked into the mess hall, sitting next to Crowe at the end of the table.

It was so strange without Hudson's obnoxiousness. It had been a little over six months since he had gotten his discharge, and no one had really become used to not having him around. He made things fun, even though Dietrich considered him a walking pain-in-the-ass, or a walking disaster. She had used every insult under the sun on him, and yet she missed him.

In his place was the polar opposite of his personality, in Private Marda. Marda was shy. She was very smart as the combat tech, and friendly when she managed to get comfortable, but she was no Hudson.

Dietrich even missed Drake's smartass commentary on the food. In his place was a young man with dark hair and a sweet smile. Private James Aokawa. He entertained everyone his first night in the squad with stories about his high school senior year summer trip to Japan. He was likable, smart, definitely not as sarcastic as Drake.

Vasquez's replacement was a stockier blond man, Private Derek Caito. He seemed to be constantly smiling, and he looked like he stepped out of an old Christmas cartoon with his rosy red cheeks. He wasn't nearly as tall as Wierzbowski, but he was just as strong. Like Wierzbowski, though, he was modest, often underestimating himself and could be heard saying, "Nuts, I didn't know I had it in me," several times a day.

Dietrich felt Crowe gently take her hand to massage it under the table. "Are you alright?" he whispered. "You look lost in thought, birdie."

"I was lost in thought," she replied. "Sorry."

"No need to be sorry."

"This is not soup," Spunkmeyer griped. "It's fucking gelatin."

"This is nothing compared to the beef stew in boot camp," Aokawa laughed.

"The beef stew is still shit? Doesn't surprise me," Spunkmeyer said.

"Do not eat the beef stew," Frost added.

"Biggest mistake of your life," Caito muttered. "Beef stew and cornbread."

"The cornbread wasn't bad," Towers chirped.

Spunkmeyer gave her a dirty look. "The cornbread, sweetheart, is just as terrible as pineapple Chicago-style pizza on whole-fucking-wheat dough."

"How would you know? You've never eaten pineapple Chicago pizza, Spunk," Frost snorted.

"No sensible New Yorker eats Chicago-style or pineapple, and certainly not both at the same time!"

"I live in Chicago, and my wife was born there," Gorman said. "Watch your mouth."

"I pity you and your wife, sir."

"If you're that much of a die-hard New Yorker, I'm guessing you've never had a Philly cheesesteak or Boston crème pie?" Aokawa asked.

Spunkmeyer snorted. "Gimme a Rueben over a fucking cheesesteak. At least you can taste the meat on a Reuben. Last time I had a cheesesteak, the meat and cheese were overpowered by the Goddamn peppers and onions. What is this? A pepper-and-onion sandwich? No, sir, I paid twelve dollars for a cheesesteak. I expect lots of cheese and steak on there."

"When did you have a cheesesteak?" Frost said.

"Oh, this was years ago, when I was still living in Manhattan, before I realized how crappy other cities' food is."

Ferro smiled. "You didn't say anything about the Boston crème pie."

"We don't talk about that."

Ferro cupped her hands around her mouth before whispering, "He loves the pie."

"I said, we don't talk about that!"

Everyone started laughing. "Alright, alright, settle down, people," Apone ordered. "Spunkmeyer, we all saw you at the Christmas banquet, son. You had two slices of that pie on your plate."

Spunkmeyer blushed. "I . . . may've been drunk."

"You were very drunk," Crowe said.

"Beyond smashed, dude," Aokawa added.

Frost nodded in agreement. "At least you didn't get naked, like Hudson always did when he couldn't handle his alcohol anymore. Drake was funnier. Remember the party General Russell hosted? 'Did anyone see my spoon?'"

"And he was holding the spoon!" Crowe laughed.

"He just looked so out of it the whole time! Poor guy. He was looking at us like a little kid finding out Santa's not real."

"He was on the floor after that, and then he threw up under the officers' table," Hicks added.

"Hudson wasn't helping. He was laughing so hard, his face was red and he was crying."

"And then he puked in the fruit punch bowl. He and Drake were partners-in-crime most of the time when it came to drinking."

Gorman raised his hand. "I will never, ever drink with them again. Learned my lesson the first time."

"We coulda told you that when yous decided to go out with them shortly after Hicks took a vacation to 'Bama," Spunkmeyer said.

"Yeah, those were fun phone calls to receive," Hicks muttered.

"Spunkmeyer, I've seen you eat Boston crème pie when you're sober," Ferro said.

Spunkmeyer stuck his tongue out at her. "Did not. You were drunk, too."

"Not like you, that's for sure."

As immature as the conversation topic was, Dietrich found herself missing Drake and Hudson. They made the day more lively. Hudson's constant complaints to her about random aches and pains gave her something to do. They became part of her routine.

The conversations continued after lunch. While the others went down to the lounge, Dietrich headed to sick bay. It had been nice to have someone with her, helping her sort the bottles of medicine and supplies. Wierzbowski had made the mundane tasks less mundane. They talked for hours. Now it was back to being completely alone.

You have Crowe now. You shouldn't be thinking of 'Ski. She couldn't understand why her mind turned to him. It wasn't fair to Crowe, not after all he had done for her in the weeks after Wierzbowski left. I haven't completely gotten over him, and that's my fault. I dreamt too much, and I held such high hopes, even though I knew it was impossible.

Dietrich stared absentmindedly at a bottle of calcium supplement pills. I'm trying really hard to move on.

She turned when she heard someone knock on the door, and saw Crowe standing in the doorway. "Hi," she said.

"Hi. Can I come in?" Crowe asked.

"Sure."

Crowe glanced over his shoulder before walking into the storage room. "Just wanted to see how you were doing. You looked a little sad at lunch today."

"I was . . . OK, do you promise not to say anything to anyone?"

"Cross my heart, birdie."

"Alright. I was . . . thinking about Drake and Hudson. How things were more lively, and . . . Hudson's shit was just another part of my routine."

"And Wierzbowski?"

"What about him?"

"I imagine you were thinking of him, too."

Dietrich looked down at the floor. "I'm sorry-"

"No, no, don't be sorry. He meant a lot to you beyond . . . the feelings you had for him. Besides, he was a friend of mine, too. I understand." Crowe hugged her, rubbing her back reassuringly, and whispering, "Don't be sorry for what you feel, birdie."

"Crowe?"

"Yes?"

Dietrich squeezed him tighter. "Why am I happy with you, but still thinking of 'Ski?"

Crowe fell silent, struggling to think of a response. "I . . . wish I had an answer, but . . . I don't. I think . . . it'll sort itself out on its own, but if you ever want to talk, I'll always be here."

They stayed there, in each other's arms. Maybe if we stayed like this forever, I won't think about 'Ski ever again. "Crowe?"

"Yes, birdie?"

"Can I stay in your room tonight?"

"You may." Crowe kissed the top of Dietrich's head. "Stay in your room until lights-out. Gorman doesn't go to bed until he knocks on everyone's door to make sure they're in their own room. When he leaves the hall, come join me."

Question: How might another squad member (i.e., Spunkmeyer) view the new Marines compared to Dietrich?

Author's Note: First venture in post-"Ice Star" territory and doesn't involve Drake.

Familiar faces leaving means new ones must arrive. Some of the names (Aokawa) come courtesy of Denal Douglas, as well as one of the characters, Garnet Towers. Towers was originally intended for Denal's massive Stargate rewrite project, and ultimately cut. She was turned into a Marine and I look forward to using her for future projects.

The "new" Gorman introduced in "Ice Star" was a character I didn't have many plans for him. Having never worked with the character in the past, I really wasn't sure what to do with him. Some people in the fanbase hate him, some people feel bad for him. I personally feel bad for him, and it was actually some posts I saw on other sites that made me seriously consider developing the "new" Gorman's backstory, because he deserves better. The "Vent Rat" idea comes from Tunnel Rats in the Vietnam War, and perhaps we'll see something from Gorman's Vent Rat days in a future story. Happy reading, - Cat.