((Anvil, cockpit))

“Target dead ahead on long range sensors sir.” Murdock said from the co-pilots seat.

“Looks like one of our lost Valyries too. Go ahead and merge plot Mr. Murdock” Patch said as he checked the sensor display from the main pilots chair.

“Sir?” The Benzite asked, he knew what each word meant but not what the pair implied together in this context.

“Merge plot is fighterjock speak for ‘plot an intercept course and engage’ Ensign.” The older Lt winked at the Benzar. It was all a part of helping the young man learn and achieve his goals. The young blue alien nodded.

“Why would pilots in different sized vessels refer to the activities in different ways. That seems highly inefficient.” Murdock said.

“Well its nore about specificity and brevity in the case of the fighters pilots, not efficiency Ensign. Merging plots is for intercepting and escort or engaging moving targets. Starships are often moving towards stationary or fixed targets, as where fighter pilots are always moving. The long range sensors can only get down to a resolution of about 50-100 kilometres. So merging plots will get us within a 50 to 100km wide box with our target, and then we can effect an intercept with short range(navigational) and targeting sensors.

Valkyrie Fighter

“Subspace variance within previously observed parameters,” the computer said in its even, maddeningly unflappable way.

Previously observed parameters were not reassuring of making progress. Ayres shifted in the harness, feeling the familiar ache in his shoulders, the stiff knot at the base of his neck. He had now been flying this route long enough that fatigue had settled in like an unwelcome passenger.

“Still out ahead,” Ayres murmured. “Still not gained on her.”

He pictured Parr as she had been on the Farragut’s bridge: leaning on the rail with deceptive ease, hair scraped back in a haphazard knot, eyes sharp and amused. She had been angry with him that last morning, and worse, disappointed. He had thrown her words back with a coolness he regretted now. It seemed a stupid argument, concern over the appropriateness of their relationship. That was an irony, given that he had now broken myriad rules to pursue her.

The computer interrupted his thoughts. “There are multiple warp signatures intersecting current trajectory.”

“Multiple,” Ayres repeated. His stomach tightened. “Define signatures.”

“Two discrete signatures, forming a loose formation. Vector indicates they are on an intercept course with our current heading.”

“Pilgrims?” he asked automatically.

“Signature harmonics do not match any known Pilgrim patterns,” the computer said. “Signatures correspond with Starfleet runabouts.”

Ayres stared at the little icons appearing on the scope. They were still distant, not yet in visual range, but the computer’s extrapolations showed their paths closing.

“Starfleet,” he said slowly.

The first, fierce instinct was to attempt to evade. Let the Starfleet blips sweep past, none the wiser. If he kept going, if he kept his path resolute on Parr’s fading trail, he might reach her before they did. He might be the one to see her first, to bring her back. He found he was clenching his jaw. He made himself breathe.

He ran through the options. He could cut power, let the Valkyrie’s warp bubble collapse, tumble back into normal space and try to hide in whatever system he was travelling past. Meanwhile, Parr’s lead would grow.

He could hold course and hope, absurdly, that the approaching contacts were not searching for him. It was the kind of denial you indulged in when you were very tired and very frightened and did not want to admit to either.

Or he could slow, present less of an intercept, raise his hands metaphorically, and let them find him. He pictured the formality of an arrest, the awkwardness of being read charges by someone ten years his junior, the necessary, grinding machinery of courts martial. Absent context, he had absconded with a fighter – technically his own – and knowingly disobeyed orders.

“Computer,” he said. “Estimate probability that I can reach Parr and effect any meaningful tactical success against estimated Pilgrim forces, with current resources.”

The machine did not hesitate. “Low,” it said. “Approximately three percent, given present incomplete intelligence.”

He let his head drop back against the seat for a moment. The harness creaked. “Michael,” he said to himself, in the tone he used when he caught younger officers doing something particularly ill-advised. “You are not a one-man revenge play. You are not an action holonovel. You are a captain, presently of a very small ship, who needs help.”

He could run. He could hide. He could cling to the fantasy that only he could save her. Or he could admit that this had always been bigger than their relationship or their ship. That if he wanted Emilia Parr back as herself – not as a mouthpiece for an ancient machine – then he needed more than stubbornness and wishful thinking. He needed Starfleet.