The Spectre

Commander Soleta, late of the Federation, dedicated agent in the service of the Romulan Praetor, sat in her quarters aboard her stealth vessel and thoughtfully studied the data chip that she held delicately between her fingers.

"I wonder who died for it?" she said aloud.

She knew that someone had. Xyon, the cheery spacegoing pirate who had obtained it for them, had as much as said he'd had to kill someone to obtain it. She wondered who it might have been. She wasn't concerned about the morality of it. She had been given a specific assignment: to get information on the new weapon the Orions were developing. She, in turn, had made use of Xyon's unique talents, and he had gotten the job done. So here it was in her hand, and Xyon had needed to get it over someone's dead body.

Had it been an innocent? Had it been someone of no real consequence? Was it, perhaps, an Orion spy who had tried to get in Xyon's way? And what of that spy? Knowing Xyon, he had probably left no traces of the body, or bodies, so it would remain a permanent mystery.

Weapons systems. Sometimes she felt as if the universe was a massive chess game being played, where one side would come up with a weapon that another would put into check, and the other side would simply develop a new weapon to overcome the previous one. And so on and so on, greater and greater weapons, more and more impressive means of annihilating races, planets, star systems. She had to wonder if someday, someone would develop a weapon so powerful that there would be no such thing as a "check" for it. Instead it would be check, mate, and game over.

"Who died," she said again, staring at the chip, continuing to turn it over in her hand, "to try and keep this information from us? So that we can use it, build the weaponry ourselves, or figure out how to thwart whatever it is the Orions make… until, of course, they overcome us in turn. Perhaps…" She set it down carefully upon her desk. "Perhaps we should try and cease the endless cycle for once."

A small model of a Borg cube sat upon her desk, a gift once given her by Elizabeth Shelby—something of a Borg expert—and her only possession from her previous "life." She picked it up, hefted it. It had satisfactory weight to it. She brought it up and held it over the chip. It would take such little effort to bring it smashing down upon the chip, crunching it into uselessness. Then the nameless Orion, who perished in an attempt to keep a secret, would not have done so in vain.

Her hand did not tremble in the slightest, not betraying in the least the indecision within her. Then, very slowly and carefully, so as not to risk damaging the chip, she lowered the Borg-ship model and placed it gently next to it.

A useless impulse left over from a time when I had a conscience.

There was a buzz at her door. She called out, "Come."

Her tribune—the Romulan equivalent of a first officer in Starfleet—stood in the doorway. His name was Lucius and for as long as he had served under her, Soleta hadn't the faintest idea where he stood in terms of his loyalty to her. He maintained a resolute poker face in all dealings with her, remaining always stiff and formal. He never appeared to relax or let down his guard with her. Then again, as near as she could determine, he never let down his guard with anyone. It was possible she was overanalyzing, or perhaps even underestimating the wisdom of keeping one's guard up at all times.

Lucius had uncommonly pale skin for a Romulan, which provided a sharp contrast to the darkness of his hair. His face was almost triangular, and his eyebrow was so perfectly arched that Soleta suspected he trimmed it to make it come out that way. His pointed ears were long, tapering, and elegant. He was only a year or two older than Soleta, but he had an almost regal bearing that made him seem even older. As someone who was half Vulcan and half Romulan, Soleta envied him somewhat. After all, Lucius knew exactly what he wanted and who he was, and so set out to get it. Soleta… well, there were days when Soleta didn't have the slightest idea what she wanted or who she was.

This was shaping up into one of those days.

"Hail, Tribune," she said evenly.

"Hail, Legate," he replied. He preferred that alternative Romulan term for captain to the "Commander" favored by others of her crew. When she had asked him point-blank why he would use the more archaic term, he had been utterly forthright in replying: "Because you have served in the Romulan military for a fraction of the time that I have. 'Commander,' to my mind, is a title earned through years of service. Not accorded by imperial whim to a latecomer with a history that is… dubious. However," and he had squared his shoulders, "if you wish to register a complaint with the Praetor, and he instructs me to address you in that manner, then naturally I will comply. Or you can naturally request another second-in-command, who might prove more… flexible."

It was certainly tempting to do so, except that Lucius had a stainless record, was an experienced hand, and also commanded tremendous respect from subordinates. He could be of tremendous use to her, if only he'd cooperate. "And how will the rest of the crew view me, if my second-in-command is not referring to me by the proper title?"

He had pondered that a moment, and then nodded. "I can see how it might possibly sow disrespect among them. Very well. I shall refer to you as 'Commander' in the presence of others, and 'Legate' privately. Would that be acceptable to you?"

She had considered that, and then nodded. "I hope, Tribune, that eventually I will live up to your standards of excellence."

"As do I, Legate," he had replied.

Copyright © 2006 by Paramount Pictures.