Chapter Text
Most mornings, T’Lon and C’Mal ran side by side starting at 0500 hours. The tiny holodeck aboard the fast scout ship Churchill was no bigger than a large closet. Still it provided a reasonable illusion of an exercise space on the planet of their choice, which was usually either Farasa (C’Mal’s home) or Vulcan (T’Lon’s childhood home). Both planets were very warm and very sunny, but T’Lon recognized in herself a growing fondness for Farasa, with its expansive forests and elevated villages and paths.
“We grow up playing in trees,” C’Mal once told T’Lon.
C’Mal, a felinoid, had powerful thighs and a tiny waist. She also had a shiny flowing mane, tawny in color, that the skinny, short-legged captain of the Churchill was envious of. T’Lon’s own short shock of orange hair and freckly skin made her feel a bit pathetic next to her tactical officer. She thought perhaps she would let her hair grow out a bit…to compensate.
“C’Mal, you are aware of how I’ve been presenting myself as Romulan since I discovered that I was indeed born of Romulan parents?” T’Lon asked while they jogged.
“Of course,” C’Mal said.
“I have begun to notice that people very much despise Romulans.”
“You are just now realizing that?” asked C’Mal.
“Well,” the captain explained, “the Vulcan attitude toward Romulans has always been a bit ambivalent. What Romulan traits would you say produce the most negative response?”
“Well, let me think,” began C’Mal, running at an even pace. “I suppose the haughtiness and condescension, the coldness and cruel indifference, the duplicity.” She then looked T’Lon in the eye and added, “No offense!”
“None taken. Then what traits would you say characterize the various Vulcans you have dealt with?”
“The same traits,” declared C’Mal. “Except duplicity. The Vulcans just come right out and tell you that you’re worthless.” She smiled—a behavior she had been socialized into by the presence of humans. “Again…no offense intended!”
“Well, I did ask,” admitted T’Lon. Her comm badge chimed, indicating the bridge was calling. “T’Lon here,” she answered.
“We have received a request for assistance from a Dr. T’Pring of Vulcan. She says a patient of hers has stowed away aboard a Tellarite freighter, and that his life is in jeopardy.”
“Speak of the devil!” C’Mal exclaimed.
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The Vulcan woman’s comm image hovered before T’Lon and C’Mal. She was domineering in bearing, with long silver hair pulled tightly behind her head. T’Lon guessed she was perhaps one hundred and forty years old—just entering “old age” for a Vulcan.
“I am Sovak T’Lon, captain of the Federation Starship Churchill,” T’Lon paused to wipe the sweat out of her eyes. “I apologize for my appearance, I was exercising.”
“I am pleased to see another Vulcan, and one so young, in charge of a Federation starship. But…where are you?”
“Ah,” T’Lon nodded, understanding the confusion. “Our holodeck allows us to exercise in a setting of our choosing.”
“I would have thought you’d be homesick for Vulcan,” the elderly woman stated. “I miss it so.”
“Yes, well,” T’Lon grabbed C’Mal by the arm and pulled her into the field of view, “my tactical officer here is Farasain, and it was her turn to choose.”
C’Mal looked at T’Lon, then the woman on the comm link.
“In fact, we were just speaking about the many positive character traits of the Vulcan race,” declared C’Mal.
T’Lon shoved her back out of the comm field of view.
“I request your help,” the elderly Vulcan woman began. “A patient of mine smuggled himself out of my medical facility aboard a Tellarite supply freighter that stopped here. The Tellarites refuse to turn back, but without his medication, my patient will expire. You see, it is a matter of life and death, or I would not bother you with this.”
“Tellarites can be difficult to work with,” T’Lon said.
“Indeed,” the other agreed.
“Provide us with all the relevant information and I will contact the Tellarite freighter at once.”
“I am in your debt, Captain T’Lon.”
The comm link ended, and T’Lon turned to C’Mal, saying, “See, that wasn’t so bad.”
C’Mal practiced her smile, and began to laugh.
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The Tellarite crew seemed a bit cagey when discussing the Vulcan who would soon be beaming over to the Churchill. But that was not out of character for Tellarites, who projected mutual respect via caustic sparring.
Earlier, while en route to the freighter, first officer Danise Simonson had practically gushed with admiration for Dr. T’Pring. Fifty years ago T’Pring had won the most prestigious science award on Vulcan, as well as the Federation’s Fleur D’Or prize for her discoveries in genetic repair. She had pioneered a process in which copies of diseased organs were printed using technology similar to that of the replicator device, but with genetic pathogenesis and accompanying degradation repaired. Apparently, through two failed marriages and several medical patents, T'Pring had amassed a large fortune.
T’Pring also had achieved some notoriety in Starfleet circles as the betrothed of Spock. It seems that while he was first officer aboard the U.S.S. Enterprise, she famously spurned him and chose Spock’s captain to challenge him.
What a mess, thought T’Lon, reading the entry in the LCAR encyclopedia.
T’Lon ordered C’Mal and her tactical crew to remain nearby, in case the patient was difficult to manage. Also, Dr. Li was present in case of medical issues.
The patient—a young, wiry Vulcan man, perhaps 20 years old—beamed aboard and stared about wide eyed. He was unkempt, in need of a haircut, and a bit twitchy. He possessed nothing except his simple outfit, a voyageur sans bagage.
The Tellarites bid them farewell and warped away.
T’Lon approached him, smiled reflexively (social conditioning, from being around too many humans), and extended her hand in the Vulcan salute.
“Live long and prosper,” she said evenly in Vulcan.
The new arrival narrowed his eyes distrustfully. He turned to C’Mal and asked, “Am I being taken to a Starbase? The Tellarites said…that you would take me to a Starbase.”
C’Mal’s gaze darted to T’Lon, who shrugged and stepped back. C’Mal took the hint, stepped toward the Vulcan, and said, “We were not aware of that.”
She offered her articulated paw to him and helped him step down from the transporter platform.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“I am Sentik,” he said. “You’re—you’re a Farasain, aren’t you?”
“Mm-hm,” she agreed. “My name is C’Mal.”
Sentik glanced sheepishly around at the humans in the room, continuing to ignore T’Lon.
“I’ve read all about Farasains on the public LCAR network. I read that you can kill someone with just one claw.”
Bemused, she replied, “I don’t make a habit of it.”
Simonson then comm’d from the bridge: “Captain, Dr. T’Pring is approaching in a shuttle. She says that she will rendezvous with us within the hour.”
T’Lon frowned. “Why didn’t she mention that she had access to a warp-capable shuttle?”
Sentik began to pace and hyperventilate. “The Tellarites wouldn’t stop for her, that’s why. They’re afraid of her! Lies, lies, lies! They just wanted to give me to you…so that you would give me to her!”
“Stop and breathe.” C’Mal looked Sentik in the eyes. “We’re your friends here.”
“No,” he shook his head. “I’ll take a shuttle…far away.”
Sentik pushed C’Mal aside and marched toward the transporter room door.
T’Lon stated, “The Churchill is a scout class ship, Sentik, there is no shuttle.”
He turned around, frenetically shouting, “No, no!”
Out of control, he reached violently toward C’Mal. She grabbed his hand and forced his arm behind his back. He did not seem to react to her twisting his wrist.
“I won’t go back there,” he said coldly.
As though the tactical officer were a rag doll, Sentik tossed her against the bulkhead and she collapsed on the floor.
“Stun him!” T’Lon ordered.
The two tactical officers had already drawn their phasers. One fired, then both.
Sentik groaned, but did not fall. He crouched, retrieved C’Mal’s hand weapon, and held it to her throat. Still dazed, she blinked slowly.
T’Lon started to advance, but, noticing him tighten his grip nervously on the phaser, she backed off and said, “You’re making a big mistake.”
“Get up,” Sentik urged C’Mal. “You’re coming with me.” C’Mal regained her alertness, stood, and smiled confidently at T’Lon.
“Too many people in here,” C’Mal said.
T’Lon nodded, “Understood.”
C’Mal and her captor exited the transporter room and the door slid shut behind them.
T’Lon slapped her comm badge.
“Simonson, we have a situation. Lock every door on this deck, except for the lounge.”
“Understood.”
Worried, Endoye said, “Captain, he didn’t even flinch when the phasers hit him. That’s not normal for a Vulcan. Is it?”
“No, it isn’t,” she said. “Maybe C’Mal can talk some sense into him.”