Michael Abberton

Garrett and Georgiou walked down the corridor from the crew quarters to the briefing room. Georgiou had been unable to guess what class of ship they were on from the layout of the rooms and corridors, but so far they had seemed to be just occupying one deck – she hadn’t spotted turbo lifts yet and the only ladders and companionways seemed to be for Jeffries tubes. Two human  guards were standing outside the briefing room door, both carrying Phaser IIs on their hips and wearing the black stun armour over their equally black uniforms. Garrett nodded as she passed, expecting some acknowledgement of her rank. She got none. The guard on the right reached behind him and the doors hissed open. 

The rest of the team were already there, seated or standing around a conference table. There were video displays at every space around the table but there was also a holo display – currently the hologram of a Section 31 badge spun slowly, hovering above the centre of the table. There were other displays around the room, but these were currently dark. 

“Right, let’s begin,” said Phelps. He touched a control at his station and the holo display changed to a three-dimensional star map of the Romulan Neutral Zone. Georgiou’s eyebrows went up. She folded her arms across her chest, one hand stroking her chin.

“Starfleet Intelligence has intercepted troubling reports that a Romulan faction calling itself The Obsidian Veil  is working to undermine the fragile peace between the Federation and the Romulans, using a deep-cover agent within Starfleet. They are working within Federation colonies on this side of the border with the intention of destabilising their governments and turning them more towards accepting authoritarian rule. Section 31 has been tasked with exposing and neutralizing this mole before the Romulans can execute their plan. As the mole may even be within Starfleet Intelligence, that is the reason Section 31, and this team in particular, have been assigned. But even here, to maintain plausible deniability, you will be completely cut off from Section 31 support. No backup, no extraction.”

“But we don’t even know what Romulans look like,” said Zeph. 

Georgiou raised an eyebrow. 

“Point is, they could look like anyone or anything,” said Quasi, shifting from a tall black human male to an Andorran to a Nausican before settling on a female Caitian. “How are we supposed to identify them?” they purred. 

“By using good old-fashioned intel gathering and infiltration,” said Phelps. “They are most likely surgically altered to look like a Federation species.”

“Like… Vulcan…” Georgiou suggested. 

“Very likely,” said Fuzz. “Logical that they would pick one of the most common species. Even human.”

Phelps nodded and continued. “You will be going in as a renegade Orion trader. Georgiou will be the captain of this ship, and before you start to protest, it’s because she is the most plausible in that role and has the kind of… experience that this will require.” 

“You mean as a ruthless killer,” said Garett.

 Phelps said nothing. Georgiou smiled. Quasi’s claws slowly extended. 

“You will have a ship, currently in our shuttle bay, a converted Vulcan long-range cargo shuttle, the Arev.”

“Desert Wind,” said Fuzz. 

“The ship has been active for several months and has built a reputation. The previous captain, so the cover story goes, was murdered by Georgiou, and she then recruited an entirely new crew. In reality, the crew was an ops team whose mission was to build such an identity, who have now been reassigned. 

“Specifications?” said Phelps. 

A schematic of the ship appeared on their monitors. It followed a typical Vulcan design, dark bronze in colour, the hull being streamlined into an angular bullet shape, the warp engine nacelle a ring that surrounded the stern. It  had three decks, one deck being devoted to cargo. In addition to the standard layout, the ship had deployable hidden weapons— a torpedo launcher and Vulcan phasers— and had forward and aft disruptor turrets obviously retrofitted. The shield emitters were also similarly reinforced. 

“She’s a sturdy little ship, but don’t expect to win if you go toe-to-toe with a Bird of Prey. She’ll do Warp 5, but cruising speed is Warp 4. It’s plenty for what you need. Your hold is full of stembolts, ODN cabling, protein supplements, and refined duralinium, all of which is legit, should you get stopped by any authorities, and is to be delivered to a human trader called Axar Noll on Algeron IV. Noll is not an operative and must not be trusted. But we understand that for a price or a substantial discount, he has information that we need to extract and would make a suitable trade. The cargo are all things he has been willing to pay over the odds for but difficult to find all at once. Contact details will be in the Captain’s computer. Anything you need should already be on board ship, but as always, no Starfleet tech. Any questions now?”

The crew looked around, at the display, or at their hands or paws. Georgiou paced up and down, her mind already active and submersed in the mission, playing out scenarios in her head. 

“Very well,” said Phelps. “You can contact me individually if you have any other queries prior to launch— wheels up in three hours— I suggest you get settled in. That’s all.”

Individually they headed for the shuttle bay, each deal in their own thoughts. The Arev was the biggest ship on the hangar deck, the rear-facing cargo bay door open, forming a ramp. The cargo was neatly packed and stowed in standard containers, secured by metal frames and cargo netting. Ladders to port and starboard took the crew to the second deck, which housed the engine room, computer bay, medical bay, sensors, and crew quarters. The top deck had the bridge at the most forward position, siting back from the pointed bow. There were long, angled windows forming a canopy giving a forward and overhead view. Three crew positions were in a line here: navigation and helm in the centre, operations and engineering to either side. In the middle of the deck astern of these positions was a command chair, but unlike a Starfleet ship, this also had command and display consoles to the right and left. There were stations at the rear which could be configured as required; currently, one of these was tactical. 

Garret sat at the helm, Quasi at engineering, Fuzz at ops. Each got immediately to work, familiarising themselves with the controls and customising the layouts as much as the systems allowed. Georgiou walked around the command chair surveying its battered vinyl upholstery and worn control panels. The chair seemed at odds with the logical and egalitarian design of the rest of the bridge, and she suspected that this had been a later adaptation, though unsure whether this was to assuage the feelings of a commander who was used to the Starfleet model or to emphasise the position of the leader in the kind of magisterial, hierarchical system that she was used to. 

She sat down, and the displays flickered to life. These were also configurable and allowed some override control, especially helm and weapons. She mostly left them as they were. 

“Where’s Zeph?” she said, to no one in particular. 

“He’s gone to try and find the armoury,” said Phelps, without looking up. 

“Thank you, Starfleet,” said Georgiou, getting up and heading for the door. 

“She had better not use that nickname when we get to Algeron,” said Fuzz. 

The shuttle corridors were narrow and functional  whilst retaining that aesthetic quality of Vulcan design. Georgiou found it confusing that Vulcans, being ruled by logic, were not reduced to the bare functionality that the Klingons had embraced. Surely something that wasn’t purely functional was illogical? In any event, she deduced that the most logical place for an armoury on a ship as small as this would be somewhere between the bridge and the main airlock, and that’s what she found. Little bigger than a cupboard, nevertheless it seemed to be equipped with a selection of phasers and disruptors from various cultures, including an antiquated Starfleet laser pistol. Zeph filled what little space there was left, and seemed to be checking the heft of a selection of combat knives as she entered. 

“Looking for a nice weapon?” he asked. “Not likely to find one here.” 

“What’s that?” she said, pointing towards a coffin-shaped box in the corner.

“It’s a powered exoskeleton. Some armour, weapon mounts integrated. Nice for a full-scale war or on a battlefield, totally useless for what we will be doing.” 

Georgiou nodded, slipping a small disruptor into a thigh pocket. On the opposite wall was a rack that contained a bat’leth, and… 

She lifted it carefully down from the rack. There being no room where she was standing, she moved into the corridor, and removed the weapon from its scabbard. It was a sword, of ancient Earth design, the hilt forming the head of a dragon with green gems for eyes. The blade was sprung steel, which flexed and bent as the sword moved. The blade had been decorated with Chinese symbols that Georgiou could not read. But the weapon seemed to be made for her, and even Zeph was impressed. 

She made some lunges, thrusts, and turns, ending in a low stance with the blade extended in front of her in line with her face. “We are not going to have a problem… are we?” she said. The question was more of a statement, and she delivered it without looking at Zeph, maintaining her perfectly balanced stance. 

“No. I don’t think so. Just don’t make things awkward. We are on the same side, at least those are the orders. Don’t fuck us over, and we’ll follow you. But there is a limit even here. You ask us to cross that line, and it’s everyone for themselves. If you understand me.”

Georgiou stood up, the blade twirling behind her. “Understood. This isn’t so different from… where I was. But,” she said, suddenly very close to his face, “I have changed. I’m not that Georgiou anymore.”

Zeph nodded. “Then we have an understanding.”

She nodded, though her eyes continued to scan his, probing, questioning. He held her gaze, unmoving. Eventually, she stepped back, bowed, and sheathed the sword with another flourish, walking off down the corridor towards the crew quarters. As soon as she was out of sight, Zeph relaxed, breathing a heavy sigh of relief, relaxing the grip on the Klingon dk’tahg he was holding against his right thigh.