The Cholmondely-Smythe Year

The Romulan Warbird Ch’hevron held position orbiting a small moon in an insignificant system in Romulan space. For now, all was quiet.

An irritating buzzing sound roused her from an uncomfortable, restless sleep. She sat up in bed, hitting her head on a bulkhead that should not have been there. Grumbling to herself and wondering at the odd feeling in her face, like her muscles were tight, she fumbled through the darkness of the unfamiliar quarters.

Where was she?

“Lights.”

When there was no response, she sighed, wondering what her uncle had done to the systems today. She followed the faint source of light coming from the small dresser in the corner. Once there, having banged her shins on a table she couldn’t remember having in her quarters, she searched for the light switch. Funny, she couldn’t remember having that much to drink at Fred’s last night. Come to that, she couldn’t really remember last night at all. Not a good sign. Finally her fingers touched the correct control, and the harsh, green-tinted visage of a Romulan female with a severe bob-cut and pointy ears peered blearily back at her. She stared in shock.

“Um, okay?” Counsellor Hill muttered to herself.

 

She spent a few minutes wandering around the room, trying desperately to remember anything since she was last on the Psycho. She had been invited on a conference… hadn’t she?

The door beeped and she glanced around, uncertainly. It beeped again, and then slid open without her saying a word. A Romulan man entered and locked the door behind him. He regarded Hill with curiosity.

“They did a pretty good job on you, didn’t they?” he asked rhetorically, examining her forehead ridges.

“Are you going to explain to me what’s going on or am I going to have to beat it out of you?” Hill asked, perhaps a little more disagreeably than she had intended. She put it down to stress. He looked a little surprised, but nodded.

“I am Sub-Commander N’vil. This is the Romulan Warbird Ch’hevron. Your name, now, is Major Y’von. You are a member of the Tal’Shiar, the Romulan intelligence section.”

“No,” Hill interrupted, “I’m not. I’m…”

“I know who you are,” N’Vil said urgently. “Look, we need your help. There isn’t anyone else we can contact who can do this. Plus, we need your abilities.” Hill regarded him sceptically. “Just do as I ask, okay? To be frank…”

“I thought your name was N’vil?” Hill interjected, trying to lighten the mood. When he merely looked at her, unimpressed, she gestured for him to continue. “Sheese, don’t be so grouchy.”

“To be honest,” he said, ignoring her, “doing as I ask is the only way you will get out of this alive.”

She shrugged. “Now that’s a point I can take. Okay, so what now.”

“Now we go to the bridge and meet Commander Torett.”

 

The corridors of the Romulan ship were more angular than those of the Psycho, and seemed very alien to Hill. Which, she supposed, was not exactly that strange. The bridge was of a layout Hill had seen a couple of times in simulators, but never in the flesh, as it were. It was a similar size to that of the Psycho, which was strange given that the warbird was three times the size of the Starfleet vessel. There was a Romulan woman sat in the raised centre command seat. As the turbolift opened the chair spun round to face them.

“Ah, Major,” Commander Torett practically purred, “I’m so glad you could join us.”

Hill did not need her empathic abilities to spot the sarcasm. “No guards?” Torett asked sweetly. “I thought you Tal’Shiar elite never went anywhere without your bodyguards.”
Hill hesitated. She could not look to N’Vil for guidance. He had already moved to his position at the side of the bridge. She had to deal with this on her own.

“Nah,” she shrugged. Her nonchalant dismissal of Torett’s question seemed to anger the Commander.

“Can you at least tell me about this mission?” Torett pried.

I’d love to, Hill thought, but I don’t know anything.

“No,” she answered out loud. “It is all on a need to know basis,” she straightened her shoulders, suddenly deciding that if she was going to be a Romulan, she’d be a bloody good one. “Now stop questioning me or I’ll cut your head off.”

The abrupt, outrageous threat, which Torett obviously took seriously, was enough to convince the Commander to acquiesce, for the moment.

“So what now?” she asked.

Hill turned to N’vil. “Sub-Commander?” she said, trying to get the right inflection, one of command rather than confusion.

“I have locked onto the coordinates you gave me earlier of the cargo,” he replied.

“Very good,” she played along. “Beam it up and set this course.”

She walked over to his panel and tapped a few buttons randomly. He nodded, changing the course to whatever it was he wanted and sending it to the helm console.

“The Belak sector?” Commander Torett enquired, examining her arm display. “What is there?”

“Wait and see,” Hill replied, folding her hands behind her back and taking a position to irritate Torett to one side of the command chair, just within her line of sight.

 

Back in Federation space, the Psycho was cruising along without a care in the world. For lack of other ships open for assignment they were on permanent duty patrolling the border of the Romulan Neutral Zone in the 11011101101110001100111101 sector. The name was apparently a particularly amusing pun in the language of the Bynars, who had named this sector. Cholmondely-Smythe couldn’t see it himself. The crew had taken to calling it Sector Thingy. It was the quietest section of the Neutral Zone, due to the high concentration of tachyon storms on the Romulan side of it, which made it particularly difficult for cloaked ships – or any ship for that matter – to safely make it across. Hence Starfleet Command, despite having reservations, had allowed the Psycho to be given patrol duty.

Wall and Damerell were passing the time between course changes playing a game.
“I spy, with my little eye, something beginning with… ‘V’.”

Wall glanced around. Given their position at the front of the bridge, and that Damerell hadn’t turned around, he made an educated guess.

“Viewscreen.”

“Bugger.”

“I’m bored.”

“Me too.”

They sat in silence for a few seconds. With them, it could never be any longer. In sheer desperation, Damerell called up the FedNews reports on his console. He idly scanned the headlines.

“Gorn ate my baby… Federation President gives speech… Duke of Milton Keynes dies with no heirs… Berty the Barthazian Bunny holds owners hostage over food protest…”

Wall sighed. “I spy with my little eye, something beginning with… what’s that?”

“Uh,” Damerell glanced around. This one had him stumped. “I dunno.”

Wall, however, was ignoring him, but was frowning at his console. “I think I’m getting a private communique,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” Damerell said, his interest piqued. “Let’s see!”

Wall scanned it briefly. “Looks like junk mail. You know the kind, ‘Your rich insert-elderly-relative-here has died and you are the sole heir to their fortune’.”

“Err,” Damerell’s eyebrows knotted. “Nope. Don’t think I’ve ever got that one.”

“Hah,” Wall laughed. “According to this, I’m the heir to the fortune of the Dukes of Milton Keynes. What a load of rubbish. It’s pretty thorough, though,” he added, “looks official and everything.”

Damerell, however, had turned back to the news reports and was calling up the stories. There it was. ‘Duke of Milton Keynes dies with no heirs; estate searches for possible illegitimate descendant.’

“Er, I think you should look at this,” he sent the report to Wall’s console. He glanced over it, then made a small ‘erk’ noise before passing out and falling from his chair.

 

Cholmondely-Smythe followed Commander Hill out of the turbolift to the transporter room. Not long before, just after Wall had clambered back into his seat, they had intercepted an interstellar shuttle of Romulan design, which started blaring out its peaceful intentions as soon as it appeared on their sensors. The sole occupant had identified himself as one Ensign Desete. The databanks gave the information that he was a defector who had gone over to the Romulans some years before. Apparently, now he wanted to come back.

“Energise,” he ordered as he entered the transporter chamber. The platform filled with a swirling blue light that coalesced into the form of Desete. The former Starfleet Ensign, now a middle-aged man, stepped off the transporter platform and stood to attention before Cholmondely-Smythe.

“Commander!” he started to give a Romulan salute, hesitated, then let his arm fall by his side.

“It’s Captain, actually dear boy,” Cholmondely-Smythe said disapprovingly, staring down his nose at the traitor.

“Um, yeah. Sorry.”

“I am arresting you for the crime of treason,” Hill said, motioning to the security guards. “You will be held on board until we can deliver you for court martial.”

Desete allowed himself to be slapped in cuffs, but spoke to Cholmondely-Smythe. “Sir, I have a message from the Romulan unificationists. You have to go to the Belak sector, where you will be met by a freighter carrying very important cargo.”

Cholmondely-Smythe looked at him blankly. “Sorry old chap, I have no idea what you’re prattling about.” Desete started to look desperate.

“The ones Ambassador Spock is helping! The resistance movement!”

“Oh! Those unificationists! Why should I believe you?”

“You have to!”

Cholmondely-Smythe regarded him. “Very well. Number One, do a lie-dectector test on him.”

“Yessir.”

Hill took the prisoner to the unused security office, where the guards hooked Desete up to the lie dectector.

“Answer these three questions truthfully,” Hill said. “What is your name?”

“Thomas Cassanova Desete.”

Hill raised his eyebrows. “Cassanova? Really?”

“My parents were romantics.”

“That’s one word for them. Okay, Occupation?”

“Former Starfleet Ensign, then an accountant for the Romulan military, and now a defector back to the Federation.”

“Favourite colour?”

“Turquiose.”

“Now answer these three questions falsely. Name?”

“Tracy.”

Hill frowned at the machine. “Is that a lie?” he asked, suspiciously.

“Well,” Desete looked embarrassed. “Every day except Thursdays.”

Hill stared at him, then shuddered. “Try again. Name?”

“Captain Cholmondely-Smythe.”

“Occupation?”

“Pole dancer.”

Hill had to desperately fight the urge to vomit at the image that produced in his mind. “Favourite colour?”

“Luminous pink.”

Great. Now the image was wearing pink underwear. Shaking his head, he checked the calibrations.

“Okay, now are you telling the truth about being a contact from the unificationists?”

“Yes.”

Hill checked the readings, then nodded. “Right, you’re going to the brig, I’m going to tell the captain to set course.” So, Cholmondely-Smythe pirouetting around a pole inside his head, Hill headed for the bridge.

 

Captain’s log, Stardate 502301.6. I have granted two requests in the past day, neither of which feels like a particularly jolly good idea. My Chief Helmsman and Head Navigator have requested permission to take a shuttlecraft to the nearest Federation Outpost, Station C64, where apparently Mr Wall has business to conduct. While this is really jolly unorthodox, I have allowed them take some leave time, along with the shuttlecraft von Bulow, to do so, and to take our resident Klingon the ever-delightful Colonel Klumf with them. I believe I am going soft as I become used to this crew and its foibles. The other request was from our latest visitor, former ensign Desete. The Psycho is currently en route to the Belak sector to rendezvous with a supposed freighter from the Romulan underground. We shall just have to see, won’t we? Spiffing.

Counsellor Hill met N’Vil in the cargo bay of the warbird. He was stood beside three cryogenic stasis pods. She peered in at their passenger. “This is the cargo?” she asked.

“Yes. The middle one is the Emperor’s official barber, and the other two are his manicurist and pedicurist.”

“Uh, okay,” Hill frowned. “Why?” was all she could think of to ask.

“Between them they know many secrets of the empire. You know how people talk at the hairdressers. They wanted to defect, so…”

Hill accepted this with a dubious nod.

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to get a Romulan officer to play my part?” she protested.

N’Vil shrugged. “Perhaps. But if our plan fails, we will need a Starfleet officer to complete the mission.” Hill glanced at him. She didn’t like the sound of that.

“For now, once we rendezvous with the freighter, you and the cargo will be sent safely on your way to Federation space.”

“Sure. Right.”

 

So as not to cause suspicion they then headed for the senior officers mess, for dinner. Already there were Commander Torett, the helmsman and the science officer. Counsellor Hill and N’vil took their places and sat down to eat. The food was surprisingly edible and, although Romulan ale was served freely, Hill refrained from indulging, unlike most of the others. For a time she thought the meal was going to pass by without incident, but Commander Torett was obviously becoming rather inebriated.

“Y’know,” she slurred, leaning over the table to jab her finger at the Counsellor, “Major Y’von, I don’ like you.” Not having to feign her disapproval, Hill raised her eyebrow and simply regarded the Romulan officer. “In fact,” Torett went on, I don’t like the Tal Shiar at all!”

“Really,” Hill muttered wryly, “I’d never have guessed.”

“Bloody stuck up lot,” Torett added. “What’s the point of all the executions, hm?”

Hill struggled not to look too blank and maintained her poker face.

“Any executions performed by the Tal Shiar are for the good of the Empire,” she replied.

“Hah!” Torett hiccupped. “The Tal Shiar is based on nothing but treachery and lies. It’s the military that uses trust and loyalty to bind the Empire!”

Hill bristled, as she believed a Tal Shiar operative would. “The Tal Shiar are the only thing ensuring that people like you show continuing loyalty to the Empire!” she exclaimed. “Or you’d have left long ago to become a renegade, wouldn’t you?” She had picked the idea of this up during her time spent with the commander on the bridge and at this table, where her barriers had dropped slightly. It was a gamble as her feelings were far from clear, but by the expression on Torett’s face, Hill knew she’d struck home. Torett jumped to her feet.

“Only because your precious Tal Shiar executed my Daddy for foolish idealism!”

Hill paused. Now she felt bad, but she had to play the part.

“I’m aware of what happened to you father. His idealism could have endangered the Empire, so he was removed.”

Torett screamed and launched herself at Hill, who sidestepped the clumsy attack and let the commander fly over the table to land in a heap.

“I don’t need your devotion, Commander,” Hill snarled as she put her hands on her hips. “Only your obedience.” Suddenly aware that a threat could come from any side from the other officers, she threw a glare at each of them, N’vil included. They seemed sufficiently cowed.

“That’s all you have!” Torett spat out, upside down.

 

Wall, Damerell and Klumpf arrived at Station C64, where they had arranged to meet a Mister Vangelis, who would be explaining to them exactly what the hell was going on. Wall had spent the entire journey there with a silly grin on his face, which was seriously beginning to irritate Damerell.

“Look,” he said as the three of them descended the shuttle’s ramp into the hangar bay of the station. “You don’t know how much money is involved here.” Somewhat between the borders of the Orion Syndicate and Breen space, the station was remote, though well visited due to its location close to two separate mining colonies. It was also, they noticed, in a rather alarming state of disrepair. Wall refused to be put off.

“He was a Duke, they’ve always got loads of money,” Wall insisted. Damerell shrugged and followed him, hands stuffed into pockets. Klumpf took one disapproving look around, sniffed, and declared, in a loud voice, his contempt for the people who ran such a station. Damerell hurried back to him and hissed at him to shut up.

“Why?” Klumpf demanded. “Honour demands that I state my true feelings at all times!”

Damerell sighed. “Yes, well, sometimes discretion is the better part of valour, and all that.” He had found, over the last month, that the best way to deal with Klumpf was either to spout ridiculous axioms or get him drunk. The Klingon regarded him thoughtfully.

“You raise an interesting point,” he admitted. “We shall discuss this in great detail!” He slapped Damerell on the back, sending him crashing to the floor, before stalking off after Wall, who was impatiently tapping his foot by the doors. Damerell picked himself up and sighed again. This was going to be a long trip. As he began to stroll over, he noticed one of the security fields holding a large collection of metal containers in place begin to fizzle and spark. In seconds, it had died completely. His eyes followed the route the barrels would take and, with his finely-honed navigator’s instincts, came to the conclusion that it would lead directly to Wall’s head.

“LOOK OUT!!!!” he screamed, and thankfully Wall, who had spent years trusting his friend’s cowardly impulses, dove backwards, over a bench. Klumpf, however, with the careful stupidity only a Klingon warrior could exhibit, looked up, just in time to see the barrels come crashing down on top of him.

To Damerell’s disbelief the massive Klingon caught the first container above his head, then used it to fend off the others as they fell. The navigator hurried over and helped Wall to his feet.

“Your timely warning saved our lives, Warrior Philip,” Klumpf said, setting down the barrel he had caught.

“Yeah, okay,” Damerell shrugged

“Bloody shoddy equipment,” Wall muttered, dusting himself off. “Come on then, let’s go find Vangelis.”

 

High above them, tucked inside a Jeffries tube, the assassin watched them leave dispassionately. Perhaps his trap had been a little too simplistic. The imposter had obviously managed to hire himself more than adequate protection. No matter. Next time, he would be more thorough.

 

In the Belak sector, on board the Ch’hevron, Hill was standing in the background as Commander Torett greeted the captain of the Kympansee freighter.

“Are we pleased to be helping the Romulan Empire,” the captain said, and Hill was unsure whether or not he was asking a question. Judging by the odd lilt of his speech, he was probably just rubbish at the language.

“Of course,” Torett replied. “Are you ready to receive the cargo?” she asked, obviously eager to get it over with.

“Are we ready to receive the cargo,” the captain replied.

Hill walked calmly over to N’vil.

“They’re going to betray us,” she muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

She gave him a look. “No, I’m making it up for a laugh. Of course I’m bloody sure, you idiot! Who’s the empath here?”

He nodded, and his fingers flew over the tactical console. Just as Torett was about to give the order to energise, four torpedoes streaked out from the weapons ports of the warbird and struck with pinpoint accuracy at certain spots on the freighter. The image disappeared from the screen as the ship violently exploded. Torett whirled angrily to glare at him.

“Explain!”

“She told me to do it,” N’vil said, pointing at Hill, who struggled not to turn around and punch his lights out. Torett turned on her, hands on hips, foot tapping.

“Well?”

Hill glared right back. “I do not need to go into your orders for this mission, do I Commander?” she stressed the rank, gambling that ‘Major Y’von’ had been granted complete control of the mission. When Torett just glared back Hill continued, emboldened. “The loss of life was regrettable but necessary. I will say no more. Be aware that I will do whatever I feel is necessary to complete my mission, and you would do well not to get in my way or piss me off, is that clear?”

Furious, but obviously impotent to do anything, at least for now, Torett nodded.

“Now cloak and await my further orders,” Hill commanded, turning and stalking from the bridge. The turbolift doors closed on her and she slumped against them. This was beginning to drain her, especially having to maintain the barriers against Torett’s hatred. Like many Romulans Torett had a certain amount of unrealised telepathic ability, and Hill’s Betazoid defenses were taking rather a battering. Trouble was, the way things were going this wasn’t likely to end soon.

 

“We have arrived in the Belak sector, Captain,” Ensign Stocks, filling in for Damerell at navigation, reported.

“Splendid. Now we can rendezvous with the jolly old freighter and…”

“Sir,” Bleep interrupted, “we are at the coordinates specified. There is no freighter.”

“Already?” Cholmondely-Smythe raised his eyebrows. “When Damerell plots a course we never arrive first time.” Ensign Stocks smiled smugly, cracking his knuckles over his console.
Cholmondely-Smythe looked over at Desete. “Well?” he asked simply. Desete looked worried.

“I don’t know, it should be here!” he exclaimed. He shifted nervously where he was sat at a side console. “My message didn’t come from Ambassador Spock himself,” he admitted then. Cholmondely-Smythe was about to take issue with this when Desete hurriedly added, “but it did come from someone I trust implicitly! If he said the freighter will be here, it will be!”

Cholmondely-Smythe eyed him suspiciously.

“Look,” Desete went on, “the freighter can’t go very fast, it can’t have gone more than fifteen light years from this point, if it arrived at the given time.”

Cholmondely-Smythe exchanged a dubious glance with Commander Hill, then took a breath.
“Very well, Ensign Irving, Ensign Stocks, prepare a jolly old search pattern and implement ASAP,” he pronounced it ai-sap, “there’s good beta shift crewmembers.”

 

After spending a leisurely lunch at the station’s least horrific-seeming eatery, Wall led the way to the quarters that had been transmitted to him in the original communication. Klumpf had had one cup of blood wine with the meal, and it had immediately gone straight to his head. He had an arm draped across each of their shoulders as they helped him along.

“I have deep and unexpressed feelings for you,” he slurred to Damerell, who looked over at Wall in panic.

“Help!”

“You’re on your own there,” Wall told him. Two big, orange, spiky aliens were approaching, so he tried to manoeuvre around them. He was on the outside of the trio, so he had to brush very close to the aliens.

Abruptly, with an oddly piercing, squealing cry, one of the aliens pulled a knife from its clothes and lunged at Wall. Fortunately Klumpf chose that moment to collapse, dragging Wall and Damerell down with him. The assailant gave a squawk of surprise and fell over, its companion running for cover. Wall and Damerell got Klumpf back to his feet and stared down at the alien’s corpse as it had, apparently, transpired to fall onto its own knife.

“Wassat?” Klumpf muttered. Damerell fought to keep his shaking knees from collapsing under him as Wall continued to stare.

“Do you ever get the feeling that someone doesn’t like us?” he asked.

 

Down the corridor, hidden around a corner, the assassin sighed. Well, that was what he got for hiring others to do his job, he supposed. He had no choice now but to let the imposter attend the meeting with the executor of the Duke’s will, and afterwards he would be even harder to kill. Nevertheless, that was what he had been paid to do, so he would complete his contract no matter the price. At least the Klingon would be out of the way once the… little gift… he had slipped into his drink took effect.

 

Ding Dong!

Wall and Damerell exchanged a glance at the slightly quirky door chime. Klumpf was vomiting noisily in the doorway across the hall. Damerell glanced back at him.

“I swear he’s getting worse,” he muttered. Wall shrugged in agreement.

“Oh Great Kahless!” Klumpf bellowed and sprinted down the corridor, clutching at the seat of his trousers. Exchanging a shrug, Wall and Damerell turned back to the door just as it opened.

“MMmm goood mooorning,” the thin, old gentlemen murmured. “You are Lieutenant-Commmander Wall, yeeees?”

“Uh, yeeees,” Wall replied. The man nodded slowly.

“Fooollow meee, pleeease.”

The two officers followed him in to the room, through what appeared to be a waiting area into an office. He bowed them through the door and closed it behind them.

Behind a large, antique wooden desk was sat a middle aged man, serious-faced and calm. He gestured for them to sit.

“Please, gentlemen or,” he gave a little smile, “should I say, ‘my Lord’.” He added this as he looked at Wall. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Cogley the third, and I am the executor of the estate of the Duke of Milton Keynes.”

“Is it true?!” Damerell demanded suddenly. “Is he really the descendent of a Duke?!”

Cogley smiled. “It does indeed appear to be the case. The connection is tenuous, but definite. Around two centuries ago, the then Duke was a little… careless… and one of his mistresses produced a baby. Since the laws prohibited ending the child’s life, the decision was taken to send he and his mother far away. You, Commander Wall, the descendent of that child. Or so we believe.”

“You believe?” Wall asked.

“Yes. We will require a DNA scan to prove it, if you will allow me?” He held up a tricorder, and Wall nodded, numbly. Cogley tapped a few buttons and the device beeped. He raised his eyebrows. “Bugger me, we were right!” he breathed, and then smiled at Wall. “Congratulations, my Duke.”

Wall stared in disbelief at Cogley as Damerell slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. Slowly, a huge grin began to spread over the helmsman’s face.

 

“There was no need to blow up that freighter!” Counsellor Hill stormed at N’vil, who regarded her impassively. The two of them were in N’vil’s quarters.

“He was going to betray us, there was little else I could do under the circumstances,” N’vil said, calmly.

“What do we do now?!” she demanded, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at him.
He steepled his hands in the manner of a Vulcan and took a deep, cleansing breath.

“This is precisely why you are here,” he told her. “Our new plan is to proceed to the Federation base on Blake VII. You can get us past the Starfleet security systems with your access codes.”

Hill stared at him in horror. “You have to be kidding! You expect me to use my access codes to let a heavily armed Romulan warbird deep into Federation space?!”

“A Romulan warbird we are in control of,” he reminded her.

“Don’t be naive,” Hill snorted. “You don’t imagine for one second Torett wouldn’t kill us both and take the ship on a rampage through Federation space if she could?”

“Then we have to make sure she doesn’t get the chance,” N’vil said calmly.

Seeing no other option, Hill followed the Romulan to the bridge, where Torett was waiting for them. She curled her lip scornfully.

“Has the mighty Tal’Shiar Major made up her mind as to what we’re going to do now?”

Hill put on her best imposing face – she had studied Cholmondely-Smythe enough to know how not to do it – and glared Torett down.

“Yes, she has. The freighter captain was known to me as a Federation spy. He would have sold the cargo to the Federation an instant after they crossed the border. We’re going to have to go in ourselves to deliver the cargo ourselves.”

“That’s nuts!” Torett insisted. “There are gravitic sensors, tachyon webs… we’ll never make it through.”

Privately, Hill agreed. “You have your orders,” she snapped. “Prepare for immediate departure.”

Growling, Torett turned to issue the orders but the subordinate at the helm interrupted her.
“Commander! A Starfleet ship has entered sensor range performing a search pattern!”

“Cloak us before they spot us! Can you identify it?” Torett demanded, and Hill stepped closer as the lights dimmed.

“Scanning… vessel matches database entry for the USS Psycho – an old ship. She is moving to scan the debris field left by the destruction of the freighter.”

Hill stared at the viewscreen in surprise as Torett chewed her bottom lip thoughtfully.

“We don’t want to provoke a fight here,” the commander muttered. “If we go to warp in this debris field they’ll see us. Use the manoeuvring thrusters to back us away, slowly.”

As the helmsman complied, Hill stepped over to N’vil’s console, pretending to examine the readings.

“Find a way to let the Psycho track us or I’ll expose you as a traitor!” she muttered, her tone deceptively mild. N’vil looked at her.

“You wouldn’t,” he returned, and she looked at him.

“Try me.”

Swallowing, he nodded. “There is a sympathiser in engineering. I will see what I can do.”

 

Wall was still grinning like a maniac as they left the lawyer’s offices, heading in the direction they had last seen Klumpf disappearing. At the end of the corridor was a public toilet and, by the bellows coming from inside, they judged he was making use of the facilities. After listening for a few moments, they opted to wait outside for him. Damerell glanced down at the PADD with all the details of Wall’s inheritance on it one more time.

“You do realise there’s no actual money, don’t you?” he said, a little smugly. “I mean, okay, you’ve got ownership of a mined-out asteroid on the Vulcan-Klingon trade route, a particularly ugly painting in the New Tate Modern on Earth and-”

“The title,” Wall interrupted him, eyes gleaming with delight. “I’m a step above everyone on the social ladder! I can go to swanky parties and mingle with my peers, instead of slumming it with you lot!”

Damerell gave the wild look in on his companion’s face careful consideration. “You’re an utter lunatic, do you know that?”

“Ah, see, I’ve got a title!” Wall told him, waggling a finger at him. “That means I’m eccentric!”

“I hate you,” Damerell said flatly, leaning back against the wall and listening to the sounds of Klumpf dealing with whatever horror his bowels were currently inflicting on him.

“You think we should check on him?” he asked, starting to get a little concerned. Looking as if he had been startled out of a reverie, Wall shrugged.

“Not my problem,” he said, “the servants do all that sort of thing.”

“You haven’t got any sodding servants!!” Damerell shouted at him, earning himself a disdainful look all the way down Wall’s nose.

“Don’t speak to me like that, commoner,” Wall said haughtily, and then failed to duck in time as Damerell smacked him on the back of the head. Before he could respond, the navigator disappeared into the toilets in the hope that Klumpf would be less irritating that the pilot.

Wall stared vacantly into the middle distance for a while, whistling tunelessly between his teeth and occasionally grinning to himself. He was more than a little startled, then, when a black-clad figure appeared in his vision holding a nasty looking gun pointed straight at Wall’s chest.

“Greeting, my Duke,” the figure said sarcastically. “I have to say I don’t think much of your bodyguards, leaving you out here all alone where any passing ruffian could do unspeakable things to you.” Wall swallowed nervously, not having a clue what the man was talking about.

“Look, I’m a Duke,” he said desperately, “if you just walk away, I won’t cause a problem for you! I’ve got money!” he added desperately, face falling when the man laughed.

“I’m afraid I know exactly how little you actually have,” he said. “The problem is, you shouldn’t have it!”

“Wh- what?”

“My employer wishes you to be removed from the equation, so a certain something you now own would enter into her possession. I must say, I never thought you would prove to be so tricky to eliminate. You have provided me with an entertaining dance, your Grace, but now I’m afraid it’s time to finish it!”

So saying he raised the gun and took aim at the middle Wall’s forehead, who frantically tried to think of a way out of the situation. He was saved the bother when the door to the toilets flew open, knocking the assassin’s hand and sending the gun clattering to the floor. Damerell staggered out, hand clamped over his mouth, managing to tread on the man’s toes as he reached for the opposite wall to lean against. Wall scrambled for the gun and held it on the assassin as Damerell drew deep, gasping breaths.

“Do NOT go in there!” he gasped, “it’s inhuman!” As his eyes focussed he took in the circumstances of his return to the corridor and frowned. “What the bloody hell?”

“This guy was about to kill me when you came blundering in.” Wall glanced at him in exasperation, and the man seized the opportunity to spring forward, with one trained movement knocking the gun out of Wall’s hand and settling into a fighting stance.

“While I dislike hand-to-hand combat,” he said, grinning evilly, “rest assured I am trained in multiple ways to kill someone without the aid of accoutrements!”

Damerell glanced over at Wall. “Ever notice how bad guys talk a lot?”

Wall nodded. “And use unnecessarily long words.” He considered this. “Then again, Cholmondely-Smythe does that as well.”

“True, but I don’t think he’s evil. Just, you know, weird.”

“Shut up!” the assassin screamed, spitting saliva on Wall’s coat.

“Hey! That’s expensive!” Wall exclaimed, rubbing at the stain and not seeing the assassin start to move. Once again the toilet door came to his rescue as Klumpf slammed it open, hitting the moving assassin so hard it broke on his head. The Klingon breathed deeply, looking down at the unconscious man. He glanced up at Damerell with a surprised expression on his face.

“What have I missed?”

 

Cholmondely-Smythe had his hands on his hips, and was glaring angrily at Desete.

“Well?” the captain demanded, “care to explain that little field of debris?”

Desete shrugged helplessly. They had spent the last few minutes scanning the debris, and the former ensign had confirmed that it was indeed the remains of the freighter they were supposed to meet.

“My guess is they’ve been destroyed,” Hill said from his chair. Cholmondely-Smythe tried to ignore him.

“Is there anything else out there at all?” he asked, and Bleep’s metal hands tapped at his controls.

“I am picking up indications of Romulan disruptor fire,” the android reported. “Also there is an odd distortion bearing seven-six mark three-oh-four, distance one thousand kilometres.”

“Put it on screen,” Cholmondely-Smythe ordered, and the viewscreen changed to show an empty patch of space. “Elaborate.”

“There is an intermittent pulse at that bearing,” Bleep reported. “However I am unable to determine its origin.”

Desete walked to the back of the bridge to peer at the readings. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “You know, given the wavelength those readings are on, I’d say that’s a Romulan singularity drive. Only- the phase coils have been misaligned, so the cloak isn’t blocking it properly.”

Hill was instantly on his feet, but before he could open his mouth to order a red alert Cholmondely-Smythe silenced him with a cutting motion of his hand.

“Sounds dashed sloppy to me,” he mused. “they could be up to something.”

Hill shrugged. “Like what?”

“I have… absolutely no idea,” Cholmondely-Smythe admitted, sitting in his command chair and staring intently at the screen. “Head towards the distortion, Ensign,” he told Irving. “Let’s see what the blighter does, shall we?”

Desete glanced up from where he was still studying Bleep’s console. “Chances are they’ll shoot first, ask questions later.”

“Be quiet.”

 

“Commander!” the Romulan at the helm console shouted suddenly, “the Psycho is moving towards us!”

Torett whirled to face him. “Are you certain?”

He nodded. “They are heading straight at us.”

The Counsellor waited nervously, knowing that whatever N’Vil had done to allow the Psycho to find them had succeeded. Unfortunately, she was uncertain what to do next. Torett, however, had no such problem.

“Move us around to a position below their main hull,” she ordered. “If they really can see us, they’ll move to avoid an attack… and if they do, I’ll destroy them!”

 

“Captain, the distortion is approaching,” Bleep reported.

“Jolly good, back us off, there’s a good chap,” Cholmondely-Smythe told Irving, who hastened to comply.

“Well, now they definitely know we can see them,” Hill commented. Cholmondely-Smythe nodded.

“Now it just depends on what kind of a person the commander of that ship is,” he said, and Desete let out a barking laugh from the back of the bridge.

“They’re a Romulan!” he insisted. “Unless they’re a very odd one, they’ll attack!”

As Cholmondely-Smythe suppressed a sigh, Hill narrowed his eyes.

“You know, he’s really starting to piss me off,” he muttered. Cholmondely-Smythe raised an eyebrow.

“Language, Number One,” he said mildly.

 

“Prepare to decloak and fire!” Torett practically screamed, having flown into a fury when it had appeared the Psycho could definitely track them.

“Belay that order!” Hill shouted, seizing her chance with only mild panic. She stood firm as Torett spun around to glare at her wildly.

“How dare you?!” she shouted, but Hill overrode her.

“I dare because I am Tal’Shiar,” she said self-importantly, noting N’Vil’s approving smirk out of the corner of her eye. “And I do not believe you fit to be in command of this ship,” the pseudo-Romulan added, giving Torett a look. “We can not afford the risk of taking that ship on, despite its size. Who knows what weapons Starfleet has installed on it. This mission is too important to risk losing it all due to your bumbling incompetence. You are relieved,” she finished, heart pounding in her chest as she saw the other members of the bridge crew turn to look at her.

As Torett sputtered in disbelief, Hill glared around at the bridge crew. “I am taking command of this ship,” she told them. “If you do not willingly assist me there will be repercussions – for you and your families.” Part of her hated herself for saying it, but she was buoyed by the knowledge that she had absolutely no way of following the threat through. Once they had all turned back to their consoles, she gestured for N’Vil to relieve Torett of her sidearm and stepped in front of the Romulan commanser, gesturing for her to stand aside. As the flabbergasted Romulan did so, Hill gave her a sweet smile.

“All it needs is a little diplomacy to get them to lower their shields and they will be completely vulnerable.” Her smile turned into a steely stare. “Now watch and learn.”

Wishing she was as calm inside as she was outwardly appearing, Hill turned to N’Vil. “Hail them.”

 

“Captain, we are being hailed,” Bleep reported. Cholmondely-Smythe frowned.

“That’s somewhat out of character, isn’t it?” he mused. Behind him, Hill shrugged helpfully. “Very well, be a good android and put it on the screen, chop chop! This is Captain Cholmondely-Smythe of the Federation Starship Psycho. Please identify yourselves this instant!”

Cholmondely-Smythe stood up and smoothed his uniform tunic down as the screen changed to reveal a Romulan officer who looked remarkably familiar. He was momentarily stunned into speechlessness as Counsellor Hill glared out of the viewscreen at them all, willing them with her eyes not to say anything stupid. Hill stood up, pointed at the image, gibbered a little and then fainted. The Counsellor rolled her eyes and started speaking.

“I see you and your crew remember me, Captain,” she ad-libbed, trying to cover up Hill’s gaffe.

“Indeed, how could we forget?” Cholmondely-Smythe asked rhetorically. “Though things do not appear to be the way they were when last we saw you…” he said, somewhat at a loss.

“Indeed. You are now looking at Major Y’Von of the Tal Shiar,” the Counsellor told him, stressing the rank as if that was all that had changed. She glanced to one side then back at Cholmondely-Smythe. “Captain, I can’t help but feel this is all a misunderstanding that can be worked out.”

“Are you responsible for the destruction of that jolly old freighter?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That was an unfortunate incident,” she admitted with the barest flicker of emotion, “but I can assure you that no more shall occur.”

Hill was clambering back into his chair behind Cholmondely-Smythe, staring at his great-niece in horror.

“Perhaps if I beam over to your ship,” she said, eyeing first Hill and then Cholmondely-Smythe, “we can discuss this further.”

Cholmondely-Smythe hesitated, glancing at his first officer for suggestions. That quickly proved to be pointless so he considered his options, then shrugged. “That would be acceptable,” he said. “I shall arrange for you to be beamed over post-haste. Please standby.”

The Counsellor nodded. “Thank you, Captain,” she said before the screen went blank.

Hill finally managed to make a noise, a sort of sputtering that showed no signs of becoming a coherent sentence.

“Quite,” Cholmondely-Smythe mused. Frowning, he turned to Bleep. “I want a transporter lock on her the instant one become available,” he ordered. “And maintain it no matter what.”

 

Breathing a surreptitious sigh of relief, the Counsellor turned to Commander Torett, who was watching her with a mixture of suspicion and respect.

“You’re known within the Federation?” the commander asked, and the Counsellor allowed herself a small smile.

“Some people have heard of me,” she admitted, then turned to business. “The Starfleet ship will lower its shields in order to beam me over. When that happens, we will have our chance to strike.” She glanced at N’Vil who tipped his head in almost imperceptible affirmation. In the time and situation she had managed to buy for them, he had come up with a plan to attempt. While she trusted him more than anyone else on board, she wished she knew more – or any – of the details.

“The shields of the Psycho are dropping,” N’Vil reported.

“FIRE!!!” Torett screamed, and N’vil’s hands danced across the controls to comply.

 

On the Psycho, the bridge shuddered a little but nothing exploded. Cholmondely-Smythe frowned in confusion. If there was one thing he had learned in his time on the ship so far, it was that the Psycho never failed to randomly explode when they went into combat.

“Report!” he called out.

“We’ve been fired on, but are taking minimal damage,” Hill reported. “Their weapons are on low power settings.”

“We must make them believe we have been hit,” Cholmondely-Smythe said, standing. “Cut power to attitude control. Let us begin to drift. Vent the lateral collector ports as well.”

A second disruptor blast lanced out to strike the Psycho, and the ship yawed, seemingly out of control. This time, something began to coalesce on the floor of the bridge between the Captain’s chair and the helm console. It was three life support pods, each containing what appeared to be a Romulan. Desete moved from where he had been sitting unobtrusively and examined them.

“It’s the defectors!” he exclaimed. Cholmondely-Smythe slapped his combadge.

“Captain to Sickbay, get up here with three life support trolleys!” Without waiting for acknowledgement he turned to Hill. “Report!”

“They were beamed over on a carrier wave piggy-backing the disruptor blasts,” his first officer reported, keeping his balance by holding on to his console as the ship bucked under them.

Cholmondely-Smythe nodded. “Restore attitude control,” he ordered. “And beam the Counsellor off that blasted ship!”

“Err…”

Cholmondely-Smythe turned to Hill, who was fiddling with his controls, refusing to look up. “What is it?” he asked.

“The attitude controls- I- um-” he held up a switch that was dangling wires.

Cholmondely-Smythe’s face hit his palm briefly before sensible thought took over and he opened up a channel to Engineering.

“Stark here.”

“Be a good chap and stabilise the ship, would you?”

“Yeah, uh, ok, I can do that,” Stark said unconvincingly before signing off.

The turbolift doors opened and various medical staff bustled out, rapidly loading the Romulans onto stretchers, fighting the movement of the ship the entire way. One of the stretchers momentarily pinned Ensign Stocks against his console before they were on their way, the doors closing just as the ship slipped back into stability.

“Beam her off their now!”

 

Torett was studying the image on the screen carefully. Eyes suddenly widening, she headed to the controls of the science officer and shouldered him out of the way. The Counsellor watched, unable to stop her as she discovered the disruptor sabotage. The Romulan commander looked up, glaring furiously at Hill and N’Vil, eyes glittering with a glee that made her look more than a little crazy.

“I see two traitors in our midst!” she spat, grabbing for her disruptor, a comical look of surprise crossing her face when she remembered N’Vil had taken it. N’Vil himself reached for his disruptor before the Counsellor could speak but he vanished in a flash of light before he could draw it as the pilot stood up and vaporised him, then turning his weapon on the Counsellor.

“Well then, Major Y’Von,” Torett snarled, “it looks like things are reversed. I’m going to take you to the nearest Romulan base, have you tortured for information and then executed. Slowly.” She turned to the pilot, taking his weapon and pointing it at the Counsellor herself. “Drop shields and cloak, get us out of here!” she ordered. The pilot rushed to obey, but as soon as the shields went down the Counsellor found herself in the grip of a familiar transporter beam. Torett screamed with anger and fired but it was too late. Just before she disappeared completely, the Counsellor was unable to resist sticking her tongue out at the enraged Romulan.

 

Captain’s Log, Stardate 502301.984632. After reclaiming Counsellor Hill from the Romulan Warbird we exited the system with best possible speed, and thankfully they chose not to pursue us back into Federation-controlled space. The Counsellor’s normal features have been restored, much to her relief, and we are resuming our patrols. A rather nasty predicament brought on by rather confusing events. I’m still rather vague on it all myself, to be honest.

Also, we have rendezvoused with my helmsman, navigator and Klingon Liaison after their little jaunt. Apparently Lieutenant-Commander Wall is the hereditary peer of a long forgotten district or some such back in good old Blighty. Something has apparently convinced him that it would be best were this not bandied about willy-nilly, with which I wholeheartedly agree.

“He’s really the duke of Milton Keynes?” Commander Hill asked sceptically, looking across Fred’s Bar at Wall, who was huddled over a pint of ale looking morose. Damerell shrugged.

“Yep. Got nothing to show for it, though. I looked it up. Milton Keynes was destroyed during the Eugenics wars so all he’s really the duke of is a patch of ground that he’s not allowed to do anything with ‘cos its of historical importance.”

Hill snorted. “Yeah, but it’s still a title. Why isn’t he lording it over the rest of us?”

“I think he was going to,” Damerell shrugged again, “but when people started trying to assassinate him he decided it was better to keep it quiet.”

Hill nodded knowingly as he watched the Counsellor approach Wall and sit on the stool beside him, ordering some random cocktail from Fred, who obligingly slid it over to her.

“What’s got you so down?” she asked, half-heartedly slipping into her Counsellor role. Wall sighed.

“I found out I had a relative who was old British aristocracy and when he died it passed to me, but then loads of people tried to kill me so I can’t talk about it. It’s been a helluva couple of days.”

She snorted derisively. “Hey, I was kidnapped, had my features altered and forced to pretend to be a Romulan while also attempting to stay alive and get defectors delivered safely to the Federation,” she told him, “so don’t talk to me about bad days.”

Wall gave that consideration. “Okay, you win,” he finally admitted, cheering up almost instantaneously as he realised someone else had been having a worse time than him. He looked suddenly confused. “Why did they pick you?”

It was her turn to sigh. “I really don’t know. We were the closest ship, possibly, and I’m an empath so I had advantages in the situation.” She trailed off as he realised he had already tuned her out. “Eh. Bad luck,” she said, and he nodded.

“Bummer.”

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, drinking their drinks. After a time, Wall spoke.

“Hey, wanna see pictures of the asteroid I own?”

 

The Orion man, Cremini, hurried down the dimly lit corridor, cloak hood pulled up to cover his face. He knocked on one door twice, once, three times, and it opened to allow him entry. Waiting there, standing looking out of a window at the rain pouring down over the Orion capital, was the woman with the voluptuous figure. She turned as Cremini approached.

“Our agent failed,” Cremini said in a quiet voice. Receiving no reply, he continued. “This will disrupt our plans. If the stupid human could have been eliminated…”

“But he wasn’t,” the female said in an icy tone that made the other go pale. “Thanks to your bumbling. What possessed you to hire that incompetent assassin?”

“You wanted our part in it kept quiet, Mistress,” he said carefully.

She glared at him. “Aye- I mean, yes. Well. As useful as the asteroid would have been as would have been as a staging post, we still move forward with the plan. Is everything in position?”

“It is. The operative is ready. We have an opportunity to eliminate the Psycho as well.”

She smiled dangerously. “Then we’ll take ’em all to t’cleaners.”