warp factor one

[warpfairy]

The Prime Directive is the most staggering atrocity - in sheer scope - ever to have been perpetrated by an advanced civilization.

In its name, genocides and mass enslavements are committed, planets are wrenched out of orbit into their suns or torn apart by supervolcanoes with millions or billions of innocents aboard, and literally uncounted numbers of men, women, and children fall prey to all manner of poverty, scarcity, illness, violence, disaster, and opportunity cost with every second that ticks by. Meanwhile, prosperous neighbors, concealing themselves like shy gods, leaving the little cousins to their deadly growth and winnowing, cheat themselves out of all the culture and insight and genius that they insist on abandoning to their noninterference policy.

Isabella T'Mir may feel more personal woe at the destruction of Vulcan than she does at the destruction of any other lost planet. But it turns out that the technology to kill billions often - routinely - appears before warp, even if the sheer drama of Vulcan's demise took more... sophistication. If she found that there were some entity who could have halted Nero, saved her father, saved the billions of others on the planet, and who stood back, because someone had not invented the correct widget - she would wish them all the misfortune she could imagine. And she has a good imagination.

Isabella's ship is named Prometheus. Plenty of people name their ships after ancient deities; hers is one of eight Prometheuses registered within the Federation, one of which is even - ironically - a Starfleet science vessel.

She means it a bit more literally.

What she does is illegal. (Officially, she is a surveyor; submitting her reports about the topography of planets and moons and the density and composition of asteroid fields is how she justifies her presence any which where she may turn up.) What she does would put her in prison on a deserted moon for life if she were ever found.

What she does is put the equations that lead to warp breakthrough on the desks of pre-warp scientists whose histories - scraped from primitive data nets - suggest that they might not be above plagiarism, and she conservatively estimates that she's saved twenty-one billion individuals from premature deaths (based on typical technological progressions, population demographics, her personal definition of "premature" as adjusted for the mortality of all discovered species, and the results of ensuing First Contact with affected civilizations) and billions more from living lives of ordinary length that simply happened to be impoverished by ignorance of the contents of the sky. These individuals were of nine species from six planets.

Occasionally she re-runs her estimation program and just stares at the numbers. When she is in danger of thinking too much about that deserted moon that she could fall into at any time. When she wonders if she really has any reason to think she is that much better than the Federation policymakers.

(The answer is: Yes. Yes she does. This reason comes in the form of an extremely large number that her computer will recalculate for her on command.)

The kind of planet she can interfere with is only the kind that has the preliminaries for warp. Starfleet won't touch them until they actually make the first jump, so they need to have access to the right materials, the underlying math, an adequate launch site. Much to her personal distress, some civilizations would, on contacting the Federation, predictably launch wars with them. These she leaves alone. She has others to visit, to pick up bits of their language so she can translate the warp-insights, to figure out how to covertly shuttle down to and infiltrate and leave her little presents. And she has to go other places - actually uninhabited systems; systems she knows are too primitive to plausibly take and run with her help far enough that the Federation can catch them on the other end of the run; systems that she just surveys and reports on and moves on from. To cover her tracks. Because she's been at this for two years, and that number representing what she's accomplished in that time is very large, and she could easily live to be a hundred and seventy, and there is such a lot of galaxy.

It's lonely, a little, sometimes, but Isabella's suited for prolonged solo trips through space. She has her shipboard library, updated regularly. She meditates, she writes, she studies.

She intercepts a distress call, out in the boondocks closer to Betazed than anywhere else and quite a distance from Betazed. This is a track-covering segment of her mission. There is no one around but her and even she doesn't really want to be there.

Isabella opens a channel.

"Distressed vessel, this is Captain Isabella T'Mir of the Prometheus. Please identify yourself and the nature of the problem."

Comments

[dream_me_up]

The distressed vessel answers.

"Hello, Captain," says a friendly masculine probably-human voice. "Sorry, visual transmission's on the fritz again. The problem is, this ship's practically a museum piece and her warp core likes to go into safety shutdown at the drop of a hat. I can usually coax it back into operating condition, but this time... not so lucky. So! If you'd be so kind as to let us, or at least me, hitch a ride back to Federation space, I'd be so incredibly grateful I might just cry."

The visual transmission flickers online to show a view of a small and primitive-looking bridge, centred on the unoccupied captain's chair. A beautiful human of indeterminate age, wearing an old blue shirt faded into translucency and a pair of grey trousers with an unparalleled density of pockets, pops into the frame from underneath as though he was just tinkering with something under the main command panel. He gives her a winning smile as he resumes his seat.

"Lalita Viteri," he adds. "Of the Harlequin. And extrrrremely pleased to meet you."

[warpfairy]

"The Prometheus is a small vessel. I do not believe I will be able to tow the Harlequin, and there is no room in the cargo bay for anything larger than an escape pod," says Isabella. "However, I can accommodate you, particularly if you are the only crew member, and I can take you to within Federation space when I have finished my survey here - sooner if you are in a particular hurry. I will approach your position now." And she begins fiddling with the appropriate controls.

To humans, Isabella pretty much looks like a Vulcan, although any who've met enough Vulcans will be able to tell it's only half. The name, and the fact that she wears Earthly clothes unless she expects to be interacting with a lot of her father's people, usually helps.

[dream_me_up]

"Thanks," sighs possibly-Captain Viteri. "You're a lifesaver."

[warpfairy]

Isabella inclines her head in acknowledgment. "The closest Federation settlement with a regular shuttleport is the Betazoid colony of Piran Four; will that suit? Betazed itself is also relatively accessible, particularly if you hope to hire a ship for a salvage mission."

[dream_me_up]

"Either one," he shrugs. "I don't want to put you too far out of your way. Where are you going next?"

[warpfairy]

"I was planning to complete my survey of this system, then resupply, either at Betazed or farther along near Andoria, and then continue to PN-115." The star presumably has a dozen real names from the people who live under its light, but she hasn't learned any of them yet. "Dropping you off at Betazed would be no trouble, although Piran would get you on your way sooner if you did not plan to salvage the Harlequin."

[dream_me_up]

"Then I'll take Betazed," he decides. "It'd be a shame to leave the old girl drifting." He rubs his hand fondly over the arm of his chair.

[warpfairy]

"Very well," says Isabella. "Approaching docking position. Please permit my ship's computer to interface with yours for fine maneuvering, and then pack your personal effects and you may board Prometheus."

[dream_me_up]

"Fingers crossed," he mutters, and makes the relevant gesture before leaning forward to access some controls.

[warpfairy]

"I do not believe that will prove relevant to the success of the maneuver. In the event that your computer is uncooperative, however, I have enough margin of fuel to transport you and also warp us both to Betazed."

[dream_me_up]

He laughs and shakes his head. "Nah, don't mind me. I'm sure Harley will pull through. See?"

And indeed, their computers are interfacing just fine, although the Prometheus would be within its rights to complain; the Harlequin's shipboard computer is as antique as the rest of it.

[warpfairy]

The Prometheus is uncomplaining. It is accustomed to handling input collected from systems much less advanced than this one.

"Docking successful," reports the Prometheus's computer.

"You may come aboard at your leisure, Mr. Viteri."

[dream_me_up]

"Thanks," he says. "I'll just be a minute packing up."

He ends his transmission.

It takes him somewhat more than a minute to pack. More like five.

[warpfairy]

Isabella's not in a hurry. She was almost done with this system anyway.

[dream_me_up]

When he finally does come aboard the Prometheus, he has a beat-up old canvas bag slung over one shoulder and a slim, modern vacuum-sealed case tucked under his other arm.

"Oh, he's pretty," he comments, glancing around at the interior of her ship. "Civilian survey vessel, that new model from '55 with the splayed nacelles? Very nice. In good shape for a teenager, too."

[warpfairy]

"Thank you," says Isabella. "Disengaging docking mechanism." She flicks the controls, and directs the autopilot to resume its course to the last planet in the system. "I'm going to make a scan of the outermost planet. It will be quick. No moons. Then we can proceed to Betazed, which shouldn't take more than four days. In the event that your sleeping shift is similar to mine at the moment, you are welcome to the living quarters during that time; I can readily do without sleep for long enough to adjust my cycle."

[dream_me_up]

"Thanks," he says. "I don't keep a regular sleeping shift out here; I'll probably be down for the count sometime in the next six hours, and up again between five and ten after that. I can stabilize if it makes the scheduling more convenient. Where should I drop my stuff?"

[warpfairy]

"Anywhere that isn't in a walking path or in the way of an air circulation vent will be fine. Speaking of which, I can turn down the temperature if you would prefer."

[dream_me_up]

"Huh? Oh, no, I'm comfy," he assures her, and he finds an out-of-the-way corner to tuck his bag into and set the case on top.

[warpfairy]

"All right."

Isabella makes sure the autopilot is behaving normally, then picks up the PADD on which she has been reading a novel. She will make conversation if Mr. Viteri wishes, but she knows one or two things about the personality of someone who might be in a ship all by himself in deep space.

[dream_me_up]

"Whatcha reading?" he inquires cheerfully, making himself comfortable in the copilot's chair.

[warpfairy]

She rattles off the title in Vulcan, because she doesn't know what it's published under in English. "Saakek's Apotheosis."

[dream_me_up]

"Interesting," says Mr. Viteri, also in Vulcan, with complete apparent fluency. "I don't think I've heard of it. What's it about?"

[warpfairy]

"It's historical fiction," replies Isabella in the same language, since he seems comfortable with it. "From the Time of Awakening, about the life of a young man struggling to come to terms with the management of his emotions in the face of unresolved grudges from the wars that had recently plagued his homeland."

[dream_me_up]

"Well, that sounds... enlightening," says Mr. Viteri, with what might be a hint of irony.