Michael Abberton

Georgiou opened her eyes. She was on a hard bed, more like a shelf, with  no cover or pillow. The wall to her left, and the blue tinge to the dim light that seemed to be coming from everywhere, was very familiar. Too familiar. She sat up, swinging her feet to the floor. There were only three walls to this room; the fourth was missing, though lined with a thick frame that was humming with the blue glow of a recessed forcefield array.  

She wasn’t alone. On the other side of the open wall was a tall human. Heavily built, with dark skin, his black hair in a buzz cut. The room behind him was also dark, so much so that his black uniform made it look as if he was a part of that darkness, a shadow made real. Georgiou spotted the black delta insignia over his left breast, though there was no indication of rank. 

“Good morning, your Highness,” the man said. 

“Section 31, I presume, Captain…?” 

“Captain Phelps, and you are correct. We didn’t know whether the transporter booster would work through your shields, but now we do; that device might come in handy in the future.”

Georgiou stood up, making a show of stretching her back. It wasn’t really that bad at all, but she wanted to make herself look more vulnerable in front of her enemy. “What do you want?” she said, sounding as pissed off and dismissive as she could – though there was a part of her that was already thinking this forced change might be exactly what she had been needing for so long. 

“Don’t bother looking for your weapons and other devices – we neutralised and removed them in transport,” Phelps said, coming closer to the force field. “We would like… to offer you a job.”

Georgiou laughed derisively. “I’m impressed that you seem to know who I am, but what possible job would the Federation have for a galactic sovereign? Unless of course, you would like me to assume the throne in this reality?” 

“Nothing so grand, I’m afraid, and I’m sure there are elements within the Federation that would not look so kindly on a mass-murdering dictator even if the majority of their crimes had been committed in another reality. No, much more mundane. We are setting up a new team within Section 31 for, let’s say, special missions.”

“Black ops even within a black ops operation? How do you get more black, Captain? Will the uniforms be purple?”

“You have skills we could use. You will be under the command of one of our officers, though you might get your own team if you play your cards right.” 

“I never play cards, Captain. I only trust in certainty. What happens if I refuse your generous offer of intrigue, excitement, and derring-do?”

“Well, then we tell the Federation Council all about you and let them decide whether to execute you or sentence you to life in detention on Elba II.” 

“How about you just beam me back to where you found me and you crawl back under your rock?” 

“I’m afraid that is really no longer an option, given your second-in-command has already taken over. Did you know he was actually an Orion agent? He would have killed you eventually had we not… rescued you.” 

Georgiou turned away so that her captor was unable to see should any emotion leak from her face. She had suspected that blue skin for some time, but could she have been so blind as to not see the danger? Her options were now limited realistically only to one. And with weapons and influence, there was always the possibility of…

“Don’t think about a double cross, your highness. You’ll never be working alone, and our agents are not your regular Starfleet officers. Our phasers don’t come with a stun setting.”

“Very well!” she said, turning back towards him. “I accept. Lower the forcefield!” 

“I’m glad to hear it, but I won’t be taking any orders from you. I think it would be good if you stayed in there for 24 hours – call it a little holiday. There are a few pads in that locker there with some general briefing materials,  as well as a change of clothes – enough to keep you occupied. Why not get some sleep? Decompress? I’ll be back to take you to breakfast at 0700 tomorrow – and we all know how keen you are on timeliness, don’t we?” Phelps turned on his heel and walked back into the darkness. A door hissed open and light spilled momentarily into the room from the corridor, before the door hissed closed again. 

Georgiou opened the locker, taking out the pads and tossing them onto the bed. There was also a black uniform in there, but little else. “You could have gotten something in my colours!” she announced to the room, in no doubt at all that she was being watched and studied. She sat on the end of the bed, took off her shoes and sat in full lotus. Closing her eyes, she repeated an old quotation under her breath, something so ancient she could barely remember where it came from or why it came to mind. “A man with outward courage dares to die; a man with inner courage dares to live.“

***

The next morning, Phelps appeared on time. For want of clean clothes, Georgiou  had changed into the uniform, though she thought of it more like a costume. It was unsurprisingly made to fit her precisely and was functional whilst being very easy to move in. She wondered whether the material also had some form of ballistic and energy armour built in. 

“Good morning, Phillipa,” he said. “Forgive me for being informal. You have no rank. Also, we don’t really do names in this branch of the service…” 

“Understandable, Captain,” she said. “Of course, in the past, I would have executed you on the spot. But I’m willing to learn new things.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Did you find the data enlightening?” he said, nodding towards the padds neatly stacked at the foot of the bed. 

“Mostly boring operational data, but otherwise well written as far as training manuals go. I noticed that the data tended to erase itself after I had read it.”

“Well, an acknowledgment to the security requirements of days past. Shall we go?” He pointed at the forcefield, and immediately some unseen lackey deactivated it. Georgiou stepped across the threshold, and they both headed to the door. 

The corridors of the ship were metallic and functional, the light level low. As she now knew from her manuals, Section 31 ships tended to run on minimal power at all times to maintain as low an energy profile as possible. After a few turns, they arrived at the galley. It was again, functional, and mostly unoccupied apart from the table nearest the door. There were five of them, all similarly dressed to Georgiou apart from one dark-haired human woman, who seemed to be sitting slightly apart. She was wearing the uniform of a Starfleet lieutenant. 

“Good morning,” Phelps said.

“Captain on deck!” said the lieutenant, jumping to her feet. 

The others didn’t move, but just looked up at the door and the new addition to the crew. 

“At ease, Mr Garrett,” said Phelps, with a sigh. The lieutenant sat down again, annoyed that her command had not been acknowledged. 

“What would you like?” said Phelps, heading towards the food slots. 

“Orange juice, black coffee, hash browns, two eggs sunny-side up, and a side of bacon. Brown toast, butter.” Georgiou sat down across from the officer, wanting to take advantage of her disquiet.  “I like discipline, Lieutenant. Wouldn’t want to see standards slip, would we?” The young officer didn’t know where to look. 

“We don’t jump to every command; it doesn’t go down well in the field,” said a blond, bearded human. He was physically massive; his hands were those of a warrior. “And we don’t tend to kill anybody for not saluting. I’m Zeph. I have professional respect for another soldier.” 

Georgiou nodded. “But a soldier without discipline is just a killer.”

The man next to him took the last piece of fruit from his plate and popped it into his mouth, pushing the plate back. Suddenly, his entire body rolled and reconfigured itself until he was identical to Georgiou. “Nice to meet you,” they said, extending a hand. “I’m Quasi.” 

“Nice to meet me too,” said Georgiou, smiling. “But please, don’t do that again. We used to eat chameloids where I come from.” 

Quasi pulled the hand back and changed into a green female Orion. “I’ll bear that in mind,” they said. 

Sitting next to them was a young Vulcan male, atypically he had dyed blonde streaks into his hair. Such affectations were uncommon amongst Vulcan males, even around pon farr. He was looking at her intently, with that permanent look of disdain and superiority that Georgiou had always hated. “My name is Fuzz; at least, that is the closest approximation humans can make of my true name. I am the science officer on the team,” he said, continuing to stare. Georgiou stared back before realising that a staring competition with a Vulcan was ultimately futile. “A Vulcan science officer? How original.”

Across from him was a beautiful humanoid female, her species revealed by her lack of hair and… the aura she gave off. “I’m Melle,” she said, smiling. 

“A Deltan female – in a black ops team?” She looked up at Phelps as he placed the breakfast tray on the table in front of her. “Are you serious? She will reveal us at the first encounter and most likely get herself or others killed.” 

“I take my meds…” Melle began, looking hurt.

“And would a Deltan take such meds and be unaccompanied if they weren’t in Starfleet?” said Georgiou, not taking her eyes off Phelps, who sat down beside her with a mug of raktajino. 

“Melle, it might be best if you did sit this one out…” he said, with a sigh.

“Captain?” said Zeph, standing up, “we’ve already had to accommodate changes to our team, which to my mind means our effectiveness takes a hit. We can’t…”

“You can and you will, Zeph. Sit down.” Phelps couldn’t help but notice Georgiou’s pleasure at this exchange, and it annoyed him. She may have had nefarious reasons for doing this and splitting the team, but he was forced to agree. Disguising a Deltan was pointless. “Melle, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stand down. Please return to your station.” 

Melle began to protest but looked at Zeph and Quasi. Quasi avoided eye contact, and Zeph shook his head. Georgiou was smiling like the cat that got the cream. 

Melle got up and stormed out, almost walking into the door before it could slide open for her. 

Phelps took a long drink of his raktajino, the bitterness of the alien coffee analog seeming to penetrate even to the back of his eye sockets. 

“Well, now you’ve had the opportunity to meet each other, and you’re getting on so well… we’ll meet in the briefing room at 0800. From this point on, you are not to discuss the team or the possible mission with anyone. That includes Melle.  There will be no records of logs of this mission of any kind – do you read me, Lieutenant?” he said, looking at Garett. 

“Aye, sir,” she said. 

“Also, no mention of, or deference to rank. Chain of command on this is me. I’ll assign tasks and responsibility as I see fit. Garrett, when Georgiou has finished her breakfast, please show her to her quarters and from there to the briefing room.”

“Yes, sir…” Garrett said.

Phelps got up, placing his empty mug back in the food slot with a sigh, and exited the galley. 

Georgiou was hungry, and the food was good. Though she had ordered out of irony, she had gotten used to the food on Discovery and even missed it. She thought back to eating breakfast just like this, looking up at Michael’s smiling— or disapproving— face…

The other team members got up and went out without another word, except for Garrett, who sat, with perfect posture, her hands out of sight in her lap. Her gold insignia gleamed, her uniform tunic perfectly pressed and creaseless. 

“What’s your story, Starfleet?” said Georgiou, between mouthfuls. 

“I was asked to… ordered to participate in this mission, though my commanding officer thinks I’m on extended leave on Risa. In fact, there is even a Lt Garett there, I suppose having a good time.”

“The specialties of the others seem self-evident. What’s your function?”

“I’m here to make sure they don’t murder anyone.”

Georgiou smiled. “You might be a little late for that…”