By a British friend. Since it's in english, I think I should post it here.
A Thick Surface-Coat
Space. A drifting vacuum. A barely-inhabited wasteland of ideas.
A final frontier.
Admiral Ulysses Trent admired the scene, rolling forwards and backwards on his feet, casting to the void from the great battle-cruiser Extended Amity a look of barely-concealed contempt, his face and bearing betraying the heroic likeness he was famous for. Famous to all the men of the New King’s Navy, and no doubt famous to all the little people with common names who shined boots or cleaned chimneys. Yes, indeed, he considered; famous to all and sundry for his deeds, his derring-do and, no doubt, not just a shade because of his finely-cultivated moustache, too. Famous throughout the Oligarchy, who had sent the great fleet out here to this most final of frontiers.
Only it wasn’t looking quite so final anymore.
The good Admiral ceased his toe-to-heel aerobics and allowed a Look to take hold on his face. It was a look of puzzlement, ringed and bordered with a rapidly-advancing tide of impatience, which rapidly rose to take precedence. Turning his head, he surveyed the grandiose vista of the Bridge, its walls covered with fancy paintings of hunters and gentlemen of old, well-lit by concealed lighting. Huffing under his breath, he looked ahead again, to the front of the room, and his look of impatience intensified.
He leant to one side, hissing out of the corner of his mouth to the personal aide that stood there, forever ready. “Who or what the blazes are they, then?” He demanded.
The aide looked up at him, keeping his view down low, in accordance with precedent, and noted only the fine lustre of the Admiral’s ceremonial vestments, the fabric red, the buttons gleaming and the medals ablaze with the care and attention borne of constant use.
-And the bristling underside of a huge and highly irritable aristocratic moustache.
“It is a vessel, sir.” Uttered the scrawny, ever-faithful personal assistant. “A spaceship.” He bowed to Trent, showing all due respect, while the larger man bristled and let out an indignant rumble.
“Well I can see it’s a bloody spaceship, Atkins!” The Admiral bellowed, pointing at the large viewscreen at the head of the bridge, its borders lavishly fronted and decorated. “That’s fairly bloody implicit, if you want my opinion. It is a vessel, you see, which as you so finely noted, is in space.”
“Yes sir.” Came the reply, quiet and resigned.
“I should think so too, boy, stating the obvious like that.”
“Yes sir.”
“When I want your opinion I will damn well ask for it, eh?”
“Yes sir.”
Long seconds passed. The Admiral looked out over the banister ringing the bridge, tapping his fingers on the metal and furrowing his brows at the sleek, alien monstrosity in front of him, hanging there in the void as a huge, misguided statement of metallic aesthetics, its prow curved and disc-like. It seemed almost to emanate intimidation, and his hackles rose again.
“Well what is it, exactly, Atkins?”
The smaller man sighed, his head still low, as he took out a small flat-screen readout and cradled it in the grip of one hand, studying the forwarded technical summary from the Bridge crew.
“It appears, sir, to be a manufactured vessel of approximately seven hundred yards in length utilising a form of antimatter reaction system for power generation. The two modules you see there, behind the saucer-section, function to twist space and propel the craft.” He pointed to the front viewscreen, which zoomed into an image of the bizarre craft and causing, he noted with some quiet satisfaction, the Admiral to flinch slightly before regaining his composure. The two of them looked forward, then, to stare upon the majesty of this new construct, hanging in the void.
It was as if all the engineers and scientists in the world had been drawn together, as if by some queer pseudo-gravity, into one great intellectual mass and had decided to build something new. -Something wonderful and exotic, to impress all the peoples of the world and call them up to sing, aloud and ecstatic, in a single unified voice.
If so, he considered, somebody had clearly shot the lot of them before they could finish.
The craft looked like it could have been varnished, it was so smooth!
“So all that you just said.” Rumbled the admiral. “That’s what it is, eh?”
“Sir.”
“Jolly good.” The great man rocked backwards and forwards on his heels again, his brow furrowed and seemingly deep in the strata of thought which would, no doubt, soon rupture, to bring forward a great golden seam of molten inspiration.
Atkins considered quietly a better analogy in the privacy of his own mind, and so no doubt down in those deep, dark mental trenches, at the very bottom of the Admiral’s oceanic mind, a small eyeless fish was about to fart.
It did not disappoint.
“So is the blighter there for a reason or what?”
“I expect so, sir.” Sighed Atkins. “Indeed, I rather suspect it wishes to contact us, sir.” The aide dared a look upwards at Trent again.
“What the devil would it want to do that for?” He waved a hand dismissively at the smooth-skinned alien vessel. “It’s in our bloody way is what it is!”
“Yes sir. Astute as ever sir, but if I might point out; we do not know for certain of they are peaceful or hostile, and I rather suspect they think the same of us.” He nodded at the image of the ship. “Would we let an unknown military vessel into our own territory? Would the Royals allow an unknown incursion inside their own dominion without at some point querying as to its identity?” He looked at Trent, who continued staring straight ahead, deigning not even to glance at the man he had been bellowing to so authoritatively.
“Atkins.” He said. “I have long thought well of you, my boy, and I would think you to be a well-thought and intelligent man save for these occasional, and otherwise entirely forgivable, episodes of utter stupidity.” The moustache moved from side-to-side, full of expression. “We are a Peace Corps vessel! What possible harm could we pose to those spatial wogs over there!?”
The aide paused to consider this, looking to the head of the bridge at the glittering, curvy, saucer-headed shape of the alien vessel ahead in comparison to the motley assortment of vessels that current projected the King’s own very special platitudes as part of the Royal Jute Oligarchial Peace Corps. -A motley assortment of vessels whose blocky kilometre-long hulls, bristling with a varied assortment of pointy and interesting devices, might well seem just a tad threatening.
He sighed inwardly, not for the first time and no doubt not for the last, and considered how best to phrase this to the good Admiral.
“Sir.” He started, full of hope. “It is entirely possible that our alien friends here are not aware of that small but noteworthy fact, and have instead carefully noted the other, almost dismissible but nevertheless somewhat pertinent issue that we are, as a matter of fact, sir, armed to the teeth.”
“Well of course we are, boy. We can’t simply go sending out missions of peace into the cosmos of they can’t defend themselves, can we?”
Once again Atkins pondered the man’s words of wisdom, wondering just what exact aspect of ‘self-defence’ was covered when manipulating weapons that could mould the face of a planet into something with the rough consistency of strawberry jam.
“Of course not sir, but you see they don’t know-”
“I mean, this is a God-damned battle-cruiser, Atkins!”
“… And which, therein, rather lies my original point sir, that-”
“A battle-cruiser on a mission of peace, by God!”
He gave up. “Yes, sir.” Hurling meringues at brick walls could wait for another day.
His thoughts were interrupted by the chime of some miscellaneous instrument on one of the consoles ringing the rear of the bridge, comfortably away from the fine artwork and concealed lighting. A crewman scurried around to the front end of the bridge, saluted and pressed a transcript into his hands before saluting a second time and running off, as if stung by the forward bridge lighting and yearning to retreat to the dark bowels of the communication station in which he dwelled.
Ah. Thought Atkins delightedly, reading the transcript. A distraction.
“Sir.” He opened to the Admiral. “We’re receiving transmissions from the alien vessel. -Standard kind of stuff, really; an organised enough format. Our computers should be decoding it right about n-” He stopped as the screen at the front flared, casting uncouth light into the room and offending his senses. Quickly, as if embarrassed, the light levels returned to a more subdued level, allowing the two of them to look upon the interior of an alien spacecraft with not a slight measure of awe.
The interior was pale. It was light and cheerful, busy and efficient-looking.
And manifestly boring.
Three seats were arrayed in front of the camera, light-cream and thoroughly Spartan in appearance, ringed at the rear by something crescent-shaped and clearly aesthetically-derived. The two seats to the left were occupied; one by a frowning bearded individual, displaying some carefully-honed expression of hard concentration. The other was a shorter man, bald-headed and severe, now standing from his seat to gaze at the camera.
Trent leaned to Atkins and whispered, low and conspiratorial, his gaze still glued to the large ornate screen. “Do we have a two-way communications link?”
“Not yet, sir, but shortly.”
“By God they’re ugly.” He muttered, scratching his chin and causing the aide to once again pause before answering.
“Sir, they appear to be human, just like us.”
“Aye, but look on the beard on that one! –And not a decent moustache in sight, by the looks of ‘em. What kind of barbarians are these, do you think?”
“I couldn’t say sir. Communications are coming on line imminently.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Trent. “Shall we use the universal translator, sir?”
A pair of thick eyebrows danced together for a second, showing the evidently deep and meaningful level of thought this question enticed from the Admiral. “Hmmm.” He said. “It’s a tough one, but you know; no, I won’t. I have something better planned for these devils.” He nodded at the screen.
“’Something better’, sir?”
“Yes, Atkins. Just you watch and learn; there’s a precedent for this kind of thing, don’t you know.”
“As you say, sir. Communications are now online.”
And with that moment, Admiral Ulysses Trent stared straight into the face of destiny, gazing right into the level eyes of a little bald-headed man who was to be ambassador and first contact with this strange new society. He drew in his breath and made himself every bit as regal as he could. His medals gleamed in the light, his gravitas was palpable.
This moment, he considered to himself, will rest in history forever.
He breathed in and stood straighter, moving a hand out in greeting just as the other man did the same, a wry smile on his face.
“Greetings. I’m Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation Star-”
“DO. YOU. SPEAK. ENGLISH?”
The bald-headed man stopped, his mouth hanging faintly open and a look of acute puzzlement crossing his face.
“I’m Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the-”
“ME. BIG CHAPPY.” Roared the Admiral in a sing-song voice. “FROM OVER… BIG. WATER.” He gestured with his hands, smiling proudly. “WE SAY, ‘HELLO’.”
The Admiral sank back onto his heels again, face radiating a satisfied happiness, stuffing his hands into his pockets and grinning. “Greetings.”
The man known as Picard frowned, his face sullen and not a bit antagonised at this outburst. “Are you quite alright?” He said.
“Never better.” Bellowed the Admiral, moustache perking up. “Ah, I see you have one of those universal translator thingies going right, eh? Top stuff.”
“Yes. Right.” Returned the ‘Picard’. “Indeed.” The man floundered, wondering where to proceed to next in the conversation, but was promptly beaten to the pip by Trent.
“So… what; are you going to get out of our way or what, man?”
Picard bristled at that, anger rushing to his face. “I most certainly will not ‘get out of your way’, Captain! I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation Starship Enterprise-”
“Yes, yes.” Said Trent with a wave of dismissal.
“And you have just entered space under the administration of the United Federation of Planets!!”
“Ah.” Said the Admiral, perking up again. “A native! Wonderful!”
The man known as Picard stepped back and placed his hands on his hips, wondering, as Atkins frequently did, exactly what new angle of attack he should take with the Admiral’s mental brick wall.
He seemed to come to a conclusion.
“Listen, Captain. We are both men of status and I would feel better if I knew who I was dealing with here. Do your people have a name?”
“Of course we have names, my good fellow!” Exuded Trent. “Why, how terribly rude of me; this is no way to bring civilisation to the fringes now, is it? I am Admiral Ulysses Trent of the His Majesty’s own battle-cruiser Extended Amity, of His Majesty’s Own Peace Corps. We come with greetings from the Jute Oligarchy to bring manners and good civilisation to… good Lord! Is that a woman!?” He extended a quivering finger to the image in front of him, upon which a passive-looking yet, for all visible purposes, curvaceous brunette had just calmly sat down on the right-hand seat on the alien Bridge.
“Yes, it is.” Replied Captain Picard. “This is Commander Deanna Troi. Does a woman on the Bridge of a starship offend you, Admiral Trent?”
“Offend? Offend? Good Lord no, man, but be it on your own backs and thank goodness that I arrived when I did, my good fellow. Have you any idea what form of bad luck a woman brings to be on board a navy vessel? No offence intended, m’lady.”
“I do not, Admiral. Perhaps we could now progress to the purpose of our presence here, and of the matter of a planet by the name ‘Theta VIII’.”
Trent leaned back from the screen at that, his great brow furrowing with consternation and the grinding rusty metal wheels of intense cogitation. -As ever, the offshoot of which was to ask a question of his aide.
“What was that, then? ‘Feet are ate’ or something? What the blazes is that man talking about?”
Atkins decided, for the sake of good form, not to make apparent any internal frustration at that; not in front of an alien civilisation, at any rate. It would look bad on the records.
“Sir.” He said. “I suspect ‘Theta VIII’ is that planet we passed some weeks ago. The one we contacted, sir.”
“Ah yes!” the Admiral turned back to Captain Picard and waved a merry finger. “Worry not, Mr. Picard; your planet is fine and well. We passed it on the way, so you can be sure of that. There are no scars, no burnt blackish bits and there was no eternal winter, as far as I could see; all said, it seems to be a fairly top-notch planet in my opinion, positively glowing with health.”
The black stare he earned from Picard could have stopped a tiger in its tracks and made it slink off, embarrassed and deterred. On Trent, however, it merely served to ricochet, slung off the man’s impenetrable self-confidence like a bullet off a mountain.
“Well? What’s wrong? Your planet is fine, just as I said.”
“Our planet, Admiral Trent, was last found to be under the dominion of your own invading forces!”
“Well of course, man. What on Earth did you think I meant by ‘fine’? –We came, we saw and we spread civilisation around a little bit. You’ll thank us in the end, my man.”
“You invaded a Federation planet!”
“Nonsense. This is a Peace Corps ship; we don’t invade places, we’re not an armada and we’re not doing anything detrimental. Indeed we have been tremendously provident showing your backwaters bunch a bit of organised civilisation for once. Dear Lord, man, you’d think we hadn’t done you a favour the way you’re going on and on about it!”
“They did not ask for your civilisation to take away their rights, Admiral. They were doing perfectly well as a Federation territory before you brought this act of blatant aggression between us.”
The Admiral stuttered at that, irritated and beside-himself. “‘Doing well’? Doing well!? –Just look who’s talking, Mr. I-See-No-Problem-With-Women-On-The-Bridge. Let’s face it, me laddo: Your bunch don’t even have a civilisation to live in; not a real one anyway.
“I mean, where’s your flag, eh? Do you people even have one?”
The man known as Picard shook himself and directed a single finger across the transmitted gulf of distance between them, and straight at the Admiral, who leaned out of its way as if shunning the barrel of a gun. The crewmembers behind the man merely scowled darkly.
“Listen here! I will have no time for your games! You have committed an act of war against the United federation of Planets and this will not stand idle! I demand that you contact your superiors immediately regarding this issue before I am forced to assume combat conditions and prepare for the immediate defence of my ship!”
“Bloody hell you’re a testy lot.” Trent lowered his head and carefully straightened out the extended fuzz of his moustache, his attitude that of a man prepared to make only the most supreme sacrifice of honour and good taste by descending to actually hearing out his counterpart. “Very well then, Mr. Picard. You have tested me and I have tested you and I feel we can come to a compromise. And here it is…
“I will relinquish, for this moment, control of your planet Fetes ‘R’ Great, or whatever it is from the Jute Oligarchy, provided that, -and only under this one condition!-… provided that you can show me the flag of your nation.
“And no cheating! I’ll know if it’s a bloody ornamental tablecloth like the last lot of wogs I asked.” He leaned over to Atkins once again to mutter, his face sporting the grin of the man who thinks, against the face of all observable evidence, that he is being tremendously clever.
“They haven’t got a chance. What people who can’t even afford decent clothes for their officers will have thought of a flag, eh? This one’s in the bag.”
The screen flickered, and in the place of the alien Bridge was something else.
It was glorious. It was inspiring.
It was a symbol; a symbol of a people that lived, not in fear of overarching authority, but in the quiet self-involved quest of self-improvement in a state that cared for them and all the people in it, as a glistening, shimmering utopia in the night. It was not a stamp of authority, but a seal of hope and of a better, simpler, nobler way to live, out here in the dank reality of the cosmos.
A starfield, three in particular shining brighter than the rest, encircled and encompassed neatly, and this was all that was needed to give the impression of utter, inescapable, superiority of spirit. It was the flag of a people who knew they had found the right way, and sought only to open the eyes of others to it.
Trent stared, slack-jawed, at it and took it all in, drinking in its splendour.
“Well…” He began. “I’ll give you that much; it’s a flag…
“But it’s not a real flag, is it?”
The image snapped off, revealing once again the figure of Picard. If anything, his anger had only intensified from its previous incandescent fury, held vaguely in-check.
“What?” He demanded.
“I said it’s not exactly a real flag, is it?” Said Trent, indicating the hanging fabric to his side. “I mean, this, this is a real flag! Just look at the colours, the red, the white, the green, and the styling. Now this is a flag for a real nation.” He gestured dismissively. “My five year-old could make a better one than yours. Come on!”
“Trent.” Began Picard. “Let me tell you about something we hold dear, as a people. It is called freedom, and the freedom to be able to choose our own paths.
“We have a rule, Admiral, which covers everything we do in Starfleet. We name it the Prime Directive, in accordance with its importance to us, and it states an ideology of non-interference.
“A people should be able to make their own decisions to come to you or not, Admiral, and you have broken that trust.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Waved the Admiral. “I get the point, but we have a rule too, you know. We have a directive, and it states ‘to boldly go, and explore strange new worlds’. That is what I am doing. That is my directive, so if you don’t mind I’m just going to go on and boldly bloody-well go!”
There was only one more statement from the man known as Picard. Only one last statement would be given, and the conversation would be ended by him, as all things would ever be ended by the men and women of Starfleet.
He stared Trent down and waited,until it seemed that the very vacuum of interstellar space had crept in with that stare, to freeze the good Admiral to that one spot and to wait for the blow to come.
“They will fight you, Trent. We will fight you, and we will win.”
And with that, the image on the screen died, its own energy sucked away by the force of the statement, the communication having ended. In its place was only the grey, scintillating form of that starship with its sleek design and unknown capabilities, bellowing a silent resistance.
The silence on the Bridge was total, despite all the sounds of the equipment, and slowly, as if operated by strings and wires, Admiral Ulysses Trent and his aide turned to look at one another, a cold certainty present in both their eyes.
The Admiral took a deep breath, and solemnly submitted to the inevitable, having considered Picard’s words to their full extent.
He let out that breath.
“Well bollocks to that! Put a shot past their bows, you bugger, and give the bastards something to flag-wave at!” He gripped the metal railing tightly and stared ahead at the viewscreen, and somehow, with the intensity of that rage, all the decorations and effrontery of the colossal Bridge melted away, leaving only that one image, of a single, defiant alien starship.
-Which suddenly flashed actinic, causing him to cry and raise and arm to cover his face. A deep rumble filled the room as the superstructure shuddered.
“What in the name of my good mother was that, Atkins!?” He bellowed, his fury underpinned now with a cold spike of fear.
“That, sir.” Spoke the aide, coolly consulting his datascreen. “Was the shot across their bows.”
“Excuse me?”
“The shot across their bows, sir. That was it.”
The Admiral looked at the viewscreen and its field of fading actinic death and back to Atkins and his datascreen, then back at the viewscreen once more. He opened his mouth.
“Whoopsie.”
“Sir?”
“Oh, nothing… I, err… that I, I… um.” He searched for an appropriate phrase and one came to him. “Ah, bugger.”
“Sir?”
“Oh hell.” Spoke the Admiral, waving a single arm, its sleeves embroided by some of the finest tailors in the Oligarchy and presented by the King himself. “Just shoot the rest of the guns at whatever’s left, OK?”
“Sir.”
“We might as well make it look deliberate.”
“Yes sir.”
“To boldly go, indeed…”
“Sir?”
“Well that’s just the thing, isn’t it? They always say ‘to boldly go’, but everyone else seems to ignore the ‘bold’ bit. I don’t you see, lad, and that’s the secret.”
“Sir.”
“Always know how to read behind the lines. That’s my motto!”
“Yes sir. As you say, sir.”
A Thick Surface-Coat
Space. A drifting vacuum. A barely-inhabited wasteland of ideas.
A final frontier.
Admiral Ulysses Trent admired the scene, rolling forwards and backwards on his feet, casting to the void from the great battle-cruiser Extended Amity a look of barely-concealed contempt, his face and bearing betraying the heroic likeness he was famous for. Famous to all the men of the New King’s Navy, and no doubt famous to all the little people with common names who shined boots or cleaned chimneys. Yes, indeed, he considered; famous to all and sundry for his deeds, his derring-do and, no doubt, not just a shade because of his finely-cultivated moustache, too. Famous throughout the Oligarchy, who had sent the great fleet out here to this most final of frontiers.
Only it wasn’t looking quite so final anymore.
The good Admiral ceased his toe-to-heel aerobics and allowed a Look to take hold on his face. It was a look of puzzlement, ringed and bordered with a rapidly-advancing tide of impatience, which rapidly rose to take precedence. Turning his head, he surveyed the grandiose vista of the Bridge, its walls covered with fancy paintings of hunters and gentlemen of old, well-lit by concealed lighting. Huffing under his breath, he looked ahead again, to the front of the room, and his look of impatience intensified.
He leant to one side, hissing out of the corner of his mouth to the personal aide that stood there, forever ready. “Who or what the blazes are they, then?” He demanded.
The aide looked up at him, keeping his view down low, in accordance with precedent, and noted only the fine lustre of the Admiral’s ceremonial vestments, the fabric red, the buttons gleaming and the medals ablaze with the care and attention borne of constant use.
-And the bristling underside of a huge and highly irritable aristocratic moustache.
“It is a vessel, sir.” Uttered the scrawny, ever-faithful personal assistant. “A spaceship.” He bowed to Trent, showing all due respect, while the larger man bristled and let out an indignant rumble.
“Well I can see it’s a bloody spaceship, Atkins!” The Admiral bellowed, pointing at the large viewscreen at the head of the bridge, its borders lavishly fronted and decorated. “That’s fairly bloody implicit, if you want my opinion. It is a vessel, you see, which as you so finely noted, is in space.”
“Yes sir.” Came the reply, quiet and resigned.
“I should think so too, boy, stating the obvious like that.”
“Yes sir.”
“When I want your opinion I will damn well ask for it, eh?”
“Yes sir.”
Long seconds passed. The Admiral looked out over the banister ringing the bridge, tapping his fingers on the metal and furrowing his brows at the sleek, alien monstrosity in front of him, hanging there in the void as a huge, misguided statement of metallic aesthetics, its prow curved and disc-like. It seemed almost to emanate intimidation, and his hackles rose again.
“Well what is it, exactly, Atkins?”
The smaller man sighed, his head still low, as he took out a small flat-screen readout and cradled it in the grip of one hand, studying the forwarded technical summary from the Bridge crew.
“It appears, sir, to be a manufactured vessel of approximately seven hundred yards in length utilising a form of antimatter reaction system for power generation. The two modules you see there, behind the saucer-section, function to twist space and propel the craft.” He pointed to the front viewscreen, which zoomed into an image of the bizarre craft and causing, he noted with some quiet satisfaction, the Admiral to flinch slightly before regaining his composure. The two of them looked forward, then, to stare upon the majesty of this new construct, hanging in the void.
It was as if all the engineers and scientists in the world had been drawn together, as if by some queer pseudo-gravity, into one great intellectual mass and had decided to build something new. -Something wonderful and exotic, to impress all the peoples of the world and call them up to sing, aloud and ecstatic, in a single unified voice.
If so, he considered, somebody had clearly shot the lot of them before they could finish.
The craft looked like it could have been varnished, it was so smooth!
“So all that you just said.” Rumbled the admiral. “That’s what it is, eh?”
“Sir.”
“Jolly good.” The great man rocked backwards and forwards on his heels again, his brow furrowed and seemingly deep in the strata of thought which would, no doubt, soon rupture, to bring forward a great golden seam of molten inspiration.
Atkins considered quietly a better analogy in the privacy of his own mind, and so no doubt down in those deep, dark mental trenches, at the very bottom of the Admiral’s oceanic mind, a small eyeless fish was about to fart.
It did not disappoint.
“So is the blighter there for a reason or what?”
“I expect so, sir.” Sighed Atkins. “Indeed, I rather suspect it wishes to contact us, sir.” The aide dared a look upwards at Trent again.
“What the devil would it want to do that for?” He waved a hand dismissively at the smooth-skinned alien vessel. “It’s in our bloody way is what it is!”
“Yes sir. Astute as ever sir, but if I might point out; we do not know for certain of they are peaceful or hostile, and I rather suspect they think the same of us.” He nodded at the image of the ship. “Would we let an unknown military vessel into our own territory? Would the Royals allow an unknown incursion inside their own dominion without at some point querying as to its identity?” He looked at Trent, who continued staring straight ahead, deigning not even to glance at the man he had been bellowing to so authoritatively.
“Atkins.” He said. “I have long thought well of you, my boy, and I would think you to be a well-thought and intelligent man save for these occasional, and otherwise entirely forgivable, episodes of utter stupidity.” The moustache moved from side-to-side, full of expression. “We are a Peace Corps vessel! What possible harm could we pose to those spatial wogs over there!?”
The aide paused to consider this, looking to the head of the bridge at the glittering, curvy, saucer-headed shape of the alien vessel ahead in comparison to the motley assortment of vessels that current projected the King’s own very special platitudes as part of the Royal Jute Oligarchial Peace Corps. -A motley assortment of vessels whose blocky kilometre-long hulls, bristling with a varied assortment of pointy and interesting devices, might well seem just a tad threatening.
He sighed inwardly, not for the first time and no doubt not for the last, and considered how best to phrase this to the good Admiral.
“Sir.” He started, full of hope. “It is entirely possible that our alien friends here are not aware of that small but noteworthy fact, and have instead carefully noted the other, almost dismissible but nevertheless somewhat pertinent issue that we are, as a matter of fact, sir, armed to the teeth.”
“Well of course we are, boy. We can’t simply go sending out missions of peace into the cosmos of they can’t defend themselves, can we?”
Once again Atkins pondered the man’s words of wisdom, wondering just what exact aspect of ‘self-defence’ was covered when manipulating weapons that could mould the face of a planet into something with the rough consistency of strawberry jam.
“Of course not sir, but you see they don’t know-”
“I mean, this is a God-damned battle-cruiser, Atkins!”
“… And which, therein, rather lies my original point sir, that-”
“A battle-cruiser on a mission of peace, by God!”
He gave up. “Yes, sir.” Hurling meringues at brick walls could wait for another day.
His thoughts were interrupted by the chime of some miscellaneous instrument on one of the consoles ringing the rear of the bridge, comfortably away from the fine artwork and concealed lighting. A crewman scurried around to the front end of the bridge, saluted and pressed a transcript into his hands before saluting a second time and running off, as if stung by the forward bridge lighting and yearning to retreat to the dark bowels of the communication station in which he dwelled.
Ah. Thought Atkins delightedly, reading the transcript. A distraction.
“Sir.” He opened to the Admiral. “We’re receiving transmissions from the alien vessel. -Standard kind of stuff, really; an organised enough format. Our computers should be decoding it right about n-” He stopped as the screen at the front flared, casting uncouth light into the room and offending his senses. Quickly, as if embarrassed, the light levels returned to a more subdued level, allowing the two of them to look upon the interior of an alien spacecraft with not a slight measure of awe.
The interior was pale. It was light and cheerful, busy and efficient-looking.
And manifestly boring.
Three seats were arrayed in front of the camera, light-cream and thoroughly Spartan in appearance, ringed at the rear by something crescent-shaped and clearly aesthetically-derived. The two seats to the left were occupied; one by a frowning bearded individual, displaying some carefully-honed expression of hard concentration. The other was a shorter man, bald-headed and severe, now standing from his seat to gaze at the camera.
Trent leaned to Atkins and whispered, low and conspiratorial, his gaze still glued to the large ornate screen. “Do we have a two-way communications link?”
“Not yet, sir, but shortly.”
“By God they’re ugly.” He muttered, scratching his chin and causing the aide to once again pause before answering.
“Sir, they appear to be human, just like us.”
“Aye, but look on the beard on that one! –And not a decent moustache in sight, by the looks of ‘em. What kind of barbarians are these, do you think?”
“I couldn’t say sir. Communications are coming on line imminently.” He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Trent. “Shall we use the universal translator, sir?”
A pair of thick eyebrows danced together for a second, showing the evidently deep and meaningful level of thought this question enticed from the Admiral. “Hmmm.” He said. “It’s a tough one, but you know; no, I won’t. I have something better planned for these devils.” He nodded at the screen.
“’Something better’, sir?”
“Yes, Atkins. Just you watch and learn; there’s a precedent for this kind of thing, don’t you know.”
“As you say, sir. Communications are now online.”
And with that moment, Admiral Ulysses Trent stared straight into the face of destiny, gazing right into the level eyes of a little bald-headed man who was to be ambassador and first contact with this strange new society. He drew in his breath and made himself every bit as regal as he could. His medals gleamed in the light, his gravitas was palpable.
This moment, he considered to himself, will rest in history forever.
He breathed in and stood straighter, moving a hand out in greeting just as the other man did the same, a wry smile on his face.
“Greetings. I’m Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation Star-”
“DO. YOU. SPEAK. ENGLISH?”
The bald-headed man stopped, his mouth hanging faintly open and a look of acute puzzlement crossing his face.
“I’m Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the-”
“ME. BIG CHAPPY.” Roared the Admiral in a sing-song voice. “FROM OVER… BIG. WATER.” He gestured with his hands, smiling proudly. “WE SAY, ‘HELLO’.”
The Admiral sank back onto his heels again, face radiating a satisfied happiness, stuffing his hands into his pockets and grinning. “Greetings.”
The man known as Picard frowned, his face sullen and not a bit antagonised at this outburst. “Are you quite alright?” He said.
“Never better.” Bellowed the Admiral, moustache perking up. “Ah, I see you have one of those universal translator thingies going right, eh? Top stuff.”
“Yes. Right.” Returned the ‘Picard’. “Indeed.” The man floundered, wondering where to proceed to next in the conversation, but was promptly beaten to the pip by Trent.
“So… what; are you going to get out of our way or what, man?”
Picard bristled at that, anger rushing to his face. “I most certainly will not ‘get out of your way’, Captain! I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Federation Starship Enterprise-”
“Yes, yes.” Said Trent with a wave of dismissal.
“And you have just entered space under the administration of the United Federation of Planets!!”
“Ah.” Said the Admiral, perking up again. “A native! Wonderful!”
The man known as Picard stepped back and placed his hands on his hips, wondering, as Atkins frequently did, exactly what new angle of attack he should take with the Admiral’s mental brick wall.
He seemed to come to a conclusion.
“Listen, Captain. We are both men of status and I would feel better if I knew who I was dealing with here. Do your people have a name?”
“Of course we have names, my good fellow!” Exuded Trent. “Why, how terribly rude of me; this is no way to bring civilisation to the fringes now, is it? I am Admiral Ulysses Trent of the His Majesty’s own battle-cruiser Extended Amity, of His Majesty’s Own Peace Corps. We come with greetings from the Jute Oligarchy to bring manners and good civilisation to… good Lord! Is that a woman!?” He extended a quivering finger to the image in front of him, upon which a passive-looking yet, for all visible purposes, curvaceous brunette had just calmly sat down on the right-hand seat on the alien Bridge.
“Yes, it is.” Replied Captain Picard. “This is Commander Deanna Troi. Does a woman on the Bridge of a starship offend you, Admiral Trent?”
“Offend? Offend? Good Lord no, man, but be it on your own backs and thank goodness that I arrived when I did, my good fellow. Have you any idea what form of bad luck a woman brings to be on board a navy vessel? No offence intended, m’lady.”
“I do not, Admiral. Perhaps we could now progress to the purpose of our presence here, and of the matter of a planet by the name ‘Theta VIII’.”
Trent leaned back from the screen at that, his great brow furrowing with consternation and the grinding rusty metal wheels of intense cogitation. -As ever, the offshoot of which was to ask a question of his aide.
“What was that, then? ‘Feet are ate’ or something? What the blazes is that man talking about?”
Atkins decided, for the sake of good form, not to make apparent any internal frustration at that; not in front of an alien civilisation, at any rate. It would look bad on the records.
“Sir.” He said. “I suspect ‘Theta VIII’ is that planet we passed some weeks ago. The one we contacted, sir.”
“Ah yes!” the Admiral turned back to Captain Picard and waved a merry finger. “Worry not, Mr. Picard; your planet is fine and well. We passed it on the way, so you can be sure of that. There are no scars, no burnt blackish bits and there was no eternal winter, as far as I could see; all said, it seems to be a fairly top-notch planet in my opinion, positively glowing with health.”
The black stare he earned from Picard could have stopped a tiger in its tracks and made it slink off, embarrassed and deterred. On Trent, however, it merely served to ricochet, slung off the man’s impenetrable self-confidence like a bullet off a mountain.
“Well? What’s wrong? Your planet is fine, just as I said.”
“Our planet, Admiral Trent, was last found to be under the dominion of your own invading forces!”
“Well of course, man. What on Earth did you think I meant by ‘fine’? –We came, we saw and we spread civilisation around a little bit. You’ll thank us in the end, my man.”
“You invaded a Federation planet!”
“Nonsense. This is a Peace Corps ship; we don’t invade places, we’re not an armada and we’re not doing anything detrimental. Indeed we have been tremendously provident showing your backwaters bunch a bit of organised civilisation for once. Dear Lord, man, you’d think we hadn’t done you a favour the way you’re going on and on about it!”
“They did not ask for your civilisation to take away their rights, Admiral. They were doing perfectly well as a Federation territory before you brought this act of blatant aggression between us.”
The Admiral stuttered at that, irritated and beside-himself. “‘Doing well’? Doing well!? –Just look who’s talking, Mr. I-See-No-Problem-With-Women-On-The-Bridge. Let’s face it, me laddo: Your bunch don’t even have a civilisation to live in; not a real one anyway.
“I mean, where’s your flag, eh? Do you people even have one?”
The man known as Picard shook himself and directed a single finger across the transmitted gulf of distance between them, and straight at the Admiral, who leaned out of its way as if shunning the barrel of a gun. The crewmembers behind the man merely scowled darkly.
“Listen here! I will have no time for your games! You have committed an act of war against the United federation of Planets and this will not stand idle! I demand that you contact your superiors immediately regarding this issue before I am forced to assume combat conditions and prepare for the immediate defence of my ship!”
“Bloody hell you’re a testy lot.” Trent lowered his head and carefully straightened out the extended fuzz of his moustache, his attitude that of a man prepared to make only the most supreme sacrifice of honour and good taste by descending to actually hearing out his counterpart. “Very well then, Mr. Picard. You have tested me and I have tested you and I feel we can come to a compromise. And here it is…
“I will relinquish, for this moment, control of your planet Fetes ‘R’ Great, or whatever it is from the Jute Oligarchy, provided that, -and only under this one condition!-… provided that you can show me the flag of your nation.
“And no cheating! I’ll know if it’s a bloody ornamental tablecloth like the last lot of wogs I asked.” He leaned over to Atkins once again to mutter, his face sporting the grin of the man who thinks, against the face of all observable evidence, that he is being tremendously clever.
“They haven’t got a chance. What people who can’t even afford decent clothes for their officers will have thought of a flag, eh? This one’s in the bag.”
The screen flickered, and in the place of the alien Bridge was something else.
It was glorious. It was inspiring.
It was a symbol; a symbol of a people that lived, not in fear of overarching authority, but in the quiet self-involved quest of self-improvement in a state that cared for them and all the people in it, as a glistening, shimmering utopia in the night. It was not a stamp of authority, but a seal of hope and of a better, simpler, nobler way to live, out here in the dank reality of the cosmos.
A starfield, three in particular shining brighter than the rest, encircled and encompassed neatly, and this was all that was needed to give the impression of utter, inescapable, superiority of spirit. It was the flag of a people who knew they had found the right way, and sought only to open the eyes of others to it.
Trent stared, slack-jawed, at it and took it all in, drinking in its splendour.
“Well…” He began. “I’ll give you that much; it’s a flag…
“But it’s not a real flag, is it?”
The image snapped off, revealing once again the figure of Picard. If anything, his anger had only intensified from its previous incandescent fury, held vaguely in-check.
“What?” He demanded.
“I said it’s not exactly a real flag, is it?” Said Trent, indicating the hanging fabric to his side. “I mean, this, this is a real flag! Just look at the colours, the red, the white, the green, and the styling. Now this is a flag for a real nation.” He gestured dismissively. “My five year-old could make a better one than yours. Come on!”
“Trent.” Began Picard. “Let me tell you about something we hold dear, as a people. It is called freedom, and the freedom to be able to choose our own paths.
“We have a rule, Admiral, which covers everything we do in Starfleet. We name it the Prime Directive, in accordance with its importance to us, and it states an ideology of non-interference.
“A people should be able to make their own decisions to come to you or not, Admiral, and you have broken that trust.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” Waved the Admiral. “I get the point, but we have a rule too, you know. We have a directive, and it states ‘to boldly go, and explore strange new worlds’. That is what I am doing. That is my directive, so if you don’t mind I’m just going to go on and boldly bloody-well go!”
There was only one more statement from the man known as Picard. Only one last statement would be given, and the conversation would be ended by him, as all things would ever be ended by the men and women of Starfleet.
He stared Trent down and waited,until it seemed that the very vacuum of interstellar space had crept in with that stare, to freeze the good Admiral to that one spot and to wait for the blow to come.
“They will fight you, Trent. We will fight you, and we will win.”
And with that, the image on the screen died, its own energy sucked away by the force of the statement, the communication having ended. In its place was only the grey, scintillating form of that starship with its sleek design and unknown capabilities, bellowing a silent resistance.
The silence on the Bridge was total, despite all the sounds of the equipment, and slowly, as if operated by strings and wires, Admiral Ulysses Trent and his aide turned to look at one another, a cold certainty present in both their eyes.
The Admiral took a deep breath, and solemnly submitted to the inevitable, having considered Picard’s words to their full extent.
He let out that breath.
“Well bollocks to that! Put a shot past their bows, you bugger, and give the bastards something to flag-wave at!” He gripped the metal railing tightly and stared ahead at the viewscreen, and somehow, with the intensity of that rage, all the decorations and effrontery of the colossal Bridge melted away, leaving only that one image, of a single, defiant alien starship.
-Which suddenly flashed actinic, causing him to cry and raise and arm to cover his face. A deep rumble filled the room as the superstructure shuddered.
“What in the name of my good mother was that, Atkins!?” He bellowed, his fury underpinned now with a cold spike of fear.
“That, sir.” Spoke the aide, coolly consulting his datascreen. “Was the shot across their bows.”
“Excuse me?”
“The shot across their bows, sir. That was it.”
The Admiral looked at the viewscreen and its field of fading actinic death and back to Atkins and his datascreen, then back at the viewscreen once more. He opened his mouth.
“Whoopsie.”
“Sir?”
“Oh, nothing… I, err… that I, I… um.” He searched for an appropriate phrase and one came to him. “Ah, bugger.”
“Sir?”
“Oh hell.” Spoke the Admiral, waving a single arm, its sleeves embroided by some of the finest tailors in the Oligarchy and presented by the King himself. “Just shoot the rest of the guns at whatever’s left, OK?”
“Sir.”
“We might as well make it look deliberate.”
“Yes sir.”
“To boldly go, indeed…”
“Sir?”
“Well that’s just the thing, isn’t it? They always say ‘to boldly go’, but everyone else seems to ignore the ‘bold’ bit. I don’t you see, lad, and that’s the secret.”
“Sir.”
“Always know how to read behind the lines. That’s my motto!”
“Yes sir. As you say, sir.”