* * *
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Trujillo glowered at the admiral on the other end of the subspace comm-pic. Rear-Admiral Isobel Ogilvie with Starfleet Intelligence returned her stare impassively. She was a small, mousey-looking woman who was either already irritated, or possessed one of those resting expressions that perpetually gave that impression.
“I assure you, Commodore, that I am not joking. This matter is not only classified, it’s classified at Level Eight – Onyx. Admiralty eyes only.”
Trujillo maintained eye contact while bringing one hand up into the viewer frame and ever so slowly touching a finger to the commodore’s rank insignia on her division white shoulder flash.
Ogilvie harrumphed with embarrassed indignation. “Yes, you are obviously a member of the admiralty. I meant to say it’s restricted to high-ranking flag officers on a need-to-know basis.”
Her eyes remaining fixed on the admiral’s, Trujillo enunciated slowly. “I am leading a small squadron to their planet as we speak, sir. I could very well be engaged in hostilities with the Magna Romanii in the next twenty-four hours if things go badly. You, meanwhile, are denying me access to a forty-year-old summative assessment of a cultural survey mission to that world. I would be hard pressed to locate anyone with a greater need to know than myself at this moment, Admiral.”
Ogilvie’s cheeks darkened and she swallowed hard, caught somewhere between anger and self-consciousness. “Be that as it may, Commodore Trujillo, that’s where we’re at.”
“I understand, sir. Might I inquire who is immediately above you in the chain-of-command that I can appeal this decision to?
“Vice-Admiral T’Laak is my immediate superior, Commodore.”
“Before I go and bother the vice-admiral with this matter, can you at least give me a hint as to what could possibly be so secretive about a planet and a society we’ve known about for nearly sixty years that you’ve had to classify their cultural analysis reports at the highest level?”
“I cannot,” Ogilvie said simply, looking passably uncomfortable. The woman took a breath as though trying to clear her head before continuing. “Commodore, whether you choose to believe it or not, I do appreciate the position we’re putting you in. I myself lack the clearance to view that document, and so after receiving your initial request for that information, I filed a formal application to have a senior intelligence officer perform an ‘eyes-on’ review of the materials to determine whether the current classification level is still appropriate.
“Vice-Admiral T’Laak conducted that review yesterday and spent the better part of a day going over significant volumes of information. He has concluded that the documents should remain classified and sealed at their present level. However, he stated that it would be extremely unlikely that the factors necessitating the classification of those reports would impact your mission.”
Trujillo took a moment to absorb that assertion, finally nodding faintly. “I see. I appreciate your having taken those proactive steps, Admiral. Being as I am on-scene commander of this mission, I still feel it necessary to point out that Admiral T’Laak’s assurances notwithstanding, I would prefer to make those determinations for myself.”
Ogilvie leaned in towards the viewer on her end, her voice dropping an octave and her features hinting at an inner conflict. “I still have no idea what’s in those classified docs, but whatever it was appears to have unsettled one of the most stone-cold Vulcan intel operators I’ve ever met. This man survived five-years undercover on Romulus before the Tomed Incident, and he doesn’t spook easily. Based on his reaction to the information he reviewed, I would proceed with extreme caution, Commodore.”
“Unsettled, sir?” Trujillo pressed. “Can you elaborate?”
“I’ve worked with the man for almost four years, and I’ve never seen anything affect him like this, leaving him listless and distracted. Before yesterday, I could say I'd never seen a Vulcan go ashen, but no longer. He left work early today, also a first. It’s unnerving as hell.”
Trujillo frowned as she attempted to fit this piece of an increasingly complex and frustrating puzzle into place. “For what it’s worth, Admiral, I appreciate the warning.”
* * *
“I’m detecting approximately fifteen-hundred satellites in orbit of the planet, sir, and four space stations of varying size and complexity. The largest of the stations shows obvious signs of foreign influences, both in design and constituent materials.”
“Are you reading any subspace radio traffic?”
“Yes, sir. Their transmissions are limited to the lower-bands and are sporadic, but they are confirmed to have subspace radio.”
Trujillo looked from her science officer to the Operations post. “Mister Shukla, hail the station.”
“Channel open, sir. They are receiving.”
“Magna Romanii station, this is Commodore Nandi Trujillo of the Starfleet vessel Reykjavík, representing the United Federation of Planets. We are requesting permission to approach your station in hopes of initiating a diplomatic exchange. We carry an ambassador aboard with the authority to make binding treaties.”
A brief delay followed, with officers at their stations eyeing their displays for any signs of impending hostility from the station or the approaching planet.
“Federation vessel, this is Magna Roma Orbital Control. Permission is granted for you to approach Stella Gradus station. Specific orbital coordinates accompany this transmission. Once in position, standby for further instructions. We welcome you to the magnificence and grandeur that is the glorious Roman Empire.”
Trujillo glanced back at Helvia at the Tactical station, her eyebrow raised in abject skepticism.
Helvia merely shrugged, shaking his head in resigned amusement.
“Reykjavík copies, Orbital Control, and we will comply.” She gestured to the Helm. “Mister Naifeh, proceed to orbital insertion, one-quarter impulse.” She tapped the seat-back at the Operations station. “Lieutenant, signal Zelenskyy to hang back mid-system and monitor our situation. No sense in both of us strolling into the proverbial lion’s den together.”
On her way back to her seat, Trujillo paused at the Tactical console. “Weaps,” she said, using her customary shorthand for the Security/Tactical officer, “I know you’re keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. They could very well have weapons systems we’re unfamiliar with or otherwise hidden from our sensors.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied stolidly. “They are a martially minded people and would not leave their orbital zone undefended.”
From Ops, Lieutenant Shukla spoke up. “Sir, I’ve been scanning for any signs of transporter technology, and haven’t located any. Whatever else the Orions have given them tech-wise, it doesn’t appear that transporters were included.”
“Acknowledged, Mister Shukla, and thank you.”
On the cusp of resuming her seat, Trujillo caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see Davula leaning over Garrett, the pair examining something at the Science station with animated interest.
She abandoned the captain’s chair, walking around the upper level to the station where Davula had just assumed a seat next to Garrett. “Something of note?” Trujillo asked.
Garrett turned towards her; the younger woman’s eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Commodore, as we approached the planet I started a standard assessment sweep, looking for any major changes from the scans Enterprise logged fifty-five years ago. There’s been some increased environmental degradation owing to greater industrialization and its corresponding pollution, but when I got to geological analysis my board lit up like a Christmas tree.” Garrett switched to a Mercator-view of the planet, where the continental masses on display were highlighted in a riot of shifting colors.
“Half a century ago this planet was tectonically active, but stable, much as Earth has been for the past few thousand years. No longer. We’re detecting major seismic activity across the globe, with nearly five-thousand active volcanoes across five continents. By comparison, Earth has somewhere in the vicinity of fifteen-hundred active volcanoes at any given time.”
“Any idea what’s causing it?” Trujillo asked.
“Not yet, sir,” Davula answered. “We’ll need to carry out additional scans of the planet’s interior when we make orbit before we can offer any definitive determination.”
The turbolift doors opened to admit Ambassador Dax to the bridge. He peeked his head through, glancing around before his gaze finally settled on Trujillo. “Permission to enter, Commodore?”
Trujillo smiled. “Granted, Ambassador. You should know your bridge privileges are still in effect from your last time aboard, but I appreciate the courtesy.”
Curzon stepped onto the bridge, looking around at the various crew intent on their tasks as Reykjavík approached their destination. “I was monitoring comms from my quarters. It sounds like everything’s going well so far.”
Trujillo nodded fractionally, examining the growing blue-green orb on the viewscreen that looked so deceptively like home. “So far,” she echoed.
“Size and composition of their moon?” Trujillo asked suddenly as the smaller planetoid appeared from behind the planet.
“Nearly identical to Luna in size, mass, and orbital position, sir,” Garrett answered. “There are a handful of occupied facilities on its surface, sir. They appear to be Magna Romanii industrial plants.”
Trujillo walked over to Curzon, gesturing to an unoccupied auxiliary station on the bridge’s upper level. “The more I think about Lieutenant Garrett’s analysis of this planet, the more its mere presence raises the hairs on the back of my neck.”
Curzon lowered himself into the proffered seat. “Yes. So many impossible similarities to your homeworld. Nonetheless, it is here, and we have a job to do.”
“Indeed,” she replied. “I was considering leading the initial delegation down to the surface. Give us a chance to sniff around a little bit before bringing you down, to ensure your safety.”
“I’d argue that having me with your landing party affords you greater safety,” Curzon rebutted. “The Romanii are making their first forays into the larger galactic community. I doubt they want to attack a diplomatic delegation to their planet and have their world’s reputation smeared across the quadrant.”
She gave him an assaying look. “You’re sure?”
“I am. My orders contained no provisions about carrying out my assignment only so long as it was safe or convenient to do so.”
Trujillo’s mouth twitched, a smile very nearly taking shape there.
Curzon gestured to the crew with a sweep of his arm. “Besides, I’ve seen you and your people at work. I doubt their pantheon of gods could save them from your wrath were they to strike at us.”
“All the same, Ambassador, I’d rather not put that assertion to the test.”
He gave her one of his patented grins, inclining his head in the direction of her ready room. "Shall we go make arrangement for a little meet and greet? Time to show the First Consul and the Roman Senate how the adults in the Alpha Quadrant comport themselves."
* * *
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Trujillo glowered at the admiral on the other end of the subspace comm-pic. Rear-Admiral Isobel Ogilvie with Starfleet Intelligence returned her stare impassively. She was a small, mousey-looking woman who was either already irritated, or possessed one of those resting expressions that perpetually gave that impression.
“I assure you, Commodore, that I am not joking. This matter is not only classified, it’s classified at Level Eight – Onyx. Admiralty eyes only.”
Trujillo maintained eye contact while bringing one hand up into the viewer frame and ever so slowly touching a finger to the commodore’s rank insignia on her division white shoulder flash.
Ogilvie harrumphed with embarrassed indignation. “Yes, you are obviously a member of the admiralty. I meant to say it’s restricted to high-ranking flag officers on a need-to-know basis.”
Her eyes remaining fixed on the admiral’s, Trujillo enunciated slowly. “I am leading a small squadron to their planet as we speak, sir. I could very well be engaged in hostilities with the Magna Romanii in the next twenty-four hours if things go badly. You, meanwhile, are denying me access to a forty-year-old summative assessment of a cultural survey mission to that world. I would be hard pressed to locate anyone with a greater need to know than myself at this moment, Admiral.”
Ogilvie’s cheeks darkened and she swallowed hard, caught somewhere between anger and self-consciousness. “Be that as it may, Commodore Trujillo, that’s where we’re at.”
“I understand, sir. Might I inquire who is immediately above you in the chain-of-command that I can appeal this decision to?
“Vice-Admiral T’Laak is my immediate superior, Commodore.”
“Before I go and bother the vice-admiral with this matter, can you at least give me a hint as to what could possibly be so secretive about a planet and a society we’ve known about for nearly sixty years that you’ve had to classify their cultural analysis reports at the highest level?”
“I cannot,” Ogilvie said simply, looking passably uncomfortable. The woman took a breath as though trying to clear her head before continuing. “Commodore, whether you choose to believe it or not, I do appreciate the position we’re putting you in. I myself lack the clearance to view that document, and so after receiving your initial request for that information, I filed a formal application to have a senior intelligence officer perform an ‘eyes-on’ review of the materials to determine whether the current classification level is still appropriate.
“Vice-Admiral T’Laak conducted that review yesterday and spent the better part of a day going over significant volumes of information. He has concluded that the documents should remain classified and sealed at their present level. However, he stated that it would be extremely unlikely that the factors necessitating the classification of those reports would impact your mission.”
Trujillo took a moment to absorb that assertion, finally nodding faintly. “I see. I appreciate your having taken those proactive steps, Admiral. Being as I am on-scene commander of this mission, I still feel it necessary to point out that Admiral T’Laak’s assurances notwithstanding, I would prefer to make those determinations for myself.”
Ogilvie leaned in towards the viewer on her end, her voice dropping an octave and her features hinting at an inner conflict. “I still have no idea what’s in those classified docs, but whatever it was appears to have unsettled one of the most stone-cold Vulcan intel operators I’ve ever met. This man survived five-years undercover on Romulus before the Tomed Incident, and he doesn’t spook easily. Based on his reaction to the information he reviewed, I would proceed with extreme caution, Commodore.”
“Unsettled, sir?” Trujillo pressed. “Can you elaborate?”
“I’ve worked with the man for almost four years, and I’ve never seen anything affect him like this, leaving him listless and distracted. Before yesterday, I could say I'd never seen a Vulcan go ashen, but no longer. He left work early today, also a first. It’s unnerving as hell.”
Trujillo frowned as she attempted to fit this piece of an increasingly complex and frustrating puzzle into place. “For what it’s worth, Admiral, I appreciate the warning.”
* * *
“I’m detecting approximately fifteen-hundred satellites in orbit of the planet, sir, and four space stations of varying size and complexity. The largest of the stations shows obvious signs of foreign influences, both in design and constituent materials.”
“Are you reading any subspace radio traffic?”
“Yes, sir. Their transmissions are limited to the lower-bands and are sporadic, but they are confirmed to have subspace radio.”
Trujillo looked from her science officer to the Operations post. “Mister Shukla, hail the station.”
“Channel open, sir. They are receiving.”
“Magna Romanii station, this is Commodore Nandi Trujillo of the Starfleet vessel Reykjavík, representing the United Federation of Planets. We are requesting permission to approach your station in hopes of initiating a diplomatic exchange. We carry an ambassador aboard with the authority to make binding treaties.”
A brief delay followed, with officers at their stations eyeing their displays for any signs of impending hostility from the station or the approaching planet.
“Federation vessel, this is Magna Roma Orbital Control. Permission is granted for you to approach Stella Gradus station. Specific orbital coordinates accompany this transmission. Once in position, standby for further instructions. We welcome you to the magnificence and grandeur that is the glorious Roman Empire.”
Trujillo glanced back at Helvia at the Tactical station, her eyebrow raised in abject skepticism.
Helvia merely shrugged, shaking his head in resigned amusement.
“Reykjavík copies, Orbital Control, and we will comply.” She gestured to the Helm. “Mister Naifeh, proceed to orbital insertion, one-quarter impulse.” She tapped the seat-back at the Operations station. “Lieutenant, signal Zelenskyy to hang back mid-system and monitor our situation. No sense in both of us strolling into the proverbial lion’s den together.”
On her way back to her seat, Trujillo paused at the Tactical console. “Weaps,” she said, using her customary shorthand for the Security/Tactical officer, “I know you’re keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. They could very well have weapons systems we’re unfamiliar with or otherwise hidden from our sensors.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied stolidly. “They are a martially minded people and would not leave their orbital zone undefended.”
From Ops, Lieutenant Shukla spoke up. “Sir, I’ve been scanning for any signs of transporter technology, and haven’t located any. Whatever else the Orions have given them tech-wise, it doesn’t appear that transporters were included.”
“Acknowledged, Mister Shukla, and thank you.”
On the cusp of resuming her seat, Trujillo caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to see Davula leaning over Garrett, the pair examining something at the Science station with animated interest.
She abandoned the captain’s chair, walking around the upper level to the station where Davula had just assumed a seat next to Garrett. “Something of note?” Trujillo asked.
Garrett turned towards her; the younger woman’s eyes bright with enthusiasm. “Commodore, as we approached the planet I started a standard assessment sweep, looking for any major changes from the scans Enterprise logged fifty-five years ago. There’s been some increased environmental degradation owing to greater industrialization and its corresponding pollution, but when I got to geological analysis my board lit up like a Christmas tree.” Garrett switched to a Mercator-view of the planet, where the continental masses on display were highlighted in a riot of shifting colors.
“Half a century ago this planet was tectonically active, but stable, much as Earth has been for the past few thousand years. No longer. We’re detecting major seismic activity across the globe, with nearly five-thousand active volcanoes across five continents. By comparison, Earth has somewhere in the vicinity of fifteen-hundred active volcanoes at any given time.”
“Any idea what’s causing it?” Trujillo asked.
“Not yet, sir,” Davula answered. “We’ll need to carry out additional scans of the planet’s interior when we make orbit before we can offer any definitive determination.”
The turbolift doors opened to admit Ambassador Dax to the bridge. He peeked his head through, glancing around before his gaze finally settled on Trujillo. “Permission to enter, Commodore?”
Trujillo smiled. “Granted, Ambassador. You should know your bridge privileges are still in effect from your last time aboard, but I appreciate the courtesy.”
Curzon stepped onto the bridge, looking around at the various crew intent on their tasks as Reykjavík approached their destination. “I was monitoring comms from my quarters. It sounds like everything’s going well so far.”
Trujillo nodded fractionally, examining the growing blue-green orb on the viewscreen that looked so deceptively like home. “So far,” she echoed.
“Size and composition of their moon?” Trujillo asked suddenly as the smaller planetoid appeared from behind the planet.
“Nearly identical to Luna in size, mass, and orbital position, sir,” Garrett answered. “There are a handful of occupied facilities on its surface, sir. They appear to be Magna Romanii industrial plants.”
Trujillo walked over to Curzon, gesturing to an unoccupied auxiliary station on the bridge’s upper level. “The more I think about Lieutenant Garrett’s analysis of this planet, the more its mere presence raises the hairs on the back of my neck.”
Curzon lowered himself into the proffered seat. “Yes. So many impossible similarities to your homeworld. Nonetheless, it is here, and we have a job to do.”
“Indeed,” she replied. “I was considering leading the initial delegation down to the surface. Give us a chance to sniff around a little bit before bringing you down, to ensure your safety.”
“I’d argue that having me with your landing party affords you greater safety,” Curzon rebutted. “The Romanii are making their first forays into the larger galactic community. I doubt they want to attack a diplomatic delegation to their planet and have their world’s reputation smeared across the quadrant.”
She gave him an assaying look. “You’re sure?”
“I am. My orders contained no provisions about carrying out my assignment only so long as it was safe or convenient to do so.”
Trujillo’s mouth twitched, a smile very nearly taking shape there.
Curzon gestured to the crew with a sweep of his arm. “Besides, I’ve seen you and your people at work. I doubt their pantheon of gods could save them from your wrath were they to strike at us.”
“All the same, Ambassador, I’d rather not put that assertion to the test.”
He gave her one of his patented grins, inclining his head in the direction of her ready room. "Shall we go make arrangement for a little meet and greet? Time to show the First Consul and the Roman Senate how the adults in the Alpha Quadrant comport themselves."
* * *
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