Chapter Text
* * *
Trujillo’s expression was caught somewhere between skepticism and curiosity as she eyed her subordinate via the subspace comms link.
“They want to negotiate a surrender?” she clarified, her tone registering suspicion.
“That’s what they say, sir,” Lt. Commander Aronas Žukauskas of the Kor Yoh replied from over a parsec’s distance. “We found the Augments stripping an Orion raider they’d captured, and apparently their interrogation of their Orion prisoners helped to clarify a great many realities of their present situation.”
Trujillo cocked her head, forced to concede that possibility. “I can see where that interaction might be quite enlightening.”
“So far they haven’t made any aggressive movements towards us and we’ve been keeping our distance. Their shields are down, and their weapons are offline, but seeing as their ship has a cloaking device, we can’t be sure there aren’t more in our immediate vicinity. Despite who he is and… what he represents, their leader makes a compelling case. I can arrange for you to speak with him if you’d find that helpful, sir.”
She slid into her chair, moving the desktop computer so it continued to face her. “Yes, put him through, Captain, and excellent work by you and your crew under uncertain circumstances. Please continue to maintain your defensive posture.”
There was a momentary flickering as various communications protocols and security firewalls interrogated the foreign transmission, and then Trujillo found herself facing a surprisingly youthful male, clad in digital camouflage patterned military fatigues.
He had an unremarkable countenance and looked to be in his mid-twenties. Wavy brown hair topped a surprisingly round face with green eyes and a nose that seemed a bit too small for his face. Put this individual in a Starfleet uniform, Trujillo thought, and he would be indistinguishable from any other human junior officer in the service.
Trujillo experienced a moment of cognitive dissonance at the realization that this person had been intentionally designed from the pre-embryonic stage, and she had unconsciously expected some kind of physical and aesthetic perfection.
“I am Commodore Nandi Trujillo of the warship Reykjavík. To whom am I speaking?”
The young man broke into a curious smile. “I did not think your Starfleet had warships. Aren’t you all explorers and diplomats?”
“No,” she said. “We are tasked with many duties, and some of us are assigned according to our aptitudes. I am a soldier, and thus command a warship.”
He stared, clearly assessing her while she did likewise. After a prolonged silence, he finally deigned to answer her question. “I am Primus Pilus Aloysius Manius, leader of my Augment cohort.”
Trujillo tapped at her keyboard, querying what she had taken as his title, Primus Pilus. The computer overlayed the translation of ‘first maniple,’ identifying it as a high-ranking tier of the centurion officer grade.
“The captain of Kor Yoh tells me that you have spoken of negotiated surrender. Forgive my suspicious nature, but we have seen your Augment legionaries slaughter our personnel without offering any of them the opportunity to surrender, so I am dubious of your sincerity.”
“I do not apologize for our actions,” Manius said calmly but defiantly. “We were told by our leaders that your Federation was behind all the tragic disasters on Magna Roma, using your advanced technology to exact vengeance for our having seized the crew of the Beagle decades ago. We were assigned to board and seize any Federation flagged cargo or personnel transport ships and return them home to aid in our evacuation.”
Trujillo nodded slowly, the man’s story confirming her existing suspicions. “So, Primus Pilus, what has changed?”
“The mercenaries hired by our supposed Orion allies used us as bait to lure in one of your starships, under the pretense of helping us to seize the ship. Instead, they left us vulnerable to attack and many of my fellow legionaries were killed in that encounter. Your people fought harder than we had been told to expect, and my ship was fortunate enough to escape without much damage. At our first opportunity we seized an Orion ship in an act of vengeance. We have scoured the ship’s databanks and interrogated their surviving crew. It is now obvious that the Orions have lied to and manipulated our people, and that your Federation is not the implacable enemy that it was made out to be.”
Trujillo crossed her arms. “And where does that leave us, then?”
“Given what we now know, we would prefer a Federation penal settlement to suffering the destruction of Magna Roma.”
“I’m not saying it’s impossible, but there would have to be many, many safeguards.”
“We are prepared for imprisonment and the necessary restraint systems to be used, Commodore. Be forewarned, however, that there are two other ships crewed by our fellow Augments which do not favor surrender.”
“I appreciate your candor, Primus Pilus. We will certainly maintain watch for your other ships.”
“Under what circumstances might you consider our surrender?” he asked, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. Surrender was anathema to his people in general, and especially so among the elite Augment cadres.
She inclined her head. “What do you know about cryonic suspension?” she asked.
* * *
Titus Helvia didn’t know what strings Ambassador Dax had pulled to convince the Romanii authorities to allow him to return to the surface after his last unauthorized visit, but he was grateful, nonetheless.
He was in full uniform this time, wearing the garment like a shield against the horrors of this place.
He stood in the direct center of the arena, feeling the heat of the sun beating down on him as it had so many times before in circumstances like this.
He was in the Colosseum, Rome’s foremost temple of spectacle, and only one of the many stages on which he had fought during his relatively short two years as a gladiator. Helvia had killed in stadiums both great and provincial, in television studios with green-screen backgrounds made to look as though he was fighting in a variety of exotic locations, and in makeshift arenas constructed and reduced on the same day in which he appeared.
There had been no honor or glory in the deed, as many of his opponents were either drugged, lamed by wounds, or so inexperienced with a sword as to be tragically sacrificial. Criminals, political prisoners, fellow former nobles brought low by some aristocratic vendetta, all had fallen to his blade in what could only be described as theatrical executions.
He had fought surprisingly few fellow gladiators, a fact for which he was secretly relieved. Other men, ones who had spent considerably more years on the gladiator circuit than he, were truly terrifying. Most skilled enough to have lived so long had transformed the butcher’s duty into an artform. They were more like the ancient Japanese samurai of his adopted Earth, men whose battles were begun and ended in a scant few strokes and an enviable economy of movement.
A figure strode towards him unhurriedly, a man attired in modern business dress, consciously rejecting adornment with a toga. Helvia recognized him as a former fighter and a contemporary of his, Silvanus Cruscellio. Tall and thin, but whipcord taut, Cruscellio was of an altogether different body type than Helvia.
His hair was curly black, ringlets tumbling down towards his shoulders, framing a long, austere face. He bore a scar from his scalp down across his forehead and right eyelid, ending on his upper cheek.
Helvia eyed him warily, all too familiar with the smaller man’s speed and agility.
“Titus Helvia!” he crowed, “returned at last to the sands of the abattoir!”
Helvia held himself in a relaxed posture, his feet shoulder-width apart and balanced, the best platform from which to launch or absorb an attack. “Cruscellio, you old whoreson. I see you’re still drawing breath among the ash and sulfur of Rome.”
Cruscellio opened his arms expansively. “Life refuses to surrender me, and Jupiter’s arrows have yet to find their mark.”
“No more gladiator’s bouts for you, eh?” Helvia observed.
The other man looked down at his outfit. “No, not anymore. I’ve bought my freedom and become a flesh broker myself. The old pit fighter now training fighters of my own.”
Helvia grunted appreciatively, despite feeling none of that emotion. “One must climb the ladder or fall into the pit,” he quoted from memory, one of countless Romanii colloquialisms citing the constant struggle for social position that pervaded their culture.
“And you,” Cruscellio exclaimed, “a soldier now?”
Helvia shook his head. “The explorers and peacemakers of the Federation require protection. I am honored to provide it.”
Cruscellio nodded his approval. “They could do far worse.” He looked off into the distance before setting his gaze again on Helvia. “What brings you here?”
“Memories,” Helvia replied, “from another life.” He knelt to sift a handful of sand through his fingers as he had done while visiting his family’s old latifunda. “I did not think I would ever walk this ground again.”
“I feared you were here to steal away my fighters,” Cruscellio admitted. “Liberate them in the name of galactic freedom or some such.”
The last of the sand trickled out from between his digits and Helvia stood, brushing his hands clean. The arena still smelled of death, the lingering blood of countless thousands stained into the very concrete and stone that formed it. No matter how often clean sand was poured onto the Colosseum’s floor, the stench of putrefaction remained.
“No need,” Helvia said finally. “You will all be free, soon enough.”
Cruscellio frowned, not liking the sound of that. “Meaning… what, exactly?”
“This world is doomed,” Helvia replied. “You have a little more than a decade, and then patrician, plebeian, emperor or slave… none of that will matter any longer."
The former gladiators stared at one another until Cruscellio threw up his hands. “Impossible! The government would have told us, prepared us!”
Helvia emitted a short breath, almost a snort of derision. “Would they? And risk inciting the mob? We both know they would sit on their hands with their lips sewn shut rather than admit the truth.”
Cruscellio stepped forward, his fists clenched. “You mock me, Titus! You seek to see all that I’ve accomplished stripped from me through your lies.”
The larger man shook his head sadly. “You will all go to your deaths choking on ash and praying to the old gods to save you. The First Consul and the Senate haven’t even shown the presence of mind to try and evacuate themselves until now. Do you know that the Orions are out there somewhere, rubbing their hands together and waiting for Magna Roma to tear itself apart so they can comb through the ruins for your latinum?”
Cruscellio made a cutting, dismissive gesture. “What do I care for the Orions? I’ve never even set eyes on an alien barbarian.”
Helvia laughed loudly at that. “We are the barbarians, Silvanus. The Federation, the Klingons, even the Orions could extinguish all life on this world in an hour without having to set foot on it. You live at their sufferance.”
The other man fell into shocked, contemplative silence.
Helvia took a final look around. “I thought I would feel something returning here, but there is only the emptiness and the silence of the dead.”
“What can we do?” Cruscellio asked, a hint of panic entering his voice.
“There is nothing to do,” Helvia answered grimly. “Even if a few hundred thousand of the leadership manage to flee before the end, the working class and the slaves will be left behind. Perhaps you and your fighters might take up arms and overthrow the government, see that the lower classes have at least some hope of escape.”
“Revolt?” Cruscellio found the prospect repugnant. “Like Spartacus or Angelus Serapio? Betray everything I believe in?”
Helvia shrugged. “Or continue to embrace the empire as the ground splits beneath your feet. What is it we always said, ‘as the gods will it?’”
Cruscellio had no response to that and could only stare in sullen silence.
“This wretched world is finally reaping what it has sown,” Helvia said. He spat into the sand. “I hate what this world made me, and every moment since I left, I have struggled to reshape myself into something… someone… worthy of having been rescued from this place. I am done here.”
Helvia tapped his communicator and requested transport, vanishing a moment later in a cascade of energy as his old compatriot looked on, the man’s eyes fixed on the horrors of the bleak future presented him.
* * *
“Commodore, our negotiations are finally bearing fruit. This is a bad time to change the makeup of our diplomatic team,” Curzon protested.
“There are two cloaked ships full of Augments out there, Ambassador, unaccounted for and with orders to attack Federation shipping.”
Curzon was seated, a glass of Risan rhenish in his hand. Trujillo was pacing, and Curzon mused that he had never seen her so unsettled.
"As I recall, you have most of your task force out there looking for them already, don't you?"
Trujillo paced, her expression tight and her posture rigid. “Reykjavik is the most tactically capable ship in our task force. She needs to be out there leading the hunt.”
I’m not disputing any of that,” Curzon answered coolly. “I’m pointing out that you don’t have to be the one in command during that tasking.”
Her head snapped around, her frown as hard as the caste of her eyes. “What are you saying?”
He took a long sip of wine, making her wait for his reply. “Transfer your flag to another ship. Leave Commander Davula in command of Reykjavik for the duration of this quest.”
Trujillo paused in her tracks, turning to face the Trill fully. “Out of the question.”
“Really? You’d have trusted Glal to handle such a mission. Is Davula somehow less capable?”
“Not at all,” she countered. “I should be leading it.”
“You’re needed here, but if you feel you can’t trust her—”
Trujillo held up a hand. “She has my full confidence. Her strategic and tactical acumen are equaled only by her scientific credentials.”
“Then... what’s the problem?” Curzon chided.
She abruptly activated her communicator, calling the XO into the ready room.
A few moments later, Davula came to attention in front of Trujillo’s desk, seemingly oblivious to Curzon’s presence on the couch along the bulkhead.
Trujillo bade her stand at ease. “Commander, we have new information from our surrendering Augments on possible locations where their fellows might be found. I am unable to break away from our ongoing negotiations with the Romanii, so I’ll be transferring my flag to Zelenskyy and I’ll have you take Reykjavik in search of the two remaining Augment vessels.”
Davula inclined her head in a sober gesture. “Understood, sir.”
Trujillo stood. “You’ve more than earned this, Commander. You know how much I’d rather be out there chasing down Augment depredators instead of sitting in conference with our hosts,” she looked pointedly at Curzon, “but it appears I’m expected to be a responsible adult who no longer gets to have any fun whatsoever.”
“I would note that you do have some rather excellent company,” Curzon interjected, feigning moral injury.
“Cold comfort,” Trujillo groused. “You never allow me to drink until we’ve returned to the ship.”
“I seem to remember you putting away a good deal of the First Consul’s wine…”
Trujillo waved him off, turning her attention back to Davula. “Take the ship and go run those murderous bastards down. I know you realize with whom you are dealing, and that you’ll take every precaution.”
The XO’s smile was almost predatory, an expression she had not known she possessed until after her first few months aboard Reykjavik. During the Yichang’s often desperate deep space exploration mission, that ship had seen more than its fair share of combat, but those were situations where the captain and crew had tried valiantly to avoid conflict, to no avail. They had never gone looking for a fight, as Reykjavik so often did.
“I will, sir. I’d inquire about procuring some additional cryogenic chambers from the supply you’ve had Puget Sound produce. Perhaps thirty of those units would suffice, along with the raw materials to manufacture more on our own if needed.”
Trujillo grabbed a nearby data-slate and input a series of commands. “Done,” she confirmed. “Oh, I’m having Azulon and Perseus assigned as your escorts, and as Captain Dinlite outranks you, you’ll need additional authority to lead that squadron. I’m granting you a brevet promotion to captain for the duration of this mission.”
Davula was unable to hide her surprise, her involuntary blush turning her a darker shade of blue. “Thank you, sir. I… did not anticipate that.”
“You’re welcome.” Trujillo extended her hand. “I know you’ll make me proud, Jadaetti.”
Davula shook the offered hand, nodded politely to Curzon, and was gone.
Trujillo fixed Curzon with a caustic look. “C’mon, Ambassador. Time to pack our things and move ships.”
* * *
Negotiations had reconvened in the Forum’s Curia Julia, where their first diplomatic exchange had occurred, to include the unpleasantness between Helvia and the Romanii general. The conference structure in the Circus of Nero that had become their regular meeting venue had suffered structural damage in a localized seismic event overnight.
The air conditioning here was working overtime to provide clean, cool air, as the sky outside was leaden and heavy with ash from a host of nearby and more distant volcanoes.
Curzon was all business today, reciting statistics and timetables, and referencing all manner of facts and analyses in support of the Federation’s position. Gone was the jovial bonhomie the Romanii had come to associate with him.
Trujillo was equally dour, though for different reasons altogether.
“Our Continent-class heavy transports can carry roughly four-thousand people at a time, and Starfleet Command assures me that they can assign five of these ships for at least the next decade,” Curzon explained. “That equates to twenty-thousand persons per trip.”
Trujillo then picked up the narrative. “There are six Federation colony planets in the adjoining sector, each of which has agreed to accept as many Romanii as we can transport. Each trip there and back to Magna Roma will take approximately six weeks.”
“That’s only one-hundred seventy-five thousand people per year,” Senator Amantius Volusus protested. He was a heavy-set man with prominent jowls and a balding pate who seemed to sweat profusely regardless of the temperature. “In the next decade you’d only be able to relocate less than two million of our people out of a population of over six billion!”
Curzon nodded soberly. “Your math is correct, Senator.”
“How can you justify this?” cried another senator, already half in his cups despite it not yet being noon. The wine served here was potent and plentiful.
Trujillo looked down the table at the man. “This is your emergency, Senator, not ours. You’ve had decades to begin this process but chose not to. Besides, I suspect your government has already made similar arrangements for services from the Orions and Lissepians. Their ships are undoubtedly smaller, but their efforts can help bolster the total number of evacuees. Additionally, the decade mark is only a rough estimate, you may find yourself with additional time if you’re fortunate.”
The Romanii shared horrified looks, some of them bordering on hostile.
The regal Imperial Vestal, Liviana Ovicula, representative of the Ministry of Alien affairs, passed across a digital display pad. “We have completed evacuation itineraries, identifying those who should be rescued first. They are a mix of our leadership, military, and industrial magnates, people who will be instrumental in rebuilding our society.”
Trujillo accepted the device, glanced at it, and then set it aside. “We will take that into consideration. The Starfleet Corps of Engineers will arrive within three weeks to begin construction on a number of evacuation assembly stations, both on the surface and in orbit. They will be situated across the globe, near the largest population centers. Some will be here, others in the New Lands and others yet in the territories of the Middle-Kingdom.”
First Consul Macer held up a belaying hand. “Just one moment, Commodore. We had requested a pristine, unpopulated world on which to settle our people, and now you’re telling us we’ll be placed among already established Federation colonies?”
“That is correct, First Consul. It has been decided that your people’s best chance of success is on worlds where there is already infrastructure in place. Of course, your people would eventually be granted Federation citizenship, provided that you make the appropriate alterations to your existing cultural attitudes.”
“And what does that mean?”
Trujillo cast a glance at Curzon before sitting forward to clasp her hands atop the table. “It goes without saying that we won’t tolerate slavery in any form, so that abhorrent tradition of yours will have to be eliminated. The same goes for capital punishment.”
There were gasps and shouts from the other side of the table. Two senators rose to their feet, faces flushed with anger.
"Additionally, the evacuation of your world will be equitable, meaning all peoples, not just Romanii, will be transported,” Curzon threw in.
Macer was aghast. “You would waste transport space on Eastern barbarians?”
“Of course,” Trujillo answered simply. “They have just as much right to a future as you do. In fact, it appears the Klingons will arrive at roughly the same time, but they’ll be relocating the Comanche peoples from the New Lands in their entirety. Rumor has it the Klingon Empire has set aside a pristine world for them, at least.”
Now the Romanii were incensed, with shouts and curses and more than one cup thrown in the Federation representatives’ general direction.
Trujillo and Curzon rose as one, with the commodore removing a Romanii style data-slate from her briefcase and setting it atop the table. “Here is our plan so that you may look it over and understand what is to happen and when.”
“And if we refuse your terms?” Macer fairly snarled, halfway out of his chair.
“Then I wish you luck with the Orions. I’m sure the same people who have worked to accelerate your planet’s demise will be highly motivated to move your population elsewhere.”
“They will be well compensated for their efforts!” another senator raged from farther down the table.
“You’re referring to them being paid in latinum?” Trujillo asked. “The same latinum that they’ll be able to mine for far less effort and expense from the asteroid field that remains when your planet shatters?” She cocked head. “Please let me know how that works out for you.”
She called for transport back to Zelenskyy, and the final thrown wine chalice, this one actually on target, bounced harmlessly of the annular confinement beam as Trujillo and Curzon dematerialized.
* * *
LordRobertBruceScott on Chapter 13 Mon 02 Sep 2024 05:12AM UTC
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