Chapter Text
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Starbase 19
Tellun System
January 12th, 2323 - Stardate 4154.1
Commodore Nandi Trujillo’s temporary office was situated just off the Tactical Holography Bay, the large compartment aboard the station dedicated to real-time tracking and display of the fleet formations participating in the strategic and tactical exercises being held here.
She stood, facing the officer in front of her desk, her features locked in an artfully neutral expression she saved for dressings down.
Trujillo was in her late forties, her below-shoulder-length black hair streaked with the gray that had begun to appear in her twenties. She possessed a broad, expressive face with a generous mouth and piercing brown eyes. Throughout the years some had incorrectly misinterpreted her features as suggesting softness, but the flinty eyes served notice of the strength and determination that lurked just below the surface.
Captain Henri Maurice Laurent stood at attention, yet somehow still managed to convey his disdain for his present circumstances. Of French ancestry, he was of average height, but carried himself with an aristocratic bearing that grated on Trujillo’s nerves. He had well-kept wavy brown hair, hazel eyes, and nose that proved distinct without being either sharp or prominent. In his early forties, Laurent’s hair had not yet begun to gray or, Trujillo suspected uncharitably, was being artificially colored.
The man’s duty uniform was immaculately tailored to his frame, with every emblem, pip, squeak, and ribbon in its proper place. The professionalism on display with his uniform did not extend to his demeanor, however, and Laurent’s facial expression was one of boredom mixed with studied insouciance.
Laurent was the commanding officer of the Atlantis-class starship Kotarbiński, a deep-space exploratory cruiser.
She mustered her most diplomatic mien, gesturing for Laurent to be seated across the desk from her. “At ease, Captain. Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Whatever else might be said of Laurent, his manners were impeccable, and he waited for his superior to be seated before lowering himself into his own chair.
“Admiral Phoung wishes for me to convey his displeasure with Kotarbiński’s performance in this morning’s simulated attack on Objective Sigma,” Trujillo began. “Your ship broke formation and nearly collided with the Lo’Oako and Virgil. You then abandoned your assigned target and made an unauthorized attack run on another squadron’s objective.”
“I did, sir,” Laurent confirmed in his accented Federation Standard.
“May I ask why?” she inquired in a level tone, masking the edge that fought to claw its way into her voice. Trujillo prepared to dissect his responses with analytical intensity.
“It caused confusion among the threat formation, sir,” Laurent explained. “They were unprepared for the maneuver and lagged behind in their efforts to counter my sudden course change.” He motioned with his hands, using them to demonstrate his unorthodox move. “The target was caught unawares and neutralized with little difficulty.”
“Squadron Three’s target was neutralized, Captain. Again, that was not your group’s objective. The threat forces guarding your squadron’s objective gained a tactical advantage over Squadron One when you broke formation and scattered your fellow ships with your unauthorized maneuvers. Squadron One suffered losses and was forced to retreat with Squadron Two covering their withdrawal.”
Laurent sat back, masking his agitation with a well-worn neutral expression that he was rumored to save for just such occasions. “Commodore Anderberg’s tactics were predictable and uninspired.”
Trujillo secretly agreed with Laurent’s assessment of Anderberg’s tactical acumen, but that was not the point.
She merely sat in silence, studying him as Laurent grew increasingly uncomfortable.
“With respect, Commodore, I know how to fight my ship. I have proven that on multiple occasions,” he blurted finally, unable to stomach the lingering quietude.
“In one-on-one engagements, absolutely you have. You and your crew have proven wily opponents to any number of threat vessels since you took command. That, however, is not the point of these exercises, and you know it. Your ship has been assigned to patrol duties for the next eighteen months. We both know you’d much rather be out exploring, but this rotation it’s your turn to guard the ramparts…”
He opened his mouth to interject, but she held him at bay with a raised hand.
“Captain, I have to know that I can trust you to do your part in any fleet or task force formation. I can’t have you running off to play Captain Kirk because your commanding officer’s strategy or tactics aren’t inspiring enough for you. In actual fleet formations, the kind of stunt you pulled this morning gets people killed unnecessarily.”
Trujillo held his gaze until he dropped his eyes, the defiance there flickering and dying in the heat of her stare.
“You are an able starship commander, and in the coming months and years you will undoubtedly have ample opportunity to cement your legacy as such. Though you may believe starship combat is a minor province in the overall makeup of a CO, a captain’s inability to operate successfully in a cooperative formation is more than sufficient grounds for relief or transfer.”
Laurent’s hung head jerked up at this, his eyes wide.
“There are other branches of Starfleet where captains are needed, of course. Command of a star-station, for instance, or chief of operations on a starbase? The administrative challenges of that position are formidable. Or perhaps a sector commander for Starfleet Logistics, overseeing the escort of convoys of merchant traffic to and from our more vulnerable ports?”
Laurent blanched, his hands tightening on the armrests of his chair. “That… will not be necessary, Commodore. Your point is taken. I will conform to the designated fleet formation tactics going forward.”
Trujillo sat back in her chair. “I’m pleased to hear that, Captain. I am certain Admiral Phoung will be similarly delighted.”
She stood, and Laurent rose as well.
“Thank you for meeting with me, Captain Laurent. You are dismissed.”
He departed without another word, his pride still warring with his sense of duty.
Trujillo watched him go, feeling an odd sense of kinship with the man. Not terribly long before, Trujillo would have been a prime candidate for just such a stern talking to. She pondered how quickly and dramatically situations could change.
After his departure, Trujillo remained standing, rolling her neck around and trying to release some of the stress of the past week. Her leadership of the Strategic and Tactical Exercises Conference was her first major flag-level assignment that did not involve command of an active task force. The administrative burdens of such a high-level exercise and the planning necessary to bring together dozens of vessels for a week and half of grueling simulated battles had been daunting, but she had found herself invigorated by the challenge it represented.
She began to collect her few belongings in preparation for her return to her ship which was at station-keeping near the starbase. The door chimed, and Trujillo tensed, expecting a second round with the willful young captain.
She was surprised to instead find the austere form of Vice-Admiral Obynaov Ch'thannak standing on the other side of the transparent door panels.
Trujillo mustered a genuine smile and welcomed the older Andorian flag officer inside. “What a pleasant surprise, Admiral. What can I do for you?”
“I was already planning on coming to see you today,” the tall Andorian officer said, “but as it happens, in addition to my other reason for visiting, I now have a new assignment for you.”
Ch'thannak was a towering figure, rail thin and possessing a commanding bearing. His face was a collection of deep lines and wrinkles which attested to his decades of service far more than did even the ‘fruit-salad’ of ribbons and citations affixed just below the combadge on his maroon wraparound uniform tunic.
Trujillo set down the case she’d shouldered in preparation for departing the office.
“Sir? The STEC doesn’t conclude for another week and a half.”
“Yes,” he said with a curt nod of acknowledgement. “Regardless, this situation and these orders take precedence. Commodore Anderberg will be taking over for you.”
She gestured to the sitting area, a couch opposite two comfortable chairs, with a low coffee table between.
Before they could be seated, Ch'thannak stooped to set his briefcase atop the table between them. He opened it and retrieved a small case. He assumed a formal posture, and Trujillo followed his lead, appearing bemused.
“I know you eschew accolades and crowds, so I’ve done you the courtesy of presenting this in private.” He opened the case to reveal a pair of gleaming objects within.
“For your innovative and aggressive engagement tactics employed against the Tholian incursion in the Longlax-Teko system, a battle which undoubtedly saved countless lives in preventing a larger conflict between the Federation and the Assembly, Starfleet Command is proud to present you the Grankite Order of Tactics, Class of Excellence.”
He turned the case towards Trujillo so that she could see the medal contained within. Alongside it sat a small accompanying trophy for display in her quarters or ready room.
Her expression grew pinched, and she raised her hand as if in a warding gesture. “Sir, respectfully, I cann—”
“You will,” Ch'thannak said forcefully, cutting her off as his antennae twitched with irritation. Then, in a gentler tone, he added, “This award also symbolizes the sacrifice of all those we lost in that battle, Nandi. To refuse it is to tarnish their memory, and I know you would never do that.”
Her hand dropped to her side. “No sir,” she agreed. “I wouldn’t.” She reached out for the box taking him from him almost reverently, moving to place it into her carryall. “I will make sure to display this in a prominent, visible spot, Admiral.”
“You had best,” he confirmed. “You most assuredly earned that, Commodore.”
She turned back to him. “You said there was other business, sir?”
“Yes, another outbreak of piracy.” He gestured to their seats and sat down, with Trujillo following suit.
He opened his briefcase yet again, retrieving a bottle and gesturing to the glasses sitting on a shelving unit next to the office desk. Trujillo obediently rose to collect two glasses, returning to eye the bottle appreciatively.
“Pappy Van Winkle?” she appeared openly skeptical. “They haven’t bottled that in centuries.”
“True enough,” Ch'thannak affirmed, carefully opening the bottle. “This particular gem was confiscated from an Orion border runner, along with a dozen crates of Ae’leric-vintage Romulan Ale.”
Trujillo smiled broadly. “Rank hath its privileges, eh?”
Ch'thannak poured two measures and handed a glass to Trujillo. “This bottle is my belated gift to you for your promotion. Of course, I was selfish enough to wait to present it so that I could have a taste.”
She raised her glass, holding the liquid up to the light. “How old is this, sir?”
“Two hundred and sixty years, Commodore. It was casked two months before Earth’s Third World War. The bottle is replicated, as the stuff was still in its oak cask when it was seized.”
Trujillo’s jaw dropped, causing Ch'thannak to smirk. “I never would have allowed you to open it!”
His smile broadened, his white teeth striking against the contrast of his blue skin. “I know. Drink up.”
“Salud,” she said, touching her glass to his before taking an experimental sip. A deep sigh escaped her as the warmth of the alcohol infused her senses. “It’s as good as I’ve heard… better, in fact.”
“I’ve also kept a bottle of the Romulan ale for you to present to Admiral Saavik. You’re one of the few who know her tastes.”
She cradled the glass protectively, examining her superior. “What aren’t you telling me?”
He released an appreciative grunt at her keen observation as he settled back into his chair, swirling the whisky in his glass. “Both bottles are also my apology for putting a burning drum of yerrth dung in your lap.”
“My new mission? The piracy?”
“Yes, the piracy. Though I’m fully aware of how much you enjoy a good scrap with marauders, this particular group is as troublesome as they come.” He removed a small holo-projector from his briefcase and activated it via an accompanying data-slate.
The image of a 22nd century Klingon Raptor-class warship took shape in the air between them.
“These raiders are employing retrofit Orion and Klingon vessels, many of them well over a century old, but boasting serious upgrades to their weapons, shields, and structural integrity.
“This particular ship attacked one of our Starfleet flagged deuterium carriers some four-point-two parsecs spinward of Starbase 71. The CO of our ship was tempted to laugh when he realized the age of the Raptor. That reaction changed abruptly as soon as the vessel opened fire.”
“Packed a punch, did she?” Trujillo asked with an ironic frown.
“Indeed,” he continued. “She’s obviously been substantially upgraded. The ship-to-ship battle was over relatively quickly, with most of the cargo ship’s phaser banks knocked out within thirty seconds of the first shot.”
The image shifted to show an internal corridor adjoining an airlock. Several Starfleet crew members armed with hand phasers and rifles stood ready to repel boarders. The airlock hatch exploded inward, showering the corridor beyond with ricochetting shards of super-heated metal that scythed down several of the defenders. Armored figures rushed through the smoking breach with surprising speed and agility, cutting down the stunned survivors of the explosion with precise blasts from disruptor rifles.
“Good Lord,” Nandi murmured with evident surprise, “that was fast and efficient. They’d put our Marine Recon and our Special Missions teams to shame. You don’t typically see that kind of skill and precision from pirates.”
Ch'thannak enhanced the image, zooming in on one of the attackers. The person was clad in hardened, mat-black, articulated body armor with a helmet that completely obscured their facial features. The individual was wielding what appeared to be a Romulan disruptor rifle. A pistol-style disruptor was fastened to one hip, while an incongruous sheathed short sword was fixed to the other.
He drew the image back to its original magnification then switched the view to an adjoining corridor. The attackers surged into the passageway, darting and feinting with almost preternatural speed, blasting the defending crewmembers with their rifles or cutting them down with their swords.
Again, Ch'thannak zoomed the image, focusing on the bright blade of one attacker’s sword in hand, the weapon glinting in the reflected light from the corridor overheads.
“Do you recognize it?”
Trujillo, an ardent student of military history, practically goggled. “It can’t be.”
“But it is, nonetheless,” Ch'thannak countered.
“I’d thought they were Romulans, given their speed and armament,” Trujillo said, still trying to wrap her mind around the implications.
“No, the disruptors are Rigellian knock-offs of Romulan weapons. The sword, of course, is a—”
“Gladius,” Trujillo provided. “Carried by Roman legionaries on Earth for centuries.”
Ch'thannak gave a curt nod, “And wielded to this day by the legionnaires of the improbable world of Magna Roma.”
“They have FTL capability now?”
“So it would seem. Intel guesses they’ve purchased their ships from Orion or Lissepian intermediaries dealing in castoffs from Klingon breaking yards.”
Trujillo sat back, appearing confused. “But what the hell could a technologically undeveloped planet like Magna Roma have that the Orions or Liss—” she trailed off, her eyes widening. “Oh, dear God… slaves.”
The Andorian nodded slowly, his dour frown matching her own. “Yes, unfortunately. Slavery is still widely practiced on that world. They have more than enough enslaved peoples and political prisoners to sell many off-world to the Syndicate and others. We also believe the Orions discovered sizeable deposits of latinum on Magna Roma. They tried to hide the value of the mineral from the empire, but it appears the Magna Romanii sniffed out their duplicity. The Romanii are now effectively filthy rich and have begun using that wealth to purchase advanced technology. They’ve gone from the equivalent of late 20th century Terran technology to the 24th in the space of a few decades.”
Trujillo reached forward to access the display control tablet, playing back the initial fight at the airlock and watching from several different camera angles as the Magna Romanii swept through the ship. “None of that explains their raw speed and power. I don’t care how sharp their blades are, they’re practically cutting our personnel in half. I could understand doing that with a long sword or a Klingon bat’leth, but a short sword designed for slashing and stabbing? Are their armored suits powered?”
Ch'thannak reached out to tab the console’s interface. “Well spotted, and no, their suits are believed to be simple non-powered body-armor. As it happens, the attackers were unable to take the ship due to the captain engaging security lockouts, and they murdered him when he refused to give up the codes. They killed the rest of the crew then abandoned the ship, probably planning to destroy it, but the cruiser Çatalhöyük arrived and they were forced to flee.”
“Çatalhöyük let them get away?” Trujillo asked, a hint of disapproval in her tone. “That doesn’t sound like Abe Amaechi.”
“The ship had red-lined her engines getting there and Captain Amaechi was left unable to pursue. They tracked the Raptor to the Vimra Cluster and lost her in the congestion near the trade stations.”
“So, we still haven’t identified the base of operations of the attackers?”
“No, but our forensic examination of the deuterium tanker turned up some rather startling results.” The image shifted again, displaying a double helix of humanoid DNA, several segments of which were highlighted and labeled. “Blood and tissue residue were left behind,” he explained. “Genetic analysis of those samples indicated that the attackers were of human stock but had significant alterations to their base genetic sequencing.”
Trujillo’s eyes closed and she emitted a heavy sigh. “Shit. Augments.”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “As yet we don’t know if they stumbled upon that technology themselves or with the assistance of outsiders, but that’s just one of the mysteries here we hope you and your people will be able to solve.”
“Well, this just became much more complicated.”
The old Andorian smiled thinly. “Which is why we’re sending you. You and your squadron have proven adept at this sort of thing, and you just so happen to have the only Magna Romanii officer in Starfleet as one of your senior officers.”
She was openly dubious. “You know what they did to him, sir? What he was subjected to by his own people?”
“I do, in fact. Hopefully, Lieutenant Helvia won’t have to set so much as a foot on that blighted world again, but he’ll prove an invaluable resource in helping you understand how his people think and act.”
Trujillo took a long sip from her glass of priceless whisky, lost in thought.
“Commodore?”
She started, her reverie broken. “Sorry, sir. I’m just trying to figure out how I’m going to tell Mister Helvia we’ll be visiting his homeworld.”
“Be direct,” he advised. “His people supposedly appreciate frankness.”
Her answering smile was equally thin and without humor. “When in Rome, eh, Admiral?”
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