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“Pling,” said Simonson, looking about searchingly. “Pling, pling.”
Sovak and C’Mal, locked in an embrace that by all rights should have been accompanied by music, turned to the Earth woman and eyed her quizzically.
“Pling, pling,” she continued.
“Why are you doing that?” asked Sovak.
Simonson pointed at nothing in particular and asked, “Don’t you hear that?”
Qwaas stated sourly, “It’s the proximity alarm. I must have set it to snooze when you guys first arrived.”
The ground began to shake. The interconnected field generators surrounding them rattled and dust filled the air. Qwaas covered his capacious Ferengi ears and groaned. In his floral shirt, tropical shorts, and latinum chain necklace, he appeared more like a hapless tourist than a mercenary scientist.
Simonson shook him by his spindly arms and demanded, “What’s going on?”
C’Mal was using the main panel to scan above the complex. She reported, “It’s a Tellarite fast attack ship. They’re firing on us.”
Qwaas cried, “They found me!”
“What did you do to piss off the Tellarites?” asked Simonson.
“I—I may have…sent their High Priestess through the Metaport.”
“The Tellarites have a religion?” Sovak asked, astounded.
“The poor girl was desperate,” Qwaas tried to explain. “And…she paid cash.”
The low rumble and structural shaking intensified.
C’Mal yelled, “They’ve destroyed the landing bay and our shuttle along with it! We’re trapped!”
Simonson panicked: “That shuttle is a rental! I’m on the hook for that!”
“Did you buy the insurance?” asked C’Mal.
Sovak, in a level tone, proposed: “Why don’t we concentrate on saving our own lives.”
Her tone reminded Danise Simonson of her first days aboard the Churchill, when Sovak played the part of the cool, severe Vulcan without fault. That was long before she became reconciled to her fiery Romulan personality.
The deep, resonant tremor of the underground facility was overwhelming. Sovak grabbed the whimpering, trembling Ferengi and shouted into his face, “Pull yourself together, Qwaas! Is there another way out?”
His eyes widened and he directed the three women to stand on the Metaport platform.
They answered simultaneously: “No!” “No way!” “Not a chance.”
He explained, “The device can serve as a simple transporter. I have a ship hidden on the other side of this planetoid. We’ll all beam there.”
Simonson objected, “How are you going to beam through a planet-sized chunk of nickel-iron crystal?”
“With a neutrino link,” he replied, rapidly pressing controls on the panel. He reached under the panel and removed a chunky device that looked like an external processing unit. “This is the Metaport,” he said, regarding the small unit. “Without it, all this stuff is just transporter hardware. Now, everyone onto the platform!”
They crowded together and waited for the timer to activate the transport cycle.
Sovak noticed that the lights above were intermittently losing power.
“Is there a backup? What if the power goes out while we’re in transport?” she shouted over the rumbling and rattling.
“We Ferengi have a saying,” he yelled back. “Death is non-refundable!”
With that, the transporter kicked in and the chamber around them dissolved.
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From inside the cramped shuttle, the Vulcan, the Ferasain, the Human, and the Ferengi watched the Tellarite battleship exhaust its weapons on the formerly hidden base until all that remained was a glowing pool of molten iron.
“My guitar was on that shuttle,” mourned Simonson.
“We’ll find you another guitar,” C’Mal tried to console her.
“Not like that one,” Simonson countered, shaking her head.
Qwaas turned from the pilot’s panel and complained, “You lost a guitar, I lost a whole planet!”
“Planetoid,” corrected Sovak. “And watch the road.”
Qwaas shrugged and mumbled, “On the bright side, at least is wasn’t the Kzinti that found me first.”
He directed the Ferengi shuttle out of the line of sight of the Tellarite ship and took it to warp. During the trip, Qwaas remained tight-lipped about the “payment in kind” he had in mind, saying it would be easier to show them once they arrived at their destination.
Sovak and C’Mal huddled together. Simonson couldn’t help but to stare at Sovak, whose face and demeanor had changed subtly after passing through the Metaport, and whose formerly unruly auburn-orange hair was now straight and jet black.
The Vulcan returned her gaze and asked, “What do you want to ask me, Danise?”
“Is it really you? Our Sovak T’Lon?”
“Yes,” she replied, “…and no. I don’t know how to answer. At least, not yet.”
“The Metaport process is mysterious,” added Qwaas.
Simonson questioned, “What do you mean, ‘mysterious?’ You invented the damn thing.”
“I discovered the process,” Qwaas replied. “That doesn’t mean I can explain it. Consciousness…is a bit like magic. I mean, when you get down to it, even Surak, da Vinci, and M’Tuz were nothing but a few handfuls of squishy neurons.”
Dropping from warp, they approached a blue gas giant, then one of its moons. Qwaas brought the shuttle in low, zooming over lush forests divided by broken mountain ranges. Built against the side of a volcanic prominence was what appeared to be an ancient fortress, surrounded by terraced fields. The shuttle set down and the four debarked into a bright, tropical environment.
Immediately, a small Ferengi child ran toward them and called out joyously.
“Papa!”
Qwaas, revealing a wide, toothy smile, lifted her and hugged her.
“This is my daughter, Belga,” he said. “She lives with the other females here at the nunnery.”
About a dozen Ferengi nuns, all wearing white pleated habits and veils, approached. Sovak noticed one similarly robed Tellarite among them.
Qwaas said, “This is…or perhaps I should say ‘was’…the Religious Order of Grand Nagal De-imprecation.”
“The what?” C’Mal asked. She glanced at the others, who shrugged.
A nun stepped forward to explain.
“The Grand Negus, our supreme leader, must occasionally make decisions designed to benefit all of Ferengi society, rather than his own personal self-interest. Since the Great Exchequer, who balances the accounts of all Ferengi in the next life, would imprecate such action, deviating as it does from the righteous path of self-interest, we, the members of the Order of Grand Nagal De-imprecation, constantly pray to the Great Exchequer so as to intercede on behalf of the Grand Negus, such that his actions never contribute to his demerit in this world or the next.” The nun bowed her head, but then added, “Or, at least, that is what we used to do.”
“Used to do?” asked Sovak.
Qwaas prompted the young Tellarite nun to step forward.
“This,” he said, “is Lethka, the ‘Ogg Prath,’ or High Priestess of the Tellarites. The Ogg Prath is a hereditary position. She came to me because she wanted to avoid that burden…by gaining a new body through the Metaport. But the Metaport presented a different solution, where the two women exchanged minds rather than bodies.”
Sovak bowed shallowly. “Greetings, Lethka.” She then admitted, “I was not aware that the Tellarites had a religious component to their society.”
Qwaas said, “Many things get swept under the rug when a planet applies for membership in the Federation.”
Lethka stepped closer to Sovak, examined her with confidence, then explained: “As the Ogg Prath, I am more of a talisman than a leader; a symbol of continuity passed from one deposed ruling elite to the next. A baton, if you will, in the race for progress and domination. The reason I came to this universe is because I want to accomplish more.”
“And she has,” said Qwaas. “This entire Order has changed its foundational beliefs.”
“Hence…the clothing,” whispered C’Mal.
Qwaas continued, “But needless to say, the Tellarites are not happy. They want her back.”
Simonson turned to address Qwaas. “We three are here because we owe you, and you said you need us for a job. As I recall, you said you need ‘a captain, an engineer, and a tactical officer.’ So what’s the job?”
Qwaas led the three women and the group of nuns through the fortress and up a steeply ascending lava tube with basalt stairs. They emerged into the central basin of the dome volcano, where the Starfleet-trained women stood slack-jawed at the sight that met them: a forty-year-old Miter-class starship, what used to be called a corvette class ship, looking brand new, and resting on the dried lava bed of the volcano, gleaming in the noonday sun.
“Holy Moley,” said Simonson.
“Kish’t m’raz!” cried C’Mal in Caitian.
“She—she’s beautiful,” sighed Sovak T’Lon.
“May I present,” began Qwaas proudly, “the U.S.S. Siren. Damaged in a Cardasian border dispute; all hands abandoned ship; disappeared before Starfleet could reclaim it. It then, through trade of goods, became mine. The nuns, who are technically quite proficient, have finished restoring and upgrading it.”
“Yours? It’s still the property of Starfleet,” noted Simonson.
“Used to be the property of Starfleet. Now it’s practically a whole new ship,” Qwaas argued.
“It still has Starfleet livery, markings, and registration,” said Sovak, gesturing to the four-deck vessel.
“Not necessarily,” countered Qwaas. He pulled a communicator from his pocket and signaled someone aboard the Siren. “Go with the red and orange scheme,” he suggested.
The tint of the entire ship changed to a deep red with bright orange striped highlights. The Starfleet markings and registration number were gone.
“Chromitic paint,” he explained. “I thought we’d retain the Starfleet markings so that when the Tellarites show up to demand the return of Lethka, we can force them to back off. That’s why I need you three: to crew the Siren. To protect Lethka, the order of nuns, and my daughter. The Tellarites are probably already on their way here.”
Sovak shook her head doubtfully.
“Qwaas,” she said, “we can’t pretend to be Starfleet.”
“But…you are Starfleet.”
“But my commission is inactive,” said Sovak.
“And I’m on sabbatical,” added C’Mal.
“…I’m on vacation,” Simonson said.
Qwaas regarded the three disbelievingly. “Look, if not you, then who? Isn’t this exactly the kind of thing the Federation does?”
“No, it isn’t,” said Sovak. “Not a single aspect of this is what the Federation does. Why can’t the nuns fly the ship? They repaired it.”
“They’re pacifists,” Qwaas replied glibly. He glanced at his daughter, then Lethka, then the many nuns who had been listening dispiritedly to the entire dialog. He then became uncharacteristically serious.
“Vulcan,” he said, locking eyes with her, “we made a deal.”
C’Mal then approached Sovak and smiled, her slitted feline eyes sparkling in the sunlight.
“He’s right about one thing,” she said. “We are Starfleet. And if this is the cost of getting you back, then I say it’s worth it.”
Simonson nodded thoughtfully.
“All right,” said Sovak. “But let’s take Lethka with us into orbit. That way we remove the convent and nuns from the equation.”
Qwaas opened his communicator and said, “Scratch the red and orange scheme, we’re going back to the Starfleet markings.”
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Qwaas had evidently poured all his money into refurbishing the Siren. The bridge was gorgeous, comfortable, and despite the upgrades, familiar and easy to manage. The nuns had even added hardwood accents.
Simonson familiarized herself with the engineering controls.
“This is hacked Starfleet software running on commercial hardware,” she said. “Interesting.”
C’Mal reported: “Bad news. I think the Tellarites have just entered the system, and they’re bringing two Ferengi light destroyers with them. They’ll be here in minutes.”
Sovak turned to Qwaas and complained: “You didn’t mention the Ferengi military would be involved.”
“They must have found out about the Order’s change of heart,” he said. “Or perhaps it was the Order’s misuse of funds.”
For the first time in living memory, they witnessed Sovak curse.
“Zhikaik.* Unless I am mistaken, the proverbial jig is up.”
Qwaas asked, “The what now?”
Simonson explained: “She means we’re up shit creek.”
“Got it.”
Sovak began to issue orders: “Qwaas, get your daughter and all the nuns aboard the Siren. We can’t lose control of the situation by having them threatened.”
“That could take a while,” he warned.
“You have two minutes….”
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The Siren, with all aboard, witnessed the ancient fortress that housed the nunnery explode as several torpedoes launched from orbit found their target. They fled from the star system at maximum warp with the Tellarite and Ferengi ships in pursuit. Sovak’s plan was to apply for asylum at the nearest Starbase, but when she tried to signal ahead, the signal was jammed.
“The Tellarites are hailing us,” reported C’Mal.
“No reply,” ordered Sovak.
A photon torpedo bounced off the shields, sending a shudder through the vessel.
C’Mal added: “I guess it goes without saying that we’re now within weapons range of the Ferengi. They might try to disable us, which would be bad.”
Simonson, who had been studying star charts while C’Mal concentrated on flying, came to a sudden realization.
“Hubla Minor!” she shouted. “It’s only seven light years away. My ship, the U.S.S. Rosa Parks, should be there right now, looking for dilithium deposits, if they kept to schedule.”
“Better than nothing,” decided Sovak. “Set course, emergency speed.”
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Captain Bahn of the U.S.S. Rosa Parks was shocked by the arrival of the older Starfleet ship, the Siren, followed closely by both a Tellurite fast cruiser and two Ferengi light destroyers. This resulted in a confusing four-way comm signal.
“Commander Simonson?”
“It’s me, sir,” Simonson acknowledged. She made the case that the Ogg Prath, Lethka, was applying for sanctuary because of Sentient Rights abuse, as the ruling elite on Tellar claimed ownership of her. This was equivalent to slavery, Simonson said. The nuns of the Order of Grand Nagal De-imprecation, meanwhile, were applying for asylum on the grounds of religious persecution.
“You have proof?” Bahn asked.
“We have sensor log records of these two Ferengi ships attacking and destroying the complex that formerly housed all the nuns here seeking asylum.”
Bahn addressed the Ferengi in charge. “You…attacked a nunnery?”
“That land,” the Ferengi replied, “was officially re-designated as a nature reserve, and those females were squatters.”
Bahn replied: “I have two words for you: economic sanctions.”
The scowling Ferengi tilted his head, barred his teeth, then responded, “We’ll be leaving now.”
As the two destroyers warped away, the truculent Tellarite captain declared defiantly, “You are interfering in the internal affairs of Tellar planetary governance. Possession of the Ogg Prath defines the continued peace between the clans on Tellar. Without her presence, the entire system is destabilized. We will not let her go.”
Lethka, who had been listening from the rear of the Siren’s bridge, stepped forward and declared, “I am so tired of the pathetic patriarchal bullshit that has saturated and fouled the culture on Tellar for far too long. I’m going back with you to Tellar…and you better get ready for change. I’m going to use my position wipe away the Oggic strictures, erase forever the scriptures of Prath, elevate the lower Dvari strata of the population, and forever banish the tree of the elite clans!”
The Tellarite on the screen sighed deeply, placing his face in this large hoof-like hands. He then turned to his comrades and said simply, “Plan B.”
With that, the Tellarite ship turned and departed.
“What does that mean?” asked Lethka.
“It means…congratulations, you won your freedom,” replied Sovak. “Inform your sisters in the Order that we’ll start looking for a new home for them.”
Captain Bahn, for his part, wanted to know how three Starfleet officers, including one of his own crew, came to man a vessel missing in action now for decades.
“I promise,” said Danise Simonson, “to write a full report. Well, maybe not a full report. But, you know….”
Sovak asked Qwaas, “What now?”
“I guess,” he said, looking around the Siren, “this is my new home. I want to help and support the Order, if I can. I just need a crew.”
“But,” objected C’Mal, “you have a crew already.” She turned to Sovak and smiled, revealing her sharp canines. “We need a home. What better home than on a starship, with you as captain?”
“I’ll resign my commission and join you,” offered a clearly jazzed Danise Simonson.
“All right,” Sovak accepted. “But I’m retiring my Vulcan name. It won’t be Captain T’Lon, but Captain Sovak.”
“Well, no sense letting a good name go to waste,” said C’Mal. “We’ll have to rename the Siren anyway if it’s going to be our ship. I mean, Qwaas has the final say, but why not rechristen it ‘The Talon?.’
“I like it,” decided Qwaas.
He extended his hand toward the others and said, “My new crew!”
Sovak applied her hand and said, “My new life!”
Simonson offered her hand and said, “My new ship!”
C’Mal added hers and cried, “To the Talon!” Still grinning, she turned to Sovak and met her gaze; Sovak raised a brow questioningly. “It will be a little sad that we will all have left Starfleet,” C'Mal said.
“But we didn’t leave,” replied Sovak knowingly. “We graduated.”
*zhikaik /'dzhi-kaik/ (ablated adjective) undesirably messy, deeply illogical