A/N: I hate myself, I really do...another story, inspired by the new (to consoles, at least) Agents of Yesterday content. I hate having an obsessive personality...
Thanks, as usual, to my friend Kretolus, for always keeping me sane - or if not sane, at least not entirely unhinged. And also for a lot of help with all my STO stories.
And thank you to anyone who takes the time to read, review and/or follow this. The support is appreciated.
"This is a joke. It has to be."
The young Andorian glared at the stubby, angry-looking vessel beyond the window, still trying to reconcile the design with a science ship.
It didn't work, mainly because someone had gone to extreme lengths to turn a Rhode Island-class ship into something that looked more at home on a battlefield.
"If there is one thing I have learned in the few years since my liberation," the woman's friend replied, staring at the same ship, "it is that Starfleet, as a whole, does not have a sense of humour."
The Andorian snorted derisively, not looking at the liberated Borg officer she'd been friends with for almost two years now.
"Even so, Quincie, this-" she gestured at the ship beyond the window - "is a joke."
"I believe you are still agitated because it does not fit with a design you are familiar with," Quincie pointed out, and the Andorian gnawed her lower lip, toying with a strand of her hair that remained the exact opposite of an Andorian's normal, pure white. As usual, Quincie was right – it didn't fit with what she was familiar with, because nothing did.
Th'rana Sho'than had never felt like she was a particularly good Andorian, never feeling like she belonged on their frozen homeworld, or anywhere among the family group that was far larger than a human's would be. But she had never felt more out of place, more alienated, than the moment she was plucked from the bridge of her utility cruiser at the instant of its destruction, and deposited on Earth Spacedock one hundred and fifty years later, give or take a decade.
Daniels, the so-called 'temporal agent' who had saved her, had then decided that she was being recruited as a temporal agent herself, not that he'd given her any say in the matter. He'd arranged for her to have a new identity, since her original one was 'killed' along with the crew of her former ship, and then he'd arranged for her to be enrolled at Starfleet Academy. It was, he'd said, the easiest way for her to acclimatise to her new temporal home, and then he'd disappeared before she could choke the life out of him.
And so began a strange two years, although it was made easier by a quickly-built friendship with Quincie. During one class together, Th'rana had noticed how her fellow students avoided the former Borg like she was contagious, looking at her with disdain and often outright hostility. So she herself decided to set an example, and sat next to the woman, then still known as Five of Seven. There had been an almost horrified gasp from the others, but Th'rana had persisted in striking up conversation.
The Andorian realised something wasn't quite right when she asked what race Five of Seven was, and almost everyone stared at her as if she was stupid.
"I am – was – Borg," she had replied in her emotionless tone, and Th'rana, having never heard of them, asked where they were located. Five of Seven had stormed out of the classroom in a hurry, and her other classmates had been quick to fill her in – with a few less-than-pleasant words – about who the Borg were, and why the woman was so unwelcome.
"You are daydreaming again," Quincie remarked suddenly, snapping Th'rana out of her reverie, and she finally turned to look at her friend.
"Remembering the day we met, is all," Th'rana explained, marvelling at how much Quincie had endured to become who she was today.
Even now her mocha-coloured skin looked slightly too pale, and there were still a large number of exoskeletal and subdermal implants that could never be removed - the most glaring of which was a dark metal plate that curved around her right eye, extending back over her temple and down almost to her cheek. Her hair would never again return to its former colour, although it had at least begun growing again before they'd met, and her pure white locks were pulled back into a short ponytail. Most unnerving, however, was the metal film covering her eyes, and Th'rana believed it was the feature most people found disturbing about the ex-Borg. Apparently it was some sort of reactive fluid, that worked in concert with her occular implants, but she'd never understood it. All the Andorian knew was, her friends implants, coupled with her quick intellect, had allowed her to work out that this was quite literally not Th'rana's time. The Borg woman had agreed not to tell anyone, and Th'rana had decided she was not going to call her new friend 'Five' all their lives. With 'Seven' apparently being taken, the Andorian had settled on calling her Quincie, being derived from a human word which had meant 'Five'.
She never did consider herself overly imaginitive, and yet the former Borg didn't mind, and despite Quincie still lacking her full range of emotions, the two had developed a strong friendship.
"I am not certain I wish to know what is going on inside your mind," Quincie told her, and the Andorian shook her head as she realised she'd been reminiscing again.
"What? Oh, dammit, I'm sorry, I'm just...it's hard for me to adjust, even now." She scrubbed at her eyes with the palm of her hand, before running it through the flared ends of her hair. "Plus, I haven't been sleeping well."
"Indeed," Quincie answered, raising an eyebrow, "well you might like to start soon. I believe-"
"Ah, ladies, you're here," said a familiar, deep voice, and they both turned to see the pleasant features of Admiral Jorel Quinn. "I see you've already seen the Assegai." He gestured at the vessel that sat in the clutches of the drydock, and Th'rana spared it another glance before turning her gaze back to the Trill.
"We have, sir, and I have to ask...what was her designer thinking?"
"Yes, she does appear to have been designed by a madman," he admitted, in a tone that suggested he wanted to find the person responsible and kill them slowly. "But, she's a fine vessel, and she'll serve you well as your first command."
"But, with all due respect sir, I'm an engineer. We both are. I thought we were getting-"
"I know what you thought you were getting, but we need all our ships out there, with the best people we can find commanding them. You two worry about commanding this ship, and let the rest of her crew worry about the sciences."
Th'rana grinned at the Admiral, remembering some of the stories she'd heard from the Academy.
"I get the feeling you do this a lot, sir," she said with a gentle chuckle, and there was gleam in his eyes as he responded.
"I have absolutely no idea what you mean, Lieutenant Commander," he said, although the twitch at the corners of his mouth suggested otherwise. "Anyway, I just wanted to wish you well personally before you departed. It may not be what you were expecting, but we rarely have the luxury of choice these days."
"Understood sir," Th'rana said, coming smartly to attention and saluting. "We'll do you proud."
"I'm sure you will. And as for you, miss...?" he raised his eyebrows at the liberated Borg officer.
"Quincie, sir."
"Quincie. Try to keep your friend out of trouble, hm? We don't want a repeat of your graduation ball."
"Cadet Menna started it, sir," Th'rana argued gently, "I just finished it."
"By breaking her nose, two ribs and dislocating her shoulder, not to mention what happened with her friends."
"They also started it, sir."
Quinn finally gave up, and simply nodded.
"I'm sure. Well, take care, Commander, and come back in one piece. With the crew."
Th'rana saluted again, and Quinn idly returned it before he walked away again, and the two women began heading for the shuttle pad.
Th'rana and Quincie walked through the corridors of the ship, making their way from the shuttle bay to the bridge, while Quincie explained the ship to its new captain.
"The Nova-class and its associated variants are all primarily science ships, with an approximate crew compliment of seventy. One of the first was the USS Equinox, which was lost in the Delta quadrant some thirty years ago."
"And found again by...Voyager?" Th'rana asked hopefully, and Quincie inclined her head.
"Very good. They are equipped with primary and secondary deflectors, and as a result often have better shielding than a majority of other vessels."
"I'll say," Th'rana replied quietly, not wanting to give anything away to her crew. "I mean, this thing could take the Euphrates apart by itself, despite being a fraction of the size!"
The Euphrates had been the utility cruiser she'd – briefly - commanded, before it had been destroyed and Th'rana had been pulled through time. "Seriously, Quincie, this time period takes some getting used to."
"As does regaining one's humanity," Quincie answered flatly, and Th'rana nodded in response. "I do not know the rest of your medical staff, but my personal doctor has been assigned to this vessel as well," she added, and Th'rana paused.
"Wait, you have a personal doctor? Since when?"
"I would remind you, Th'rana, that the removal of my implants is not a quick process, nor is it likely to be without trial. I need to have the same doctor with me, someone who knows what has and has not worked in the past, and who is familiar with my medical history."
"Hm. You're right, sorry. Didn't think."
"Andorians often do not, I have noticed."
"You're real funny, Quince," Th'rana answered drily, and Quincie merely quirked an eyebrow at her as they resumed their walk to the bridge.
"Captain on deck!"
Th'rana almost punched the crewman who made the sudden announcement the moment they stepped through the door, before realising it was standard protocol. It didn't take long for the Andorian to realise that in almost two centuries, they still hadn't made a science ship with a reasonably large bridge.
"Alright, people, we're all busy so I won't-"
"What the hell is that doing here?" snapped one of the bridge officers, and Th'rana's eyes narrowed as she noticed he was pointing at Quincie.
"She is your commanding officer, my second-in-command, and you will address her with the respect due her rank and position. Understand me?"
"It's a goddamn Borg!" he argued, earning some muttered agreement from his colleagues. "There isn't a single one of them that can be trusted!"
Th'rana made her way slowly towards the crewman, promising herself she was not going to punch the man but not entirely believing it, and her antennae curled downwards, echoing her dark mood.
"Are you sure?" she asked, her tone ice cold. "I seem to remember a Borg, freed from the Collective, assisting a certain captain in the Delta quadrant. Now, what was her name again?"
As she got closer to the man, both of them realised she had at least an extra three inches over him, and she was certainly more physically capable. He swallowed nervously, suddenly finding himself unable to reply, and Th'rana took advantage of his silence.
"Now, let me make one thing clear," she said, then pitched her voice high enough for everyone to hear. "To all of you. The Lieutenant is not an enemy, she is not responsible for the death of some long-lost family member, she is not going to betray us. She is the second-highest ranking officer on the ship, your superior officer and one of the finest people I have ever met. You will give her the respect she is due, or else I will see to it you never work a starship ever again. Am I understood?"
There were a few murmurs of acknowledgement and nods, and Th'rana stepped away from the crewman and made her way to the captain's chair.
"Good. Take your stations." She settled into the chair with ease, and Quincie took the chair to her right. The former Borg leaned towards Th'rana, keeping her eyes forward.
"While I do not need protecting, I am grateful for your words," she said quietly. "And I am impressed by your restraint."
"Thanks," Th'rana replied, "but seriously...who were those ones in the Delta quadrant?"
Quincie turned and looked at her, meeting Th'rana's eyes before looking away again.
"I will remind you later."
Th'rana chuckled to herself, before sitting up straight again, and turning her attention to the officer she'd just been intimidating.
"Helm, prepare to take us out. Once we clear dock, set course for Vulcan, warp five."
The short, stubby little vessel eased out of the dockyard, pulling to the left as it lined up on its new heading, before surging forwards in a flash of light.