Heresy 10

Ronnie
"Sir, we're receiving a distress signal," says the comms ensign.

"Whoo!" I say. "All right! Let's saddle up the white chargers and ride over the hills, then."

"Sir?"

Nobody in this century has any poetry in their souls. "Lay in an intercept course, maximum warp, and signal that we're en route to assist. Is that all right, or should I sign something in triplicate too?"

"Course laid in," says Tallasa.

"Warp drive ready," says Ada, and "Warp drive ready at your command!" says Ahepkur, and glares at the android.

"Play nice, kids," I say. "Let's go. Face-ache. Any details? What brand of duct tape are we going to need?"

"Uh," says the ensign. "Vulcan merchant vessel, SS Lyrane Star, signal says they have hit a subspace rupture and lost warp drive. No casualties."

"Good. That green blood stains like you wouldn't believe."

"Scanning for subspace anomalies in the area," says Saval. I don't think it's possible to offend Saval, and heaven knows, if it was, I would have done it by now. "Recommend we approach with caution."

"He wants caution, I want carrion! - oh, all right, take your point. No good blowing out our own engines on the way to a rescue. Besides, it'd be bloody embarrassing."

I settle back in my command chair and enjoy the feeling of my ship leaping forwards, towards - well, OK, it's not much, but at least it's a chance to be useful. Despite my tendency to enjoy all the pew-pew stuff, the fact is, Starfleet justifies its existence by helping people more than by shooting them. The adrenaline rush of combat is all very well - though I suspect I enjoy it a lot more than most people -

*/*---violence is destructive and inefficient---differences of belief can all be subsumed within the collective---collective function is preferable to individual conflict*/*

Enough with the propaganda, Two of Twelve. Anyway. Grateful Vulcan faces will be a prettier sight than hostile Klingon ones. Maybe today will be a good day.

"Sensor contact," Saval reports. "Consistent with a commercial freighter."

"Recommend we prep engineering to fabricate standard drive components," says Ada.

"That order has already been issued!" Ahepkur snaps. "It is part of standard procedure!"

"That is not normal practice," the android says, in a prim tone of voice that is liable to get her violently disassembled in the next thirty seconds. "Starfleet procedures -"

"We use modified procedures," I say, loudly. "We've been in too many front-line situations where we've had to repair damaged ships quickly. So Ahepkur's made sure that our guys don't wait to be asked. Just like the medics do, in a disaster situation."

"I see," says Ada. "That is reasonable. I withdraw my objections."

"Anyway," I say, before Ahepkur does or says something she will regret, but Ada will regret a whole lot more, "do we have any idea what sort of damage they've taken? Saval, anything interesting on your scans? Swirly things, that sort of stuff?"

"Reading some residual subspace disruption," says Saval. "Within the tolerances of our warp coils, however. I suspect the freighter's course has intersected a subspace inclusion which has dissipated violently. The remaining energy surges are -" He breaks off. His eyes become intent on something. "I have an anomalous contact."

"A what?" I sit up straight. Anomalous. That's a very Starfleet sort of word. Anything we don't immediately recognize, we call it an anomaly. I remember a Starfleet doctor, way back when, who used to get very cross about that sort of thing.

"Consistent with...." Saval's eyes widen. "Sir, it could be a cloaked ship on an approach vector."

"Tactical. Weapons hot, shields up. Oh, yeah, yellow alert and all that good stuff. That's Starfleet procedure, right?"

"Possible contact, confirmed," says Jhemyl. Tallasa's little sister is riding the main weapons console, and like all Andorians, she'd love a chance to play with it. "Whatever it is, it's on an intercept course to the freighter."

"OK. Well, shall we play a nice guessing game where we try to come up with innocent reasons why a cloaked ship should be coming up on a crippled freighter? Tell you what, some of you get on with that, while I go to red alert." Actually, I hate red alert. Too damn noisy.

"Contact decloaking," says Saval. He frowns. "Well outside weapons range of the freighter, though."

"Contact identified," says Jhemyl. "Transponder codes say... IRW Callasthae. Mogai-class heavy warbird."

"Yay. Skeet. Comms, order them to, I dunno, the usual stuff. Stand down, heave to, shake it all about, that sort of thing."

"They're hailing us, sir," says the ensign.

"OK, jaw-jaw is better than war-war. On screen." I affect not to notice Tallasa's mutter of "that's not your usual line, sir."

The Romulan */*species 3783*/* - I never did understand why the Romulans get a separate species number - the Romulan commander is a thin-faced, mournful looking character, tricked out in full Imperial uniform. "I am Subcommander Takalus of the IRW Callasthae," he says, in a voice as doleful as his face. "We are responding to a distress call from the Vulcan vessel SS Lyrane Star. We are here to offer assistance."

Well, that's a new one. I only have one eyebrow, so I raise it as hard as I can. "Vice Admiral Veronika Grau, USS Falcon," I say. "Call me Ronnie, everyone does. Um. If it's not a dumb question, how come you were approaching under cloak?"

"Standard practice for operations outside Romulan territory," Takalus replies, promptly. Oh, those standard practices... I suppose it's good to know Starfleet isn't the only outfit afflicted by them. "You will notice, I hope, that we decloaked well outside weapons range of the freighter - to avoid any misunderstandings. Our engineers are standing ready to offer assistance now. Your scans should confirm that our shields are down and our weapons are not powered."

"Unlike mine," I say. "You're a long way outside Romulan territory."

"I am under orders to patrol this area and render assistance to any of our Vulcan brethren who may require it. We picked up the distress call, and proceeded to this location."

"Sir," the comms ensign speaks up, "I have the captain of the Vulcan ship on a separate channel."

"What the hell. Patch him in. Let's have a three-way chat."

The image on the screen splits, the face of a middle-aged, rather plump Vulcan appearing on the left. "Captain Sinuk of the Lyrane Star," he announces himself. I can see his eyes flicking from one side to the other. No doubt deciding who he's better off with, the Romulan or the crazy cyborg.

"This is your lucky day, Captain," I say. "Not one, but two, knights on white horses riding to your rescue. Oh, all right, they tell me I shouldn't be fanciful. USS Falcon standing ready to assist, and, well, it seems the IRW Callasthae is... also standing ready to assist."

"I am gratified," says the Vulcan, "though, I admit, somewhat perplexed."

"You and me both, brother."

"We are here to offer our help," says Takalus.

"The Romulan imperial state," says Sinuk, "is not, I regret to say, noted for its philanthropy."

"I appreciate that," says Takalus. "My orders are, I suppose, that that should change."

"In respect of Vulcans," I say.

"The Vulcans are our estranged brethren," says Takalus. "My orders are to extend a hand of friendship, where it is possible."

"Well," I say, "I guess it's up to you, Captain Sinuk. We're about a half hour further away from you than the Callasthae, but we're happy to help if you want us. Or we can team up with the Romulans and maybe get your engines sorted out quicker. Or, I guess, you could hang around and wait for some helpful Tholians or Breen to happen by?"

"It is not logical to refuse aid," says Sinuk. "However, in my judgment, your Starfleet vessel will more quickly be able to fabricate and install compatible components than a Romulan ship."

"That is probably correct," says Takalus. "Is there any other way in which we may assist? Do you have casualties requiring treatment, for instance?"

"No," says Sinuk, "we were fortunate in that respect. All that is needed is the replacement of some components in our warp drive, which we are unable to fabricate ourselves. I will transmit the specifications for our requirements over the data channel."

I turn to Ahepkur. "Get a look at it, and tell me if there's anything we'd have trouble with."

"I will assure you now, sir," she growls, "there will be no difficulty."

"Then," Sinuk says, "we accept, with gratitude, the USS Falcon's offer of assistance."

"Noted," says Takalus. "I will remain in the vicinity - decloaked - in case some unforeseen difficulty arises. Unless Vice Admiral Grau decides this is not permissible?"

"Um," I say. "Don't see why not. We're not at war, after all. Oh, yeah, stand down from red alert, turn those phasers off before someone gets hurt."

"Aye, aye, sir," says Tallasa.

"All required components are in the fabrication queue already," says Ahepkur, with deep satisfaction.

"Great. Super. Should be cooked by the time we're in transporter range, Captain Sinuk. We'll have you on your way again in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Maybe one shake, if Ahepkur's feeling frisky. Or two shakes if it's a hyperactive lamb -" I have a feeling that metaphor's getting out of hand. I shut up.

"Very well. We will make preparations for your arrival. Lyrane Star out." Sinuk's face vanishes, leaving me looking at the Romulan.

Romulan faces. When I first ran into them, they were the ultimate faceless enemy... we fought an entire war with them, without once setting eyes on them. Now, I can see one, and he's real. He's not some silent, anonymous killer out in the stars... he's an ordinary flesh and blood being like me, and he's sitting there in a ship not so much unlike mine, and he's offering his help -

In a pig's eye he is. What's his game?