Resolve

It was hard to have faith sometimes.

In the runabout's forward compartment, the pilot and co-pilot went about their work, quietly, calmly, confidently.  After dropping out of warp, a glance at course readings on the flight console revealed their destination: Horuulk.

In the passenger compartment, Mach Normandy appeared calm.  He had a stone-like settledness on the outside.  Wherever he went, he seemed still, relaxed, as if wherever he was, that was where he was meant to be.  He was a sponge – absorbing everything, green eyes capturing his environment, gathering data from observations then tucking them away for analysis.  Analytical was the word to describe him.  He could analyze anything to death (and would).  He'd pick it apart until it wasn't worth a damn.  He had the curse, some said, of being too cerebral, in a world of action.

He steepled his hands, fingertips pressed together, and whispered prayers to the goddess, calling on her for strength, guidance and resolve.  Inside, the white-haired 42-year-old was shaken.  The files he had received on this Romulan situation were sketchy at best.  Wasn't it funny how the one time you needed dependable information, Starfleet Intel fell short of the mark?  But key points had emerged: A disease had gone rampant, and a Romulan terrorist group, Praetor's Blood, was involved.  What made it worse: The crew of the UFS Resolve, his new assignment, had contracted the disease, this Lon'Gor fever.  His heart suffered for what they must be going through.

He was glad that he had not been on board to contract it.  Disease had terrifying implications for an Olthite.  But he was not glad that he had to spend time, however long it would be, aboard this runabout, Eridanus, until the quarantine was lifted, allowing him to take residence.  Runabouts were fairly spacious, yet cramped by comparison to full-sized ships.  Eridanus had few rooms.

Notwithstanding the nature of the disease – supposedly only Romulans contracted Lon'Gor; a mutation? – he wondered how it bypassed containment and prevention procedures, not to mention biofilters.  On-board computers monitored for dangerous pathogens and sounded alerts when detected.  It was his understanding that the crew of Resolve – at least members of that crew, from reports he had been given – took a narrow view of advances in the world of technology.  How could it be?  Technology had progressed far beyond the early days of Earth's pre-warp infancy.  With technology they could do almost anything.  Yet some shunned some or most of those advances: A condition Mach understood.  Olthites descended from humans, and shared that view.  Too much technology robbed a person of their essence.  Men and women needed to stay in touch with nature.

Still, he had confidence in the human ability to adapt and overcome, to even perform miracles.  While it was true they stumbled, and sometimes fell – and the annals of Starfleet history were full of such failures, where entire crews fell prey to mysterious attackers – there existed a potential for victory in this situation.  The crew of Resolve might survive.  If they didn't, he would be looking for another ship and another assignment.

The other source of his concern, and what really bothered him, was this political affair with the Romulans, and an admiral.  What was his name?  Mach was not privy to all details.  Why was there never enough information?  He had gathered more from what his superiors did not tell him than what they revealed.  It smacked of intrigue: Political intrigue; nefarious, shadowy dealings in the underworld of Federation diplomacy, or what passed for it.

Mach hated intrigue.  He looked on himself as a problem-solver, bridging gaps in affairs and interrelationships between people and worlds.  One was hard-pressed to proceed confidently when one possessed little information.  One could jump in blind, and take whatever risks and chances presented themselves, sink or swim – and he could do that, if he had to – but he preferred knowing key facts beforehand.  Forewarned, as the saying went, was fore-armed.  He hoped Resolve's CO could provide those missing facts.

"Goddess, guide my hand," he supplicated below his breath, out of pilot earshot, finished the ritual, and sat up on his knees.  Rising from the floor of the compartment, he slid into the passenger seat.  He removed his hood – custom dictated wearing it during prayer – and carefully unfastened his prayer necklace from around his neck, folding it into the pocket of his robe.  Mach Normandy was an unusual sight: It wasn't every day you saw someone wearing a black robe over their uniform, in Starfleet.  He had received special allotment for the fashion, on religious grounds.  Only when it became a hindrance in action did he remove it.  He kept his rank pips exposed, to comply with regulations.  Other than that, one might assume a priest, looking at him.

"Gentleman," he addressed the pilots.  "How much longer?"

"We should intercept the Resolve shortly," the main pilot replied, turning in his seat.