Chapter Text
Gibraltar’s spacious crew lounge had stubbornly resisted being named since the ship had been launched nearly six months earlier. Various titles, some clever, others not, had been floated and rejected by the senior staff. Other vessels had created elaborate themes for their recreational facilities, modeling them after famous bars of bygone eras or holographically altering them to appear to be in exotic locales like a dense rainforest or a cloud city. The recreation center aboard this ship was utilitarian, and as such was simply referred to as ‘the lounge.’
Pell Ojana entered the cavernous rec center and stopped just inside the doors to marvel at the unobstructed splendor of the Briar Patch on the other side of the room’s large rectangular viewports. She tore her eyes away from the spectacle and scanned the compartment for a recognizable face, finally settling on the solitary form of Liana Ramirez occupying a table right beside the windows.
Pell procured a synthale from one of the replicators lining the inside bulkhead and then approached Ramirez’s table. “Mind if I join you, sir?”
Ramirez had been engrossed in the contents of a padd, and looked up suddenly at the interruption. She deactivated the device and set it aside. “By all means, Commander.”
Pell slid into the chair as she directed a friendly smile at the first officer. “Quite the ship and crew you have here, sir.”
As she returned the smile, Ramirez replied, “Thank you, and you can call me Liana. No need for formalities off duty.”
Pell bobbed her head. “Very well, please call me Ojana.”
“How are you settling in, Ojana?”
“Well enough, I suppose. New ship, new faces…” she brushed her hair back, looking chagrined, “… new captain.”
Ramirez studied her. “Is that going to be a problem for you?”
Unable to distinguish how much Ramirez knew of her and Donald’s past, Pell stared self-consciously at her drink. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but it’s turning out to be a bit more challenging than I’d imagined.”
Taking a sip from her mug, Ramirez offered, “One of those complicated relationships?”
“Are there any other kind?” Pell gestured to the padd, blatantly reaching for a change of subject. “Anything interesting?”
Ramirez chuckled darkly. “Speaking of complicated,” she held up the padd. “It’s the sum total of the Federation’s historical and sociological knowledge on the Alshain.”
Pell looked genuinely interested. “I’ve been dipping into that myself, but its slow going. Their entire society is like a living mass of contradictions.”
Ramirez rubbed her eyes and mock groaned in agreement. “Tell me about it. I thought the Cardassians were hard to grasp.”
The diplomatic officer raised an eyebrow. “You’ve studied the Cardassians?”
Ramirez nodded. “And the Klingons. I had a two year Robert Fox fellowship to Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government.”
“Their intercultural studies program?” The Bajoran looked perplexed. “I… thought you were a security officer before going into command?”
“That’s right,” Ramirez said diffidently, watching Pell for a reaction.
Pell blushed. “I’m sorry. The only people I’ve known who’ve been through that course are in the diplomatic corps or are egghead intellectuals. You don’t fit the stereotype.”
The XO smirked. “That’s me. I just leave the tobacco pipe and the tweed jacket in my quarters.”
That drew a blank look from the Bajoran, who looked at Liana questioningly.
“Sorry, Terran collegiate reference.” Ramirez squinted as she struggled to think of an analogous Bajoran example. “Something like a Vedek scholar’s donzl shawl and ear-pick.”
Pell laughed loudly at the image. “Alright, now I get it.” After a moment’s levity, she glanced out the viewport and seemed lost in thought for a brief time. As she looked back at Ramirez she inquired, “What’s your take on all this, Liana? How long are the Alshain likely to let us stomp around in their backyard?”
Ramirez grew somber. “Not long, I’m afraid. They’re a proud people, and their feud with the Son’a goes back a long ways. I’m worried Picard’s putting too much faith in our current alliance, and isn’t taking their cultural hubris into account.”
The tension was evident in Pell’s expression as she nodded. “That would be my assessment as well. Hopefully, the Federation can make some ground diplomatically with the Exarchate and head off any unpleasantness.” She took a sip of her synthale. “Regardless, we should proceed with caution.”
“Oh, we always proceed with caution, Ojana. Not that it seems to matter much.”
Pell frowned. “Pardon?”
“Like the Aegis and the Enterprise, our ship isn’t forced to go looking for trouble. It usually finds us first.”
Her expression darkened as Pell sighed. “Oh. You’re one of those ships.”
Ramirez raised her mug in response. “Welcome to The Rock.”
*****
Ascent to the Hall of Ministries - Central Ministries Complex, Governance Archology - Alshain Proper
Federation Ambassador Xin Dejong ascended the seemingly endless flight of broad stairs carved from Lurian bloodstone. He paid little heed to the forest of massive columns that bracketed the stairway like a phalanx of giant guards, clearly a gesture meant to inspire wonder and dread.
He could have taken the lift, of course, or beamed in, but the Alshain architects of this monstrous building-city had intended the path to the Hall of Ministries to be a test of endurance for foreign dignitaries. It would be a shame to disappoint them.
The structure was designed to awe the outsiders who shuffled up these steps to grovel in supplication before the Exarch’s throne and the august offices of his Bloodling kin. When Greater Alshain had ruled this region of space millennia before, a long line of slaves, vassals, and clients had made this trek under the menacing gaze and tritanium manacles of their Alshain overlords.
The planet’s cities were impressive, that was undeniable fact. The famed Alshain arcologies had held a place among the catalogued galactic wonders since before the Romulan/Vulcan schism. Each rose more than five kilometers into the sky; the giant wedge-shaped crescents were fully contained city habitats, each home to millions. All agricultural operations were carried out on nearby client worlds, so that the homeworld would remain unpolluted by the stigma of something as mundane as agrarian toil. The remainder of Alshain Proper was a lush natural preserve, untouched save for the occasional hunting forays by their society’s elite.
Six months before he had replaced her, Dejong’s predecessor at this post had recommended he familiarize himself with the history and politics of the Terran Roman republic and early empire. Xin had obligingly done so, despite being confused as to the connection between the two. Now entering his second year of this ambassadorship, he understood what the woman had been getting at.
Alshain politics were a complex web of familial, clan, corporate, and military relationships that defied the ability of Federation exosociologists to easily classify. The great houses, or Septs as they were called, were the primary focus of Alshain society, especially among the elite nobility. Despite their haughty demeanor and militaristic bent, buried deep within the Alshain psyche was an almost pathological need to be accepted within the greater galactic community.
For untold generations, the Alshain had been viewed by their neighbors as little more than mindless space-faring predators, an irregular evolutionary combination of primitive barbarity coupled with high technology. As a result, the ruling nobility of their species had made a point to transform their culture into the pinnacle of civilization. They had establishing elaborately codified laws regulating behavior, speech, dress and all other aspects of their social interactions.
It had been the pursuit of such ideals that had eventually led to the neglectful collapse of their empire. The great, avaricious eye of Alshain society had turned inward and grew increasingly obsessed with the trappings of power and prestige. Their dominance over neighboring systems had begun to crumble at the edges, helped along by repeated incursions by the nomadic Hur’q horde as well as uprisings among their own vassal worlds.
Dejong paused a moment to catch his breath as he reached the top of the nearly quarter-kilometer tall stairway. He made sure to straighten the folds of his formal tunic and make himself presentable for his meeting with the Minister of War. It was a testament to Alshain obstinacy that they had no foreign ministry. All diplomatic matters, as well as military ones, were handled by the Ministry of War.
Whisked through additional security check points, the ambassador soon found himself in the antechamber just outside the war minister’s private office. Dejong had learned early on to judge the seriousness of diplomatic situations between their peoples by how long he was forced to wait before his audience with members of the Alshain leadership.
His wait was startlingly brief, clearly not a good sign. The minister’s aide ushered him inside the extravagantly large office. It was adorned with the spoils of millennia of Alshain conquest. Death masks from Itrob, an ancient Klingon projectile rifle, and the gauntlet of some unfortunate Gorn captain were but a few of the trinkets on display for his edification.
“Ambassador Dejong, welcome.” Xin turned at the sound of his name and bowed formally as the Minister of War, Orthlin C’Oemnm entered, clad in ornately flowing robes dotted with runic script, each symbol an allusion to an ancient Alshain victory over their enemies. He was tall, even for an Alshain, and his fur was a mottled grey, now running to white in his declining years.
Dejong, on the other hand, was of medium height for a human. In his sole to concession to vanity, he colored his hair to retain the jet-black hue of his youth. Of Chinese ancestry, Dejong’s forebears had immigrated to Malaysia in the mid-21st century, thus avoiding the thermonuclear holocaust visited upon China in the Third World War. His family had narrowly avoided being wiped out by a scant matter of months, a fact that had been passed on from generation to generation. As a result, Xin was especially sensitive to the kinds of horrors taking place at present within the Briar Patch.
C’Oemnm moved past the enormous desk to a sitting area as he gestured for Dejong to take a seat in a chair clearly designed for the body type of visiting humanoids. The minister sat across from him, gathering his robes over one arm as he lowered himself into the chair with all the delicacy of a 17th century French courtier.
“We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice, Mr. Ambassador.” C’Oemnm spoke in the royal first person plural, yet another bizarre affectation of the Alshain ruling class.
Dejong bobbed his head. “I am at your disposal, Minister.”
“We are greatly concerned with this unexpected Federation intrusion into the Klach D'Kel Brakt.” Xin still marveled that for all their audacity, the Alshain insisted on calling the nebula by its Klingon designation. It was, he’d been told, an intentional reminder among the Alshain of the crushing defeat they had suffered there at the hands of the Klingon Empire centuries earlier. That battle had marked the end of the Alshain hegemony over the region and brought home to them the reality of their nation’s decline.
“Respectfully, Minister, we announced our intentions to your ambassador on Earth a full three weeks ago. As you already know, the Starfleet presence entering the nebula is there solely to try and prevent any further unfortunate and unnecessary bloodshed.”
The Alshain’s ears twitched with irritation. “What you call unnecessary bloodshed, Mr. Ambassador, we call justice.”
Dejong steepled his hands as he considered his reply. “I understand the reasons for your people’s deep-seated animosity towards the Son’a, Minister, but they are already beaten. After the armistice, they’d agreed to territorial concessions, both to you and to the Klingon Empire before the Alshain Starforce had even begun this new campaign of ethnic cleansing.”
C’Oemnm gestured pointedly at the human. “No. Not ‘ethnic cleansing.’ We are retaking territory that is rightfully ours. It was ours before the Son’a settled in the nebula, and it remains ours. We gave them an ultimatum before our attacks began, leave or be destroyed. They elected to stay and fight.”
Wisely conceding the point with a nod, Dejong replied, “Be that as it may, Minister, the Federation would hope at the very least to be allowed to evacuate the Son’a, Tarlac, and Ellora survivors from the war zone.”
The minister drew back his lips to expose a mouthful of fearsome teeth. “To what end, Mr. Ambassador? So they can regroup under the umbrella of Federation protection and return generations from now to avenge themselves upon us?” C’Oemnm traced the lines of one of the runic symbols on his robes with a wickedly honed claw. “You Federation types think in such limited time spans. The Exarchate has endured for thousands of years. Thus, we seek to predict the motivations not only of our current enemies, but those who might oppose us centuries from now.”
Dejong smiled and rose to meet C’Oemnm’s implied challenge. “And where does the Federation figure into your long-range predictions?”
The minister sat back, taking a good half minute to ponder the question. “We have been allies of necessity, opposing the Dominion assault on the Alpha quadrant. Now that the war has ended, it is clear that the Federation’s adherence to its democratic ideals are incompatible with the Exarchate’s monarchical system and political goals.” He leaned forward as his ears flattened in an aggressive gesture. “Rest assured, you may have brought the Klingons to heel, but we will never submit.”
As he laughed dismissively, Dejong shook his head. “I very much doubt the Klingons see themselves as having been conquered, Minister. Just four years ago, we were at war with them, however briefly.”
C’Oemnm smiled mercilessly. “The last, dying gasp of the empire’s independence, encouraged by Dominion intrigues. The Klingons, like us, are hemmed in on all sides.” He sat back slightly in his throne-like chair and continued, “The Exarchate realizes that the Federation will ultimately seek to strangle us into submission. Once our home systems are engulfed and surrounded by Federation members, you will seek to undermine our monarchy and spread your democratic ideals among the lower strata of our population.” He bared his glistening teeth and said in a low voice, “You are to be congratulated on your cunning. In your own way, you are as insidious as the Borg.”
Dejong shifted uncomfortably in his seat, shocked at this new insight into the Alshains’ collective paranoia. “Minister, the Federation has no plans, be they near-term or long-range, for the destruction of the Exarchate. I’m sorry if you see our actions in the Briar Patch as being indicative of a plot against you, but that’s simply not the case.” He sat forward, determined not to be cowed by the minister’s bluster. “To be perfectly blunt, despite the fact that your people were stalwart allies to us during the war, your current behavior towards the Son’a and their client peoples is an embarrassment to the Federation. What you’re doing in the Briar Patch is a violation of every tenet of civilized conduct.”
The minister’s upper lip quivered in an approximation of a sneer. “You needn’t worry yourself about the vagaries of our alliance anymore, Mr. Ambassador.” He reached into the folds of his robes and C’Oemnm produced a parchment scroll that he handed it over to the Federation ambassador.
Opening the document slowly, Dejong found that like all important official government papers of the Alshain, it had been written in the blood of some unfortunate member of the lower nobility whose name had been drawn by lottery. Xin fumbled for his optical translator unit, but C’Oemnm summarized its contents for him.
“It says that the non-aggression and mutual defense treaty between our peoples is in abeyance until such time as the situation in the Klach D'Kel Brakt has been resolved. Furthermore, any attempts by Starfleet to interfere in what is clearly an internal matter of national security for the Exarchate will be interpreted as an act of war against the Alshain people.”
Dejong frowned, exuding displeasure at this obvious political gambit. “This is an unfortunate and dangerous step backwards for both our peoples, Minister.”
C’Oemnm was unmoved. “If that is the case, then it is your Federation’s doing, Mr. Ambassador. We warned you repeatedly that the Exarchate would brook no interference in this matter, but you refused to listen.” He leaned forward even further and emitted a low growl that raised the hairs on the back of Dejong’s neck. “A single misstep within the nebula and we’ll destroy every starship in your task force before gorging ourselves on the survivors.”
The ambassador was smart enough to detect the sudden and potentially lethal shift in their relationship. The importance of the information he now carried was a physical weight on his spine. Xin Dejong stood and bowed again, though more curtly this time. Forgoing any diplomatic pleasantries, he said simply, “I will convey your message, Minister.”
*****
Task Force Peacekeeper had threaded the needle and transitioned into the Briar Patch without incident. Enterprise had given the various ships their operational orders, and the flotilla had broken up, going their separate ways. Some would reconnoiter known Son’a colonies and suspected strongholds. Others would concentrate on the Tarlac and Ellora settlements to search for survivors.
*****
Ready Room, USS Enterprise - Federation Task Force Peacekeeper - The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)
Picard was standing with his back to the door, gazing out the viewport as Riker entered. The strains of Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammamoor wafted through the air and gave Will pause. That’s a tragic romance, he mused, trying to gauge his captain’s mood. Definitely not a good sign. Picard had grown increasingly somber as the scope of the war crimes being committed by the Alshain was uncovered.
Riker cleared his throat to catch Picard’s attention. The captain turned and accepted the proffered padd in his XO’s hand. “Status?” he inquired as he muted the operatic tune.
“All ships are away with the exception of Bethesda and Gibraltar.” Riker gave Picard a questioning look. “And you’ve yet to tell us where we’re going.”
Picard favored his first officer with a smile that appeared to require a great deal of effort. “Captain’s prerogative, Number One.” He took his seat. “Did you have a destination in mind?”
Riker looked nonplussed. “I thought the Ba’ku planet would be a reasonably good place to start. Don’t you, sir?”
As he looked up at Riker, Jean-Luc’s expression hardened. “We both know that’s not possible, Will. If I take the Enterprise anywhere near there, I’ll be accused of fabricating this entire mission to fulfill a personal agenda.”
Riker crossed his arms. “Respectfully, Captain, you’ve already been accused of that. It doesn’t change the fact that now that Ba’ku’s therapeutic energies are common knowledge, the planet has taken on real strategic value.”
Picard gave his exec a curious look as he queried, “How so?”
“You don’t think the Alshain oligarchy already has plans to build a colony on Ba’ku, sir? Their ruling class could add decades to their lives frolicking in the literal fountain of youth. That alone would make this military offensive into the nebula worthwhile.”
Picard considered his words. “Perhaps, Number One. But there are planets out here supporting hundreds-of-thousands of inhabitants. I can’t very well justify making our first stop a colony of six-hundred, no matter its strategic value.” He closed his eyes briefly. “This is a mercy mission, after all.” The image of Anij floated in his mind’s eye. He had never taken that promised shore leave among the Ba’ku; the war and its tumultuous aftermath had conspired to keep him firmly planted in the captain’s chair.
Riker nodded. “Understood, sir. The needs of the many…”
“Data to Picard.”
Grateful for the interruption, the captain tapped his combadge. “Go ahead, Data.”
“We are receiving a priority communiqué from an Angosian vessel on approach. It appears to be a non-aligned medical ship, but its captain is utilizing a valid Starfleet Intelligence identification code.”
Picard reached out and toggled on his computer workstation. “Very well. Put it through to my terminal.”
“Aye, sir.”
He motioned for Riker to join him and both men read the brief yet disturbing report of the attack on the orbiting relief ships at Norfander XII. Picard scooted back from the desk. “Picard to Data. Thank our operative for his information, and have the Bethesda inquire as to whether they need to transfer over any of their patient load.” After a moment’s consideration, he added, “Tell them we’ll provide an escort out of the nebula.”
Picard nodded toward the monitor. “There’s our mission. Once we’ve seen the Angosian vessel safely away, set course for the Norfander system, best speed.”
Riker moved for the exit. “Aye, Captain.” He paused as the doors parted and the XO looked back over his shoulder. “And the Ba’ku planet?”
“Dispatch the Gibraltar, Commander.”
*****
USS Bellerophon - Federation Task Force Peacekeeper - Delta Arigulon System - The Briar Patch (Klach D'Kel Brakt)
Captain T’Agdi of Cait stood preternaturally still on her shaking bridge, seemingly unmoved by the fluctuations in the inertial dampeners as well as unaffected by the blaring klaxons. “Report,” she ordered stolidly.
Her chief engineer turned from where she had been conferring with the duty officer at the engineering console, only to lose her footing and stumble face-first into the safety railing. T’Agdi winced sympathetically as the engineer writhed in agony on the floor, clutching at her broken nose and bemoaning her dislodged teeth.
Again, she uttered, “Report.”
The tactical officer proved more efficient. “It appears we were struck by a gravitic mine, Captain. We’re registering serious damage to our starboard warp nacelle and impulse engine.”
The operations officer chimed in with, “Initial casualty report is three confirmed dead, eight injured and two missing, sir.”
T’Agdi moved to a flickering auxiliary console and attempted to access data from the damaged panel without success. She looked back at the duty engineer and inquired, “Status of transporters?”
“Offline, sir,” came his apologetic response.
T’Agdi turned her attention to the main viewer. The planet they orbited was home to an Ellora colony of some fifteen-thousand people. Her first officer and a landing party of twenty-five had beamed down to begin arranging a limited evacuation of those most at-risk persons in their population.
T’Agdi returned to her command chair as she growled to the surrounding officers, “Find out how we missed that mine, and if there are any more out there.” She toggled the comms to open a channel to her executive officer on the planet. “This is the captain. We’ve struck a mine in orbit and taken heavy damage. We’re going to have to withdraw for the time being and effect repairs. As it stands, we’re practically defenseless.”
There was a long pause before her exec replied, “Understood, sir. Shall I assemble the team and beam back?”
“Transporters are out. We’ll have to shuttle you back aboard.”
There was another delay before he continued in a grave tone, “With respect, sir, our team would like permission to remain behind. The colony’s leaders and police force have already fled on the last of their ships, and the rest of the Ellora down here have nothing in the way of protection.”
The captain frowned. “You realize once we leave orbit, you’re on your own. An Alshain raiding party won’t take the time to differentiate targets down there.”
“I… we understand that, sir.”
Against her better judgment, T’Agdi acceded. “Permission granted, Mister Sommerset. May fortune favor you all.”
“And you as well, sir. Away Team, out.”
*****
Main Bridge, USS Gibraltar
Lar’ragos was pulling the nightwatch duty officer’s post, seated comfortably in the command chair as he gazed at the image of their younger, larger sister ship on the main viewer. He idly studied the graceful lines of the Sovereign-class Enterprise as he wondered how his career might have been different had he taken the post of chief of security aboard that ship. Captain Picard had interviewed him for the job, and had seemed reasonably impressed with his credentials. But when the offer had finally come through, Lar’ragos had politely refused in order to take the position aboard the Gibraltar instead.
It had been an interesting ride so far. He had joined Sandhurst’s crew out of a sense of obligation to his old cadet classmate, the young man he had tutored and shepherded through four tumultuous years at the academy. Lar’ragos had figured that Sandhurst would need his help and experience on his first command, and he’d been right. But the man who had once been his protégé had surpassed Lar’ragos both in rank and ability, demonstrating an affinity for command that the El-Aurian would not have believed possible only a few years before.
However, since his return from Betazed, Sandhurst had been reclusive and aloof. He had met briefly with Lar’ragos to thank Pava for saving his life, but had since avoided him in anything other than on-duty interactions. Lar’ragos supposed that was part of his healing process, perhaps an unconscious decision to avoid the people he most closely associated with his abduction and torture.
A series of beeps at the Tactical station behind him pulled him from his reverie. He glanced back, finding Tark looking at him with an inscrutable expression. “What do we have, Master Chief?”
“Our marching orders, Lieutenant.”
Lar’ragos gave the surly Tellarite an expectant look and inquired, “Good news?”
Tark shrugged indifferently. “They’re all round rocks to me, sir.” He transferred Enterprise’s orders to a padd and handed it to the lieutenant.
Lar’ragos perused the information, faintly recalling a wartime report of the flagship’s encounter with the progenitors of the Son’a and a pitched battle within the nebula. He hummed softly to himself as he read, the words to the ancient marching song echoing in his mind. Over the hills and o'er the main, to Flanders, Portugal and Spain… King George commands and we'll obey, over the hills and far away.
*****