The screen in my office shows a fuzzy image, speckled with interference here and there. Considering the subspace transmission is being flipped through two Iconian gateways from the far side of the galaxy, it's not bad. The image is that of a human woman's face, very pale, gaunt, and scarred, with a patch over one eye.
"They feeding you OK, kiddo?" says Ronnie Grau. "You're looking kind of peaky."
"Just paperwork getting me down," I say. "How's life in the Delta Quadrant?"
"It has its moments," says Ronnie. "In between a hell of a lot of boring stuff, I have to admit. Still, it's good to be back in harness again, anyway." Her one brown eye narrows a bit at me. "Though you didn't call me up from this distance just to chat, right? What's up, kiddo? Tell Auntie Ronnie."
"The current crisis is all about a missing data archive, made by a spymaster for the Valtothi," I say. "I seem to remember you telling me something, once, about the Valtothi -"
"Name rings a bell," says Ronnie, "Like Quasimodo. Valtothi - oh, yeah." She pulls a face. "Two of Twelve could've reminded me there, but, well, she's gone." Two of Twelve - the voice in Ronnie's head, the relic of her Borg assimilation. Now gone, she claims, since more of her implants were wrecked - "Valtothi, yeah. They have a crazy low species number, they were species 191."
"Hmm." I think about that. "Does that suggest anything to you?"
"Only that they got about a bit. I never did get an answer from Two of Twelve over that one. Ferengi are 180, maybe a Ferengi exploring ship brought some other species with it, a long way out, into Borg space - I'm just speculating. Don't know for sure, and I've no idea how you'd go about finding out."
"I can't think what any of it might mean. I suppose it suggests Valtothi spacefaring history goes back a long way - and maybe they're used to sneaking around other major powers." I sigh. "Maybe. It's not much."
"Doesn't sound like it's what you want to hear."
"If it means anything, it means we've got more reason to take the Valtothi and their damned archive seriously. And life's complicated enough already."
"Tell me about it," says Ronnie, with some feeling.
I look at her. "How about you? How are you holding up?"
"Oh, doing OK. Memory's still good, even without the Borg circuitry prompting me." She taps the eyepatch. "Dunno about this, though. Still get pains and headaches whenever I try to use the new eye. I think the damn thing's a lemon." Ronnie's Borg visual prosthesis was one of the things she lost; the cloned replacement eye should be an improvement - "Didn't even get a drink out of Mimir's well for it. Oh, well, them's the breaks." Well, she wouldn't be Ronnie if she didn't throw some obscure Earth literary allusion at me.
At that point, the comms console beeps at me, flashing a priority signal. "Oh, hell," I say. "I'm needed."
Ronnie is looking off-screen. "Looks like I am too. God, they keep us busy, don't they? See ya, kiddo." The screen goes blank. I key the console.
"Sir." Cordul's voice, the ops officer on King Estmere. I still think of him as the new ops officer. "We've got a potential situation. Receiving a distress signal and a claim for diplomatic asylum."
"How's that our problem? - Never mind." I stand up. "Beam me over to King Estmere, and give me the details there."
---
"Tight-beamed ESD on subspace from way out towards Galactic North," Cordul says. The Trill commander is huge and muscular, with body-builder muscles and a big, beefy face. "Squawking Nausicaan ident, NFV Yasan T'o, claiming urgent danger and demanding asylum under the current provisional treaty."
"He's off Starfleet's normal patrol routes." Anthi Vihl, my exec, is crisp and efficient as ever, her antennae twisting a little as she considers the situation. "That far out, ESD is as close as any asset we have - but we'd need the fastest ship available, if their situation is that urgent -"
"And if the situation's dangerous," I finish the thought for her, "then sending some light courier with subtranswarp drive would be useless."
There are plenty of starships at Earth Spacedock. There are a lot fewer with the advanced drive systems that would get them out to the Nausicaan ship fast. And, as for ships that can get there fast, and have the resources and the firepower to cope with any eventuality -
"Mr. Cordul. Signal traffic control, get priority clearance for King Estmere, departing on vector -" I study the astrographic display "- three four mark niner two." I stalk to the command chair, in the centre of the Tholian bridge. Consoles unfold from the deck as I sit down. "Engineering. Ready the ship for maximum asynchronous warp, immediately. Thrusters live, move us clear of drydock." King Estmere is inside one of the free-floating docking cradles that surround Earth Spacedock - at least I won't have to worry about getting through the station's massive doors.
"A thousand regrets, admirable Admiral!" a familiar voice says over the commlink to Main Engineering. "The lamentably dilatory behaviour of the warp core necessitates a delay before criticality can be attained. I shall strive with utmost endeavour to make this interlude as fleeting as practicable!"
I can't help but grin. "Don't worry, Mr. Thirethequ. I'm sure you'll be ready before traffic control gets its act together. OK, people," I say to the bridge and the world in general, "let's go."
---
It feels good to be back in the centre seat. Apart from that one emergency call-out to the Delta Quadrant, I haven't been back aboard King Estmere in... far too long. And at least, I reflect, I know the converted Recluse carrier can handle practically anything. Because, one way or another, she has.
"Any more word from the Nausicaans?" I ask.
Cordul shakes his head. "Sorry, sir. I think they must have blown out their transmission rig, just getting that distress signal through. It was way over normal intensity for a standard Nausicaan subspace transmitter."
"We got a solid ID from them, though?"
"Yes, sir. We'll be able to identify their ship's transponder codes as soon as we're within range."
"Fine." I turn towards the science station, to the hulking grey-faced nightmare manning it. "Three. Anything on sensors yet?"
The former Borg drone, Three of Eight, remains intent on his instruments. "Space is clear. No ships in range, no subspace disturbances...." He glances at another readout. "Space is becoming very clear."
King Estmere is moving at a steep angle, normal to the ecliptic plane of the galaxy... up and out, towards intergalactic space. The stars are thinning out before us, as we plunge towards the biggest black of all. "Maintaining speed?" I ask.
"Current equivalent of warp 20.4," Anthi reports.
With the quantum slipstream engaged, we can push King Estmere up to a shade over warp 31 - for short periods. Warp 20, though, is a good enough cruising speed, for a ship the size of a small city. At this rate, it looks like we could be visiting intergalactic space pretty soon.
"What made them choose such a weird flight path?" Anthi asks.
"Possibly," Three says, "they wanted to avoid standard Starfleet border patrols, arrive directly at the centre of the Federation, and plead their case for asylum on the spot." I don't know how much Three remembers of his former life as a Section 31 operative, but he still knows how to think deviously, that's for sure. "Also, they may well be trying to avoid their pursuers - whoever they are." His head jerks up, suddenly. "Sensor contact. Extreme range."
Well, who else might be out here, except our target? "Take us in, and get a confirmation scan," I order.
"Checking now," says Three. "Subspace transponder... coming through. Positive match."
"Mr. Cordul. Hail them, all available frequencies. Let's see what condition they're in."
"I have a second contact," says Three. "Approaching at high warp speed from two niner seven mark one seven four. Contact imminent."
"Engage slipstream. Get us to the Nausicaans first. Yellow alert." The sirens don't drown out the deep rumbling sounds as King Estmere surges forward at her absolute maximum. The sparse stars slip past us at terrifying speed. "Get me an ID on that ship!"
"Transponder code coming through," says Three. "Gorn vessel, GHV Trakazan... Zilant class. Interesting. The power utilization curves and radiation profiles look... substantially different from a standard Zilant."
"Intercept with Nausicaan ship in two minutes," says Anthi. "Gorn ship will arrive... a minute after that."
"I have the Nausicaans," says Cordul. "Audio only."
"Put them through."
A voice sounds "- those Gorn maniacs off our backs! We don't know anything! We've never had their damned data! Requesting assistance, immediate assistance! Repeat -"
"NFV Yasan T'o," I say as firmly as I can, "this is the USS King Estmere. We are approaching rendezvous with your vessel. Stay calm. We will get this sorted out." I nod to Cordul. "Hail the Gorn ship. Let's see what they've got to say for themselves."
"Hailing," says Cordul. "I'm getting a response -"
"Coming out of warp," Anthi interrupts. On the screen, the stars slow to a halt. Then they vanish, to be replaced by the face of a Gorn. Grey-green scales, no visible fangs, and faceted shields over the eyes. "Federation vessel. This is Commissioner Hrissaak aboard the GHV Trakazan."
"Admiral Tylha Shohl, USS King Estmere," I reply. "We're responding to a distress call and claim for diplomatic asylum from the NFV Yasan T'o."
"We are in pursuit of these Nausicaan criminals," Hrissaak says. "In the circumstances, we request that you transfer them immediately to our custody."
"What have they done?" I ask.
"That is not your concern. The interests of the Hegemony are at issue, here. I am not authorized to give specifics."
My antennae twitch. "The Yasan T'o is here, now, in Federation territory." For possibly the first time, I'm inclined to thank the people who draw two-dimensional boundaries on three-dimensional space.
"Notionally Federation territory," says Hrissaak.
"There's nothing notional about our presence, sir," I say firmly. My antennae twitch. I'm getting a bad vibe from this situation. I sneak a look at the tac console. Three is right about the readings from the Gorn ship - I've seen Zilant battleships aplenty in my time, and the radiation profile of this one is very, very odd. And what's a civilian Commissioner doing in the centre seat of a battleship, anyway?
"It would be an error, on your part, to take too officious an interest in this Nausicaan vessel, Admiral," says Hrissaak.
"If it's an error, sir, then the lawyers and the diplomats can fix it. I'd suggest you make representations through the Gorn High Commission to the Federation. I'm sure they'll help you make your case for custody."
"There are factors that make that inadvisable. H-r-r-r-r. Admiral, I must appeal to your practicality, here. It will be - simpler - if we take charge of this situation."
"I'm sorry, Commissioner, but from where I'm sitting, things seem simple enough. My duty is to escort the Yasan T'o to an appropriate Federation port, and arrange for the asylum hearings as soon as possible. The best I can offer is to keep the Gorn High Commission informed as to their deliberations."
He says nothing, for a moment. I wish I could see his eyes move, behind those faceted shields - but that, of course, is why he's wearing them. And I am damned glad to be out here in King Estmere, because I have a feeling that a light courier with subtranswarp drive... wouldn't be coming home again.
"I have notes, here, on your ship's record, Admiral. And yours. You have no love for the Nausicaans -"
"My personal preferences, sir, aren't at issue."
"H-r-r-r-r. You will find it especially difficult to love these Nausicaans." Hrissaak shifts uneasily in his seat. "I see there is no changing your mind, Admiral. A pity. We will make - appropriate representations. Trakazan out." The screen goes blank.
"Gorn ship is changing heading," Three says.
My finger hovers over the red alert switch. "Towards us?"
"No, sir. He is reversing course. Heading out at maximum warp."
I repress a sigh of relief. "All right. Let's see what the Nausicaans need from us."
---
"They've been chasing us across half the quadrant," the Nausicaan captain says. "Our own government - no help - we reckon they must have bribed someone -"
"Do you have any idea what they want?" We're in the conference room on King Estmere. Anthi Vihl is going through the Yasan T'o's records and cargo manifest, chief engineer Dyssa D'jheph and Dr. Beresford are assessing the Nausicaans' material and medical requirements - and I am talking to their captain, trying to get some idea of what's going on here.
Trying, and - I strongly suspect - failing.
"They say they want detailed verification of our ship's datacores. I'd have let them have that, for a reasonable sum - but then they wanted guarantees, they were talking about forced relocation. Internal exile for me and my crew, somewhere in Gorn space." He shakes his shaggy head. "Yasan T'o is just a superannuated destroyer escort, what could she have that requires that level of security?"
"Did you look?" I ask.
"We did a complete data trawl of the ship's records. The computer core is as old as the ship itself, the records go back forty, fifty years - the ship's been in any number of military and paramilitary actions, but nothing sensitive, nothing secret - certainly not while I've owned her, almost certainly not before that."
Anthi has a PADD in her hand; she starts, now, and for an instant goes completely still. Even her antennae stop moving. Then she shoots a troubled look - not at the Nausicaan - at me.
"Will you let Federation investigators examine your datacores?" I ask. "I have to be honest, Captain, I have no idea what is going on, here. Perhaps an in-depth investigation will help -"
"I'd want guarantees. Public guarantees," the Nausicaan says. "I'm not having my crew vanish into Federation prison cells, any more than Gorn ones."
"You'll have your guarantees." I'd like to add we don't work like that - but I've met Franklin Drake, and I'm not sure it's true. "We'll escort you to Earth Spacedock, and we'll transmit messages to the Federation Council, to the Nausicaan, Klingon and Gorn embassies, and to Federation media outlets. Everything that happens to you, from now on, will be in public." As far as I can manage it, at least.
"It will - have to be enough." The Nausicaan rakes one hand through his hair. "Thank you, Admiral."
"All right." Anthi is looking increasingly restive. Time to bring this to a close - and find out what's bothering her. "Perhaps you could go with Commander D'jheph and Dr. Beresford and attend to your ship's immediate needs. We'll talk again, Captain."
Dyssa and Samantha are good enough to catch their cue, and escort the Nausicaan politely but firmly away. Anthi stands there, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, the PADD still in her hand. "What's the problem?" I ask her.
She bites her lip. Then she takes a deep breath. "It's the records of the Yasan T'o, sir. One of the - historical actions - it was part of.... Sir, it was one of the ships that attacked Gimel Vessaris."
And it is my turn to be perfectly still - remembering. Remembering a dark shape streaking across the night sky, and green fire from the heavens, blasting the colony buildings into ruin... leaving nothing of my fathers to bury.
My hand goes to the old scar on my right cheek.
"The ship has probably changed hands half a dozen times since then," I say.
"Yes, sir," says Anthi.
Scar tissue is rough beneath my fingers. I keep picturing the face of the Nausicaan marine, now, glimpsed for a moment in a hell of disruptor light and pain. Might it be the same face as the Nausicaan captain's? Almost certainly not... and yet....
"None of the current crew will have been involved in that particular action," I say.
"I can't confirm that yet, sir, but it seems most likely."
"It doesn't matter," I say, loudly. "Our legal obligations are clear, whoever these people are. Our duty is clear. That's all."
"Yes, sir." Talk of duty always pushes Anthi's buttons; the Imperial Guard traditionalist in her rises up at the word. But her eyes are still troubled. I'm not sure she believes me.
I wish I believed myself.
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