#st disc

tylorca edit - 1/3

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(captain gabriel lorca)

“I know I asked you for recommendations, Sarek,” drawls the tall man, “but I didn’t expect you to escort one aboard my ship.” His arms are crossed, and he looks vaguely unimpressed. Fortunately, Michael Burnham has undergone a lifetime of being subjected to unimpressed looks.

She is unaffected by the cold glare of his eyes, mostly because she is pissed off. Denied by the Vulcan Expeditionary Forces only to be shuttled directly off to an old Starfleet science vessel? She could’ve reapplied, tried again—god knows she’s done that her entire childhood.

“Michael Burnham has an extensive résumé,” demurs Sarek. “Did you not tell me you were in need of a science officer knowledgeable in xenoanthropology?”

“I told you that months ago.” The scowl appears to be permanently etching itself into the man’s face. “You said there weren’t any Vulcans available with that ‘particular skillset.’”

“Yes. No Vulcans.” Sarek turns to Michael, and she detects the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Michael, this is Captain Gabriel Lorca of the U.S.S. Shenzhou.” He nods, like he thinks his job is done. Like he can simply drop Michael off in the company of Lorca and continue on with his life, assured that he is never confronted with his greatest failure.

Michael looks at Lorca and doesn’t quite narrow her eyes. She resolves to stay impassive.

“You don’t want to be here,” Lorca says.

In this instance, Michael thinks, even Sarek would let her get away with a bit of insolence. There is something of the wounded animal in her, still smarting from a wounded pride. Her resentment at the situation grows, and withers. Perhaps… perhaps she does deserve this.

“You would be right,” says Michael, noting the tightening muscle of Lorca’s jaw. He hides it well, but one doesn’t live with Vulcans, breathe in their culture and mannerisms, without picking up the ability to detect anger beneath a façade of civility. “But you are currently in the wrong. I make it a principle to observe and then conclude.”

“Michael,” Sarek interrupts, and she turns her eyes to him. They’ve been a family unit long enough that he should take notice of her desperation to join the Vulcan Expeditionary Forces. He knows she can do it—her scores had been perfect.

It would have been a life of cold shoulders, but Michael is familiar with that kind of atmosphere.

Lowly, Sarek tells her to behave. He gives a perfunctory nod to Lorca. And then he leaves.

Lorca watches him go too, something appropriately ticked off in his expression. No protocols cover events like this, this being: a highly-respected Vulcan escorts a Vulcanized Human trained extensively in the field of xenoanthropology (among other disciplines) to be integrated into a Starfleet crew.

He switches his glare back to her. “Are you even aware what kind of vessel this is?”

“An exploratory one,” says Michael. The U.S.S. Shenzhou (NCC-1227) is named in tradition for a long line of Shenzhous, except the majority of its predecessors are satellites and asteroids. However, the former were also considered the property of China—this ship is under a more… universal purview.

Shén for heaven, divinity; zhōu for vessel. To translate it fancily, the Vessel of Heaven. To translate it literally, space boat.

The utter insult of it is that Sarek had chosen to drop her off on a ship that parallels the Vulcan Expeditionary Forces. It is a pat on the head. A consolatory reward. You were good, but you weren’t good enough.

“How fortunate for you.”

“Indeed,” Michael says, “Captain.” Her eyebrow lifts, voluntarily. She thinks it will always be voluntary—a challenge of ‘Do you deserve my respect?’ to a man she could overpower or outsmart given enough time and luck. Also, this is the one action that can’t be ruled as misconduct or disrespect to a captain.

Lorca suddenly breaks into a grin. “Let me show you around.”

(captain philippa georgiou)

The room is brightly lit, warm yellows and zero fluorescents. It’s an odd characteristic for a new vessel to be in possession of. It reminds Michael of the Shenzhou and Lorca’s stubborn determination to keep it just as his predecessor had—

A woman studies a tactical map. Blue for Starfleet and its allies, red for the Klingon Empire. Michael is familiar enough with the color scheme of blue (good) and red (bad) that her mind registers it instantly and turns itself inside out when it identifies the captain of the ship.

The captain is standing for her.

The captain—

“Michael Burnham,” says Captain Philippa Georgiou, hands clasped behind her back and a considering look in her eyes, “welcome to the U.S.S. Discovery. I’m Captain Georgiou.”

She is so different from Lorca that Michael finds herself blinking hard. Where Lorca was tall and broad, Georgiou is short and lean. Lorca had loomed because before he was a complete softie for the underdogs of Starfleet, he knew the importance of being respected by a bunch of greenhorns. Georgiou… welcomes. She is kind and not imposing.

Not the reception she expects for a mutineer like herself.

“Captain Georgiou,” echoes Michael, struggling not to crumble. Of all the captains in the fleet, everyone—everyone—likes Georgiou, even when they haven’t been chosen to join under her command. She’s never heard a cadet go a year in space without muttering, ‘Damn, I should have applied for Georgiou, she’s the best.’

Lorca had taken the complaints as compliments.

Lorca had said to Michael, “They all want to serve under, good. Georgiou is one of the best—explorer, warrior, and commander all in one. But they have no idea that she’s like me.” He had cracked a grin at Michael. “Her fist is only covered in velvet. At least I’m open about it.”

Rather abruptly, Michael remembers why she’s onboard this ship. “I’ll take my leave as soon as possible,” she blurts. She doesn’t want to be the cause of another destroyed ship, let alone Philippa Georgiou’s sleek science vessel. “I’ll go voluntarily to the brig.”

“That’s unnecessary,” Georgiou shoots back. “You’re a science officer, no? As it currently stands, there is a vacancy in the science department.” There is a wry grin playing at her mouth, and Michael is fixated on the weirdly humanizing aspect this has on the woman all cadets put on a pedestal.

She glances away from Georgiou. Distance. She needs distance to wrap her mind around this illogical decision. “I’m a mutineer,” Michael says. The words taste worse on her tongue than when she’d confessed it to the empty air of her cell. “Starfleet’s first ever recorded. Is this wise?”

“Starfleet understands assets,” the captain dismisses. “There will be some backlash, but there is always backlash in making decisions in war.” She looks mildly guilty about admitting this, even though it is par for course for Michael’s shitty decision-making skills seven months back.

“Yes,” says Michael, “but surely I wouldn’t be good for morale.” Under Lorca, Michael had developed a finely-tuned sense of snark and sarcasm.

Nine years of mutual needling and brisk fondness had chipped away part of her Vulcan shell, but her emotions hadn’t made a surging comeback. If anything, it had strengthened her defensive measures of hiding sentimentality and nostalgia.

Captain Georgiou pulls a face and sits down. “Burnham,” she says, “this war isn’t your fault.”

That, Michael cannot bear to hear from a captain so beloved by the fleet that Starfleet Command wouldn’t promote her to admiralty and a desk on Earth. “With all due respect, captain, I don’t see how that’s so.” Before Georgiou can continue, Michael adds, a little desperately, “My arrival here cannot be due to coincidence.”

Like a masochistic idiot, Michael lays out the whole thing. The shuttle’s change of course. The lack of warning about being transferred to a different prison facility. Her arrival here has been engineered.

Georgiou blinks. “I did ask for your shuttle to change courses. First, because you are an officer of many talents. Second, because the Discovery does have a vacancy, though my science officer tells me that he is capable of handling it. But lastly…” She looks guilty again. “I think you did not deserve so harsh a sentencing that you were given.”

“I started the war,” says Michael blankly. She’s repeated this sentence many, many times.

“By your admissions in the court transcripts, you suggested a solution, and the captain agreed to its flagrant disrespect of Starfleet’s code.” Georgiou is standing again, and moving around to the front of her desk. She maintains a respectful distance around Michael, who is feeling distinctly dizzy. “This ship is outfitted to win a war, Burnham. It only needs the right people to help it to success.”

She needs—she needs to take this chance—fix mistakes—

“Probation. I—give me a probationary period. Any mistakes, I go back to prison.”

Georgiou frowns. “You ask this condition as though you were not going to be on probation.” The slight relief Burnham feels when she is reminded that Georgiou is a highly competent officer is actually immense. This is a net to prevent her from blowing up the galaxy again. This is good.

A hand extends, and Michael shakes it. The firm, warm grasp is a much-welcomed anchor.