Survival Tactics

The Mission

Captain Lorca's ready room was characteristically dimly-lit when Burnham was admitted inside, but this time it served purpose beyond simply sparing the captain the pain of his injuries. It served to enhance the detail on the holographic Starfleet officer who "stood" off to the left of Lorca's imperious standing-desk.

"Ah, Burnham, you're here, great." Lorca said with his characteristic brusqueness and general lack of warmth. "This is Commander Sorensen, Starfleet Intelligence. He'd like a word." Burnham thought she detected something in Lorca's voice when he identified Soernesen's division, like he'd just tasted something sour.

She faced the hologram. "Commander," she gave a nod of respect. Sorensen was a blandly handsome middle-aged man, Terran, with blond/brown hair cropped close to scalp to offset the effects of incipient male-pattern baldness. He apparently didn't want to use follicular-regeneration techniques or just liked the way it looked. Either way, it suited him. It matched the sharpness of his eyes—eyes, Burnham thought, suited to detecting secrets, identifying weaknesses, and telling nothing.

Sorensen's image shifted and Burnham saw the creases form in his uniform—he must have been transmitting from a starbase, she thought, holo-transmissions used hellacious amount of energy and bandwidth, which is why starships rarely used them except for special circumstances or flag officers.

"So how do I address you?" he asked. "Convict Burnham? Mutineer Burnham? I must admit I'm at a loss."

"Aboard my ship she's Specialist Burnham," Lorca said sharply. "You may address her as such."

Sorensen cocked his head as if deigning to ignore a crazy notion. "Very well, Captain. Specialist Burnham, you served aboard the USS Shenzhou on stardate 4576.45, when you mapped a distant system around Noviani Major, correct?"

"I did, sir," Burnham said, her thoughts briefly journeying down the slender, delicate thread of memory to happier times, better times. Tromping through a piney forest with an away team hauling a truly stupid amount of scientific gear, buzzing and exclaiming at every new finding—every plant and rock and animal. A time when she was a scientists, not a soldier.

A time when Captain Georgiou was alive.

"Good. We'll need your cartographic skills."

"The Commander has a mission he'd like your help with," Lorca said archly. "Actually, all of our help with."

"Indeed," Sorensen said casually, clearly not caring about Lorca's attitude toward him or his mission. "Starfleet Intelligence has an asset on Noviani-7, the only habitable planet, and—not coincidentally, a major source of slave labor for the Klingon Empire."

"Slave labor?" Burnham recalled the Novianians, a humanoid race with basic warp capability, but a society clamped in a bear-trap of politics and competing clans, which barely allowed them to construct starships, let alone explore the galaxy. The Shenzhou had done a basic First Contact greeting, but, at the behest of Starfleet's Xenology and Diplomacy Division, declined to promote the Novianians to Stage Two, which would have included establishment of formal diplomatic relations. Instead, they'd given them restricted access to the Federation communication net, in case they ever wanted to petition for Stage Two consideration. Basically, here's our card, give us a call when you get your issues straightened out.

"Empires don't build themselves, Burnham," Lorca said slightly condescendingly. "I'm reasonably certain the Klingons don't pay minimum wage and offer medical coverage."

"Yes sir," Burnham let the comment pass. She was used to indignity. "I just didn't realize Noviani was that close to Klingon space."

"It's not," Sorensen said. "They use Orion slavers who are sanctioned by the ruling clan. Noviani-7 experienced something like a world war about two years after you made First Contact—relax, Specialist, your visit didn't cause it. It was brewing for a while, and our best guess is that one of the Klingon houses propped up one of the clans and helped them lay waste to planet. Now, the place is little more than a strip-mine for the Klingon Empire."