The average sector contains ten to the forty one cubic kilometers—nearly a million, million, million, million, million, million, million.
When we are finished with our patrol of the Orion sector, we will have passed through the tiniest fraction of that space, an almost imperceptible sliver. To much of the energy and matter within, from wayward photons to roaring stars, our presence will make no difference, nor should it. The universe will continue according to its own plans. It is in the middle—in the lives of other beings—that we and the Republic may find a way to do some good.
Thus far, there has been little opportunity, however. Our most noteworthy encounter was, up until yesterday, our first. We discovered a disabled starliner, the Antares’ Queen, and sent a team of engineers to help repair their engines. The details of this aid are in my standard log entry.
I did not mention there that, in gratitude, the Antares’ Queen’s captain sent an invitation to a special dinner. I and the rest of the Republic’s command crew were seated at his table in a much larger hall, filled with smaller tables and noise. Three walls were entirely transparent. The Republic hung there in interstellar space, dark except for windows and running lights. Several members of the starliner’s crew had already told me that the appearance of a classic Constitution class starship caused quite a stir among the passengers during our initial approach.
Even there, at dinner, many were watching it intently. I noticed, however, that the male half of an older human couple, also seated at the captain’s table, was instead looking at me. He cleared his throat and declared, in a loud voice, that it was very forward thinking of Starfleet to allow an Orion woman to command a ship, even one so old as the Republic, and to dress in a regular Starfleet uniform. He was curious, though, if I wore more traditional Orion attire when not at formal occasions.
His mate scolded him and apologized for his rudeness. I felt Ensign Bareil tense beside me. I believe he has become somewhat protective. This is in his nature, and he appears to see a spiritual connection between the two of us through our two peoples. He had already requested several lessons in Ea’an meditation techniques. I glanced at Baris, who tried hard to stifle a laugh.
I smiled and admitted that, on board the Republic, everyone wore a standard issue bikini. Ensign Imbo looked particularly fetching in his. Nevertheless, I was not Orion, though I was regularly mistaken for things I was not. I was frequently called “Pandoran,” though I believe that their species is extinct. Still, I understand some of the challenges Orion women face. I offered an old Earth saying I had once heard: “It is not easy being green.”
Baris could no longer contain his laughter, nor could Doctor Cummings, whether because of my choice of proverb or the thought of Baris in a bikini I cannot say. I tried hard to keep my own composure, though my left ear was twitching wildly.
I was not dishonest about my familiarity with Orions. Rhone ships are frequently hired to protect convoys or deliveries that are valuable, or at least valued, but not quite important enough to warrant Starfleet attention. Particularly since the ascendancy of Melani D’ian and the purging of other species from the syndicate, our most typical foes have been Orions.
Our mission in the Reytan system to prevent pirates from hijacking the signals of Federation communication relays thus placed me in a familiar position. I have been on Rhone ships in battle with raiders. I knew something of their tactics and their weaknesses. Two of the raiders left when we warned them off. Two others stayed to fight. The first presented little challenge.
The second offered a surprise. It adopted the unusual strategy of keeping one of the arrays between itself and the Republic, rightly assuming that we would not risk firing and damaging the communication equipment.
We spent twenty minutes dancing around the array. The Orion helmsman was certainly skilled. Bareil is a fine pilot, but in this case he was outmatched. It was Ensign Tay who responded with her own surprise. She hacked into the array and directed it to emit a full spectrum burst in the Orion’s direction. It was enough to blind their sensors momentarily and to enable us to outflank our opponent and force them away, into open space. Once we had disabled their weapons and engines, we gave them a chance to surrender. But like many raiders, this one unsurprisingly chose self-destruction to capture.
I saw in the flash of that ship what I have seen many times before: futures unlived, opportunities untaken, possibilities unfulfilled. This time I wondered about the Orion pilot, what he or she might have become if not for the syndicate. Was it her duty to press the button that caused the final explosion? Is this what she really wanted? How many other on board may have chosen something other than death?
I have resolved to learn more about Orion history and culture. This is a small task, of little consequence, but possibly it may do some good in time. Seeing farther can never cause harm. The syndicate is a comparatively recent thing. It is an unfortunate impediment to the Orion species’ true path, even if only a minority or Orions join. It drains the life from a once noble civilization.
Perhaps, Orion civilization will return to its fullness and the syndicate will finally wither once current galactic events have run their course. Perhaps by serving at this time, in this place, the Republic and her crew may contribute in some small way toward that outcome. This would be a most welcome surprise indeed.
Rynwon's Log 