Chapter Text
* * *
The damned noise woke him again, accompanied by crashing sounds that shook his surroundings in time with the pounding agony in his head. He was tired, so very tired, and yet these obnoxious fools would not let him rest.
“Starboard shields nearing thirty percent!”
"Maintain fire, all weapons."
Shut up! He cried internally. Let me sleep!
“Structural buckling detected, Decks Three and Four, Sections Baker-Four through Charlie-Three.”
“Target Two is accelerating to port and making a hard turn to one-nine-zero, mark three-two-nine.”
Whatever was happening sounded exciting and despite the noise and raised voices intruding on his slumber, Glal’s curiosity was piqued.
“Skipper’s down!”
“Bridge to Medical, the captain’s been injured and he’s non-responsive. Get someone up here as soon as you can.”
The same voice then called, “Reroute auxiliary power from phasers to shields and structural integrity!” Then, “Jarrod to Engineering, how soon until you’ve restored the warp-drive? We need to get out of here.”
Glal heard another voice issue forth that he recognized, this time sounding tinny and distorted. The crackling of the overloaded comms system couldn’t drown out the irritation in the tone, however. “I’m working on it, XO! We’re lashing a stabilizer onto the starboard conduit. Without that, it’s likely to rupture, and we’ll lose all of Engineering along with your precious warp drive.”
There were more raised voices…
“Pressure doors and internal forcefields have sealed the breach on Deck Five. A combadge census shows three crew unaccounted for in that section, sir.”
It was far from Lt. Commander Jarrod’s first time in combat. In his twenty years of active Starfleet service, the man had seen skirmishes, tussles, battles and even full-scale wars fought both in the vacuum of space as well as on the surfaces of dozens of planets. Most of these engagements had come after he had joined the crew of his previous posting, USS Reykjavík.
Now, however, the ship in combat was under his command by virtue of the captain being incapacitated. A ship that had just been ambushed.
Phasers and photon torpedoes flashed in multiple directions, engaging at least three separate targets as two Klingon Birds-of-Prey and a Kzinti Batterer-class frigate had emerged from under cloak to pummel the Akyazi-class starship.
Loath as he was to do so, Jarrod realized their only chance of survival was escape. They had suffered too much damage too quickly to easily turn the tables on their attackers.
On the bridge, consoles flashed and sparked, sizzling multitronic components lending an acrid stench to the air.
Jarrod knelt to check the pulse of Chief Ramsay, who had collapsed to the deck after being blown out of his seat by an exploding computer station. There was no pulse, and Jarrod’s fingers came away smeared with blood from the chief’s ruined face.
Another blow bludgeoned the ship, causing Jarrod to steady himself with both hands braced against the bridge’s safety railing. He cast a glance towards the Tactical display, noticing the flashing orange indicators along the starboard/aft section of Gol’s shield perimeter, indicative of impending collapse.
The turbolift doors opened to admit a medical team, the members of which split up to begin rendering aid to the multiple crumpled figures lying or writhing on the deck.
“Two direct hits on one of the Birds, sir,” came their first bit of good news from the Tactical officer. “Their starboard wing has been separated from their hull, and they just ejected their warp core.”
The petty officer manning the helm station was throwing Gol hither and yon, describing wild arcs and acrobatic snap-rolls, attempting to throw off their pursuers’ aim until FTL propulsion was restored. The Akyazi-class was a nimble vessel, as well as sturdily constructed. No wilting violet this ship, Jarrod thought with a grim smile. More like withering violence. This made him think of his wife, and how much she would enjoy such a scrape, the proverbial knife-fight in a turbolift. Poor Nandi, off playing diplomat when there’s fights to be had.
The Kzinti ship’s phasers scored across Gol’s dorsal shields, causing the bridge to lurch yet again and sending Jarrod scrabbling for purchase to anchor himself on the command chair’s armrest. Glal’s voice echoed in his ears, chiding him for sprawling all over the bridge in the middle of a firefight like a green cadet. Thus prompted by his unconscious CO, Jarrod slid into the seat and engaged the chair’s safety restraints.
“Helm, keep our most vulnerable shield grid as far away from the enemy as you can. Tactical, start kicking fused torpedoes out our aft launcher. If they want to stick to our tail, there’s a price to be paid.”
The respective NCO’s affirmed their orders as Jarrod struggled to get the full picture of the ship’s operational status, calling up damage reports on the command chair’s abbreviated armrest display.
Gol cut inside the Kzinti ship’s turning radius, and the marauder was briefly visible on screen, flashing past as Gol peppered it with stuttering streams of phaser fire.
“Ramsay’s dead, sir,” a medic said, providing Jarrod with information he already possessed. “The captain’s got a severe concussion and a substantial subdural hematoma and we’re moving him to Sickbay immediately.”
“Understood,” Jarrod said brusquely, watching two photon torpedoes racing downrange on the viewscreen to impact the intact Bird-of-Prey as it swung about to initiate another attack run.
Two of the medical team took either end of the anti-grav litter Glal was strapped to and began to make their way carefully across the shuddering deck plates towards the turbolift.
There was a more muted crash and the ship swayed as a midshipman staffing Operations from an auxiliary console on the upper level announced. “They just hit one of our mines! Two… two of our mines! Kzinti ship is slowing and has ceased firing.”
Jarrod was about to comment on that development when the intra-ship comms came to life.
“Engineering to bridge, that conduit’s as secure as we can make it. Don’t push us above warp five, though, if you can help it.”
“Bless you, Lieutenant,” Jarrod enthused. “Get us out of here,” he commanded above thunderous din of weapons impacting Gol’s shields as the oncoming Bird-of-Prey’s wingtip disruptors opened upon them. “Warp four, any direction!”
Gol leaped to warp just as her shields began to collapse, the ship spewing torpedoes into space behind her as she accelerated away in a multicolored streak of light.
* * *
The second day of negotiations was yet to begin and would hopefully prove more fruitful than the previous day’s exercise in posturing and theatrics.
Prior to the late-morning’s session, Helvia had requested and received permission from the Romanii to visit one of his family’s old properties. This particular area was a latifunda previously owned by his grandfather, now property of the government. This enormous agricultural estate was situated in the far south of the Italian boot and sprawled across over a thousand hectares, divided between olive tree orchards and fields of various grains.
Scores of slaves toiled here sewing crops, watering, landscaping, harvesting, and tending to the palatial villa rustica, the countryside villa in which the landholding family lived or merely visited when the mood or the seasons beckoned.
“I thought you said you grew up in Rome,” Trujillo said, drinking in the rural beauty of the panorama. Low rolling hills abutted the seemingly endless fields and lush orchards, a riot of green, brown and ochre.
The distant peak of Mt. Vesuvius could just be glimpsed through the haze to the northwest, a dark column of ash rising from its cratered summit. Thankfully, the prevailing winds carried nearly all the toxic mixture of rock, minerals, and glass particles out into this world’s version of the Mediterranean Sea.
“I did,” Helvia answered in a distant timbre, his eyes sweeping the horizon. “We came here mainly in the late Summer and Fall, for the harvests.” He dropped to a crouch, reaching out to scoop up a handful of dark soil and sifting it slowly through his fingers.
Trujillo hated to intrude on this bittersweet visit home, but she did not trust the Romanii to leave Helvia alone, hence the security detachment of eight personnel that formed a perimeter around the pair.
“You have a fondness for growing things,” Trujillo noted, aware that what little off-duty time Helvia did enjoy was spent almost exclusively in Reykjavík’s arboretum. “I trust you have good memories of tending the crops here?”
He brushed the dirt from his hands and stood, emitting a sardonic laugh. “I never tended the soil here, sir. Such a task would have been considered beneath my station.”
“Ah, my apologies, then,” she offered. “I had assumed this is where you developed your green thumb.”
Helvia looked down then raised his gaze back to the horizon. “This is where I rode horses, practiced sword fighting and small arms, and chased after stable boys. All in all, the best parts of my childhood and adolescence.”
“What is it like seeing it again after all these years?”
“Unsettling,” he answered simply. “I keep trying to see it through a child’s eyes again, but I cannot. Everything is filtered through the educational and moral paradigms that Starfleet has infused in me.”
“That would tend to change the flavor of the experience,” she conceded.
“Now all I see is slaves toiling under the whip of totalitarian rule and capitalist excess. Their basic humanity is denied them.”
They fell into a silence that stretched on for minutes as Helvia struggled to free himself from the paralyzing emotions wracking his mind and body. He wanted to move towards the great house but found he couldn’t take the first step.
The chirp of Trujillo’s communicator broke the quiet. She reached for the flip-grid handheld unit on her belt, its range, power and encryption strength superior to that of the uniform combadge.
“Trujillo, go ahead.”
“Sir, we’ve just received a priority message from Gol,” Davula relayed. “The ship was ambushed during an attempted rescue of a freighter under suspected Romanii attack. They’ve taken heavy damage and are returning to our position at warp four. They report casualties of seven dead, three missing, and twenty-three injured, five of them seriously. One of those seriously wounded is Commander Glal, and Commander Jarrod has assumed command of the ship.”
Trujillo’s face hardened into a mask of controlled anger. She took a deep breath and released it before replying in a consciously neutral tone. “Acknowledged, Commander. Dispatch Zelenskyy to escort them back. I’ll be up presently. Inform the Romanii that today’s session will be delayed, but don’t tell them why.”
She flipped the communicator closed, gripping it tightly in her hand as she struggled to rein in her fury. “I’m sorry, Mister Helvia. We need to return to the ship. Whatever it was you intended to do here will have to wait for another day.”
He nodded mutely in reply, tearing his eyes away from the idyllic vista to focus on the commodore. “Understood, sir. I appear to lack the courage to act in this instance, anyway.”
Her gaze settled on Helvia, her suddenly flinty brown eyes searching out his. “I drew a very visible line in the sand, Mister Helvia. The Romanii just gleefully stepped over it. There will be… consequences.”.”
Helvia inclined his head, murmuring, “Bellum gerimus ut in pace vivamus.”
Trujillo’s combadge obediently translated, “We make war so that we may live in peace.”
* * *
Rachel Garrett hadn’t afforded herself much sleep lately, and only a little over two hours into her rest cycle, she was awakened by a comms-chime that prompted a bright overhead light to shine down directly onto her face.
“Bridge to Lieutenant Garrett.”
She grunted, blinking, and covered her eyes with one hand as she propped herself up on one elbow. “Uh… yeah. What is it?”
“Incoming priority message for you from the Daystrom Institute, coded personal.”
Garrett swung her legs out of bed, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Put it through down here, please.”
“Transferring it to your terminal now, Lieutenant. Bridge, out.”
Garrett pulled a bathrobe on over her pajamas and padded over to her cabin’s work desk, seating herself and activating her computer terminal. The transmission was encrypted, and Garrett entered her personal authorization code.
A human woman of Garrett’s approximate age appeared on the screen, a red head with a scattering of freckles across a pixie-like face. “Oh, I apologize for having awakened you, Lieutenant. I waited until what I was sure would be Alpha-Shift aboard your ship to call.”
Garrett mustered a tired smile in reply. “No problem. You figured correctly. However, I just crashed after about twenty-two hours on duty. How can I help you?”
“I’m the one calling to offer help, actually,” the woman said. “My name’s Dr. Emily Severn, and I’m contacting you from the Daystrom Institute regarding a data-packet you sent for analysis.”
Garrett sat forward, suddenly very much awake. “Yes, thank you. I’m very curious to find out what you’ve come up with.”
“Well, despite the fact that you’re working with some outdated simulation programs, you’ve done a masterful job of massaging the results to give you a more accurate assessment of what actually occurred in that star system.”
Garrett’s expression froze. “You mean the results were accurate? The planet we’re orbiting and it’s moon just popped into existence?” She ran a hand through her hair as she closed her eyes for a long moment.
“Not what you were expecting?” Severn asked.
“Let’s just say our current assignment is delicate enough without this kind of implausible variable thrown into the equation.”
“I’d think that as a scientist, you’d be excited by something this extraordinary,” Severn said, her mouth hinting at a knowing smile.
“In that respect you thought wrong,” Garrett sulked. “This just means the commodore will be asking questions I can’t answer.”
“Questions like?” Severn prompted.
“Like who or what is behind this? What species is powerful enough to materialize entire worlds into an existing star system?”
Severn replied, “There are plenty of likely candidates. The Metrons, Excalibans, Organians, whatever the Trelane-entity was, all of them are easily Level Three or Four civilizations on the Kardashev scale. It could just as likely be someone we haven’t encountered yet, or an ancient civilization that’s since died out or ascended to a higher dimensional plane.”
“Meaning that whatever created this world may no longer be involved in the social evolution of the Romanii, and may not present a threat to us or our mission?” Garrett postulated.
“I’m guessing that’s what rattled the hell out of that Vulcan admiral,” Severn chuckled, smirking. “But even he ultimately assessed the threat potential to your mission was low.”
Garrett scowled. “What Vulcan admiral?”
Severn waved the question away. “Never mind, I digress. To sum it up, you’re not crazy and your simulation isn’t malfunctioning. As unlikely as it sounds, what you suspect to have happened in System 892 thirty-five hundred years ago did, in fact, take place.”
Garrett nodded fractionally at this, her mind now working a different problem. “Dr. Severn, as I recall, Commander Davula was the one with the Daystrom contact. I sent my packet to a friend at MIT. That begs the question, why are you replying to me and not Davula?”
Severn inclined her head in acknowledgement. “You’re correct, Lieutenant. Let’s just say that I wanted to meet the woman who was brazen enough to see the truth through the veil of improbability. Many people in your place would have buried this and gone about their lives without a second thought.”
“That’s not who I am,” Garrett replied frostily.
“No, no it’s not,” Severn agreed. “Can I help you with anything else before I sign off?”
“Only one thing,” Garrett said. “In the future, I’d appreciate it if you forgo misrepresenting yourself as a biological entity. It really is in poor taste.”
Now Severn laughed outright. “Didn’t fool you, eh?”
Garrett raised a critiquing eyebrow. “Emily Severn? M-7? And you appear to know far more about what’s going on with our mission than would any junior-level PhD at Daystrom.”
“You can’t blame an AI for being curious. This is the most interesting phenomenon I’ve encountered in years. If you need any further assistance, contact me at this address. I figure I owe you, by way of an apology if nothing else.”
“I’ll be sure to take you up on that, Emily,” Garrett said with a smirk of her own as she severed the channel.
She turned in her chair to face her rumpled bed, thinking that she now had some answers, but these answers were cold comfort. Unbeknownst to the Romanii, one or more of the gods they worshiped in their pantheon might actually exist.
* * *