Heresy 8

Tylha
The clouds are vast and churning, lit both by the sun from above and the fire below. The initial blast of the supervolcano has subsided into a dull fierce glow, from the pooling magma that covers everything within a hundred kilometres of the eruption site. The falling dust and ashes will, eventually, cover everything on this Continent Beta, to a depth of at least fifteen centimetres - more, here, so close to the blast.

Walt Whitman's sleek black shape knifes through the clouds without so much as a whisper of resistance, and inside her cockpit, everything is eerie calm.

"The devastation is considerable," Valikra says from the seat beside me.

"I've seen worse," I mutter. She turns towards me.

"Really? Where?"

"Bercera IV."

She nods, accepting my answer... somewhat grudgingly, it seems. In person, she is even more forbidding and impressive than she looked on the screen. She is tall, nearly as tall as me, and instead of the gaudy Imperial uniforms with their thick quilted fabrics, she wears a simple grey tunic and trousers, with a white cloak pinned together with a silver brooch at her left shoulder. The brooch takes the form of a Romulan raptor, and its eyes, picked out with tiny rubies, are the only note of colour in her outfit.

"The Vulcan appeared concerned for our safety," she says. "You are sure this vessel is reliable?"

"Absolutely. The Walt Whitman is rated for environments a lot worse than this. Besides, since it was built in the 29th century, it can hardly be destroyed in the 25th, can it?"

Valikra sniffs. "I find your logic specious."

She's going to be fun. "In any case, the Whitman is the best chance we've got - unless you want to ride down ballistic with the supply drop from IDRA." The relief agency ship is a converted freighter with Starfleet surplus science mission pods attached to its aft cargo modules; as an atmosphere craft, it's hopeless. Corodrev has, however, put together the unmanned supply drop, a module simply fired like a shell from the main ship, descending slowly but surely, with a few RCS thrusters to guide it safely to its touchdown point. "Your Tiercel shuttles can't cope with this heavy-element dust any more than my standard type eights, and transporter operations... don't even bear thinking about."

"Possibly we can set up pattern enhancers near the Vulcan's base."

"Possibly. I'd want to test them thoroughly first. Once you've seen one scramble case, you never want to see another one."

"Scramble case?"

"Reintegration failure."

"I see." She looks at me disdainfully. "Your terminology is imprecise. You should rectify that."

I get the feeling this is going to be a long trip. "Pulverized topaline ore," she says, reflectively. "Normally, so valuable, now such an inconvenience. Your Ferengi must be distressed by this."

"Oh," says Klerupiru from behind us, "if I was a true Ferengi, I'd be hanging out of the shuttle with my mouth open, now."

"Quite," says Valkira, in a quelling tone. Any efforts at humour are to be firmly squelched, it seems. Unless that crack about Ferengi was meant as a joke. I turn around to look at Klerupiru and Samantha Beresford, in the rear seats. "You two comfortable back there?"

"Pretty much," says Samantha. She looks austerely at me through her data monocle. "We should be more cramped, in fact - I wanted to bring more medical supplies, remember?"

"Your physician is, I hope, competent to work on Vulcans and Vulcanoids," says Valikra.

"Dr. Beresford's more than competent on a whole range of different species," I say.

"Though of course I'm most used to glueing pig-headed Andorians back together," says Samantha.

"That should not prove necessary," says Valikra. "Assuming, of course, that we traverse the planetary troposphere without incident."

I don't think any of us is going to get a rise out of the High Admiral. It seems a peculiar sort of rank, too, though I don't know what ranks are held in the various shuddering remnants of the Romulan Empire these days. She seems to be utterly humourless and utterly dedicated to... something. Some inner vision. And it's one that she's fanatical about, clearly. I have very bad memories of Romulan fanatics.

The timeship doesn't so much as shiver as she dives deeper into the clouds, the roiling vapours parting at the mere touch of that ultra-sleek matte black hull. "All readings nominal, holding course and speed," I say. Valikra gives a minimal nod. I have a feeling I might have to disabuse her of the notion that I'm her personal chauffeur. That air of absolute authority - that is a front for something, usually an underlying insecurity. But, of course, any Romulan has a lot to feel insecure about.

I need to know more about her - why she is here, what she is fanatical about. Of course, I could always just ask her....

"Why are you here, High Admiral?"

"Your shuttlecraft is the only vehicle capable of reaching the science team quickly. It was necessary for me to... hitch a ride, I believe is the term."

"I didn't mean here in the shuttle. Why are you in this system?"

"Our Vulcan brethren need help."

"And they'd get it without you. I'm here, in fact, because your Vulcan brethren have been turning help away.... You know a Federation relief effort would reach them, you must appreciate that Federation teams can do anything your people can. So why are you here? Why aren't you helping your own people?"

She turns and looks at me, sharply, intently, with those icy eyes. "I am," she says.

"All right, Vulcans and Romulans are basically the same species, fair enough. But why these Vulcans, when there are so many Romulans in need, closer to home?"

"You have no conception," she says, "of where my home is.... In any event, I am helping Romulans everywhere by helping Vulcans. Or at least, I will be, if you will kindly permit it."

"Would you mind explaining how?"

"Your instruments are registering turbulence." She points. The autopilot is handling it well - I suspect the Walt Whitman's systems are several orders cleverer than me, in fact - and there's no real need to make a trivial course correction. I make it anyway. Outside, the dust clouds are wrapped around the shuttle, enveloping us in a roiling orange murk. It's no harder to see through than Valikra's manner, though.

"So you do mind explaining how. Very well, then."

"People will be helped. That is all that the Federation cares about, is it not?"

"No. Not by a long way. For that matter, the Federation doesn't go about indiscriminately helping people - ever heard of the Prime Directive?"

"Yes, of course. What looks like help from one angle may be hindrance, or unwarrantable interference, from another, and so the Federation does not intervene unless the issues are clear-cut - to the Federation's satisfaction."

"We never claim to be perfect."

"Very wise of you." She stares into the murk beyond the viewport. "I seek a rapprochement with the Vulcans. It is necessary to extend a hand of friendship." She turns to glare at me. "Your next remark will include some reference to D'Tan and Mol'Rihan. Please, spare me."

"Very well." So, she wants the Romulan Star Empire - or whatever fragment of it she represents - to make friends with the Vulcans? Interesting. Somehow, though, I doubt whether the High Admiral is going to be good at making friends.

Maybe she's different with Vulcans. Come to think of it... she'd better be.