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."
"If the Klingons lean so heavily on this planet, why haven't they just annexed it," Lorca asked.
Sorensen shrugged. "Too much like work? The place is basically poisonous now. The atmosphere is a soup of toxins. And they can get the resources and slave labor on the cheap, so why bother committing the resources to invading and holding a planet that's going to kill all your warriors and administrators anyway. That's our guess anyway, but we really can't claim to understand much about the Klingon Empire, so take it was a grain of salt."
"Who is this asset?" Burnham asked.
"Sorry, Specialist, that's on a need-to-know basis."
"And I need to know," Lorca said reproachfully. "Especially if you're sending my ship and people into danger."
The definition on the projection was high enough that Burnham could see Sorensen debating whether or not to lower his head and lock horns over the matter and make the decision that it wasn't worth it. "All right. Here he is." A second holo-projection appeared, this one showing the shoulders and head of a humanoid being Burnham recognized as a Novianian. "His name is Conn'klyn. He's a member of the ruling clan—hence the understated forehead ridges."
"And what makes him so special?" Lorca demanded.
"He's…kind of an HR rep for the major trafficking operation out of the capital city. He assess needs, tries to find the bodies to fill them."
"This man is a slave-trader?" Burnham asked before she could stop herself, incredulity sharpening her voice like a fishhook.
"A part of a network," Sorensen shrugged.
"Hang on," Lorca snapped. "You want me take my crew within spitting distance of a Klingon fleet to rescue some damn slaver? Are you out of your mind, Commander?"
Now, Burnham saw, the head was down, the horns pointed, and Sorensen was pawing the ground. "I'm sorry you don't approve, Captain—I truly am—but intelligence requires us having assets who can provide it. And by definition, those assets tend not be terribly savory characters. Now, I can see where from the sterile corridors of your fancy starships you'd perhaps rather we deal with, I dunno, say the Red Cross or Lions Club. We'd like that, too. Problem is, they don't know anything."
Sorensen's body had tensed and his face was a mask of disdain. "Now, Conn'klyn's job gives him safe access to various Klingon facilities—shipyards, dilithium mines, colonies—this is information we need to prosecute this war. He even claims to have access to the shipyard where they fit the invisibility devices on Klingon starships."
"And you believe him?" Lorca asked doubtfully.
"On the last point? Not really. Assets are always selling more sizzle than steak. It's how they stay alive. Still, the rest of his info is valuable, and there's no telling what he knows that he just doesn't realize is important."
"I don't understand," Burnham said. "Why extract him? Surely you must have some way to pass communications back and forth."
"He wants to come in. And, given that the war has heated up, I can see why."
"And you're letting him?" Lorca asked.
"Assets tend to be more willing to work with you when they know won't abandon them when they become inconvenient," Sorensen replied sarcastically.
"All right," Lorca said irritably. "What do you need from us?"
"We'll need you to use that super-dooper fungus engine to materialize above the planet. Then, Burnham can go in—probably an aerial insertion, given the polaran concentration in atmosphere—meet Conn'klyn and get him out of there. I'm transmitting the coordinates of the meet site. It'll be deep in the forest on the northern continent outside a mining facility. Conn'klyn will be standing by at the facility, waiting for your signal." If everything goes as planned, Captain, it shouldn't keep you out of the war for more than an hour or two."
"Well," Lorca said tightly, "We can certainly spare that for our cousins in Intel. I'll put together a security team-"
"Just Burnham," Sorensen cut him off.
"Now wait a minute, commander…"
"Number one, it'll spook Conn'klyn. Number two, well, we can't risk that level of exposure if this thing goes sideways. Captain, you're just going to have to trust me on this. We've consulted with Starfleet Security on this and they agree that the only acceptable op plan has one, and only one, Starfleet officer going in."
A muscle in Lorca's jaw twitched. "Very well, commander. Burnham it is."
Sorensen nodded, then faced Burnham. She tried to read his gaze, but couldn't. She expected disdain, contempt, but saw something else. It was blackness, an infinite depth, as if his eyes were dual abysses. It might have been the holo-projector, she thought, but still couldn't shake the feeling he was silently and intensely assessing her for some purpose he wasn't willing to share.