This is the first adventure of the USS Perseus commanded by Captain Christopher Hobson. Beginning in 2376, the adventures of the Perseus take place in the same universe as those of the other stories in our shared universe. I hope you enjoy these tales, and don't worry, I'm hard at work on the next part of "Rocks and Shoals" and on the next Lexington project, tentatively titled "Aliens".
SON RISE SUN SET
Part 1
“Entering planetary system 892.” Lieutenant (jg) Yitzhak Shalev announced from his position at the helm of the USS Perseus as the Intrepid-class starship glided past a ringed greenish hued gas giant accompanied by three Io sized moons and a dozen smaller companions.
“Any sign of interplanetary travel?” The captain of the Perseus, Christopher Hobson, asked as he leaned forward in the center seat.
“No Sir…” The Denobulan science officer, Lieutenant Velen, responded from his position at the science station. “No indication of any sort of interplanetary travel at all—manned or unmanned. No satellites in orbit around the planet either.”
“Communications signals?” Hobson inquired.
“None directed towards space in what would appear to be any sort of SETI or radio astronomy program, Sir.” Lieutenant T’Pren reported from the tactical security station, “There’s some signal bleed from the planet, but it’s mostly radio in the AM band. Some FM…some of what looks like it might be television.”
“Assume standard orbit, then, Mr. Shalev.” As the former Border Services officer and current senior helmsman from Eretz Israel smoothly slipped the vessel in orbit around the blue white globe, Hobson pressed the intercom button on his chair arm, “Continue orbital scans and senior officers will meet in Conference Room Three in one standard hour.” Getting up from his chair, he flashed a slight smile at the Deltan woman sitting next to him, “Commander Rysyl…the bridge is yours.”
Entering the turbolift, Captain Hobson ordered, “Deck Three.” Taking advantage of the opportunity for reflection, the brown haired starship commander’s thoughts went back to two months ago, when the orders for both his promotion and assignment to his new command came in.
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“Congratulations, Captain.” Captain Elizabeth Shelby grinned as she came out from around her desk. Taking her soon to be former first officer’s hand and shaking it, the blonde haired captain of the Sutherland praised, “You’ve more than earned that fourth pip, Chris. I’m only sorry that it took so long for Starfleet Command to figure that out.” Her smile broadening, Liz remarked, “The Perseus is a fine ship and a great first command. I assume that you’ll want Mr. Rysyl as your first officer? I think she’s ready to take the next step, and I’m sure she’ll serve you as well as you have me; but, of course, if you have someone else in mind…” Shelby smirked, knowing that her former first office was quite sure that he wanted the Deltan as his XO, “...that would be your prerogative. The decision’s yours.”
“My first command decision?” The newly minted captain joked, his lips turning up into a slight grin.
“You might say that.” Shelby quipped, her grin growing wider. “Still…it’s an important one. You’ll want someone who can balance your weaknesses with their strengths, and I think Anara does that for you—just like you did for me.” Her smile vanishing, the experienced captain further recommended, “The warp nacelles on the Intrepids are as sensitive as a man’s…well…you know what I mean.” Liz paused, “…I don’t have to tell you how delicate they are and I’m sure you’re also up to date on the new swirl-mix engine core they use—you should make sure that you’ve got a crackerjack chief engineer. And no…you can’t have Jadon—he’s all mine. So…any thoughts?”
“Actually, Captain…” Chris replied, “I do have someone in mind…”
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Tapping her toes to the early 23rd century techno-pop dance tune currently playing in the Intrepid-class ship’s engine room, Lieutenant Angela ‘Treasure’ Barrows flashed a broad grin as she surveyed her new domain. “Keep an eye on the mix ratio, Deneel!” She called out to the young Bolian ensign monitoring the matter-anti-matter flow from his console. Walking over to his station, her smile grew wider, “These babies aren’t like the old matter—anti-matter reactors ya’ll practiced on at the Academy. Those ol’ things, you can push and abuse ‘til the cows come home and they won’t complain. They just keep on truckin’. But not these babies…” The Northstar native explained in the thick Texas accent characteristic of that human colony, “You gotta be nice to ‘em. They’re like Catullan racers—fast and powerful, but very…very touchy. If you don’t treat ‘em right, they’ll frinx you over when you need ‘em most—like right in the middle of a battle, and ya’ll don’t want that, do you? ”
“Yes, Sir…I mean, No, Sir…I mean…” The young ensign, fresh out of the Academy and eager to please, answered back quickly, “I’ll be more careful in the future.”
“Relax, Sugar.” The chief engineer replied her smile growing wider as she saw the worried look on the Bolian youth’s face, “Ya’ll didn’t do anything wrong! You just gotta remember to keep an eye on what you’re doing—especially when things are nice and quiet like they are now.”
Turning away from the Bolian ensign, the lieutenant’s comm badge chirped, followed immediately be the Vulcan security chief’s voice. “Treasure?”
“Yeah, T’Pren?” Lieutenant Barrows replied, responding to the nickname given to her years ago back on the Sutherland.
“The captain wants the senior staff to meet in Conference Room Three in an hour.”
“Thanks…” The chief engineer responded, “I’ll be there.” Turning to her assistant, Angela smirked, “Ya’ll heard the lady. We got an hour. Knowing the captain, he’s gonna wanna put us through our paces and I don’t intend for us to be caught with our pants down. So, let’s get to it.”
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The door to his quarters sliding shut behind him, Captain Hobson eyes flashed briefly on the made up double bed that he shared with his first officer this morning before settling on the replicated oak bookshelf that stood against one of the bedroom walls. Walking over to the shelf, Chris took out a green leather bound volume with the title, “The Collected Works of Seneca”, in gold on the spine. Turning it to a page already marked, Hobson read: "the inhabited world... in huge conflagration it will burn and scorch and burn all mortal things... stars will clash with stars and all the fiery matter of the world... will blaze up in a common conflagration. Then the souls of the Blessed, who have partaken of immortality, when it will seem best for god to create the universe anew… will be changed again into our former elements. Happy, Marcia, is your son who knows these mysteries!"
“I wonder…” Hobson muttered to himself as he carefully placed the book back in the exact same spot from which he had taken it earlier. “...if Seneca was truly right here. Maybe Marcia’s son would be better off not knowing some mysteries.”
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“Odd...” Lieutenant Velen noted, “According to Captain Kirk’s logs, the ‘Romans’ who controlled 892-IV possessed a technology equivalent to mid-20th century Earth with television widely available. It would appear that they haven’t advanced at all in over a hundred years—if anything, it seems they’ve regressed somewhat. I’m surprised—I would have thought they’d have at least later 21st century level interplanetary flight by now.”
A thoughtful frown on his face, Hobson replied, his patrician tone adding a professorial authority to his words, “It’s not really that much of a surprise, Lieutenant, if you think about it for a moment. Remember, the Preservers had seeded 892-IV approximately two thousand Earth years before Captain Kirk encountered them and they’d only advanced to a mid-twentieth century level of technology when the Enterprise arrived in the system. Ancient Roman society on Earth …” the amateur historian lectured, warming up to the topic at hand, “…especially during the Empire, was actually very conservative and highly suspicious about anything new. So…it would be logical to assume the same about these Romans.”
“That makes sense.” Lieutenant Commander Devon Miller, the Perseus’s operations officer said, speaking from his post. “Also, with slave labor being quite common—institutionalized to the point of slaves possessing benefits including old age and disability pensions, in fact—the incentive to innovate wouldn’t be that great.”
“Exactly.” Chris affirmed, nodding his head approvingly at the dark skinned Dominion War veteran. “I’ll also wager that there’ll be no evidence of nuclear power in use either. Remember…” the captain pointed out, “…that the splitting of the atom and the development of nuclear fission took place directly as result of the Second World War and that the use of nuclear power as an energy source, not to mention the development of nuclear fusion, was a product of the Cold War. A stable Empire without any serious external threats would have no need to take that route.”
“Well, Sir…” Lieutenant Velen responded, his lips turning up into the wide grin characteristic of his species, “That’s a bet you’d have won. I’ve detected no sign of the use of nuclear fission—much less fusion. No sign of solar power either—although there does appear to be use of hydroelectric power as well as extensive use of fossil fuels such as coal and oil and some natural gas.” Pausing for a moment, the Denobulan science officer commented, “Also, our scans picked up what appears to be fairly large troop concentrations near certain cities and along certain geographical features.”
“Mr. T’Pren…” Captain Hobson interjected, "Can you put those deployments up on a tactical map?”
“Aye, Sir.” The Vulcan security chief replied. Moments later, a holographic tactical display of Magna Roma appeared above the conference table. The cities appeared as glowing yellow dots of varying size and brightness. Rectangular shapes then appeared: some surrounding or near some of the dots, while others occupied other positions on the map.
“Those formations near the cities…” T’Pren noted, “…could be there to put down urban revolts. The others, however, seem to be positioned to carry out an invasion of this territory.” The Vulcan concluded, the area threatened now highlighted in red.
“Could be a prelude to civil war.” Hobson speculated, drumming his fingers on the table before him. “On Earth, they were endemic throughout periods of the Empire’s history.”
“I wonder…” Anara proposed, “…whether it might have anything to do with this “Son worship that the Enterprise cultural anthropologists concluded was a local variant of Christianity.”
“Possible.” Chris conceded, sparing the lovely Deltan first officer a subtle smile, “Depending on conditions on the ground, this troop build up could be the prelude to a persecution.”
“Perhaps…” The lovely Deltan first officer seated next to the captain remarked, “…we could pick up some information from their newscasts.” Addressing the Vulcan security officer, Commander Rysyl asked, “Are you getting any transmissions like that, Mr. T’Pren?”
“Aye, Commander.” T’Pren replied. “I’m picking up something that sounds like it might be a news program.”
“Put it on the monitor.” Captain Hobson ordered as he leaned forward in his seat. Lines of static quickly resolved themselves into the image of a man wearing what appeared to be a twentieth century business suit seated behind a desk looking into the camera.
“This is Lucius Manlius and you are watching Veritas, the news program the Empire does not want you to see.”
“A pirate broadcast?” Miller speculated, stroking his chin.
“Probably.” Hobson replied thoughtfully, “Let’s watch.”
“And now for our lead story: Negotiations have broken down after the third day of talks between representatives of the Empire and leaders of the breakaway province of Nova Libertas." The image on the screen was of two men and a woman walking out of a conference room, the woman walking in the middle of the two men as they strode single file, their heads held high, through the opened door. At the conference table, one man sat on an elevated chair on the opposite side from three empty chairs, with two other men on smaller chairs seated to either side of him. "We can thank a courageous citizen-journalist, along with his cameraman, both of whom succeeded in posing as members of the Imperial Broadcasting Corporation, for these pictures of Proconsul Elabrius sitting on his throne surrounded by his functionaries. Those same citizen-journalists were also responsible for the following interview with the rebel spokeswoman, Valeria Tiberia, conducted a few hours later in her secure retreat.
“Thank you for the interview, Donna Tiberia.”
“You’re welcome!” The chestnut haired woman responded with a smile, “And please, call me Valeria, not ‘Donna’. I’m not a stuck up Roman matron. I don’t go by any titles. My great-grandmother was a slave and I’m just a regular person like you.” Her lips turning up into a grin, the charismatic woman asked, “So…what’s your first question?”
“Thank you, Valeria. Can you tell us what caused the negotiations to break down?”
“Yes.” The attractive woman replied, her smile vanishing, “The Proconsul’s refusal to take our demands seriously."
“And what demands are those?” The reporter asked.
“Besides the right to worship as we choose…” The rebel spokeswoman responded, “I’d like to read this, the preamble of our Declaration of Principles, it’ll give you the gist of what we seek: “We the people of Nova Libertas determined that our posterity shall be free of war and strife, and to reaffirm faith in the fundamental rights of all humans, in each person’s intrinsic dignity and worth, in the equal rights of all regardless of class or gender, seek the right to elect our own governors and senators, to travel freely, to engage in whatever occupation we choose, to have a free and open press, to possess the right to freely assemble…” Pausing for a moment, the chestnut haired woman concluded, “…and last…but certainly not least…we demand the abolition all forms of slavery within our territory.”
“And if the Proconsul continues to refuse your demands?”
Her smile now replaced by a look of steely determination, the chestnut haired woman answered back, “The Empire must realize that the old days and the old ways belong in the past. Thanks to those who came to us long ago and from whom some of us are descended, we know that there is another way—a better way—and we will not settle for less. If the Empire refuses to listen to us, we shall secede declare ourselves an independent state using the Declaration as the basis for our new society.”
As the senior staff of the Perseus listened quietly, Lieutenant Barrows spoke in a low voice, “What she was just reading sounded an awful lot like the Federation Charter.”
“The preamble to be precise.” Captain Hobson concurred. Stroking his chin thoughtfully, he remarked in his usual patrician tone, “Did you also catch what she said about ‘those who came to us long ago…”
“…and from whom some of us are descended…” Anara interjected, completing the captain’s recitation. It appears that between the Beagle and Captain Kirk and his people, a lot more was left behind than was thought.”
“Kirk did point out in his log that Captain Merrick told him that not all of his crew were killed—that some had adapted to life on the planet’s surface.” Lieutenant Shalev pointed out.
“It would make sense that they would have descendants.” Lieutenant Velen added, “And that…even subconsciously…that they might pass on some of their heritage to their children.”
“Regardless of its cause…” Chris announced, “It looks like we have an incident of cultural contamination here. We need to find out just how serious and far-reaching the contamination is without making it worse.”
“While we’ll be able to do quite a bit from orbit…” Anara remarked carefully, “…we’ll need to make closer observations.”
“A landing party…” Lieutenant Commander Miller argued, “…might make things even worse.”
“You make a good point, Mr. Miller…” Hobson declared, having already made his decision, “…but I think Commander Rysyl is right. We’re going to need boots on the ground here. Landing party will consist of the following: Myself…”
“Sir?” The Deltan first officer interjected, “I must protest. The risks…”
“I know, Commander…” Chris interrupted, holding his hand up, “And under most circumstances I would agree with you, but in this instance, I believe that it is necessary that I lead the party. I am probably the only person here who can be described as a classicist, and I’m also almost certainly the only member of this ship who is grammatically fluent in Latin.” Ignoring the withering glare his first officer/lover was giving him, the captain continued, “Second…” he said, smirking inwardly as he anticipated his paramour’s reaction to his next statement, “…Commander Rysyl…”
“Sir?” The dark-skinned operations officer interjected, “You and the first officer both planetside? It’s bad enough you’re going down, Captain, but taking Commander Rysyl as well…”
“I’ll need her empathic abilities. Also…as something of an art historian, she might be able to contribute certain insights that might otherwise go unseen.” Hobson explained adding, knowing that his next words would entice the ambitious second officer to drop his objections, “You’ll be in temporary command of the ship, Mr. Miller.”
“Aye, Sir.” The Dominion War veteran responded, rising at once to Hobson’s lure.
“Mr. T’Pren…” Chris inquired, addressing his tactical officer, “I’ll need you as well. You and Commander Rysyl will report to Dr. Nor for cosmetic surgery. After all…” He quipped, his lips turning up into the slightest of smiles, “We can’t have you looking like ‘barbarians.’”
“Aye, Sir.” Both women responded, clenching their teeth slightly at the prospect of having their appearance altered to appear more human.
“Finally…” Hobson declared, turning to the ship’s helmsman, “Mr. Shalev…you’ll complete the landing party. You’ll need more experience in handling these sorts of situations than you would have gotten in the Border Service if you hope you advance any further in the command track.”
“Yes, Sir.” The dark haired helmsman enthusiastically responded.
“One other thing…” Hobson instructed, clearing his throat, “Treasure? Can you duplicate what the Enterprise engineer did to the ‘Roman’ power grid if necessary?”
“Not a problem at all, Sir.” The engineer answered back with a toothy grin. “Anything that ol’ Connie can do—we can do better.”
“Excellent.” The fastidious captain exclaimed as he stood up. “If there are no more questions, then the landing party will meet in Transporter Room One in one hour. Lieutenant T’Pren? Make sure that we have clothing that would fit in with the planet’s inhabitants—as non-descript as possible if you’d please.”
As the gathering began to disperse, Anara approached the chestnut-haired captain, “Chris?” She asked in a low voice as the door slid shut behind the last of the officers, “Do you have a moment?”
“Certainly, my dear.” Hobson replied with a smile on his face as he regarded the olive skinned woman before him. “What is it?”
“It’s the composition of the landing party.” The Deltan first officer tentatively began, “I didn’t want to bring the subject up in front of the others…”
“And I appreciate that.” Chris interjected, his eyes reflecting the sincerity that he felt while his face still maintained its usual flat expression. “So, what’s the problem…” his lips turning up into a slight grin, he added, “…as if I don’t already know.”
“It’s well…” Anara stammered, “…I need to know one thing…and please, Chris…tell me the truth…”
“As if I could lie to you…” Hobson quipped, then, seeing the grave expression on his lover’s face, he amended in a much more serious tone, “You know I’ll tell you the truth—whether you want to hear it or not.”
“Fair enough.” Anara replied, her lips turning up into a slender smile as she looked up into Hobson’s face, “Why are you leading this landing party? Are you trying to protect me?” Her smile vanishing, the empath warned, “Because if you are…”
“I promise you, that’s not the reason.” Chris immediately stated. Her empathic senses readily picking up on the sincerity of her paramour’s feelings, Anara nodded her head in satisfaction as he further explained his reasoning. “Part of the reason is what I told everyone at the briefing—I am the only one on this crew who is fluent in Latin. But…” he smiled, “…as you already know from the look you gave me at the briefing, that’s not the only reason.”
“Go on…” His first officer encouraged as, walking to the replicator, she fetched glasses of water for her and her captain, “I’m listening.”
“The other reason…” Hobson explained, his face revealing an almost boyish enthusiasm that few—other than the woman standing before him—ever got the chance to see, “…is because I’m genuinely curious to see this society and to see for myself how profound the cultural contamination resulting from both the Beagle and Enterprise. And the only way I can do that is to be there on the ground to see it and experience it for myself.”
Chuckling, the lovely olive skinned Deltan woman reached up on tiptoes to gently kiss Hobson on the lips, “You really are an explorer behind that icy mask, aren’t you, Chris?”
“Ssssshhhhh…” Hobson whispered as he returned his lover’s kiss, “Keep that to yourself, Dear. We don’t want the others to know, now do we? After all, I’ve got an image to protect.”
“Don’t worry, my Captain Iceman.” Anara teased, “Your secret’s safe with me.”
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“And if the Proconsul continues to refuse your demands?”
Her smile now replaced by a look of steely determination, the chestnut haired woman answered back, “Then we shall secede from the Empire and declare ourselves an independent state using the Declaration as the basis for our new society.”
Proconsul Marcus Vipsanius Elabrius, rising from his luxurious chair, stomped angrily towards the large 27 inch screen mahogany wood console television set that sat as the center piece of his villa’s living room. Turning off the set, he turned towards a man seated on a plush couch at right angles to the Proconsul’s chair. “I thought you told me, Aedile Drusus, that your people were close to shutting that station down.”
“We thought we were.” The aedile responded obsequiously, “But every time our detection units triangulate on their position, they shut down before we can move against them.”
“What about jamming their signal?” Proconsul Elabrius demanded, not willing to let his underling off the hook quite yet.
“They keep changing their broadcasting frequency, Proconsul.” The cringing official replied, “Or they cease broadcasting temporarily and flood the area with mimeographed broadsheets.”
“We could simply arrest her and her people.” Another figure, this one wearing a beige tunic and black trousers, with a gold badge embossed with the fasces of the Imperial police on his chest above the heart, suggested. “My people are ready to move whenever you give the word, Proconsul.”
“Not yet.” Elabrius demurred, shaking his head, “Not before Legate Pompey has his troops in position. Then, once he’s ready…” he declared, his lips turning up in an evil grin, “…we strike. And when we are done, that mongrel descendant of a slave and all her supporters—and the barbarian heresies they espouse—will be removed once and for all from the Empire.” His eyes taking on a steely cast, the proconsul solemnly vowed, “This I swear.”
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“I thought that went rather well.” A tall well-built man remarked as he entered the room. Sitting at the table across from the rebel spokeswoman, he ran a hand through an unruly mop of sandy-blond hair. “People all over saw and heard that interview. The Proconsul has to negotiate!”
Shaking her head, Valeria Tiberia spoke in a somber tone, “I wish I had your optimism, Bradleius.” Her eyes falling on the yellow armband on her friend’s sleeve emblazoned with a blue ‘B’ in the middle as she fingered first the pendant hanging from a bronze chain around her neck engraved with the image of a human face surrounded by a sunburst, and then the bracelet around her right wrist, engraved with the image of a broken chain, she pointed out, “As long as we have to wear those things…as far as most of the people outside Nova Libertas are concerned I’m nothing more than a freedwoman and a Son worshiper and you’re nothing more than the descendant of barbarians.”
“And if the Proconsul ever discovers the truth about you and who your great-grandfather was…” another voice, this one belonging to a slightly built, petite, olive skinned woman with short curly black hair also bearing a ‘B’ device, this one in the form of a pendant, declared, “…you’d be worse shape than us.” Bearing a pitcher in her hands, the young woman poured wine into three goblets before handing two of the full glasses to the others in the room. Taking the last glass for herself, she asserted in a grim tone, “The Proconsul is not going to negotiate.”
With a snort, Bradleius responded, “Another one of your ancestor’s gifts, Rysyla?”
“If you want to call it that.” Rysyla retorted. Turning back towards Valeria, the olive skinned woman cautioned, “Proconsul Elabrius has no intention of compromising. His mind is made up. He is merely waiting for the proper conditions to strike. And…” she warned as she took another sip of her wine, “…he believes that he will have those conditions soon—very soon.”
“Then we should be prepared.” Valeria responded as, drinking down the last of her wine, she stood up. “Alert the others. I want us ready to move at a moment’s notice. I was hoping we could settle this peacefully, but if it’s a confrontation Elabrius wants…” she declared, her eyes taking on fiery cast, “…then it’s a confrontation he shall have. And may the Son have mercy on us all.”
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Smirking as she glanced in the direction of the Deltan first officer, her normally bald pate now covered by luxuriously fine jet-black hair, Lieutenant T’Pren quipped, “Look at it this way Commander—at least you’re not a blonde.”
“Hey!” A voice from the sickbay office called out, “No blonde jokes in here!” Exiting her office, Dr. Helen Nor protested with upward turned lips, brushing aside a stray golden lock from her slightly ridged forehead. Giving Anara a quick visual onceover, the Perseus’s human-Kataran CMO nodded her head approvingly, “Not bad—if I do say so, myself.”
“This is reversible…isn’t it?” A somewhat dubious Anara inquired with a frown as she examined the doctor’s handiwork through a mirror, “You’ll be able to get rid of this…fur…” she asked, blanching in distaste at the full mane of black hair on her head, “...and I won’t have to worry about it growing back…right?”
“Don’t worry, Sir.” Dr. Nor replied in a placating voice, “When you return, I’ll just turn off the genetic markers stimulating follicle growth that I turned on earlier and you’ll be back to your usual self.”
“Good. This stuff itches!” The Deltan woman remarked as she scratched her scalp, her lips then turning up into a smug grin of her own as she heard the doctor’s next words of impending doom—these aimed at the Vulcan woman.
“And now, it’s your turn Lieutenant. Just hop up on this table here.” The doctor ordered, patting the examination table next to where Anara sat, “And I’ll get started on bobbing your ears.” Seeing the panic stricken look overcoming the emotional Vulcan’s face, Helen chuckled, “Don’t worry, T’Pren…I’ll put ‘em back the way they were when you get back.”
“You heard the Doctor.” Anara grinned as she hopped off her table. “See you in Transporter Room One when you’re done.”
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“Master?” A dark haired woman wearing a silver chain necklace called out deferentially as she entered the Proconsul’s luxuriantly furnished spacious office. “Legate Pompey is here…”
“Excellent!” Elabrius exclaimed from his desk, “Send him in Livinia and cancel all the rest of my appointments and hold all my calls until further notice.”
“Yes, Sire.” The beautiful receptionist-slave acknowledged as she left the office only to return moments later followed by a burly man wearing a brown uniform with red trim, his epaulets bearing the oak leafs and three stars of an Imperial Legate.
“Legate Pompey!” Proconsul Elabrius greeted as, stepping out from behind his desk, he rendered the Imperial salute, “Hail Caesar!”
“Hail Caesar!” The Legate crisply responded, his eyes briefly falling on the slave woman standing, head bowed, to the side.
“You may go now, Livinia.” Elabrius commanded. Flashing a leer as the young woman walked away, the proconsul remarked, “Pretty, isn’t she? I bought her at the last auction—family had the bad luck to fall into financial difficulties…” Returning to his seat, the proconsul motioned to an empty chair on the other side of the desk. “Is everything in readiness, Legate?”
“Very nearly, Proconsul.” The legate responded confidently. “The last of our units have completed their deployment and our security forces have the locations of the rebel caches. We can move anytime you’re ready.”
“Then…” Proconsul Elabrius smiled, “…we move at dawn. I want Valeria Tiberia and her gang of rebels brought to me in chains.”
Standing up, Legate Pompey saluted, “Then that is what you shall have, Proconsul. Hail Caesar!”
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Restraining the impulse to smile as he saw his now raven haired first officer and security officer with human looking ears, Captain Hobson tugged at the loose fitting brown shirt he wore. “Polyester?” He remarked, a look of distaste on his face as he glanced down at the matching pants and shoes.
“You specifically instructed that we were to look nondescript, Sir.” Lieutenant T’Pren reminded, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “This is standard clothing for free proles. Also…” she added as she slipped her hand phaser in its holster at the small of her back, “…they’re loose enough of a fit where we can easily conceal or weapons and instruments.”
“Point made.” Hobson replied as he addressed the ship’s surgeon, “The subcutaneous transponders please, Dr. Nor?” Turning to his second officer, he instructed, “Mr. Miller…if a twenty four period should lapse without one of us checking in with you, you are to immediately beam us up using the transponder signals. Finally…” Chris instructed with his usual poker face, “…under no…I emphasize—no—circumstances are you to beam down any further landing parties. If something should happen to us, then you are to take command of this vessel and return to Starbase 23. Understood?”
“Aye, Sir.” Miller promptly responded.
“Very good.” Hobson replied as he and the rest of his landing party took their position on the transporter pad, “Energize.”
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SON RISE SUN SET
Part 1
“Entering planetary system 892.” Lieutenant (jg) Yitzhak Shalev announced from his position at the helm of the USS Perseus as the Intrepid-class starship glided past a ringed greenish hued gas giant accompanied by three Io sized moons and a dozen smaller companions.
“Any sign of interplanetary travel?” The captain of the Perseus, Christopher Hobson, asked as he leaned forward in the center seat.
“No Sir…” The Denobulan science officer, Lieutenant Velen, responded from his position at the science station. “No indication of any sort of interplanetary travel at all—manned or unmanned. No satellites in orbit around the planet either.”
“Communications signals?” Hobson inquired.
“None directed towards space in what would appear to be any sort of SETI or radio astronomy program, Sir.” Lieutenant T’Pren reported from the tactical security station, “There’s some signal bleed from the planet, but it’s mostly radio in the AM band. Some FM…some of what looks like it might be television.”
“Assume standard orbit, then, Mr. Shalev.” As the former Border Services officer and current senior helmsman from Eretz Israel smoothly slipped the vessel in orbit around the blue white globe, Hobson pressed the intercom button on his chair arm, “Continue orbital scans and senior officers will meet in Conference Room Three in one standard hour.” Getting up from his chair, he flashed a slight smile at the Deltan woman sitting next to him, “Commander Rysyl…the bridge is yours.”
Entering the turbolift, Captain Hobson ordered, “Deck Three.” Taking advantage of the opportunity for reflection, the brown haired starship commander’s thoughts went back to two months ago, when the orders for both his promotion and assignment to his new command came in.
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“Congratulations, Captain.” Captain Elizabeth Shelby grinned as she came out from around her desk. Taking her soon to be former first officer’s hand and shaking it, the blonde haired captain of the Sutherland praised, “You’ve more than earned that fourth pip, Chris. I’m only sorry that it took so long for Starfleet Command to figure that out.” Her smile broadening, Liz remarked, “The Perseus is a fine ship and a great first command. I assume that you’ll want Mr. Rysyl as your first officer? I think she’s ready to take the next step, and I’m sure she’ll serve you as well as you have me; but, of course, if you have someone else in mind…” Shelby smirked, knowing that her former first office was quite sure that he wanted the Deltan as his XO, “...that would be your prerogative. The decision’s yours.”
“My first command decision?” The newly minted captain joked, his lips turning up into a slight grin.
“You might say that.” Shelby quipped, her grin growing wider. “Still…it’s an important one. You’ll want someone who can balance your weaknesses with their strengths, and I think Anara does that for you—just like you did for me.” Her smile vanishing, the experienced captain further recommended, “The warp nacelles on the Intrepids are as sensitive as a man’s…well…you know what I mean.” Liz paused, “…I don’t have to tell you how delicate they are and I’m sure you’re also up to date on the new swirl-mix engine core they use—you should make sure that you’ve got a crackerjack chief engineer. And no…you can’t have Jadon—he’s all mine. So…any thoughts?”
“Actually, Captain…” Chris replied, “I do have someone in mind…”
*********************************************************************
Tapping her toes to the early 23rd century techno-pop dance tune currently playing in the Intrepid-class ship’s engine room, Lieutenant Angela ‘Treasure’ Barrows flashed a broad grin as she surveyed her new domain. “Keep an eye on the mix ratio, Deneel!” She called out to the young Bolian ensign monitoring the matter-anti-matter flow from his console. Walking over to his station, her smile grew wider, “These babies aren’t like the old matter—anti-matter reactors ya’ll practiced on at the Academy. Those ol’ things, you can push and abuse ‘til the cows come home and they won’t complain. They just keep on truckin’. But not these babies…” The Northstar native explained in the thick Texas accent characteristic of that human colony, “You gotta be nice to ‘em. They’re like Catullan racers—fast and powerful, but very…very touchy. If you don’t treat ‘em right, they’ll frinx you over when you need ‘em most—like right in the middle of a battle, and ya’ll don’t want that, do you? ”
“Yes, Sir…I mean, No, Sir…I mean…” The young ensign, fresh out of the Academy and eager to please, answered back quickly, “I’ll be more careful in the future.”
“Relax, Sugar.” The chief engineer replied her smile growing wider as she saw the worried look on the Bolian youth’s face, “Ya’ll didn’t do anything wrong! You just gotta remember to keep an eye on what you’re doing—especially when things are nice and quiet like they are now.”
Turning away from the Bolian ensign, the lieutenant’s comm badge chirped, followed immediately be the Vulcan security chief’s voice. “Treasure?”
“Yeah, T’Pren?” Lieutenant Barrows replied, responding to the nickname given to her years ago back on the Sutherland.
“The captain wants the senior staff to meet in Conference Room Three in an hour.”
“Thanks…” The chief engineer responded, “I’ll be there.” Turning to her assistant, Angela smirked, “Ya’ll heard the lady. We got an hour. Knowing the captain, he’s gonna wanna put us through our paces and I don’t intend for us to be caught with our pants down. So, let’s get to it.”
***********************************************************************
The door to his quarters sliding shut behind him, Captain Hobson eyes flashed briefly on the made up double bed that he shared with his first officer this morning before settling on the replicated oak bookshelf that stood against one of the bedroom walls. Walking over to the shelf, Chris took out a green leather bound volume with the title, “The Collected Works of Seneca”, in gold on the spine. Turning it to a page already marked, Hobson read: "the inhabited world... in huge conflagration it will burn and scorch and burn all mortal things... stars will clash with stars and all the fiery matter of the world... will blaze up in a common conflagration. Then the souls of the Blessed, who have partaken of immortality, when it will seem best for god to create the universe anew… will be changed again into our former elements. Happy, Marcia, is your son who knows these mysteries!"
“I wonder…” Hobson muttered to himself as he carefully placed the book back in the exact same spot from which he had taken it earlier. “...if Seneca was truly right here. Maybe Marcia’s son would be better off not knowing some mysteries.”
**********************************************************************
“Odd...” Lieutenant Velen noted, “According to Captain Kirk’s logs, the ‘Romans’ who controlled 892-IV possessed a technology equivalent to mid-20th century Earth with television widely available. It would appear that they haven’t advanced at all in over a hundred years—if anything, it seems they’ve regressed somewhat. I’m surprised—I would have thought they’d have at least later 21st century level interplanetary flight by now.”
A thoughtful frown on his face, Hobson replied, his patrician tone adding a professorial authority to his words, “It’s not really that much of a surprise, Lieutenant, if you think about it for a moment. Remember, the Preservers had seeded 892-IV approximately two thousand Earth years before Captain Kirk encountered them and they’d only advanced to a mid-twentieth century level of technology when the Enterprise arrived in the system. Ancient Roman society on Earth …” the amateur historian lectured, warming up to the topic at hand, “…especially during the Empire, was actually very conservative and highly suspicious about anything new. So…it would be logical to assume the same about these Romans.”
“That makes sense.” Lieutenant Commander Devon Miller, the Perseus’s operations officer said, speaking from his post. “Also, with slave labor being quite common—institutionalized to the point of slaves possessing benefits including old age and disability pensions, in fact—the incentive to innovate wouldn’t be that great.”
“Exactly.” Chris affirmed, nodding his head approvingly at the dark skinned Dominion War veteran. “I’ll also wager that there’ll be no evidence of nuclear power in use either. Remember…” the captain pointed out, “…that the splitting of the atom and the development of nuclear fission took place directly as result of the Second World War and that the use of nuclear power as an energy source, not to mention the development of nuclear fusion, was a product of the Cold War. A stable Empire without any serious external threats would have no need to take that route.”
“Well, Sir…” Lieutenant Velen responded, his lips turning up into the wide grin characteristic of his species, “That’s a bet you’d have won. I’ve detected no sign of the use of nuclear fission—much less fusion. No sign of solar power either—although there does appear to be use of hydroelectric power as well as extensive use of fossil fuels such as coal and oil and some natural gas.” Pausing for a moment, the Denobulan science officer commented, “Also, our scans picked up what appears to be fairly large troop concentrations near certain cities and along certain geographical features.”
“Mr. T’Pren…” Captain Hobson interjected, "Can you put those deployments up on a tactical map?”
“Aye, Sir.” The Vulcan security chief replied. Moments later, a holographic tactical display of Magna Roma appeared above the conference table. The cities appeared as glowing yellow dots of varying size and brightness. Rectangular shapes then appeared: some surrounding or near some of the dots, while others occupied other positions on the map.
“Those formations near the cities…” T’Pren noted, “…could be there to put down urban revolts. The others, however, seem to be positioned to carry out an invasion of this territory.” The Vulcan concluded, the area threatened now highlighted in red.
“Could be a prelude to civil war.” Hobson speculated, drumming his fingers on the table before him. “On Earth, they were endemic throughout periods of the Empire’s history.”
“I wonder…” Anara proposed, “…whether it might have anything to do with this “Son worship that the Enterprise cultural anthropologists concluded was a local variant of Christianity.”
“Possible.” Chris conceded, sparing the lovely Deltan first officer a subtle smile, “Depending on conditions on the ground, this troop build up could be the prelude to a persecution.”
“Perhaps…” The lovely Deltan first officer seated next to the captain remarked, “…we could pick up some information from their newscasts.” Addressing the Vulcan security officer, Commander Rysyl asked, “Are you getting any transmissions like that, Mr. T’Pren?”
“Aye, Commander.” T’Pren replied. “I’m picking up something that sounds like it might be a news program.”
“Put it on the monitor.” Captain Hobson ordered as he leaned forward in his seat. Lines of static quickly resolved themselves into the image of a man wearing what appeared to be a twentieth century business suit seated behind a desk looking into the camera.
“This is Lucius Manlius and you are watching Veritas, the news program the Empire does not want you to see.”
“A pirate broadcast?” Miller speculated, stroking his chin.
“Probably.” Hobson replied thoughtfully, “Let’s watch.”
“And now for our lead story: Negotiations have broken down after the third day of talks between representatives of the Empire and leaders of the breakaway province of Nova Libertas." The image on the screen was of two men and a woman walking out of a conference room, the woman walking in the middle of the two men as they strode single file, their heads held high, through the opened door. At the conference table, one man sat on an elevated chair on the opposite side from three empty chairs, with two other men on smaller chairs seated to either side of him. "We can thank a courageous citizen-journalist, along with his cameraman, both of whom succeeded in posing as members of the Imperial Broadcasting Corporation, for these pictures of Proconsul Elabrius sitting on his throne surrounded by his functionaries. Those same citizen-journalists were also responsible for the following interview with the rebel spokeswoman, Valeria Tiberia, conducted a few hours later in her secure retreat.
“Thank you for the interview, Donna Tiberia.”
“You’re welcome!” The chestnut haired woman responded with a smile, “And please, call me Valeria, not ‘Donna’. I’m not a stuck up Roman matron. I don’t go by any titles. My great-grandmother was a slave and I’m just a regular person like you.” Her lips turning up into a grin, the charismatic woman asked, “So…what’s your first question?”
“Thank you, Valeria. Can you tell us what caused the negotiations to break down?”
“Yes.” The attractive woman replied, her smile vanishing, “The Proconsul’s refusal to take our demands seriously."
“And what demands are those?” The reporter asked.
“Besides the right to worship as we choose…” The rebel spokeswoman responded, “I’d like to read this, the preamble of our Declaration of Principles, it’ll give you the gist of what we seek: “We the people of Nova Libertas determined that our posterity shall be free of war and strife, and to reaffirm faith in the fundamental rights of all humans, in each person’s intrinsic dignity and worth, in the equal rights of all regardless of class or gender, seek the right to elect our own governors and senators, to travel freely, to engage in whatever occupation we choose, to have a free and open press, to possess the right to freely assemble…” Pausing for a moment, the chestnut haired woman concluded, “…and last…but certainly not least…we demand the abolition all forms of slavery within our territory.”
“And if the Proconsul continues to refuse your demands?”
Her smile now replaced by a look of steely determination, the chestnut haired woman answered back, “The Empire must realize that the old days and the old ways belong in the past. Thanks to those who came to us long ago and from whom some of us are descended, we know that there is another way—a better way—and we will not settle for less. If the Empire refuses to listen to us, we shall secede declare ourselves an independent state using the Declaration as the basis for our new society.”
As the senior staff of the Perseus listened quietly, Lieutenant Barrows spoke in a low voice, “What she was just reading sounded an awful lot like the Federation Charter.”
“The preamble to be precise.” Captain Hobson concurred. Stroking his chin thoughtfully, he remarked in his usual patrician tone, “Did you also catch what she said about ‘those who came to us long ago…”
“…and from whom some of us are descended…” Anara interjected, completing the captain’s recitation. It appears that between the Beagle and Captain Kirk and his people, a lot more was left behind than was thought.”
“Kirk did point out in his log that Captain Merrick told him that not all of his crew were killed—that some had adapted to life on the planet’s surface.” Lieutenant Shalev pointed out.
“It would make sense that they would have descendants.” Lieutenant Velen added, “And that…even subconsciously…that they might pass on some of their heritage to their children.”
“Regardless of its cause…” Chris announced, “It looks like we have an incident of cultural contamination here. We need to find out just how serious and far-reaching the contamination is without making it worse.”
“While we’ll be able to do quite a bit from orbit…” Anara remarked carefully, “…we’ll need to make closer observations.”
“A landing party…” Lieutenant Commander Miller argued, “…might make things even worse.”
“You make a good point, Mr. Miller…” Hobson declared, having already made his decision, “…but I think Commander Rysyl is right. We’re going to need boots on the ground here. Landing party will consist of the following: Myself…”
“Sir?” The Deltan first officer interjected, “I must protest. The risks…”
“I know, Commander…” Chris interrupted, holding his hand up, “And under most circumstances I would agree with you, but in this instance, I believe that it is necessary that I lead the party. I am probably the only person here who can be described as a classicist, and I’m also almost certainly the only member of this ship who is grammatically fluent in Latin.” Ignoring the withering glare his first officer/lover was giving him, the captain continued, “Second…” he said, smirking inwardly as he anticipated his paramour’s reaction to his next statement, “…Commander Rysyl…”
“Sir?” The dark-skinned operations officer interjected, “You and the first officer both planetside? It’s bad enough you’re going down, Captain, but taking Commander Rysyl as well…”
“I’ll need her empathic abilities. Also…as something of an art historian, she might be able to contribute certain insights that might otherwise go unseen.” Hobson explained adding, knowing that his next words would entice the ambitious second officer to drop his objections, “You’ll be in temporary command of the ship, Mr. Miller.”
“Aye, Sir.” The Dominion War veteran responded, rising at once to Hobson’s lure.
“Mr. T’Pren…” Chris inquired, addressing his tactical officer, “I’ll need you as well. You and Commander Rysyl will report to Dr. Nor for cosmetic surgery. After all…” He quipped, his lips turning up into the slightest of smiles, “We can’t have you looking like ‘barbarians.’”
“Aye, Sir.” Both women responded, clenching their teeth slightly at the prospect of having their appearance altered to appear more human.
“Finally…” Hobson declared, turning to the ship’s helmsman, “Mr. Shalev…you’ll complete the landing party. You’ll need more experience in handling these sorts of situations than you would have gotten in the Border Service if you hope you advance any further in the command track.”
“Yes, Sir.” The dark haired helmsman enthusiastically responded.
“One other thing…” Hobson instructed, clearing his throat, “Treasure? Can you duplicate what the Enterprise engineer did to the ‘Roman’ power grid if necessary?”
“Not a problem at all, Sir.” The engineer answered back with a toothy grin. “Anything that ol’ Connie can do—we can do better.”
“Excellent.” The fastidious captain exclaimed as he stood up. “If there are no more questions, then the landing party will meet in Transporter Room One in one hour. Lieutenant T’Pren? Make sure that we have clothing that would fit in with the planet’s inhabitants—as non-descript as possible if you’d please.”
As the gathering began to disperse, Anara approached the chestnut-haired captain, “Chris?” She asked in a low voice as the door slid shut behind the last of the officers, “Do you have a moment?”
“Certainly, my dear.” Hobson replied with a smile on his face as he regarded the olive skinned woman before him. “What is it?”
“It’s the composition of the landing party.” The Deltan first officer tentatively began, “I didn’t want to bring the subject up in front of the others…”
“And I appreciate that.” Chris interjected, his eyes reflecting the sincerity that he felt while his face still maintained its usual flat expression. “So, what’s the problem…” his lips turning up into a slight grin, he added, “…as if I don’t already know.”
“It’s well…” Anara stammered, “…I need to know one thing…and please, Chris…tell me the truth…”
“As if I could lie to you…” Hobson quipped, then, seeing the grave expression on his lover’s face, he amended in a much more serious tone, “You know I’ll tell you the truth—whether you want to hear it or not.”
“Fair enough.” Anara replied, her lips turning up into a slender smile as she looked up into Hobson’s face, “Why are you leading this landing party? Are you trying to protect me?” Her smile vanishing, the empath warned, “Because if you are…”
“I promise you, that’s not the reason.” Chris immediately stated. Her empathic senses readily picking up on the sincerity of her paramour’s feelings, Anara nodded her head in satisfaction as he further explained his reasoning. “Part of the reason is what I told everyone at the briefing—I am the only one on this crew who is fluent in Latin. But…” he smiled, “…as you already know from the look you gave me at the briefing, that’s not the only reason.”
“Go on…” His first officer encouraged as, walking to the replicator, she fetched glasses of water for her and her captain, “I’m listening.”
“The other reason…” Hobson explained, his face revealing an almost boyish enthusiasm that few—other than the woman standing before him—ever got the chance to see, “…is because I’m genuinely curious to see this society and to see for myself how profound the cultural contamination resulting from both the Beagle and Enterprise. And the only way I can do that is to be there on the ground to see it and experience it for myself.”
Chuckling, the lovely olive skinned Deltan woman reached up on tiptoes to gently kiss Hobson on the lips, “You really are an explorer behind that icy mask, aren’t you, Chris?”
“Ssssshhhhh…” Hobson whispered as he returned his lover’s kiss, “Keep that to yourself, Dear. We don’t want the others to know, now do we? After all, I’ve got an image to protect.”
“Don’t worry, my Captain Iceman.” Anara teased, “Your secret’s safe with me.”
************************************************************************
“And if the Proconsul continues to refuse your demands?”
Her smile now replaced by a look of steely determination, the chestnut haired woman answered back, “Then we shall secede from the Empire and declare ourselves an independent state using the Declaration as the basis for our new society.”
Proconsul Marcus Vipsanius Elabrius, rising from his luxurious chair, stomped angrily towards the large 27 inch screen mahogany wood console television set that sat as the center piece of his villa’s living room. Turning off the set, he turned towards a man seated on a plush couch at right angles to the Proconsul’s chair. “I thought you told me, Aedile Drusus, that your people were close to shutting that station down.”
“We thought we were.” The aedile responded obsequiously, “But every time our detection units triangulate on their position, they shut down before we can move against them.”
“What about jamming their signal?” Proconsul Elabrius demanded, not willing to let his underling off the hook quite yet.
“They keep changing their broadcasting frequency, Proconsul.” The cringing official replied, “Or they cease broadcasting temporarily and flood the area with mimeographed broadsheets.”
“We could simply arrest her and her people.” Another figure, this one wearing a beige tunic and black trousers, with a gold badge embossed with the fasces of the Imperial police on his chest above the heart, suggested. “My people are ready to move whenever you give the word, Proconsul.”
“Not yet.” Elabrius demurred, shaking his head, “Not before Legate Pompey has his troops in position. Then, once he’s ready…” he declared, his lips turning up in an evil grin, “…we strike. And when we are done, that mongrel descendant of a slave and all her supporters—and the barbarian heresies they espouse—will be removed once and for all from the Empire.” His eyes taking on a steely cast, the proconsul solemnly vowed, “This I swear.”
********************************************************************
“I thought that went rather well.” A tall well-built man remarked as he entered the room. Sitting at the table across from the rebel spokeswoman, he ran a hand through an unruly mop of sandy-blond hair. “People all over saw and heard that interview. The Proconsul has to negotiate!”
Shaking her head, Valeria Tiberia spoke in a somber tone, “I wish I had your optimism, Bradleius.” Her eyes falling on the yellow armband on her friend’s sleeve emblazoned with a blue ‘B’ in the middle as she fingered first the pendant hanging from a bronze chain around her neck engraved with the image of a human face surrounded by a sunburst, and then the bracelet around her right wrist, engraved with the image of a broken chain, she pointed out, “As long as we have to wear those things…as far as most of the people outside Nova Libertas are concerned I’m nothing more than a freedwoman and a Son worshiper and you’re nothing more than the descendant of barbarians.”
“And if the Proconsul ever discovers the truth about you and who your great-grandfather was…” another voice, this one belonging to a slightly built, petite, olive skinned woman with short curly black hair also bearing a ‘B’ device, this one in the form of a pendant, declared, “…you’d be worse shape than us.” Bearing a pitcher in her hands, the young woman poured wine into three goblets before handing two of the full glasses to the others in the room. Taking the last glass for herself, she asserted in a grim tone, “The Proconsul is not going to negotiate.”
With a snort, Bradleius responded, “Another one of your ancestor’s gifts, Rysyla?”
“If you want to call it that.” Rysyla retorted. Turning back towards Valeria, the olive skinned woman cautioned, “Proconsul Elabrius has no intention of compromising. His mind is made up. He is merely waiting for the proper conditions to strike. And…” she warned as she took another sip of her wine, “…he believes that he will have those conditions soon—very soon.”
“Then we should be prepared.” Valeria responded as, drinking down the last of her wine, she stood up. “Alert the others. I want us ready to move at a moment’s notice. I was hoping we could settle this peacefully, but if it’s a confrontation Elabrius wants…” she declared, her eyes taking on fiery cast, “…then it’s a confrontation he shall have. And may the Son have mercy on us all.”
*********************************************************************
Smirking as she glanced in the direction of the Deltan first officer, her normally bald pate now covered by luxuriously fine jet-black hair, Lieutenant T’Pren quipped, “Look at it this way Commander—at least you’re not a blonde.”
“Hey!” A voice from the sickbay office called out, “No blonde jokes in here!” Exiting her office, Dr. Helen Nor protested with upward turned lips, brushing aside a stray golden lock from her slightly ridged forehead. Giving Anara a quick visual onceover, the Perseus’s human-Kataran CMO nodded her head approvingly, “Not bad—if I do say so, myself.”
“This is reversible…isn’t it?” A somewhat dubious Anara inquired with a frown as she examined the doctor’s handiwork through a mirror, “You’ll be able to get rid of this…fur…” she asked, blanching in distaste at the full mane of black hair on her head, “...and I won’t have to worry about it growing back…right?”
“Don’t worry, Sir.” Dr. Nor replied in a placating voice, “When you return, I’ll just turn off the genetic markers stimulating follicle growth that I turned on earlier and you’ll be back to your usual self.”
“Good. This stuff itches!” The Deltan woman remarked as she scratched her scalp, her lips then turning up into a smug grin of her own as she heard the doctor’s next words of impending doom—these aimed at the Vulcan woman.
“And now, it’s your turn Lieutenant. Just hop up on this table here.” The doctor ordered, patting the examination table next to where Anara sat, “And I’ll get started on bobbing your ears.” Seeing the panic stricken look overcoming the emotional Vulcan’s face, Helen chuckled, “Don’t worry, T’Pren…I’ll put ‘em back the way they were when you get back.”
“You heard the Doctor.” Anara grinned as she hopped off her table. “See you in Transporter Room One when you’re done.”
**********************************************************************
“Master?” A dark haired woman wearing a silver chain necklace called out deferentially as she entered the Proconsul’s luxuriantly furnished spacious office. “Legate Pompey is here…”
“Excellent!” Elabrius exclaimed from his desk, “Send him in Livinia and cancel all the rest of my appointments and hold all my calls until further notice.”
“Yes, Sire.” The beautiful receptionist-slave acknowledged as she left the office only to return moments later followed by a burly man wearing a brown uniform with red trim, his epaulets bearing the oak leafs and three stars of an Imperial Legate.
“Legate Pompey!” Proconsul Elabrius greeted as, stepping out from behind his desk, he rendered the Imperial salute, “Hail Caesar!”
“Hail Caesar!” The Legate crisply responded, his eyes briefly falling on the slave woman standing, head bowed, to the side.
“You may go now, Livinia.” Elabrius commanded. Flashing a leer as the young woman walked away, the proconsul remarked, “Pretty, isn’t she? I bought her at the last auction—family had the bad luck to fall into financial difficulties…” Returning to his seat, the proconsul motioned to an empty chair on the other side of the desk. “Is everything in readiness, Legate?”
“Very nearly, Proconsul.” The legate responded confidently. “The last of our units have completed their deployment and our security forces have the locations of the rebel caches. We can move anytime you’re ready.”
“Then…” Proconsul Elabrius smiled, “…we move at dawn. I want Valeria Tiberia and her gang of rebels brought to me in chains.”
Standing up, Legate Pompey saluted, “Then that is what you shall have, Proconsul. Hail Caesar!”
**********************************************************************
Restraining the impulse to smile as he saw his now raven haired first officer and security officer with human looking ears, Captain Hobson tugged at the loose fitting brown shirt he wore. “Polyester?” He remarked, a look of distaste on his face as he glanced down at the matching pants and shoes.
“You specifically instructed that we were to look nondescript, Sir.” Lieutenant T’Pren reminded, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “This is standard clothing for free proles. Also…” she added as she slipped her hand phaser in its holster at the small of her back, “…they’re loose enough of a fit where we can easily conceal or weapons and instruments.”
“Point made.” Hobson replied as he addressed the ship’s surgeon, “The subcutaneous transponders please, Dr. Nor?” Turning to his second officer, he instructed, “Mr. Miller…if a twenty four period should lapse without one of us checking in with you, you are to immediately beam us up using the transponder signals. Finally…” Chris instructed with his usual poker face, “…under no…I emphasize—no—circumstances are you to beam down any further landing parties. If something should happen to us, then you are to take command of this vessel and return to Starbase 23. Understood?”
“Aye, Sir.” Miller promptly responded.
“Very good.” Hobson replied as he and the rest of his landing party took their position on the transporter pad, “Energize.”
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Hobson’s assembled a fantastic crew aboard the Perseus, and I’m looking forward to the adventures they’re going to have. Fortunately for them, they’re not starting out 2376 serving in occupied Cardassian space. 
