Chapter Text
June 11, 2322. Starbase 177, Planet Pacifica, Pacifica System
The setting of the beachfront estate surrounded by sundancer palms and xenoferns was very nearly idyllic.
It was only the presence of armed and armored Starfleet security personnel patrolling the beach and grounds, an irregular sight in such an environment, that disturbed the illusion of paradise.
Commodore Nandi Trujillo sat on the veranda, clad in a diaphanous Tholian silk shift over a single-piece swimsuit. Her five-foot-eight-inch frame was toned, hinting at a physical discipline that matched her emotional reserve. Her lustrous black hair had begun to gray in streaks in her late twenties, a matrilineal trait passed down through multiple generations of her family. Now in her mid-forties, she’d decided to surrender to genetics and had ceased dying the gray out. Her face was broad and deceptively soft, with a prominent jawline and wide, expressive brown eyes.
She had just returned from a late morning swim under the watchful gaze of their security detail. Now she sat, cup of coffee in hand, watching the palms fronds sway gently in the breeze.
She and her crew aboard the starship Reykjavík had just been granted short leave following their most recent mission. While the crew frolicked on the ocean planet below, their ship and its squadron-mates underwent repairs within dry-dock gantries in orbit.
Their mission had ostensibly been a secretive reconnaissance into the depths of the Molari Badlands in search of any hidden weapons of mass destruction left by the Sphere Builders. Those enigmatic aliens, responsible for the creation of the Delphic Expanse in the 22nd century, had made three known attempts to attack the Federation by proxy in the past one-hundred seventy years.
Their latest plot, involving drawing the Tholians across the Federation border some six months earlier, had nearly started a war between the two governments, spurring a classified operation to scour Federation space for further hidden caches of Sphere Builder technology. As such, Trujillo and her small task force occasionally engaged in the exploration of stellar phenomena which might conceal such devices in hopes of preempting the next such assault.
Trujillo’s squadron had instead stumbled quite by accident onto the primary base of operations for a particularly pernicious Orion pirate ring, a major hub of the Syndicate responsible for criminal activity across several adjoining sectors. That chance discovery had led to a week-long running battle within the Molari Badlands, a region known for its plasma storms, gravimetric shear, and thermobaric clouds that had sundered hundreds of spacecraft in the past two centuries.
Within this cloud of horrors, Reykjavík and her escorts, Gol and Zelenskyy, had played a lethal game of cat-and-mouse, with ambush and counter-ambush, minefields and neck-or-nothing pursuits through asteroid fields until the last of the marauders had been captured or destroyed.
All three of their ships had suffered damage to varying degrees in those frantic battles, though thankfully they had taken few casualties.
Now, as they relaxed under the rays of Pacifica’s G-type star, Starfleet security protected their vacationing crews from Syndicate reprisals.
Her husband had slept late and finally wandered out onto the veranda with his own cup of tea, stooping down to plant a kiss on her cheek before taking a seat on a nearby lounger.
“Good morning,” the darkly handsome Gael Jarrod offered with a smile. He was tall, lean, and muscular, nearly a decade her junior and almost scandalously, a former subordinate. His neatly trimmed goatee added to his rakish good looks, and he possessed a slightly nasal Oxonian-English accent that his wife cherished.
“Good morning,” she replied in kind, favoring him with a satisfied expression. “I still can’t understand how Demora could sign on for a five-year exploration mission and leave this place behind?”
He grunted in assent, sipping experimentally at his tea, then offered, “She has it to come back to. Meanwhile, we get to enjoy her hospitality.”
Trujillo inclined her head towards a security specialist standing in the surf up to his knees, watching the breakers roll in. “The late Ahmet-sur Giilva is out of business, but it won’t be long until someone’s replaced him. I can’t imagine the people fighting to supplant a warlord of his stature are sparing any thought to revenge on us.”
“Perhaps not, but we still wounded the Syndicate, and that’s bad for business. Killing even a few of us would send a statement and help them to save a little face. Thankfully, the local security detachment is well versed in patrolling this particular property.”
“They are at that,” she allowed with a smirk. The sprawling house with its six hectares of grounds had once belonged to Demora Sulu’s father, the former Commander-in-Chief of Starfleet.
Trujillo emitted a long, relaxed sigh and sank deeper into her chair.
“I’m going to have to head topside today,” Jarrod said.
“I thought your second officer had the duty?” she remarked.
“She’s interviewing for a possible posting to the Carthage, so I’ll need to stand port-watch for her.”
Trujillo sat up, casting a concerned expression on him. “You’re losing another senior officer?”
“Potentially,” he conceded. “We see a lot of action, hence our officers gain considerable experience, which makes them excellent acquisitions for other commands. It’s actually a compliment when you think about it.”
“I suppose so,” she said, sounding unconvinced.
Jarrod was the executive officer aboard the Akyazi-class perimeter action ship USS Gol, commanded by Trujillo’s former first officer, the irascible Tellarite Commander Glal.
Gol was one of one of Reykjavík’s two permanently assigned escorts, the trio of ships representing the commodore’s mobile flag force. As part of Admiral Saavik’s quick-reaction group, Trujillo’s squadron was frequently sent to hot spots on the periphery of Federation space to quell disturbances, thwart incursions, and combat organized piracy.
Trujillo started to the sound of a guttural roar from somewhere below, sitting up in time to see a coconut arcing through the air towards the security specialist standing in the surf. The husked fruit just missed the young man’s helmeted head by a hands-width, causing him to turn suddenly and stumble as a breaking wave caught him from behind that sent him flailing backwards into the surf.
The compact form of Commander Glal strode out from the lower porch below Trujillo’s veranda and onto the beach, clad in an incongruous tank-top t-shirt and Bermuda shorts. “You might have seen that coming if you were paying the slightest bit of attention to your assignment!” Glal shouted angrily.
The stout Tellarite waded into the surf to assist the water-logged specialist who was struggling to rise while trying to recover his phaser rifle from the clutches of the outgoing tide.
“It appears Glal’s awake and in fine fettle,” Jarrod observed with a grin.
“And already harassing our security detail,” Trujillo added, taking a pull from her coffee mug. “He seems irritable.”
Jarrod stood to observe the goings-on over the veranda’s railing. “You realize, of course, that this might be an indicator that our shore leave is drawing to a close?”
“Glal does tend to get a bit tetchy when he’s been out of action for too long,” Trujillo agreed.
Down below Glal was now huddled with the dripping specialist and the compound security detail’s senior chief but appeared reasonably civilized in his discussion with both.
A few moments later the Bermuda-short wearing commander appeared on the veranda, sipping at a concoction he had assured Trujillo previously was a Tellarite variant of a Bloody-Mary. In his other thick-fingered hand he carried a data-slate, which he extended to Trujillo by way of greeting.
“Good morning, sir. I’m requesting that you approve a personnel transfer.”
“I told you already, you can’t quit,” she replied, half in jest.
“No, sir, not for me. Young Mister Urumbe down there. I am requesting his transfer to Gol.”
Trujillo raised a questioning eyebrow. “As punishment for his lack of attention, Commander?”
“Actually, no, sir. He was appropriately mortified when confronted, and in examining his service record, he’s earned high marks in all his postings so far. The kid’s just bored, and justifiably so given the nature of his current assignment. When I asked if he’d rather be serving on a small warship that sees plenty of action, he just about jumped out of his armor at the invitation.”
Trujillo shook her head, smirking. “Of course.” She grew more somber, reflecting on the costs of their latest assignment. “Did you tell him who he’d be replacing?”
Glal nodded soberly. “I told him that the exceptional young woman who’s position he’d be filling died rescuing men, women and children from Orion slaver pens.”
“Good,” Trujillo said in a hushed tone. “She deserved more than a posthumous medal. Hers is a story worth telling.”
“No argument here, Commodore,” he agreed.
Trujillo pressed her thumb to the slate. “Approved.”
Glal gestured to one of the veranda’s chairs. “May I join you?”
Jarrod finished his tea in a single long sip, setting aside the cup and rising. “I was just heading up to Gol, sir. Standing in for Zatreah while she interviews with Captain Strazo. I’ll make arrangements for billeting Specialist…?”
“Urumbe,” Glal provided as he inclined his head towards his first officer. “Give Lt. Zatreah my regards and let her know I have every confidence in her.”
“Will do, Captain,” Jarrod said by way of farewell before sneaking another kiss from his wife before departing with a breathless, “Sexy Commodore, sir.”
A fountain of red-tinged beverage erupted from the Tellarite’s large nostrils as Jarrod stepped back into the house, leaving Trujillo covering her mouth and trying not to laugh aloud at Glal’s reaction.
At that moment, Trujillo’s comm-link, disguised as a stylish metallic bracelet, vibrated.
Trujillo took a moment to collect herself before tapping the device. “Go ahead.”
“Sorry to interrupt your shore leave, sir,” Commander Jadaetti Davula said from aboard Reykjavík in orbit. “Starbase operations has just advised us that we have a situation developing along our border with the Gorn Hegemony.”
“A situation, Commander? Any specifics?” Trujillo asked as Glal dabbed ineffectually at his drink saturated beard and shirt with a napkin.
“Not many, sir. It looks like there’s been a limited hostile exchange with the Gorn. We’ve reportedly lost contact with a surveillance outpost and a border cutter. The situation is a bit confused at the moment. Admiral Lannux has ordered a general recall from all leaves and passes.”
“Understood. I’ll be up in about twenty minutes; I just need to pack up.”
She drained the last of her coffee and turned a satisfied expression on Glal. “I guess it’s time to go back to work.”
“Finally,” Glal grumbled, still wiping at his beard.
* * *
The senior staff of Reykjavík had assembled in the windowless briefing room aft of the bridge, surrounded by the faux-wood ancient Terran naval aesthetic designed for the compartment.
Captain Alvin Tarrant from Starfleet Intelligence had transported up from the starbase to brief the commodore and her senior officers on what little was known about the quickly evolving situation along the Federation’s border with the Gorn Hegemony.
Tarrant was a middle-aged officer with a receding hairline and a paunch along his midsection secured under his uniform tunic’s belt. He had struck the others immediately as being affable, pragmatic, and professional.
The senior officers of Gol and Zelenskyy were also in attendance, via comms interlink from their respective briefing rooms.
Trujillo opened the meeting and gave Tarrant the floor.
“Good afternoon, everyone. I’ll get right to it. Intel monitors Gorn military transmissions quite extensively, as their encryption and op-sec protocols are pretty slipshod by our standards. Yesterday at zero-four-thirty-one hours Zulu time, we picked up a flurry of Gorn comms traffic that seems consistent with their forces suffering a surprise attack. A Gorn military facility three-point-seven light-years from our mutual border was destroyed, and the Gorn subsequently scrambled all available assets to locate and repel their attackers.”
He toggled an icon on the LCARS interface in front of him and a fuzzy but recognizable image of what could only be a Federation Excelsior-class starship appeared on the viewscreen set into the bulkhead. “This is the vessel that reportedly attacked the Gorn installation, prompting their retaliatory strike on our surveillance outpost and patrol cutter some six hours later.”
Trujillo’s eyes narrowed. “We struck first?” she asked dubiously.
Tarrant nodded regretfully. “It certainly appears so, though Command assures me no such orders have been issued.”
“Who?” she asked, an edge to her voice.
“There are only two Excelsiors currently posted to the Gorn border. USS Havana has been within constant sensor contact of our monitoring stations and hasn’t crossed the border. The starship Repulse, however, switched off her transponder at some point prior to the attack on the Gorn and hasn’t been heard from since. She’s refusing to respond to inquiries and orders from Command and her whereabouts are unknown.”
“That’s Theodore Keller’s ship, isn’t it?” Glal asked via the interlink.
“It is,” Tarrant confirmed. “You know him?”
“By reputation only,” Glal replied, his expression souring.
“Same here,” Trujillo interjected. “I understand he’s known for being rather… uncompromising,” she added.
From the split-image viewer Glal snorted. “You’re uncompromising, sir. Keller’s a damned tyrant.”
Trujillo fixed a chary eye on her former XO. “That’s enough, Commander. Captain Keller isn’t here to defend himself, and I won’t have another officer condemned in absentia in front of our subordinates.”
“Aye, sir. My apologies,” Glal appeared chastened.
Trujillo turned back to Tarrant. “That’s all we have so far?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered. “The one bit of good news in all this is that it doesn’t appear that the Gorn are marshaling their forces for any further follow-on attacks, at least not yet. They’ve increased their defensive posture on their side of the border, but we aren’t seeing any signs they’re gearing up for an all-out attack.”
Trujillo nodded at Tarrant’s assessment. “Let’s hope it stays that way, but I’m going to want some additional assets in place to make sure we’re prepared if something larger erupts.”
Tarrant appeared uncomfortable with that idea. “With the exception of the Gu’zodid separatist movement four years ago, which I’m aware you were caught up in, sir, the Gorn border has been largely inactive for the past decade. We haven't fought a major engagement with them since the Gorn War of '08, and that was two years of repelling hit-and-run attacks on our colonies and installations along the border. Given that, I’d caution against drawing a sizable number of our ships to the area, as it might antagonize the Gorn further. So far, it very much looks like we’re at fault here.”
“So noted, Captain,” Trujillo affirmed. “I’ll draw up a task force some parsecs away. Close enough to respond to any incursions, but not near enough to be provocative.”
Trujillo's first officer, the Bolian Commander Davula asked, “Captain, is it at all possible that the Gorn somehow overpowered or otherwise compromised Repulse and are using the ship to stage a false-flag operation?”
Tarrant’s expression was skeptical. “We’ve analyzed that scenario, and while it’s not impossible, Intel has judged it as being highly improbable. Something as involved as that is more along the lines of Romulan thinking. The Gorn have traditionally been far more direct.”
Lieutenant Helvia, the heavily built Magna-Roman security officer, spoke up. “It also depends on which stage of Gorn we’re dealing with here, sir. Their young are feral, their military-aged are ferocious and unrelenting, and their aged are large and slow but very cunning.”
Tarrant bobbed his head, “That also factors into it. Depending on which cadre is operating along this part of the border, we could expect much different reactions. My bet would be that so far the Grolch, ‘the wizened,’ are calling the shots here. They’re the most likely to demonstrate the restraint we’ve seen so far from their military forces.”
Lt. Commander Withropp, captain of the Zelenskyy offered, “I would like to recommend bringing along a JAG contingent, Commodore. If Repulse really has gone rogue, having a team present from the Judge Advocate would speed the investigation as well as make sure the rights of any personnel suspected of wrongdoing were being preserved.”
“Agreed,” Trujillo said. “Additionally, it might help to prove to the Gorn that any unprovoked attack we may have launched was unauthorized, and we’re serious about investigating the matter.”
“Sir,” Glal countered, “do you really think the Gorn are going to care about us bringing our space-lawyers along?”
Trujillo offered a halfhearted smirk. “I’m hoping for the best, Mister Glal. Be a good man and try not to be the screen door on my airlock, okay?”
That spurred a bout of shared laughter from all three linked compartments.
“Captain Tarrant, how would you feel about coming with us to the Gorn border?” Trujillo asked.
Tarrant raised his eyebrows in a mildly surprised expression. “So long as I have a real-time subspace link with our office here, I can work just as easily from your ship as I could the starbase, sir. However, I would note that the Intel asset Harken is currently in this sector, and as such could fulfill that role for you and your task force with greater flexibility.”
Trujillo’s expression brightened. “Harken? Is Captain Mistry still commanding her?”
“She is indeed, sir. You know her?”
“Quite well, actually. We’ve served alongside Harken previously. That ship and crew joining us would have substantial advantages for our task force. Though, I’d still like to have you on hand to liaise with Harken and Intel Command, Captain.”
“I’m at your service, Commodore,” Tarrant replied gamely.
“We’ll arrange quarters for you, then,” Trujillo advised. She turned to look at the viewscreen. “I am initiating the assembly of Task Force Bulwark, assigning available ships from this sector along with some of those already on patrol routes along the Gorn border. This will be Operation Lacertus. Our mission priorities will be to stabilize the political and military situation along the border and to investigate the circumstances surrounding the outbreak of hostilities with the Hegemony. If the situation deteriorates, we’ll move to intercede and defend our territory.”
She observed the reactions of her own senior officers and those of the other ships via the comm-link.
“Begin preparations for departure in sixty minutes, mark. This meeting is adjourned.”
The viewer winked off and Trujillo turned to Davula. “Commander, please take point with the starbase’s JAG office and make billeting arrangements for the legal team.”
“Aye, sir.”
Trujillo stood, the other officers following her to their feet. “We have very few hours in which to either prevent a war, or to win a war we may have already started. Dismissed.”
* * *