Those positioned on the port side of the Gilroy took in one final look at the planet they orbited.

It was a swirl of green and brown, with thick clouds that moved ominously around either pole. From a visual inspection it would appear to be a perfect home for Romulans, a painting with colors stolen almost directly from their now-extinct homeworld. But the colonists that had arrived years earlier found the soil to be rough and defiant, dried in some areas and nearly poisonous in others. Frequent storms, too, made the building of infrastructure just difficult enough that, all in all, the planet was deemed not worth the effort.

But the colonists had stayed, embracing the challenge of farming stubborn land over planet hopping, and slowly built themselves an outpost almost worth noting on a sector star chart. And then the illness came. Killing dozens and sickening hundreds. In the grand measurement of the galaxy these numbers were small – but on a planet where every pair of hands mattered, it was devastating. And as so often happens, trouble struck twice as key power relays began to tick on and off at the worst times. Hospitals were cut off from the grid just as their numbers of infirm grew.

The Gilroy had been dispatched. A neutral party – a Starfleet vessel, even – with the capability to investigate and the reputation to deliver an honest report. She delivered supplies, medical and industrial, and even discovered hints of what everyone already suspected – sabotage. And then she was called away, whisked away on a mission deemed more important.

In the time it took her to return, a lot had changed. The first Gilroy, for starters, had been decommissioned. Replaced with a sleeker, faster Rhode Island-class, she arrived above the planet expecting to pick up where she had left off. But the disease had burned itself out – taking a neat two hundred with it – and the colony had abandoned, Hopefully temporarily, outposts with working relays so it could redirect that more reliable power to the main city.

When her crew had beamed down, they expected to find angry looks etched onto the faces of the Romulans. But, to their shock, there were none. Some crew thought the people were just too tired to be angry. Or too resigned by the difficulty to their lives to be truly disappointed. Others, in whispers, postulated that the colonists never expected the Federation to actually help – and so the events that had transpired simply confirmed their expectations of those who wore the Starfleet uniform.

So the medical teams collected final samples. Left the hospitals restocked with fresh supplies. Trained a few more citizens to replace the nurses and doctors that had died. And teams of red and gold shirts traversed much of the claimed land to inspect every relay station, erasing what remnants of corrupted programming remained. And they left, quietly, their apologies falling on disinterested ears.

With her crew aboard and the arrival of their entourage for their next stop – a single Klingon with a penchant for boisterous laughter – the Gilroy pulled away from the colony. After a minute, its engines screamed to life, a red glow illuminating the back of the compact ship as it rocketed towards full impulse. It took eight minutes to clear the edge of stellar bodies worth measuring and then, after a few seconds of prep, shot forward at speeds faster than light.

—

The turbolift ride to the bridge took less than two minutes, but Lieutenant Commander Ashworthy – comfortably known as Jules to all – felt like time had rather stopped. He was pinned on either side by the two other men. To his right was the Klingon colony envoy Pay’Tor, a wide-shouldered man with braided hair a few inches shorter than himself. To his left was Keymor, the tall Cardassian exchange officer who seemed to be smiling everywhere but his eyes.

If his mind had been fully functional, he would have caught that there was enough space for the three men to stand in the turbolift comfortably without the need to touch. As fate would have it, however, his mind seemed to be paralyzed.

“Since when do Cardassians come in that uniform?” asked Pay’Tor, his voice wrapped in the dual ring of a growl and a laugh.

“I am part of an exchange program between the two governments,” answered Keymor, quickly. “And between you and me – these uniforms are actually quite comfortable.” He lifted one arm and bent it at his elbow, the fabric stretching tightly against his flex. “A bit snug in places, though.”

“Don’t get too comfortable, Cardassian,” asserted Pay’Tor. “You’ll be back in your scale mail soon enough.” He placed his own hand firmly on Jules’ shoulder.

“No doubt. But I plan to enjoy every amenity Starfleet has to offer in the meantime,” said Keymor, who now moved his other hand to Jules’ free shoulder. “So much to learn about humans and the way they operate. On a personal level.”

There was a micro-jolt as the lift came to a stop, the doors sliding open. Jules leaped out, hands gripping the rail of the tactical station as he found himself taking in a heavy gasp of air.

“Your face is on fire,” whispered the Chief Medical Officer, Betty Walker, as she swung by to greet the other two men as they exited the lift. “Pay’Tor – sorry to jump on you just as you step onto the bridge, but I’ve got to get to sickbay.” Her voice had flipped fast from the raspy whisper she offered Jules to the firm, quick speech she used when she had places to be – or no desire to stay where she currently was. “Any updates you can share on the medical situation on your colony? Has it changed since your last transmission?”

Pay’Tor turned his head quickly from Keymor towards the short woman. “As far as I am aware, Doctor, there has been no change. The illness has mostly burnt itself out – but we’ve depleted our medical supplies.”

“Right, okay. I’m off to a quick surgery then. I’ll send you an updated inventory in the morning. Excuse me.” She continued to speak briskly and stepped into the now empty turbolift. “Captain,” she announced with a quick nod as the doors slid closed.

Keymor, who had taken the time to slowly move to his station, offered Jules a wink before excusing the junior officer who had been covering for him.

Captain Sands stood up slowly from his chair, one hand moving to tug down his shirt as the other waved to the side to welcome the Klingon officer to join him.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, Pay’Tor. On behalf of Starfleet, and my crew, I apologize that it has taken us so long to visit your planet.”

Pay’Tor took the invitation to move down the slight walkway and join the Captain by his side. He extended a hand in human custom, and felt the Captain’s weak grip in his own hand. Pay’Tor noticed the man seemed a bit drained of color.

“No worries, Klingons can take care of themselves well enough,” he offered, displaying a toothy smile. “But in this specific instance, we are grateful for the resupply. I trust your Doctor when she says you have what you promised?”

“Of course,” answered Sands, who moved his hand behind his back to flex away the pain privately. “And a team of engineers to investigate some of your own infrastructure problems.” He took his seat and then invited the Klingon to take the third, spare chair traditionally reserved for guests. “I hope it isn’t more instances of sabotage like we saw on the Romulan colony.”

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” snarled Pay’Tor, who took the seat.

“Past who, exactly?” asked Sands, though he feared he already knew the answer.

“Those damn Romulans,” answered Pay’Tor.