[Write about a gift that you were given by a species during a first contact meeting. Maybe it is a memento that is important to their culture, or a bottle of their finest liqueur, or maybe even something that if not taken (no matter how much you wanted to leave it there) would be offensive. Let us know about it and it's importance to the species.]
Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding, USS King Estmere NCC-92984
"Damn," Anthi Vihl says. "I left my PADD on the console."
She sighs wearily and starts to scramble up the slanting wall of the King Estmere's bridge. She reaches the top of the wall, does a neat forward roll... and now, from my perspective, she is sticking out from the sloping ceiling overhead, walking up and along it. She retrieves her PADD from the glowing bridge console, walks back down the ceiling, does another roll onto the wall, and scrambles back down to meet me. Just another one of those everyday moments spent dealing with Tholian ship design.
King Estmere is a prestigious assignment, a powerful ship... but it's weird. And hot. The environmental settings are cranked up as high as we can stand, and even so, there are continual problems with thermal stresses on the structure. The Recluse carrier was designed, after all, for a Tholian atmosphere. Part of one deck still has it; the Tholian cadre officers are comfortable there. The rest of us... have to deal with the heat, and the confusing layout, and those insane icosahedral displays on the pop-out consoles. We used to twit Dr. Beresford about her ever-present data monocle, but now most of us are wearing headsets or earpieces of our own, using as much help as we can get to interpret the control setup. My ear aches from my earpiece, and I'm far too hot, and too tired, at the end of a long watch. I think we all are. I nod to Commander Sirip. "You have the bridge," I tell him.
"Affirmative," says the assault team commander, looking crisp and efficient and generally very Vulcan. Damn him. I'm going to my quarters, where I can crank the temperature down as far as it'll go, and maybe catch a few hours' sleep. The earpiece is chattering at me, and in my other ear there is a noise that sounds like a catfight, and very possibly is. The Caitian flight deck officers are in a tight huddle around a console, and they are too far away for the universal translator to kick in and let me know what they're saying, but there is much bristling of fur and switching of tails over there.... Well, let Sirip deal with it. Damn efficient Vulcan.
I make my way along the twisty-turny corridors of the Tholian ship. By now, at least, I know my way between my own quarters and the bridge. And my quarters have, at least, been set up in a sensible configuration; if you ignore the pop-out console on one wall and the data stalagmite in the corner, they look almost like they belong on a Starfleet ship.
I almost make it to the door, when I hear a voice say, "Felicitations upon this auspicious encounter, my venerated Admiral!"
I turn around. Commander Thirethequ is standing in front of me, looking hideously cheerful, or possibly just hideous. A Jolciot from the recently-joined Federation world of Magamba, Thirethequ is short, with a massive barrel-shaped body, thick stumpy legs, and prodigiously long, muscular arms. Some Jolciots shave their facial hair and prune their keratinous forehead ridges, but Thirethequ has let his grow into a truly impressive beard and crest. And he talks - well, like most Jolciots. Flowery language is part of the culture. There are times when I rather like it... but not now.
"Hello, Commander," I say. "Settling in well?"
King Estmere has already cost me one officer, though not in a bad way; after supervising the refitting work, Shrin Izini has gone on to Starbase 193 with a long-overdue promotion to Captain of Engineering. His assistant Dyssa has taken his place... and, to fill her place, Starfleet has sent me Thirethequ. Well, it could be a lot worse. The Jolciots are nothing if not inventive. They are the only species I ever heard of who managed to get a warp engine running off a fission power plant - which was how they came to be found. The humans were discovered when a Vulcan ship happened to come within detector range of their Phoenix; half the quadrant was in detector range of the Jolciots' Efflorescence of Technological Ingenuity when it - somehow - went to warp.
"Magnificently well, I do assure you, my valorous leader," says Thirethequ. "The crew, ah! noble comrades in arms! have been the very quintessence of hospitality, and as to my quarters -" he makes a sweeping gesture with those incredibly long arms "- positively palatial in their scope and amenities! I bless the day that Starfleet accepted my unworthy presence into its august ranks."
Despite my tiredness, I raise a smile. "I'm glad," I tell him.
"Though, if I might make one inquiry?" Thirethequ adds. "A minor matter, perhaps so trivial that I hesitate to bring it to your attention. But the issue nags and prickles at the back of my mind, like a burr. Is it a Starfleet custom of which I am unaware? Is it a human cultural tradition, of which I am still so woefully ignorant? Or is it simply a defect in the otherwise estimable universal translator? I refer to the vocalisations - 'ook ook ook' - of some of the human crew, in my presence. I hear the phrase repeated, and yet its significance remains the darkest mystery to me."
Oh, damnation. My lips thin with anger. "I regret to tell you," I say, "that it's probably derogatory. I suppose, in a way, it is a human tradition... they do like what they call their 'hazing' rituals. Nonetheless, it's not acceptable in a Starfleet ship, and you'd be well within your rights to make a formal complaint."
"Ah!" says Thirethequ. "I think my poor fogged brain begins to comprehend... the initiation rite, yes? The teasing and testing of the newcomer until he or she gains full acceptance into the band? It is not unknown on Magamba. And I do assure you, my most noble commander, that I shall endeavour to take it in good part. After all, am I not a stranger, from a backwards, almost primitive, world, allowed by sufferance to take my place in your awe-inspiring fleet?"
"You're a Federation citizen and a Starfleet officer," I say, "and that entitles you to the same respect I get myself, or any other of my crew." All too true, I reflect. The phrase "psycho smurf" still gets bandied about from time to time. "As for backwards - well, I've visited your world, and I certainly wouldn't call it that."
Thirethequ slaps his forehead, producing a terrifying rattling sound from his keratinous ridges. "I abase myself for my obtuseness!" he cries out. "I prostrate myself before you as the most abject and impercipient dullard! How could I have failed of recognition? You are that Tylha Shohl!"
"I'm sorry?"
"Of the USS Aquitaine! The Starfleet vessel that came to enlighten our ignorance and set us upon the path to true galactic citizenship! Every schoolchild on Magamba learns all the names of that munificent crew!"
"I was only a very junior ensign at the time," I mutter. Am I famous? On Magamba? I suppose there are worse places to be famous....
"But destined always for greatness!" Thirethequ positively capers on the deck in front of me. The anthropoid resemblance is, actually, quite marked. Of course, the humans might be more cautious with their 'ooks' if they realized that those long Jolciot arms have all the superhuman strength of an anthropoid ape - if Thirethequ ever loses his temper with his tormentors, they're going to be in sick bay for weeks. But he's a good-humoured sort... but everybody snaps sometimes, even Vulcans....
Maybe it's time I got to know him, I think. See what he's really like, under that Jolciot grandiloquence. And I guess I have a pretext, of sorts. "Actually," I say, "that reminds me. Perhaps you can help me with something?"
"You are my commander, and a member of the Aquitaine crew," says Thirethequ, "so my very life is at your disposal, o admirable Admiral. Say the word, and I leap to obey."
"Step into my quarters for a moment, please," I say, waving my hand at the sensor so the door hisses open. "It's something that came from the first contact at Magamba, actually." I step through the doorway, but Thirethequ hesitates on the threshold. Oh, damn, I'd forgotten Jolciot sexual mores. "Please remember, Commander, I'm not actually a female."
"And yet you are the epitome of feminine charm," says Thirethequ, but he steps into the room. That, at least, is pure flattery; I'm too tall, too thin and too blue even to approximate Jolciot female attractiveness. I look around. My souvenir from Magamba is, at least, out in plain sight, standing on a table by the Tholian data stalagmite. "We were all presented with mementoes of the occasion," I say. "I received this from your college of engineering studies."
The memento is a squat, hollow, metal cylinder, elaborately engraved and decorated with fluting and abstract curlicues on the outside, mirror-smooth on the interior. "And you have retained it ever since?" says Thirethequ. "You do us such honour!"
"It was an honour to receive it," I say. "But... well, I was only a very junior ensign, as I said - and I never had the nerve to ask. What, actually, is it?"
"Ah!" Thirethequ jumps forward to inspect the piece. "Let me see... yes! Allow my feeble luminance to enlighten your perplexity, o my Admiral. It is an item apt for your career; a drive component from one of our earlier, unsuccessful, endeavours to transcend the limitations of the light barrier." He traces a fingertip over the decorative designs. "A coolant booster nozzle from the Effulgence of the Application of Knowledge. Not, of course, from the ship itself - a spare, I fear, though the interior surface shows it has seen actual usage at some point. The Effulgence of the Application of Knowledge, alas, became... excessively effulgent shortly after takeoff. Indeed, at one point six two gigatons, it was the largest nuclear explosion to take place on Magamba. Something of a setback for our space programme, in fact."
"Well, thank you," I say. "You can tell all that from the surface decoration?"
If Thirethequ has an answer, it's lost in the screaming of a red alert.
---
I reach the bridge at a run, tiredness and heat forgotten. Sirip points to the angry red spot on the triangular screen. "Tholian vessel, Orb Weaver class," he says crisply. "We will be within its weapons range in one minute thirty-seven seconds."
I turn to F'hon Tlaxx at the comms station. "Are they answering hails?"
F'hon shakes his head. "Sorry, skipper. I'm trying every channel, but -"
But the Tholian is in no mood to talk. And there are plenty of Tholian commanders who know King Estmere used to be one of theirs... and take the whole thing very personally. My gaze sweeps the battle displays as my bridge crew take their stations. "Launch fighters."
"Aye, aye, sir." Anthi Vihl is all professionalism, as always. "Launching." All eight hundred and seventy-one metres of King Estmere shudder as the Widow fighters slam out of their launch bays. "Alpha flight, clear. Bravo flight, clear. Prepping Charlie and Delta flights."
"Confirm Orb Weaver's weapons hot," says Zazaru from the sensor console.
"Hostile engagement authorized," I order. For the record.
The Orb Weaver is a smaller, lighter vessel than ours... but still nothing to mess with, and the Tholian commander seems confident. Perhaps he thinks we don't have the expertise to work our ship effectively, yet. He's about to find out he's wrong, the hard way.
Space glitters with deadly blue Cherenkov light. "Tetryon fire incoming," says Anthi. "Minor damage to forward deflectors. Alphas one and three engaging." Tetryon beams stab out from the fighters. Anthi is nudging King Estmere into a shallow curve at low impulse speed, bringing her round for her main armament to bear. The light turrets, though, are opening up already, flashes of disruptor light sparkling on the Tholian's shields. The Orb Weaver is firing, but damage is minimal so far... which means most of his power is being diverted from weapons to other systems... which means....
"Web nodes inbound!" yells Zazaru. My lips pull back from my teeth in a mirthless grin.
On the main screen, orange lines gleam in a precise, geometrical arrangement. The Tholian web.... The Orb Weaver is trying to trap us, wall us off, so he can finish off our fighters and then pour fire into us while we hang helpless in the web's spatial inclusion. It's the classic Tholian tactic. And one for which we have our own answer.
"Prep for maximum fire," I tell Anthi. "Subspace jump - now!!"
Tholian technology isn't all we've mastered, or incorporated into King Estmere. The subspace jumper, "borrowed" from the Klingons under circumstances best not described, gives us all a yawning, lurching sensation in the pits of our stomachs, as it flips us, the whole massive ship, across a subspace discontinuity and across several kilometres of space -
- and we are comfortably tucked in behind the Tholian's stern, as the web hangs gleaming in space; imposing, threatening, and now completely empty.
"Launching Charlie. Launching Delta. Firing," Anthi reports.
The Orb Weaver has reinforced its forward shields to cope with the fire from Alpha and Bravo flights; now, under a tachyon pulse and the concentrated rapid fire of King Estmere's forward polarized disruptor cannons, its rear shields shatter like glass. The next two flights of Widows howl out of the launch bays. The Tholian ship seems to stagger - the commander has realized his peril, is trying to fight clear and escape.
"Tetryon grid," I order.
Tholian technology, this time, unique to the Recluse carrier; impalpable blue lines reach out from my ship to its swarming fighters, reflect off them, reach out to savage the Orb Weaver. Its much-abused shields fail completely, and it hangs there, naked, in space, as the Widows fire their torpedoes and their tetryon bolts, and a heavy disruption torpedo from our thermionic launcher crawls towards them... crawls up to their port nacelle, and doesn't stop, ploughing through alloys and superdense ceramics and leaving devastation in its wake. The disruptor cannons, too, are still hammering away, raking the Tholian from stem to sterm with darts of sick green light. The Orb Weaver yaws wildly, glowing clouds spilling from its ravaged hull; red-orange Tholian atmosphere, and brighter, greener lights of warp plasma now -
"Hard to port!" I shout. "Scatter fighters! Full power to starboard screens!"
The Tholian ship is about to die; the red and the green glows are washed out in the eye-hurting brilliance of an incipient core breach. The Widow fighters break for safety; two of them are in flames themselves, their structural integrity fields barely holding them together. King Estmere rolls, presenting her strongest shields as we make for safety range, outside the blast radius -
- and suddenly those crazy Tholian controls turn even crazier, as warning messages spawn over their surfaces and alert symbols flash, and the lights flicker ominously, and for one heart-stopping moment my feet leave the floor as the gravity fails.
The Orb Weaver blows up. White-hot debris scatters through space, flailing into King Estmere's hull through shields which aren't there any more. The blast wave of the explosion picks up the whole enormous ship and shakes it like a child's toy.
My earpiece is screaming at me, but it's just telling me things I already know. Warp power offline; weapons offline; deflectors and shields offline. "Engineering, report!" I snap. What the hell just happened to my ship?
---
"It's the main plasma manifold for the EPS," Dyssa D'jheph tells me glumly.
We are standing, a group of us, on a triangular platform in the cubist nightmare that is Main Engineering. Above us, or possibly below us, depending on which way the gravity plating is set up, King Estmere's warp core is throbbing with lurid light. Off to one side, the central distribution point for the electroplasma system... it's here that Dyssa is pointing, and even her antennae are drooping with fatigue and dejection.
"How long to fit the replacement?" I ask. Dyssa's face turns even more woeful. "Let me guess," I say. "That was the replacement."
"Our last spare," says Dyssa. "Sir, it's the same problem every time - the thermal stress on the tubing is just too much; microcrystal fractures open up, they spread, and then -" she waves one listless hand in the air "- all of a sudden, bang."
When the thing fails, it fails catastrophically. And the specialist parts include materials we can't produce with our general-purpose replicators. Plasma manifolds are one of the many things in short supply across Tau Dewa - I remember, not fondly, the endless haggling and horse-trading for parts around Nequencia Alpha. "So what are our options?" I ask.
"Evidently," says Sirip, "we must send a subspace message to Starbase 234 requesting a tow."
Evidently. "There'd better be something else we can try first," I say.
"Andorian pride, Admiral?" Sirip quirks his eyebrow at me. Damn stereotypical efficient Vulcan.
"Not so much that," I say, "as a concern that, if we send a distress message out, Starfleet might not be the first to respond. There are a lot of Tholians out there, and we just saw they're pretty keen to take King Estmere back. Before we announce we're helpless, we'd better make sure that's our only option. Besides, we can figure that the Orb Weaver got a distress call off with its escape pods." We've picked up two hundred and two Tholian survivors in pods; the Orb Weaver's complement is around 1200... that's a big butcher's bill for wounded Tholian pride. "My best guess is that Tholian patrols will be here before a repair crew from Starfleet. So we need to get moving, fast." I've seen Tholian prison cells from the outside, on Nukara. I don't fancy getting any closer to one.
"Your pardon, my esteemed superiors," Thirethequ speaks up for the first time. "May I be excused, a moment, to make a visual inspection of certain details?"
"If you think it'll help," says Dyssa. Her face is screwed up in a frown. "We still have the original Tholian manifold... but it won't hold up to the temperature gradient. So... we could convert the engine room back... replace the control sets and flood it with Tholian atmosphere."
"Our people can't work in EV suits," Anthi objects.
"We can rig the same sort of focused environmental support we use for the Tholian crew," says Dyssa. The Tholians, here and aboard the Sita, move in a sort of force-field bubble that enables them to wander the crew decks freely, without using EV suits of their own; it works, provided you don't go barefoot on a deck a Tholian's just walked over.
"It'll take too much time," Anthi says. "We'd have to get into all sorts of odd nooks and crannies, in here, it's not like simply charting a path from A to B on the mess deck. We'd need to set up constant adaptive algorithms, and test them in detail...."
Thirethequ, meanwhile, appears to be getting into odd nooks and crannies of his own. Reaching up with those long arms, he swings from stanchion to stanchion across the engine room, dangling now at a strange angle, where the local gravity plating is different from mine. He hangs by one arm over the wrecked plasma manifold, studying it with a tricorder in his free hand. It looks precarious; I hope he's not hanging over a fall that might kill him.
"We can get the Tholian crewmen to run the engine room, then," Dyssa suggests.
"Are they qualified?" asks Sirip. The answer, of course, is no; the Tholian cadre officers are combat specialists, not engineers. And there is no chance the survivors from the Orb Weaver will help... or is there? I don't know what motivates Tholians, how their politics work, even how their minds work....
"Serendipity!" Thirethequ yells from his perch. "O most felicitous fortune!" He tucks his tricorder into his belt and starts to swing back towards us with a worrying disregard for gravity. "Our troubles," he announces, as he drops heavily onto the platform beside us, "are at an end! That is, if our valiant Admiral will consent to the use of her prized possession for such a simple and mundane purpose."
I stare at him for a moment before the penny drops. "My, um... my memento?"
"The diameter of the ruptured tubing," says Thirethequ, "is within seven millimeters of that of the booster nozzle. That is also, by happy chance, within the tolerance range specified by that most sacrosanct Starfleet engineering manual. To fit the Admiral's memento in place of the damaged component will be the most trifling of technical challenges, the work of mere moments. And, once it is in place, the power will flow once more!"
"Wait a moment," Dyssa protests. "Are you telling me we can use some - some antique -?"
"Positively!" says Thirethequ. "My confidence is unbounded."
"But -" Dyssa stares wide-eyed at him. "But we don't know how this - this thing - will handle the stress, or the temperature gradients -"
"No," I say, "we do. It's a component from an early Jolciot warp drive, and they were engineered to stand insane physical and thermal stress levels. The difference between our atmosphere and the Tholians' is... barely noticeable, by comparison. If the thing fits, physically... this will work."
"And I know the physical dimensions of all our components to a nicety," says Thirethequ. "Moreover... I have files, should my noble masters care to peruse them, regarding the specialist alloys used in the construction of our components. Thermal stresses, as our illustrious Admiral has elucidated for us, were always in the forefront of the minds of their developers. Should such information prove of benefit, it is yours for the asking."
"Thermal stress has always been our biggest issue," says Dyssa reflectively. "If we had components made of stable alloys to handle that... we could upgrade the whole electro-plasma system, we could boost the structural integrity...."
"We could sneak the onboard temperature down to something liveable," adds Anthi, with feeling.
"Indeed," says Sirip. "That alone would improve crew morale, I estimate, by a factor of at least fifty-seven per cent, with concomitant increases in overall ship efficiency." Vulcans, who can figure them? Not me, that's for certain.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," I say. "Before we make any plans for the temperature, let's get this ship moving. Mr. Thirethequ -" I turn to him "- you know where my souvenir is; I would esteem it a signal honour if you could bring it to us."
"I hasten to obey!" says Thirethequ. And he does, brachiating away out of main engineering as fast as his stumpy legs and long arms will take him. The rest of us watch, in what seems a bemused silence.
"Anthi, Dyssa," I say, finally. "Pass the word among the crew, will you? My compliments... and the next person who goes 'ook' around Commander Thirethequ is going to have to walk to Starbase 234."
Saturday 23 January 2016
Lit Challenge 04: Dateline New Romulus
[Much was unknown about New Romulus, but you and your crew have had some time to explore and learn more about it -- you've also been working with and aiding the Romulans in building their new homeworld. As a couple weeks have passed since your ship first took up orbit, a preliminary report is now due on your findings. Share it here.]
Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding, USS King Estmere, NCC-92984
The lounge that Public Relations has selected is a small one, well-appointed, with soft furnishings in neutral colours; one wall is entirely transparent, offering a view over the city, out towards the grey-green bulk of the Vastam Heights in the distance.
The human journalist stands up as I come in. "Whoa!" he says, apparently startled. He's tall, rather heavily built; one of the dark-coloured human ethnic groups, with skin the hue of well-aged wood. "Vice Admiral Shohl? Um, I'm Thad Willison from Trans-stellar Independent News." He blinks a couple of times. "Um, I have my holo-recorder going," he says, indicating the device on the low table beside him. "I hope you don't mind."
"It's what Public Relations sent me for," I say. I pick a chair and sit down. He follows suit.
"I'm sorry about, um, the 'whoa'," he says. "It's just, well, you weren't quite what I was expecting...."
"Oh, the uniform." I look down. "It's for practical purposes, mostly. My new ship is a converted Tholian Recluse carrier, and we have the internal environmental controls set as high as possible, to minimize thermal stresses on the structure. The Vulcan crew are happy - the rest of us, well, we need to dress lightly. My old ship, the Sita, had historical files for Mirror Universe uniforms, and so...." So, the short skirt and the abbreviated top. "It does, sometimes, seem to bother our new Romulan friends, I admit."
"You don't look like my image of a Starfleet Admiral," says Thad. "Between the outfit, and the scar, and the..." he gestures at the Ferengi energy whip on my hip, "... well, you look like some kind of pirate."
"The whip, I admit, is mostly for effect," I say with a grin. "Though it does seem to have a psychological impact on the Hirogen."
"The Hirogen," says Thad, in a more serious tone. "Well, then. The official Starfleet line is that the Hirogen are being contained... are you saying different?"
"They're a problem," I say. "Not an insoluble one, though."
Though possibly more intractable than PR wants me to admit. Of all the chaotic blunders resulting from the breakup of the Romulan state, Sela's devil's bargain with the Hirogen has to be the biggest single mistake. "The thing that bothers me about the Hirogen," I say carefully, "is that, at the moment, we're engaging with them, culturally, on their terms."
"I'm sorry?" Thad blinks, apparently baffled.
"I mean that, as far as they're concerned, we're still... prey. Extremely dangerous prey, certainly - we may yet convince them completely that we're just too dangerous to hunt. But we need to get to deal with them on our terms, as sentient beings with a culture as valid as their own."
"Or, um, just... wipe them out?"
"That's not our way." Never mind whether or not it should be, sometimes... it isn't.
"Well, that's more like Starfleet," says Thad with a light laugh. "More the traditional image... 'we must respect the values of other cultures', all that. 'Tea, Earl Grey, hot'."
"Not entirely my style," I say. I turn to the replicator. "Dh'syara tunnel wine, Kidane Province, standard, two... please, join me. It's not intoxicating, and it's entirely safe for humans."
Thad eyes the glass of warm, milky liquid rather uncertainly, before tasting it. "Hey," he says, "not bad. Kind of, I don't know, citrus-y."
"Oh," I say, "an Earth fruit? Something like that." It's best not to discuss the origins of Dh'syara with humans, I've found, or at any rate not to tell them where the fungus is traditionally grown. It doesn't bother Vulcans, they think of it just as efficient organic recycling. But humans have this terrible tendency to spit it over the carpet when they hear about it.
"So," Thad says, "the Hirogen are... a problem. What else is there? I keep hearing rumours...."
"Haven't you been outside the city to look for yourself?"
"Like I say," says Thad, with a nervous little laugh, "I keep hearing rumours. The official line is all, like, 'see the beauties of New Romulus', and then people tell me stories about Hirogen, or Tholians, or bugs that will eat you alive...."
"You have bugs on Earth, don't you?" I say. "I've heard stories about a place called... L'weezyanabeiyuu... they make the virhranen swarms here sound mild. It's true, if you're venturing into some areas, you need to take insect repellent. But, well," I point to myself. "Am I dressed like I worry about biting insects?"
In the field, of course, I'm dressed in polyalloy weave armour, and even so the virhranen are nothing to mess with... but no need for Thad to know these details. "I've never applied for an exit visa to leave the embassy area," he admits. "I mean - we sort of feel it's down to, you know, the military to pacify the area fully...."
"There are plenty of Romulan civilians working outside the city." And not all of them are plants for the Tal Shiar, even. No need to trouble Thad with that detail either.... "Seriously, the main problems are not pacification, but simple logistics. There is an enormous amount of work to be done... both in building the city, and in investigating the planet's past." That last seems to be what the Tholians are here for, as far as I can see. But who knows what the Tholians' motives are? Sometimes I wonder if they know themselves. "The effort involved is vast, and just about everyone is pitching in. You're quite likely to see me out there myself, lending a hand with shuttle maintenance or geological surveys."
"That, well, it doesn't sound so much your thing, Vice Admiral. Um, if you don't mind me saying so." He gives another one of those nervous laughs. "You've got quite, um, a reputation. As something of a fire-eater, even. Is it true you've been sentenced in absentia for war crimes on Nukara Prime?"
"Tholian propaganda," I say firmly. "They've done these show trials for a lot of people who've been involved in the Nukara incursion. Believe me, it's just bluster. The last thing the Tholian Assembly wants," I add, in dark tones, "is people like me standing up in a court and testifying to some of the things that have happened on Nukara."
"Well," says Thad, "I guess we better not get into that now... we're supposed to be talking about New Romulus, right? And the deals... the neutrality deal with the Klingons, for example? The one they're breaking? How many actions has your King Est-may-ray seen already, against the KDF?"
"King Estmere," I correct him. "And, none - against the KDF. There are breakaway groups among the Klingons, the Gorn and the Nausicaans who aren't respecting the agreements. Just like there are still some die-hard fanatics among the Tal Shiar. They've been keeping us busy, I'll admit it. So far, though, the KDF has kept up its side of the bargain, here on the planet itself. Frankly, I think some of the Klingons are as sick of the war as we are ourselves."
"Are they, though? And are you, Vice Admiral? You Andorians are a warrior culture... I guess this 'King Estmere' must have been quite a fighter, right? Though I didn't know Andorians had kings."
"We've had most forms of governmental structures, in our history," I say. "But King Estmere isn't from Andorian history - it's a composition by a human musician I happen to admire. I've named all my ships that way."
That surprises him, I can see. What, does he seriously think Andorians are nothing but blinkered militarists, even today? Amazing. "The thing is," I continue, "there are fanatics on all sides - yes, even ours - but the overwhelming bulk of people are tired of fighting, tired of losing, tired of seeing what they've worked for and lived for destroyed. New Romulus is a chance for all of us to join together and build something. Even we... warrior cultures... understand the appeal of this. The Romulans, especially, have lost so much - the chance to make something new for themselves, well, it is one they have to take."
"That's certainly D'Tan's party line," says Thad with a dubious look. "Do you believe in it? In him?"
Oh, human cynicism. Of course, it's only wise to keep a weather eye on those who lead us, to make sure they remain fit to do so... but humans seem so ready to assume the worst of their leaders, to ascribe every sort of moral failing and squalid ulterior motive to them, and then they follow them anyway. "I've met D'Tan," I say. "To me, he seems genuine. But what would a simple warrior like me know?" Let's not get into the matter of the recordings, the ones that show D'Tan's relations with the Tal Shiar in a very definite light... wherever those recordings come from. "He's speaking for those Romulans who want to rebuild... and speaking, very effectively, to the people whose help they need. To us, to the KDF, to the Remans." I smile. "If we ever are to engage the Hirogen on our terms, D'Tan might be just the person to do it."
"Wow," says Thad. "You seem... kind of impressed."
"I am," I say. "Kind of."
"So," Thad says, "if D'Tan's genuine, and serious about wanting peace for reconstruction... what about the big question, then?"
"Which one?"
"You know," says Thad. "The big one... Reunification."
"Ah." It might be big, but it's not one I've thought about all that much. "I don't know," I say. "It's been talked about for a long time... but both the Romulans and the Vulcans have considered it, well, as welcoming their errant siblings back to the right path. I don't think it's possible under those terms... you can't just turn Romulans into Vulcans, or Vulcans into Romulans for that matter. Vulcan culture couldn't assimilate Romulan pride, Romulan passions, without changing in itself. And Romulans wouldn't take the baggage that comes with Vulcan attitudes... I think."
"So you think they're doomed to go on as two divergent cultures?"
"That's kind of a strong word, 'doomed'," I say. "I think... there might well be room for both of them, as part of a larger whole. An alliance between the Romulans and the Federation... it would have been unthinkable, even a few years ago. But times change, and if New Romulus works, it will prove our cultures can work together."
"And you seriously believe that? That different races can respect each others' cultures and stil work together?" Thad sounds almost amused.
"Of course I do," I say. "I'm an Andorian flying a Tholian ship with a mixed-species crew and a Terran name, remember? If there is one thing the Federation can do, it's take disparate cultures and bring together the best of all of them."
"Oh," says Thad. "Right on the party line, huh?"
His human cynicism is starting to annoy me; I hope I'm not letting it show. "If I didn't believe in the Federation's principles," I say, as mildly as I can manage, "I couldn't be a Starfleet officer."
"Why?" asks Thad. "I mean, for you guys, Starfleet is just a continuation of the military tradition, right? Just the successor to the old Imperial Guard?"
"I was never part of that tradition," I say. "I was born on an Andorian colony world, I guess maybe something like New Romulus itself, in a smaller way." I raise my hand to the scars on my right cheek. "I got this the night it was destroyed. I lost my home, two of my parents and a chunk of my skull that night, and I learned that sometimes you can't just walk away from a war. So I've spent my career since then walking towards it, trying to fight it and win it. But, believe me, I'd rather be building. So would D'Tan and his people. If it's nothing else, New Romulus is a chance to do that."
"Well, I guess that answers my questions," says Thad. He stands up. "Thanks, Vice Admiral Shohl, for your time - and your frankness."
"You're welcome," I say, as I get to my feet too. "But I think you'd get more answers if you went out in the field. Get that exit visa - I'll countersign one for you myself, if you like. Come outside the city walls and see what they're trying to do, for yourself."
He looks out over the city. "I might just do that," he says. "From here, it does look kind of impressive...."
"Anyone can build a city," I say. "Just punch in the program and turn the industrial replicators on. What the Romulans are trying to build here, though, is a home. That's a lot more work, and they need our help. They deserve our help. And, if it's up to me, they're going to get it."
He laughs. "I'm sure as hell not going to argue with you! - Thanks, again, Vice Admiral Shohl."
Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding, USS King Estmere, NCC-92984
The lounge that Public Relations has selected is a small one, well-appointed, with soft furnishings in neutral colours; one wall is entirely transparent, offering a view over the city, out towards the grey-green bulk of the Vastam Heights in the distance.
The human journalist stands up as I come in. "Whoa!" he says, apparently startled. He's tall, rather heavily built; one of the dark-coloured human ethnic groups, with skin the hue of well-aged wood. "Vice Admiral Shohl? Um, I'm Thad Willison from Trans-stellar Independent News." He blinks a couple of times. "Um, I have my holo-recorder going," he says, indicating the device on the low table beside him. "I hope you don't mind."
"It's what Public Relations sent me for," I say. I pick a chair and sit down. He follows suit.
"I'm sorry about, um, the 'whoa'," he says. "It's just, well, you weren't quite what I was expecting...."
"Oh, the uniform." I look down. "It's for practical purposes, mostly. My new ship is a converted Tholian Recluse carrier, and we have the internal environmental controls set as high as possible, to minimize thermal stresses on the structure. The Vulcan crew are happy - the rest of us, well, we need to dress lightly. My old ship, the Sita, had historical files for Mirror Universe uniforms, and so...." So, the short skirt and the abbreviated top. "It does, sometimes, seem to bother our new Romulan friends, I admit."
"You don't look like my image of a Starfleet Admiral," says Thad. "Between the outfit, and the scar, and the..." he gestures at the Ferengi energy whip on my hip, "... well, you look like some kind of pirate."
"The whip, I admit, is mostly for effect," I say with a grin. "Though it does seem to have a psychological impact on the Hirogen."
"The Hirogen," says Thad, in a more serious tone. "Well, then. The official Starfleet line is that the Hirogen are being contained... are you saying different?"
"They're a problem," I say. "Not an insoluble one, though."
Though possibly more intractable than PR wants me to admit. Of all the chaotic blunders resulting from the breakup of the Romulan state, Sela's devil's bargain with the Hirogen has to be the biggest single mistake. "The thing that bothers me about the Hirogen," I say carefully, "is that, at the moment, we're engaging with them, culturally, on their terms."
"I'm sorry?" Thad blinks, apparently baffled.
"I mean that, as far as they're concerned, we're still... prey. Extremely dangerous prey, certainly - we may yet convince them completely that we're just too dangerous to hunt. But we need to get to deal with them on our terms, as sentient beings with a culture as valid as their own."
"Or, um, just... wipe them out?"
"That's not our way." Never mind whether or not it should be, sometimes... it isn't.
"Well, that's more like Starfleet," says Thad with a light laugh. "More the traditional image... 'we must respect the values of other cultures', all that. 'Tea, Earl Grey, hot'."
"Not entirely my style," I say. I turn to the replicator. "Dh'syara tunnel wine, Kidane Province, standard, two... please, join me. It's not intoxicating, and it's entirely safe for humans."
Thad eyes the glass of warm, milky liquid rather uncertainly, before tasting it. "Hey," he says, "not bad. Kind of, I don't know, citrus-y."
"Oh," I say, "an Earth fruit? Something like that." It's best not to discuss the origins of Dh'syara with humans, I've found, or at any rate not to tell them where the fungus is traditionally grown. It doesn't bother Vulcans, they think of it just as efficient organic recycling. But humans have this terrible tendency to spit it over the carpet when they hear about it.
"So," Thad says, "the Hirogen are... a problem. What else is there? I keep hearing rumours...."
"Haven't you been outside the city to look for yourself?"
"Like I say," says Thad, with a nervous little laugh, "I keep hearing rumours. The official line is all, like, 'see the beauties of New Romulus', and then people tell me stories about Hirogen, or Tholians, or bugs that will eat you alive...."
"You have bugs on Earth, don't you?" I say. "I've heard stories about a place called... L'weezyanabeiyuu... they make the virhranen swarms here sound mild. It's true, if you're venturing into some areas, you need to take insect repellent. But, well," I point to myself. "Am I dressed like I worry about biting insects?"
In the field, of course, I'm dressed in polyalloy weave armour, and even so the virhranen are nothing to mess with... but no need for Thad to know these details. "I've never applied for an exit visa to leave the embassy area," he admits. "I mean - we sort of feel it's down to, you know, the military to pacify the area fully...."
"There are plenty of Romulan civilians working outside the city." And not all of them are plants for the Tal Shiar, even. No need to trouble Thad with that detail either.... "Seriously, the main problems are not pacification, but simple logistics. There is an enormous amount of work to be done... both in building the city, and in investigating the planet's past." That last seems to be what the Tholians are here for, as far as I can see. But who knows what the Tholians' motives are? Sometimes I wonder if they know themselves. "The effort involved is vast, and just about everyone is pitching in. You're quite likely to see me out there myself, lending a hand with shuttle maintenance or geological surveys."
"That, well, it doesn't sound so much your thing, Vice Admiral. Um, if you don't mind me saying so." He gives another one of those nervous laughs. "You've got quite, um, a reputation. As something of a fire-eater, even. Is it true you've been sentenced in absentia for war crimes on Nukara Prime?"
"Tholian propaganda," I say firmly. "They've done these show trials for a lot of people who've been involved in the Nukara incursion. Believe me, it's just bluster. The last thing the Tholian Assembly wants," I add, in dark tones, "is people like me standing up in a court and testifying to some of the things that have happened on Nukara."
"Well," says Thad, "I guess we better not get into that now... we're supposed to be talking about New Romulus, right? And the deals... the neutrality deal with the Klingons, for example? The one they're breaking? How many actions has your King Est-may-ray seen already, against the KDF?"
"King Estmere," I correct him. "And, none - against the KDF. There are breakaway groups among the Klingons, the Gorn and the Nausicaans who aren't respecting the agreements. Just like there are still some die-hard fanatics among the Tal Shiar. They've been keeping us busy, I'll admit it. So far, though, the KDF has kept up its side of the bargain, here on the planet itself. Frankly, I think some of the Klingons are as sick of the war as we are ourselves."
"Are they, though? And are you, Vice Admiral? You Andorians are a warrior culture... I guess this 'King Estmere' must have been quite a fighter, right? Though I didn't know Andorians had kings."
"We've had most forms of governmental structures, in our history," I say. "But King Estmere isn't from Andorian history - it's a composition by a human musician I happen to admire. I've named all my ships that way."
That surprises him, I can see. What, does he seriously think Andorians are nothing but blinkered militarists, even today? Amazing. "The thing is," I continue, "there are fanatics on all sides - yes, even ours - but the overwhelming bulk of people are tired of fighting, tired of losing, tired of seeing what they've worked for and lived for destroyed. New Romulus is a chance for all of us to join together and build something. Even we... warrior cultures... understand the appeal of this. The Romulans, especially, have lost so much - the chance to make something new for themselves, well, it is one they have to take."
"That's certainly D'Tan's party line," says Thad with a dubious look. "Do you believe in it? In him?"
Oh, human cynicism. Of course, it's only wise to keep a weather eye on those who lead us, to make sure they remain fit to do so... but humans seem so ready to assume the worst of their leaders, to ascribe every sort of moral failing and squalid ulterior motive to them, and then they follow them anyway. "I've met D'Tan," I say. "To me, he seems genuine. But what would a simple warrior like me know?" Let's not get into the matter of the recordings, the ones that show D'Tan's relations with the Tal Shiar in a very definite light... wherever those recordings come from. "He's speaking for those Romulans who want to rebuild... and speaking, very effectively, to the people whose help they need. To us, to the KDF, to the Remans." I smile. "If we ever are to engage the Hirogen on our terms, D'Tan might be just the person to do it."
"Wow," says Thad. "You seem... kind of impressed."
"I am," I say. "Kind of."
"So," Thad says, "if D'Tan's genuine, and serious about wanting peace for reconstruction... what about the big question, then?"
"Which one?"
"You know," says Thad. "The big one... Reunification."
"Ah." It might be big, but it's not one I've thought about all that much. "I don't know," I say. "It's been talked about for a long time... but both the Romulans and the Vulcans have considered it, well, as welcoming their errant siblings back to the right path. I don't think it's possible under those terms... you can't just turn Romulans into Vulcans, or Vulcans into Romulans for that matter. Vulcan culture couldn't assimilate Romulan pride, Romulan passions, without changing in itself. And Romulans wouldn't take the baggage that comes with Vulcan attitudes... I think."
"So you think they're doomed to go on as two divergent cultures?"
"That's kind of a strong word, 'doomed'," I say. "I think... there might well be room for both of them, as part of a larger whole. An alliance between the Romulans and the Federation... it would have been unthinkable, even a few years ago. But times change, and if New Romulus works, it will prove our cultures can work together."
"And you seriously believe that? That different races can respect each others' cultures and stil work together?" Thad sounds almost amused.
"Of course I do," I say. "I'm an Andorian flying a Tholian ship with a mixed-species crew and a Terran name, remember? If there is one thing the Federation can do, it's take disparate cultures and bring together the best of all of them."
"Oh," says Thad. "Right on the party line, huh?"
His human cynicism is starting to annoy me; I hope I'm not letting it show. "If I didn't believe in the Federation's principles," I say, as mildly as I can manage, "I couldn't be a Starfleet officer."
"Why?" asks Thad. "I mean, for you guys, Starfleet is just a continuation of the military tradition, right? Just the successor to the old Imperial Guard?"
"I was never part of that tradition," I say. "I was born on an Andorian colony world, I guess maybe something like New Romulus itself, in a smaller way." I raise my hand to the scars on my right cheek. "I got this the night it was destroyed. I lost my home, two of my parents and a chunk of my skull that night, and I learned that sometimes you can't just walk away from a war. So I've spent my career since then walking towards it, trying to fight it and win it. But, believe me, I'd rather be building. So would D'Tan and his people. If it's nothing else, New Romulus is a chance to do that."
"Well, I guess that answers my questions," says Thad. He stands up. "Thanks, Vice Admiral Shohl, for your time - and your frankness."
"You're welcome," I say, as I get to my feet too. "But I think you'd get more answers if you went out in the field. Get that exit visa - I'll countersign one for you myself, if you like. Come outside the city walls and see what they're trying to do, for yourself."
He looks out over the city. "I might just do that," he says. "From here, it does look kind of impressive...."
"Anyone can build a city," I say. "Just punch in the program and turn the industrial replicators on. What the Romulans are trying to build here, though, is a home. That's a lot more work, and they need our help. They deserve our help. And, if it's up to me, they're going to get it."
He laughs. "I'm sure as hell not going to argue with you! - Thanks, again, Vice Admiral Shohl."
Lit Challenge 03: Slow Beginning
[You and your crew have been assigned to a reconnaissance mission in the Tau Dewa Sector Block. A probe in the vicinity of one of the systems (of your choosing) there has reported activity that is out of the norm and you must investigate.]
Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding, USS Sita NCC-92871
The mission of Starfleet is not primarily military. In troubled times, it's too easy to forget that. But Starfleet, above all, is a force for exploration - to seek out and unveil the unknown. And, for once, we have a chance to be part of that. Sita is on course for the unmapped fringes of the Azure Nebula; no longer a sword of vengeance, but a spear aimed at the heart of a mystery.
Chief Science Officer Zazaru's dark eyes are abstract, unfocused; she has been poring over the data from the long-range astrometrics probes all the way from Sirius sector to Tau Dewa. There is no sign of strain on her face, though. Zazaru has always been frighteningly efficient; sometimes I wonder how much more efficient she might be if she were joined, like so many Trills in Starfleet - but the joining is something she's never sought after, it seems. Now, as we approach the coordinates where the probes inexplicably glitched, she looks up from her console to watch the starfield on the screen.
"Coming out of warp," my exec, Anthi Vihl, reports unemotionally.
Sita barely shudders as she drops below lightspeed and reenters the conventional universe. Before us, the Azure Nebula lives up to its name, a glorious tangle of gas clouds and plasma streamers glowing with celestial light.
"Skipper, I'm reading something." There is an unaccustomed frown on F'hon Tlaxx's good-natured Bolian face as he looks up from the comms console. "Transponder code - not Federation, but I know the format -"
"I confirm," says Anthi in that same businesslike voice. "I'm reading.... one large vessel and some auxiliaries. D'deridex class."
Romulans. I lean back wearily in my command chair. So much for the unknown.
---
The Romulan commander's face fills my screen; a hard, bony face, with hooded eyes glinting beneath a heavy, ridged brow. "I am Commander Tarkhal, of the IRW Maestor," he says. "We are engaged in a scientific survey. Starfleet... supervision... is neither requested nor required."
"Vice-Admiral Tylha Shohl, USS Sita," I reply. "We are on a science mission of our own - frankly, Commander, we did not expect to find you here."
Tarkhal's face, already sour, works with repressed emotion. "The USS Sita," he says. "A heavy battlecruiser using mirror universe technology and your experimental phased-tetryon weaponry - yes, we are familiar with you, Vice Admiral. A strange choice for a peaceful science mission."
"Your own - science vessel - is fairly substantially armed," I remark.
"We live in difficult times, Vice Admiral," Tarkhal replies.
"As do we."
Tarkhal grimaces slightly. His eyes flash. It's an expression I recognize - because I've done the same thing so often myself. He's responding to an off-screen message from one of his bridge crew. Whatever it is, it doesn't do anything to improve his mood.
"In fact," he says, slowly and reluctantly, "your arrival here may be more opportune than I had thought. We must be here for the same reason - a data anomaly reported by remote probes. It would only be sensible to pool our resources."
I nod. "Of course, Commander."
---
"So far," Zazaru says, "what we know is this: a sequence of four probes, sent into this volume, reported back with data anomalies - timing glitches. Data transmissions dropped out, or were duplicated, or appeared out of sequence, only to resume normal functioning as soon as the probes cleared this approximate region of space."
In the briefing room, a hologram of the nebula hangs, ghostly, before her; she marks out the paths of the probes with quick, precise gestures.
"So the Romulans have encountered similar unusual readings," says Anthi.
Security Commander Yulan snorts. "Most likely, they've encountered the same ones," she says. "Our long-range data transmissions aren't that well secured - they're probably piggy-backing the probes' scans. And with the Romulans' operations in Tau Dewa already under way, it's no surprise they got here before us."
"Well," I say, "however they found out, they're here now. How far have they progressed?"
Zazaru taps her PADD; the holo display changes. "Nebular material; random gasses and proto-star material, some asteroidal debris. The Romulans have a network of short-range probes out, and what looks like an away base on one of the larger asteroid fragments. How much data they've already gathered - well, we have no way of knowing."
"But they can't be too far along," I say thoughtfully, "or they wouldn't need any help from us...."
"There's something else," my engineering chief, Shrin Izini, speaks up. "I'm spotting some odd power fluctuations from that battlewagon of theirs. It looks to me as if they've got some sort of maintenance problems. Equipment degrading, SIF defects, that sort of thing. Nothing major, but it's odd. It looks as if that ship's not seen proper maintenance in months."
"Romulans aren't normally so careless," Anthi says.
"Their resources are probably stretched thin, with everything that's going on in this sector," I say. "Still - it's unusual. Shrin, keep as close an eye on them as you can. Zazaru, are we fully equipped?"
Zazaru nods. "Besides our normal complement of science personnel and material, we are carrying specially modified chroniton probes. If there is a temporal anomaly out there, we should be able to deploy those to map it exactly."
"Sounds good," I say. "But, if we use them, we'd better make sure their data channels are fully encrypted. I don't want to share anything with the Romulans that I don't have to."
"I imagine Commander Tarkhal feels the same way," says Anthi.
"Very likely. He doesn't look the type to share his toys." I stand up. "Well, he's issued an invitation to visit their facilities - I suppose that must mean their away base. So, let's get things moving."
---
The Romulan base is little more than a force-field bubble clinging to the ravaged surface of an asteroid. I can see the flaring gases of the nebula through the field's mesh. Inside the bubble, the environmental settings are unfamiliar; gravity, air, temperature all set to the standards for vanished Romulus. My boots crunch on regolith as I look around. Shield generators, a small AG plant, food replicators, various tents and awnings... the typical impedimenta of a hastily assembled science expedition, anywhere in the galaxy.
"Ah, the representatives of the human empire!" Tarkhal is striding towards us, in full dress uniform, his chest positively resplendent with decorations. Behind him trails an elderly centurion with science insignia, and a hulking, scar-faced uhlan.
I've beamed over with four senior officers. Bulpli Yulan could pass for a human - any Betazoid can - and Zazaru, if you ignored her spots. Shrin and his assistant Dyssa, though, are as obviously Andorian as I am myself. We're being baited, then, and not subtly. "You've been busy, Commander," I say.
"We are nothing if not efficient, Vice Admiral," Tarkhal says with a thin smile. "Already, we have a provisional map of the local anomalies. Your science officer may confer with mine." He waves an imperious hand at the centurion. "And, in the meantime, let me show you our most interesting discovery to date." He steps forward, takes my elbow in a polite but firm grip, and steers me away from the group. Bulpli Yulan looks worried; I flash her a quelling glance. I don't see the Romulan Commander assassinating me just yet... maybe once he's got to know me better.
"I would welcome the opportunity," Tarkhal says in a low voice, "for a confidential discussion, Vice Admiral. We should come to an understanding with one another. I have no wish to impede your scientific mission - if that's what it is - but I must absolutely insist that you do not interfere with mine."
"Of course not," I say. "If that's what it is," I add, dryly.
Tarkhal doesn't laugh. He is leading me along a marked path, little metal pointers planted in the asteroidal regolith. "I have a duty," he says, "a duty to my race, my people. We have suffered such losses... and yet, Vice Admiral, we endure. Through all the vicissitudes of fate and treachery, we endure. Do you know why?"
"Because you do your duty?"
"Because we are fit to do our duty," Tarkhal says, and his tone is loud and strident. "Because we are Romulans, and - no matter what the dogma of your human masters says - we are a superior species." His hard dark eyes are fixed on mine. "It is a pity, Andorian, that your race has chosen the service of the humans. You would be far more useful in service to us. Because we endure, we survive, and we will prosper. And we will not brook interference."
His eyes dare me to disagree. I say nothing. I have Tarkhal's measure, now; he is a fanatic. There is no arguing with fanatics.
After a moment, he takes a breath; his voice drops back to a conversational tone. "I had something to show you." He points. "There it is."
In the surface of the asteroid, a rectangular strip is embedded; perhaps a meter long, perhaps twenty centimeters wide, made of some white substance, and carved, intricately, with glyphs. I kneel to study it. "D'Arsay pictograms?"
"Yes. They must have visited this region of space... and left a message."
The glyphs are crisp, their lines barely eroded by uncounted millennia of nebular radiation and micrometeorite dust. I frown, puzzling over them. "'A new self-governing system takes in material'," I translate, doubtfully.
"You can read ancient D'Arsay? I am impressed, Vice Admiral. We understood you to be merely a moderately competent soldier." Tarkhal doesn't sound impressed. He sounds displeased, as if I'm a pet who's done a trick at the wrong time. I stand up. "I minored in palaeolinguistics at the Academy. What do you think it means?"
"I... am not sure. Possibly, the D'Arsay attempted to found a colony nearby, and this is some comment regarding that emerging nation."
I shake my head. "I'm not so sure about that. 'Self-governing'... Did you know that in human language, 'governing' and 'cybernetic' have the same root? And there is a parallel in ancient Tellarite, too -"
"Well, we may speculate," Tarkhal cuts me off. "What matters, I think, is that there is something here to investigate. Of course, Starfleet has a good record when it comes to scientific investigation - and my own ship has been plagued with minor difficulties, of late. I do not go so far as to say I need your help, Vice Admiral... but it would not be unwelcome."
"Well, then," I begin, "let's discuss -" And then I stop. "Did you hear that?"
"I heard nothing."
I listen, hard - and there the noise is again, a high tinny chittering sound. I look around. There is no one in sight; there is nothing but the dead surface of the asteroid, the inscription at my feet, the nebula glowing through the forcefield overhead. Again, something chitters at me. With a sudden shock of recognition, I realise it's coming from my combadge.
"Something is wrong," I say to Tarkhal, but he does not reply. He just stands there, frozen. I look closely. He is frozen; his eyes don't blink, his breathing is imperceptible. Sudden fear grips me. I know what the sound is, now.
I turn, and grab at Tarkhal's sleeve, dragging him with me as I hurry back down the path. He seems heavy, impossibly heavy and hard to move, and I know why that is, now. As I move, the noise from my combadge drops in tone, and it becomes possible to make out words -
" - Admiral, respond, please. Sita to Admiral Shohl, respond - "
"Shohl here," I gasp; all at once, I am short of breath. "Contact the Romulans, get medical attention. We've been caught in a temporal anomaly."
---
"All fine now," Dr. Beresford says. "The chroniton field merely affected your perception of time - the three hours you were gone must have felt only like a few minutes. Commander Tarkhal was more badly affected, but even so, he doesn't have anything worse than mild hypoxia."
Because, in the chroniton field, we were both forgetting to breathe... "Have the Romulans confirmed that?"
Samantha Beresford nods. "I've spoken to their field medic - Commander Tarkhal has a thundering headache, he says, but he's fine otherwise."
"Commander Tarkhal is a thundering headache," I mutter. I swing my legs off the medical bed and stand up. "They're dealing with him at the away base, then? He didn't beam back to his ship?"
"Apparently not."
"Odd," I mutter. "He was worse affected than me - do we have any idea why?" So much for the Romulan master race, I think to myself.
"Oh, I think we have an explanation," says Dr. Beresford. "The field affected both your brains equally, but in your case, there was partial shielding from a dense mass of metal nearby. Specifically, the titanium rod at the centre of your zygomatic implant."
I raise one hand, self-consciously, to my scarred right cheek. "Well," I say, "I'm glad it's got some use besides holding my head together."
---
Something is glittering in the holo-display in front of Zazaru; an abstract shape, a complex skeleton of coloured lights.
"It's my preliminary map of the anomalies out there," my science officer explains. "Based on the Romulans' observations and our own sensors, I've identified a - a sort of web of quantum singularities, chroniton fields, and spatial distortions. There are power flows between them... it's fascinating...."
"How has this not been spotted before?" I ask. Time distortions are one thing, but a quantum singularity is a highly energetic object - the long-range probes should have seen those half a parsec away.
"The power flows," Zazaru says, abstractedly. "The energy from the singularities isn't dissipating at random... it's almost as if it's being diverted to fuel the other anomalies." She blinks, her dark eyes coming back into focus. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't have all the answers yet. Just some speculations... we need more data."
"Are the Romulans cooperating?"
"Mostly." Zazaru frowns. "I don't think they're being deliberately obstructive, sir, but a lot of the data they've sent over has been corrupted, one way or another. I think they must have some serious computer problems aboard that battleship. The data we've been getting directly from their base camp is more reliable...."
"Well," I say, "I think it's time we gathered some more of our own. Are those chroniton probes ready?"
Zazaru nods. "In the launch tubes now, sir."
"Then let's go." I stand up, and lead the way out of the ready room, onto the bridge. Zazaru moves to her console as I settle myself in the centre seat. "Prepare to launch probes," I say. "F'hon, contact the Maestor, tell them we're sending out survey probes - I don't want any misunderstandings."
"Yes, sir." A pause, as F'hon taps on his console. "The Romulans acknowledge our message, sir," he reports.
"All right, then. Launch."
Zazaru's fingers move briskly on her controls. "Launching. Probes deployed. Search pattern theta-two, centering on course two-eleven mark one-four." Then she starts, her eyes widening in shock. "Enemy contacts!"
"Confirmed!" Anthi snaps. "Scorpion fighters inbound with disruptors hot!"
I turn to F'hon. "Get me Tarkhal!" Then the situation claims my attention. The Romulan fighters are bracketing the probes, moving with tight efficiency. I could order the Sita to fire - a volley of isometric charges, and a follow-up from the forward phased-tet banks, and those Scorpions would be space dust. But then we would have to face the Maestor....
Disruptors flash. Zazaru curses. The probes vanish from the screen. I grit my teeth. If Tarkhal wants a shooting match -
"I have Commander Tarkhal," F'hon says. The Romulan's face appears on the main viewer. He looks - harassed.
"Explanation, Commander," I snap.
"My apologies," Tarkhal says; the words seem forced out of him. "We have - we have a situation -" He takes a deep breath. "Your signal was received, and understood... I ordered my fighters to stand down... but the officer who transmitted the order has been... affected, as you and I were. A temporal anomaly." He looks at something outside my field of vision, and nods. "I see the officer involved will finish pressing the send key on his console - as soon as the chroniton field dissipates." He looks offscreen again. "Possibly another twelve hours from now."
"Recall those fighters."
Something flickers in Tarkhal's eyes at that, but he knows he's in the wrong, here. "At once," he says. "Vice Admiral, all I can do is - offer my apologies."
"At least no lives were lost," I say. This time, I add, silently, to myself.
"But we can't replace those chroniton probes," Zazaru cuts in, tight-lipped with anger.
"I know." I lean back and give Tarkhal my best disapproving look. "We'll need to figure out some replacements. And we need to make sure there are no further... misunderstandings."
---
Even without the specialised probes, the Sita has her resources. And Zazaru works like a demon when something captures her imagination. Forty-eight hours after the misadventure with the probes, a new hologram is glowing in the briefing room, and Zazaru is tired, but triumphant.
Tarkhal has beamed over to join us, his Romulan finery looking oddly out of place aboard my ship. He stares at the holo-image and says nothing.
"It truly is something remarkable," Zazaru says. "The quantum singularities and the time anomalies work in synergy - part of a homeostatic system, self-contained, self-repairing - even growing."
Shrin Izini is normally stolid and unflappable, but his jaw drops at that one. "Are you saying that energy network is alive?" he asks.
Zazaru shakes her head. "No, not exactly," she says, "or at least not yet. Imagine the origins of life on a terrestrial world - chemicals in a primordial sea, combining randomly until, at last, amino acids form, chemicals with the potential for self-organization and self-replication. Now, imagine a system where the atoms of carbon, oxygen, hydrogen and so forth are replaced by the various energy anomalies we see out there...."
"That's what the D'Arsay message meant!" I exclaim, and Tarkhal's gaze snaps towards me. "Nothing to do with political systems at all - they discovered the self-organizing system among the anomalies. But why leave a message at all?"
"Who knows?" Tarkhal says wearily. "Perhaps it is simply a - a note, to future expeditions of their own kind."
"One thing, though," says Zazaru. "They were right about the energy network incorporating new material. Some of the temporal anomalies in the network now date from the time of the Suliban conflict. I think it accretes fresh material whenever the opportunity presents itself... incorporating new anomalies when they're generated. Somewhere between a crystal growing in solution... and a protoplasmic entity seeking out food."
"It's not alive, you say." I think for a moment. "Is there a possibility it might develop into life?"
"A remote one, sir," says Zazaru. "It takes a billion years or so for true life to develop out of the chemical soup of a primordial world - and that thing out there is operating at a rate a billion times slower than chemical reactions. The universe itself might not last long enough for it to become a true life form."
She is probably right. But that night, creatures walk in my dreams, creatures taller than galaxies and made of force and fire.
---
"Something's happening on the Romulan." Shrin's voice is louder and more urgent than usual. I stand and go over to the engineering station. Shrin has set up remote monitoring of the D'deridex with his normal efficiency - and, right now, the readings are fluctuating wildly.
"F'hon, contact Tarkhal, offer assistance," I order. Something is very wrong on that ship. Shrin is already hitting his control board, signalling his emergency engineering teams to readiness.
"Commander Tarkhal," F'hon calls out. The Romulan's face appears on the viewer. Behind him, his raptor banners flutter, caught in some breeze on his bridge. Gusts of wind on a spaceship; never a good sign.
"Vice Admiral," Tarkhal says. "Be brief. I am... somewhat occupied at present."
"We can beam over help right now," I tell him.
"That will not be necessary." Tarkhal actually smiles, glacially. "We are experiencing some difficulties with our ship's structural integrity field. A subsection has - gone out of phase. No doubt another of those temporal anomalies which have been plaguing us. We expect to have the situation rectified momentarily."
I look at Shrin. He nods; Tarkhal is telling the truth. "Commander, if you need help, we're ready at any time," I say.
"Thank you, Vice Admiral, but that will not be necessary." Tarkhal cuts the connection.
"He's right," Shrin says, "at least, this time. His SI field is starting to stabilize. But I'm reading a fair amount of damage, still - and we've no way of knowing what else is going to hit him."
"Or us." I think for a moment. "Shrin, have we had any maintenance problems reported? Any temporal anomalies on the Sita, or - well, anything at all?"
Shrin shakes his head. "Nothing out of the ordinary," he says. "Wear and tear is a little above normal, maybe - because of the radiation and the local material in the nebula. All within our standard working parameters, though. And we've not had any time distortions, apart from your own misadventure on the Romulan base."
I scratch my head. "I'm concerned," I say. "I'm starting to wonder if there's something in the nebula affecting the Romulan ship... but, if so, why is it not affecting us?"
"They were here before us," Shrin points out. "Maybe it simply takes a while for - whatever it is - to start happening."
I was frowning to start with, and my frown deepens. "Stay on top of things," I tell Shrin. "If something does start affecting us... I want it stopped. Fast."
Shrin nods. I turn away from him, then turn back. "Can you fake a problem?" I ask him.
"Sir?"
"Something... anything. Some little thing that will stop us having the next progress review here. So we'll have to hold it on the Maestor instead." I grin. "I want a close up look at that ship."
---
The meeting does not go well. Tarkhal has been reluctant to hold it at all, and when we beam over to the Romulan ship, I can see why. Everywhere, there are signs of repairs: makeshift patches, jury-rigged consoles, burn marks on walls and ceilings. There is a stale smell in the air, and the crewmen all look hangdog and exhausted.
Tarkhal's science team are a silent and cowed group, and Zazaru does most of the talking, as she points out the new discoveries and new data on what she has taken to calling the emergent entity. Tarkhal wears a permanent scowl as he listens; perhaps most of what Zazaru's saying is going over his head. Frankly, it's going over mine.
The one thing that makes the Romulan brighten up and take an interest is the references to the Suliban conflict. I'm none too sure what went on during those years - possibly, nobody is, given all the interference in the timelines. But some of the temporal anomalies formed in that time period are now part of Zazaru's emergent entity, and Tarkhal asks some direct questions about how she knows that, and how she found them.
The meeting drags on, until finally it is over, and Tarkhal sends a security detail to escort us to his ship's transporter room. We are trooping dutifully down one dimly-lit corridor when it happens.
One of the Romulan security people seems to shimmer, somehow... and then he screams, a shriek of sudden agony and fear, and crashes to the deck. Another shouts an oath, then calls for a medic on his combadge. Zazaru and I are at the fallen man's side in seconds - and it becomes clear that something is terribly, horribly wrong.
I look down, and four dead eyes stare up at me from a misshapen skull; a mouth, twisted in an impossible snarl, is showing too many teeth; two hands protrude from one uniform sleeve. The man's whole body is massive, ungainly, misshapen... and then, as we watch, it shimmers again. Now, there is only a normal Romulan lying on the deck; two eyes and two hands... but still broken and dead.
Zazaru's spots stand out against the sudden pallor of her skin. "Another temporal anomaly," she whispers. "His body... his body was displaced in time, just a few seconds... just so that, for a moment, there were two of him... occupying the same space."
"Quite so." Tarkhal's voice; I never heard him approach. "In the circumstances, I will have to report in my log that he killed himself." I hadn't thought Tarkhal had a sense of humour; I think I preferred him without one. I stand up slowly, trying to hide the sickness and the shaking inside me. I thought I'd seen every way a man could die....
---
When I ask Tarkhal for a private meeting, he agrees reluctantly. We set it up on the surface of the asteroid, again, near the D'Arsay relic. The Romulan commander is edgy, prickly, clearly unhappy.
I come straight to the point. "Commander, your ship needs urgent attention. I don't know what's causing all the damage, but I do know you can't carry on much longer like this. You've lost one man -"
"Six, at the last count," Tarkhal interrupts me. "They died for the Romulan cause, Vice Admiral, just as surely as if they had died in battle. There is not one of us - myself included - who would not give his life for that cause."
"But it's not necessary," I say. "We can surely arrange for your ship to be relieved - a fresh crew, on a dedicated science vessel -"
"And in the meantime," Tarkhal breaks in again, "you and your ship would have free reign in the region of the anomaly. Suliban temporal technology! D'Arsay relics, and who knows what else! Yes, Vice Admiral, I understand the motives behind your - solicitude."
"If it comes to that," I say, trying to keep my tone reasonable, "we can withdraw the Sita at the same time you pull out. Starfleet would probably benefit from sending a pure science vessel in any case. Commander, there's no reason for us to come into conflict over this. Starfleet doesn't want conflict, you must realize that."
"You do not have seniority enough to set policy, Andorian. That is for your human masters."
Fanatics. There is no reasoning with fanatics. I decide to try another tack. "When did you discover that?" I ask, pointing to the D'Arsay inscription.
"Practically as soon as we entered the region. The ultradense ceramic of which it is made was immediately obvious to our sensors."
"It was meant to be, I think," I say. I stoop down to examine the relic again. "It's been here millions of years - probably, it will be covered up once more material accretes on the asteroid's surface, but I'd give it a few million more, at least. And the inscription is laser-carved, at least a centimeter deep. This thing was made to last, Commander, and it was made to be easily spotted. Why would the D'Arsay do that? The only reason I can think of... is that it's some kind of a warning."
"Speculation," he sneers. "You do not understand the motives of a long-dead race, Vice Admiral. Do not pretend that you do."
I look at him; I can make no reply that will reach him. I understand his motives well enough; dogmatic pride, and resentment, and desperation as his ship falls apart while mine isn't touched. And I am afraid, truly afraid, for where those motives may lead him.
---
The next day, I have barely taken my seat on the bridge when Anthi reports, "The Maestor is leaving station."
"Course?"
"Not sure yet, sir. She's on maneuvering thrusters... Impulse drive coming online now." Anthi looks up. "Sir, she's on a course directly into the emergent entity."
"F'hon, get me a channel to Tarkhal. We need to know what he's doing," I order.
"Sir." Zazaru speaks up from the science station. "I'm reading energy surges throughout the entity... it's starting to emit polarized graviton waves." A frown is etched on her brow. "I haven't seen this behaviour before -"
It's something to do with the Romulan ship. It must be. But what? I rack my brains. Why is the Maestor so different from us? The quantum singularities in the emergent entity are generating enough power to smash the Sita a dozen times over -
Suddenly, everything clicks into place. "F'hon! Where's that channel? I need it now!"
"Coming through, sir." And, indeed, Tarkhal's face is forming on the main viewer. He looks intent, triumphant.
"Commander," I say, "your ship is in danger. You need to back away from the entity, now."
"Oh," Tarkhal says, "I knew you would say that. I knew already that you want the secrets of this phenomenon for yourself. Well, you will not have them! I have the maps and the data your pet scientist so kindly provided; now, I will use them and seek out the treasures hidden here for myself. For myself, and the cause of the Romulan people!"
"Tarkhal!" I'm shouting, now; I can't help myself. "The entity grows by assimilating energy anomalies - and your ship is powered by an artificial quantum singularity! That's why you've been so badly hit! That's why the D'Arsay left their message - they must have used anomaly technology themselves. It was a warning!"
"I will not listen to Federation lies!" Tarkhal screams back at me - except his voice is lower, slower, than a scream. A chroniton field is already forming, stretching time into slow motion. "You... will... not... prevent... me...."
"Tarkhal, eject your warp core! We can go in safely and tractor you out! Eject your warp core!!"
Tarkhal is still speaking, but his words are drawn out, now, into an unintelligible basso-profundo rumble. On my console screen, I can see the Romulan ship's course, see it arrowing into the heart of the emergent entity - and see flares of energy as the entity reacts. Eagerly. Hungrily.
Then, everything changes.
---
There is no chance of long-range probes missing the entity now. An intricate braid of mirror-bright, fluidly curved shapes stretches across a full three light-minutes of space. The reflective surface is not made of any material; it is a field of pure force, a condition of space itself. It can reflect any and all energy sent into it. So far, it has reflected aceton beams, tachyon beams, the blast of a tricobalt warhead, and the full force of Sita's phased-tetryon beams, firing continuously until the coolant overheated and the automatic safeties tripped.
The emergent entity is somewhere inside... and so is the Romulan ship.
"It may be a defensive reaction," Zazaru says, "while the entity is... assimilating... the Maestor's warp core. Or maybe that quantum singularity was enough to let it, umm, evolve into a new stage in its development...." She shakes her head. "I'm just speculating, sir. We don't have enough data."
"What about the Romulan ship?" I ask.
She shakes her head again. "Unknown, sir."
In my mind's eye, I see the Maestor explode, metal and air and people broken apart like the shell of a nut, as the mindless forces of the entity feed on the quantum singularity inside. And, awful as it is, it's still not as terrible as the other possibility that haunts my imagination....
"We can't do any more, here," I decide, finally. "I need to prepare a report for the Federation Science Council... and the Romulan Senate. And -" I look at the twisting thing on the screen. "I don't think we want to be near that any more."
---
Later, in my quarters, I play back the recording of Tarkhal's last message, speeded up so that it becomes intelligible. It is a rant, an ugly re-statement of his belief in Romulan glory, Romulan power, Romulan destiny.
I look out of my window at the stars speeding by, and I shiver as that other image comes back into my mind.
The image of the quantum singularity falling into its new place inside the emergent entity... and the time fields adjusting to keep it there, safe, forever. Of the Maestor and its crew trapped, unchanging, in a static bubble of frozen time. Trapped until the heat death of the universe itself... or maybe longer, until something finally happens to break that stasis. Until that entity, with its potential lifespan of trillions of years, finally dies.
Perhaps, in the end, they will break free, I tell myself. Perhaps Tarkhal and his Romulans really will, one day, rule the universe. Whatever is left of it.
Lit Challenge 02: Q-stionable Attitudes
[As you walk into your ready room, you jump back as you're shocked to see Q sitting on your couch. What does she want this time? Let us know what happens.]
Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding, USS Sita NCC-92871.
"Q."
I've been lucky - I've only met Q once before. Once is enough. The Q behind my desk appears to be a human female, with a smug, toothy smile. "Well, hello there," she says, amiably enough.
All captains who've met the Q have their own methods for dealing with them. Mostly, they don't work. Mine is military directness. "State your requirements."
Her smile grows broader. "Tell me," she says, "isn't it dark and hot and uncomfortable in there?"
I frown. "What?"
"I wasn't talking to you, Shohl. I was talking to the stick up your butt."
I'm not going to be baited. "State your requirements," I repeat.
Q snorts. "Too formal," she says. "Can't I simply be dropping in, as an old friend?"
"We aren't friends," I say. "If you intend to do something useful, we can talk. Tell me you're going to make the Borg go away, or turn Chancellor J'mpok into a toad, and I'll listen. Otherwise -" I hold up the PADD in my right hand. "These after-action reports won't write themselves."
Q tuts. The PADD chirps in response, and I look down. The after-action reports are, indeed, writing themselves. Q has done something useful! I suppose it's a victory.
"Now, we can talk," Q purrs. "Let's talk about you, Vice Admiral, and your attitudes."
"My attitudes?"
"Let me quote you something, from your own personal journal. 'Humans would complain. Damn whiny pinkskins.' That was you, wasn't it?"
There seems little point denying it. "And? You can't claim to be personally offended. Despite appearances, you are not even slightly human."
"I am offended." Q rises from her seat to declaim. "I am grievously offended, on behalf of all sentient life forms, of whatever race, colour, creed or political affiliation. You have erred, Shohl. You have fallen far below the standards expected of a Starfleet officer. You have let everyone down, Shohl, yourself included. Are you not ashamed of your actions? Do you not see the ghosts of a hundred generations of Starfleet officers standing over you, judging you and finding you wanting?"
"A hundred generations?"
"Well, however many. You can't expect me to keep track of petty details."
"You can find time, it seems, to read an unguarded comment in a private journal."
"Now, don't try to turn this around, Shohl." Q's eyes narrow. "I think, Miss Holier-than-thou Andorian, you need a little change of perspective."
There is a flash of light and a hissing sound... and Q is gone, but everything else seems dreadfully, suddenly wrong. My head spins, and I stumble and fall. I manage to reach my combadge.
"Medical emergency. Ready room," I say, and, "Q was here." And then I pass out.
---
I wake up, and things are still wrong. I'm in sickbay, I can see that; Dr. Beresford is bending over me with a worried look on her face. But everything is still wrong. Colours seem different somehow.... the comfortable air aboard the Sita seems chilly... sounds are sharper, yet hollow... and, worst of all, I can't feel air currents or electrical activity; it's as if my antennae have been stuffed into a sack. I am half-blind. And there is something weird at the sides of my field of vision; something pinkish-brown and lumpy, where normally my nose should be.
"What happened?" I say, and my voice sounds wrong; too loud, too low. I raise my hand to my head, or start to.
My hand is a pinkish-brown colour, too.
"Admiral!" A voice, Anthi Vihl's voice; my exec since my first ship. She sounds so strange now. I turn my head to look at her, and it feels weird; joints moving in ways they never have before. Anthi is standing by my bedside, and her blue skin is pale with shock.
"It was Q," I say.
"I suppose that's the only explanation we're going to get," says Samantha Beresford dryly. "How are you feeling?"
I turn back to look at her. "Strange," I say, "very strange."
She nods, briskly. Information is scrolling rapidly up her ever-present data monocle. I put my hand to my forehead, feeling smooth skin over smooth bone. My antennae are gone. I feel... violated.
"Medically," Dr. Beresford says, "there doesn't seem to be a problem. Your heart rate, blood pressure and brain activity are somewhat elevated, but that's probably just a result of - well, of shock. In all other respects... well, Admiral, you appear to be an entirely normal, healthy -"
"Human," I finish for her. There is a terrible lump in my throat. Should that be there? I don't know.
"We have to do something." Anthi's voice sounds strained. And odd, too; high, soft, sibilant. Do Andorians sound like that to humans? Have I ever really thought about that?
Dr. Beresford shakes her head. "I... can't even begin to think what we could do. It's something -" she shakes her head again. "Only a Q could do this. Maybe Q can put it right?"
There is an awkward silence. "So," I say, eventually, "I'm... stuck with this, until Q decides she's had enough of whatever games she's playing." Dr. Beresford nods. "Well, let's at least see what I'm stuck with. Do you have a mirror, Doctor?"
"A mirror...." Dr. Beresford turns away. I look back towards Anthi; strange eyes swivelling in unfamiliar sockets. "You'd better take command," I tell her.
She looks even more troubled. "Sir, you might be needed on the bridge. We had a report of a Nausicaan destroyer -"
"You can handle Nausicaans," I tell her firmly. "And I don't know... how long it will take me to adjust to this. Anthi, I'm not even used to thinking with this brain. We have to assume I'm medically incapacitated, for the present at least. Inform Starfleet Command of my... situation."
Anthi looks sullen, but she answers, "Aye, aye, sir." She is everything I'm not - a daughter of a military family, a descendent of the Imperial Guard even before there was a Starfleet, an heir to Andorian tradition. At least I can leave the ship in safe hands. "Carry on," I say, and Anthi salutes and turns to go.
Dr. Beresford is back with the mirror. Silently, she holds it up.
An alien face looks back out of it at me. My skin tone is a light neutral beige colour, not unlike Dr. Beresford's; my hair has turned from white to glossy black; my new eyes are a deep brown colour. They turn to that blank, maimed forehead in despair, and look away again. Apart from that - apart from losing my sense organs, and looking like a photographic negative of myself - apart from that, it is still my own face. I reach with that alien hand and touch the whorled scar tissue on the stiff right side.
"Now there's a thought," I say. "What about my prosthetics?"
"I thought of that," Dr. Beresford says. "Your zygomatic implant is still there - we checked its serial number, in fact, to make sure you were still you. It's not been modified - there are corresponding changes in your human skull. It's as exact a fit as it ever was -"
My fingertips linger on the scars. The long-term nerve damage, then, is still there, the legacy of the agonizing series of operations when my cheekbone was replaced and the rest of my face rebuilt around it. Q might have fixed that, I think resentfully.
"I suppose it could be worse," says Dr. Beresford. "Q could have turned you into a Tellarite, say, or a Pakled. Or she could have changed your sex as well as your species -"
"She did," I snap. Simple binary-sex species just don't understand about Andorians. And now I'm a simple binary-sex being myself - and I don't know how any of that works, either. Alien muscles pull on alien joints; I sit up on the medical bed. The room seems wobbly, somehow. Humans have balance organs inside their ears, I think; are mine working properly? I swing my legs off the bed, and, very carefully, stand up.
"All seems fine," Dr. Beresford comments.
I take a deep breath, and that feels weird, too; my chest moves in unfamiliar ways. "Computer," I say, "universal translators off." And then I give full vent to my feelings, in the ripest and richest Andorian terms I can think of, damning Q and all her self-righteous Continuum in as fluently obscene a manner as I can manage. The words scrape my throat; my human vocal tract doesn't quite fit, the fricatives slurring and the vowels wavering. In the end, I finish in a coughing fit.
"Universal translators on," I say, eventually. I look at Dr. Beresford, who is standing there with a wry smile on her face. "I'm going to my quarters," I tell her.
She nods. "I think that's wise, Admiral. But I'll be on call if you need me - if you run into any problems at all, I will have my department on standby."
I take a hesitant step forward. I can still walk - things are strange, but not that strange; humans don't move so differently from Andorians, after all. How long, though, before I truly feel at home in this skin? I tread slowly and carefully towards the door.
"Oh, and Admiral?" I turn back towards Dr. Beresford. "I interned for a year on an Andorian station," she says. "And, well, I picked up a few phrases. Some of those things you said? I think even a Q would find them anatomically impossible."
---
Outside, in the corridor, people are moving purposefully. I stop to get my bearings. I should know every last millimeter of the Sita, but this constant human half-blindness makes me hesitant, lost. Alert lights are flashing. Anthi said something about Nausicaans -
I resist the impulse to head for the bridge.
There is a strange skittering sound on the deck behind me. I turn. One of the Tholian exchange officers is passing by. With a shock, I realize I don't know which one it is. Tholians all look so alike to us, but I learned to pick up on the slight differences, the different sheens on their crystal carapaces... but that was with my old eyes, and all the colours are subtly wrong with these brown human ones, and I don't know who this Tholian is. It turns to look at me with glowing eyes, and its voice synthesizer chirrups.
<You are not on your way to the bridge, Vice Admiral?>
"No," I say. "I am... unfit. Unwell."
<Oh. I am sorry. I trust you will recover soon, sir.> The Tholian turns to go on its way, then turns back. <I assume that is the reason for the cosmetic change in your surface integument? If I may say so, Vice Admiral, it does not become you.> And with that, it scuttles off.
There are a few more curious glances as I make my way to my quarters, but for the most part, the crew seems preoccupied. Perhaps Anthi has ordered the alert to keep them busy.... I clamp down hard on that line of thought. I am not in command; I am not going to second-guess my exec while she's doing the job. She can handle it.
I make it to my quarters, sit down on the edge of my bed, and try to think. Q doesn't do things without a reason... but it might not be much of a reason, from our point of view. The Q are powerful, capricious, and amoral... well, not entirely amoral... but their morality only tangentially relates to ours. Would a Q really seek me out, just for one intolerant remark in a private record? I even like humans, mostly. My ships have been named after the works of a human musician I learned to admire....
I raise my head at that thought, and a smile tugs at the mobile side of my mouth. That's an opportunity, maybe; listen to Gustav Holst with human ears. Perhaps I will hear something I missed -
And then I hear something I can't miss; the sound of Sita's phased-tetryon banks going into rapid fire. Little shudders are running through the ship's seven hundred metre length; impacts not quite wiped out by the inertial compensators. There is a distant, unmistakeable rumble of the tricobalt mines being deployed....
I sit perfectly still. I am not going to bother Anthi Vihl on the bridge. She can kill a Nausicaan destroyer just as effectively as I can. There is a funny feeling in my human throat, though, and there seems something odd about the circulatory system.... How does this body handle stress? Do humans have glands? I sit there and realize that I don't know whether I'm angry, or scared, or both. Damn Q. Why couldn't she have turned me into a Vulcan? Emotions wouldn't matter then, I'd have to suppress them whatever they were.
Outside, the stars are wheeling, and lines of brilliant light are flashing between them. I frown, wrinkling that too-smooth brow. Anthi is making very heavy weather of that Nausicaan. There is an auroral haze across the sky; shields are wavering under enemy fire. Sita shudders -
- and suddenly there is the whine of a transporter, and red light in the room with me, and the battle is very close indeed.
---
A heavy hand grips my shoulder, and a voice cries, "I have her!"
Nausicaans. They don't smell any better to a human nose, I notice. The one who has hold of me is a small one, low down the pecking order; the one who lumbers over to look at me, though, is huge, dressed in spiky leather and furs, a raid leader at the least. He snarls at the other, "This is not her!"
The first Nausicaan grabs a handful of my collar and twists it. "Is her! Her quarters! Vice Admiral insignia!"
"Fool!" The raid leader cuffs his underling. "Is not Shohl! This is human! Shohl Andorian! Even fool like you should know difference!"
"Is Starfleet Admiral!" The underling stands his ground. The two of them snarl at each other, momentarily forgetting to watch me. There are two others... a standard raiding party would have more; I wonder for an instant what happened to the rest. But only for an instant.
The raid leader is facing down his underling; the attention of all the others is on the raid leader. The underling, holding me, has left his disruptor in its holster. If they were paying attention, they'd see me snatch it. But for one crucial second, they're not paying attention.
I jam the barrel of the disruptor into its owner's side, and hit the firing stud. He screams and falls. I roll with his death spasm as he pushes me away, bringing the captured weapon to bear on another underling. Sick green light burns into him, and he topples. Disruptor beams, I notice, look just as unnatural to human eyes as Andorian ones.
Whatever glands and hormones this human body has, they're working for me now. I spin-kick the remaining underling, hacking one leg from under him; a shot from his disruptor sears well over my head, and then his head hits the corner of my bed, and he goes down. Stunned, or dead; out of the fight in any case. That leaves me and a fully armed raid leader. Not the best odds. I slam a disruptor bolt into him, but his shields hold.
He doesn't even bother to shoot; he comes at me with his sword drawn. The first slash comes close to taking my head off; I block with the disruptor, and there is a nasty breaking sound from somewhere inside it. Fully armed raid leader against me and a broken gun. I duck his next swing, step in close, and let him have the butt of the gun hard on his warty forehead. He staggers, but his free hand claws at me, holds me. He drags me to him with immense strength. His hot eyes look into mine, and there is murder in them.
I bare my teeth in a grin. "You know something?" I say. "Human or Andorian - there's no difference." And I draw back my head, and I butt him between the eyes, hard as I can, with that too-smooth human forehead.
He falls back, his grip weakens, I break free. I dive for one of his fallen companions, trying for a working weapon. He stamps and roars, but it's just a distraction; a distraction from him drawing his own disruptor. I can't find another gun. I'm going to die -
Then the raid leader flares with orange light and disappears. In the open doorway behind him, I can see Security Commander Yulan and one of her tac teams, phasers raised. I get to my feet.
"Nice timing, Commander," I say with feeling.
---
"Two Scourge destroyers, one Guramba siege destroyer, and a Talon battleship." Anthi Vihl reports crisply. "The Talon launched raiding shuttles - Orion sourced tech, we think. They transported boarding parties when our shields were temporarily down."
I nod gravely. Anthi carries on with her report. She looks as if she was born to sit in that command chair. I should do something for her, really; she should have a ship command of her own by now. But it would be like cutting off my right arm -
Then again, if I remain unfit for duty, maybe she can just take the Sita.
"I didn't think the Nausicaans were that good with transporter work," I say.
"They could have done better." A bleak expression comes over her face. "Something like a third of their teams... died from reintegration failures."
My expression mirrors hers. A transporter scramble case is an ugly sight.
"Still," Anthi says, "we need to warn Starfleet Command about this - it's a new tactic for the Nausicaans. And I'm concerned, sir, about the way they were targeting you, specifically -"
"They probably have every flag officer in Starfleet on a hit list," I say. "Most likely, it was just my turn, today. Lucky me."
"I'm still going to report the matter to Starfleet Intelligence," Anthi says firmly. "Perhaps they will have some ideas... if someone's gunning for you, sir, we need to know about it."
I nod. My head still seems to move funny. "Have it your way, Anthi," I say, and then, more formally, "Carry on, Commander Vihl. I'll be resting in my quarters -" I stop, and put a hand to my brow. It hurts. "No, scratch that - not until they've been cleaned up. I'll be in sickbay." I salute, formally. Are human elbows meant to move that way? Mine hurts... I turn, leave the bridge, step into the turbolift.
The doors hiss shut behind me, then hiss open again as someone else gets in. I know who it is before I turn around.
"I hope you've learned your lesson." Q's smile is as broad as the sky. My fists ball at my sides.
"About interfering superbeings? Oh, yes, I've learned that you'll have your fun. It seems to be the only lesson your damned Continuum teaches us."
Q pouts. "Now is that gratitude? Consider, Shohl, just what would have happened if those Nausicaans had found the Andorian they'd been looking for...."
I look at her, and I make the mobile side of my mouth curl into a sneer. "All this for my personal benefit? If I'd been on the bridge, they'd have found my quarters empty."
"And wouldn't you have had a nasty surprise, come bedtime, then?"
"Security would have located them," I point out. "If they even managed to get aboard in the first place - I'd have fought the ship differently from Anthi, they might not even have been able to lock on transporters."
"Oh, but they might," says Q. "And they might have gear that would spoof your internal sensors, too - or did you not notice that security only showed up after the disruptors started blazing?" Her smile seems to be getting wider and wider. "But have it your own way," she says. "After all, I'm only an omnipotent superbeing, and you're a mortal. You mortals always know best." She cocks her head to one side. "Honestly, if you weren't so funny, I don't know why I'd bother."
I grit my teeth; I seem to have the wrong number of teeth. "Consider me... appropriately grateful, then."
"That was grudging. You're terribly grudging, Shohl. Just for that, I think... I will leave a little memento."
And the air fills with light; Q is gone, and I -
I have the right number of teeth. I hold up my hands, and they are blue; I put them to my forehead, but I know, already, my antennae are there. My senses are opening up, and everything looks right, the colours are right, the sounds of the ship are right, my body is right - tired, perhaps, and bruised, but all familiar, all normal.
I am myself again.
The turbolift doors hiss open. Dr. Beresford is standing just outside; I smile at her as her jaw drops. "No need for your services just now, Doctor," I say cheerfully.
Dr. Beresford finds her voice. "I think - I think we'd better run some checks, just in case," she says. "And, umm, Admiral? Your - your hair -"
I wear my hair long, tied back neatly in a ponytail; I reach behind my neck, drag it round for inspection. Black. Still black. Dark, glossy, and lustrous... but black.
Q said she'd leave a memento, damn her.
"Never mind," I say. "Maybe it'll grow out."
Lit Challenge 01: Slow Burn
[Needing some time to yourself, you decide to take one of the shuttles out on a space camp-out for a couple of days. Your ship's current assignment is to chart the Felczer Nebula in the Orellius Sector Block, so they would be able to rendezvous with you as soon as they're done -- it's also important to note that the nebula blocks long-range transmissions while inside it.
A few hours after the last communication with your ship, an incident occurs on the shuttle that leaves you stranded with most systems offline, including Communications.]
Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding, USS Sita NCC-92871
The floor is at an angle. That's never a good sign.
I cough a bit and try to stand up. Floor sloping means two things; internal gravity is off, but there's a local grav field somewhere. Not much of one, though, as when I try to stand, I bounce off the shuttle's ceiling hard enough to put a crimp in my antennae.
Once I get over that, I start trying to piece together what happened.
Flying solo in the Felczer Nebula... a break from the normal routine aboard the Sita. I spotted a comet, went in for a quick sensor sweep... there was an unusual subspace rift nearby... I decided, what the heck, turn on the visual recorders, and get a picture of the anomaly framed against the comet's tail... I was just turning onto a new heading when something in the rift flared, sending a shower of exotic particles right in my face.
On the plus side, the snapshots should be spectacular.
On the down side - well, the shuttle is nose down on something big and solid, most likely that comet. That shouldn't normally be a problem, but I can smell the air, and it has that familiar and unmistakable scent of burned-out transtators. Systems damage. So: how bad?
I massage my antennae and set to work on the console.
The answer, it turns out, is plenty bad enough. Comms blown, not that they would be much help in the nebula anyway. EV controls mostly working, except for artificial gravity. Worst of all, thrusters are out. I have impulse, I can even re-establish a warp field... but before I do either of those things, I have to get the shuttle off the ground. And RCS thrusters are offline, and staying that way.
Think, Tylha, I tell myself. Thrusters are out; why?
The shuttle has ploughed into the surface of the comet, nose first, pointing down at an angle of about twenty degrees. Activating impulse or warp in this position will work... about as well as you'd expect, with a rocket motor behind you and a solid wall in front. I need to back myself out, and that means firing the forward RCS thrusters, and they won't fire. Safeties are cutting in. The tubes are mechanically obstructed, says the computer, which is a fancy way of saying they have comet-dirt wedged tight up them.
I think about this for a moment. I could override the safeties, and hope there's enough pressure to blow the dirt right out of the tubes... problem is, I don't know what the comet's surface material is, or how tight it's wedged. If it's too solidly packed, the pressure will come out another way - most likely taking the nose off the shuttle in the process. That falls into the category of Not Helping.
I could find out what the comet dirt is made of... except, there are those burned-out transtators again; sensors are minimal. I amuse myself with some environmental scans anyway. Surprisingly, this comet has a half-decent atmosphere, either from outgassing within itself, or collected from the body of the nebula. There's even an oxygen content; very low, though, and it's bitterly cold out there. Humans would complain, damn whiny pinkskins. Still, I doubt I'll be going outside for a stroll yet.
I take stock of my own personal resources. Fabrication kit... handy, if I need a quantum mortar or a phaser turret, which I don't, much. Perhaps I could adapt a seeker drone to do mining work? It's a thought, and I file that one for future consideration. I have my standard weapons, of course; sonic antiproton rifle and phased-tetryon assault gun. Fat lot of use those are going to be. I can't shoot my way out of a comet. I can't even drain their power cells to recharge the systems, like they did that time on the old Galileo; sonic AP and phased-tet both have incompatible cycles, without a dedicated adapter there's no way to charge or discharge them without a heck of a lot of waste heat.
I spin the command chair around, so I can lean back in it and think.
Establish a reverse warp field? From a standing start to moving backwards at a bit over lightspeed... It's not advised in atmosphere, let alone when partly embedded in the ground, and especially not with amber lights over most of my consoles. I decide to explore alternatives that are less likely to make me explode suddenly.
Tricorder is still working... I could go outside and get a sample of the comet material. Then I could scan it and work out just what my chances are, either firing the thrusters or getting a drone to dig me out. That's a good idea, and at least it would keep me busy. I make for my EV suit...
Damn. I knew that last Tholian back on Nukara got too close for comfort. There must have been a stress fracture in the visor, and when the shuttle crashed, my helmet got bounced around hard enough for it to fail. I look at the broken faceplate and reflect that, after all, I'm lucky; it could have happened on Nukara.
Still, going outside, into 3% oxygen atmosphere and a surface temperature of 197 Kelvin? File that one under desperation measures, I think.
The Sita will find me eventually, of course... I think. The ship will come hot-foot once I miss my scheduled rendezvous. Problem is, space is very big, and my shuttle is very, very small. They will find me - they won't ever stop looking. But how long will it take?
Besides, it's... embarrassing. Being picked up like some kind of cosmic hobo? It's enough to make me do a slow burn....
Something clicks with that phrase. Slow burn.
I need something to push the shuttle out of the comet. I need something that will deliver a sustained thrust - maybe not for long, but something that will be a shove, not a blow. Like the old firearms they used to have on Andoria or Earth, the ones with chemical explosive propellants - compounds that deflagrated, rather than exploded; burning, not blasting.
I start to rummage under the shuttle's helm console. There is a floor panel, which comes out; it gives me access to the subspace radio antenna, which was broken anyway, so no good to me. I set to work. By the time I'm finished, the subspace radio antenna is a lot more broken, and somehow I feel better. There is now an empty space in the front of the shuttle, with just the skin of the ship between it and the comet's dirt.
I wedge the phased-tet assault gun in there, tight. The replicators are offline, but the emergency kit has firefighting gear; I fill the space around it with a couple of spray cans' worth of insulating foam.
Now, I need to seal it in. I reach for the fabrication kit; drone time. I always fancy these support drones quiver when they see me coming at them with a spanner in one hand and a purposeful glint in my eye. Some time later, the drone's energy weapon is a fairly serviceable welder. Shortly afterwards, the inside of the shuttle is very hot and smelly, and the phased-tet gun is welded very firmly inside the space where the antenna used to be. And I have comprehensively voided that drone's warranty. Never mind.
I kick bits of antenna out of the way, and they spin lazily in the weak gravity.
Now for the next fun part. The induction charger for the weapon will still work, even through the makeshift box it's sealed up in - but inefficiently, so very, very inefficiently. Normally, that would grate on me, but this time I want inefficiency. Because inefficiency, in engineering terms, always means heat.
I set the charger for a fast discharge - normally, draining the gun's powercells back into the shuttle's system. But, the way I've set things up, I'll be lucky to get a hundred kilojoules out of that gun. All the rest of the charge in its cells will turn into waste heat; lovely, lovely waste heat, right up close against the surface of that comet with only a highly conductive metal plate in the way.
Of course, a fair amount of that waste heat is bleeding back into the shuttle's cabin, too. I can hear the life support system complaining; I feel like complaining myself. The little ship's interior is turning into something only a Vulcan could love. I have to take my uniform jacket off. Damn it.
But that comet dirt - whatever it's made of, it is ice cold, or worse than ice cold. Under the influence of that hot spot, it melts, bubbles, expands -
Pressure always seeks the easiest way out, and the easiest way out for this pressure... is pushing my shuttle out of the hole it's dug for itself.
There are lots of ugly grating sounds, and jolts and jerks that the inertial dampers don't quite catch in time, and the structural integrity system flashes more amber lights at me. But the shuttle is moving, now, in a cloud of exotic steam, and all of a sudden it is free, flying even; the pressure is enough to overcome the weak gravity.
I switch off the charger, but a little too late; there is a bright flash from beneath the shuttle's nose as the overheating assault gun finally melts its way through the skin. Oops. My welds hold, though, so I'm not breathing space.
And - after overriding a few dozen nagging safeties - I have first impulse, then warp power at my disposal.
I set a course, out of the nebula, towards the rendezvous point. So I'll be a little early... but I'll make it there all by myself. And all I have to worry about now is - a large hole in the front of the shuttle, a few burned-out systems, and the paperwork to replace that phased-tet assault gun.
All in all, it could have been worse. I turn off one last safety alarm, and settle down for a sleep. I've earned it.
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