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Starship Reykjavík – Domum Soli

* * *

Trujillo had boarded a shuttle from Zelenskyy in order to personally observe the damage to Reykjavík on her way to the recently arrived hospital ship.

She sat in the co-pilot’s seat, watching as they approached her stricken command, its primary and secondary hulls blackened and pitted from multiple weapons impacts. They approached from aft, giving her full view of the savage rent in the ship’s starboard impulse engine, courtesy of an unshielded strike by a merculite missile that had shredded the engine’s thrust ports and blasted apart the drive assembly behind them. It had been a minor miracle the fusion reactor itself hadn’t breached.

On the top of Reykjavík’s saucer the elevated ridge that ran aft from the bridge to the neck of the vessel was marred by a hull rupture just aft of the bridge, a direct hit on her ready room and the adjacent briefing room. The impact from an old, surplus Romulan plasma torpedo had penetrated the ablative armor and the hull itself, the blast being conducted through the adjoining corridor to the bridge, causing numerous casualties.

Trujillo now knew from reading the initial after-action reports that the old Klingon Raptor was believed to have been uncrewed and operated remotely, given that the lifesign readings aboard had not changed when Reykjavík had swept the unshielded vessel with stun energy. It was clear that Reykjavík, Azulon, and Perseus had fallen victim to a well-planned ambush, one that was well underway before the Raptor was driven into Reykjavík like an explosive lance.

The attackers were believed to have been a mix of Romanii Augments and Orion-paid mercenaries, flush with a fortune in Romanii latinum and with promises of more should they overcome the Starfleet squadron. Starfleet Intelligence suggested that this incident had created a rift between the Orion Syndicate and those mercenary groups they so often hired as their muscle, meaning for the near future at least, the Orions would have to do their own dirty work.

None of that mattered to Trujillo, of course, who could only mourn the deaths and injuries sustained by the crews of those vessels, while she plotted some way to extricate their forces from under the shadow of this blighted world.

She turned to face the shuttle pilot. “I’ve seen enough here. Set course for the Corrigan, please.”

* * *

Given the number of casualties sustained by Task Force Hannibal, the hospital-ship Corrigan had been assigned to the task force a week earlier but had been delayed due to combating an outbreak of the Livonian Flu in the nearby Vulryn Belt. She had just arrived to attend to the collective wounded from the vessels Gol, Azulon, Perseus and Reykjavík. The ship’s wards were filled with those injured in the long, soul-searing mission to Magna Roma and its vicinity.

Trujillo passed through various treatment wards, checking in on those not sleeping or sedated. She spoke briefly with both the bed-ridden and ambulatory, handing out Starfleet’s Order of the Purple Heart to each of them. A yeoman aide followed dutifully in her wake, cataloging each award on a data-slate so as to accurately reflect it in that officer or enlisted rating’s service record.

She had kept a running tally since her promotion to the admiralty of all those personnel killed and wounded while under her command. The number was fast approaching two thousand, and each one of these weighed on her conscience like the gravitational footprint of a neutron star.

Trujillo wanted desperately to see her people first, the crew of Reykjavík, but she now commanded an entire task force. She dared not demonstrate such favoritism in the face of the bravery and sacrifice of the other crews.

She eventually gained admittance to the Intensive Care Unit, after passing through a triple barrier decontamination field. Here Trujillo was escorted to the Null-g treatment ward, where she found Jaedetti Davula floating mid-air in a zero-gravity compartment, tethered to a scaffold running horizontally the length of the room.

A series of tubes ran to her unconscious form, bringing fluids, medicines, nutrients and oxygen while carrying away waste byproducts. She looked to Trujillo like a vessel affixed by multiple umbilicals, moored in a space dock. Trujillo’s heart ached for the capable younger officer, the uncertainty of Davula’s situation compounding Trujillo’s guilt at leaving her in command on a mission that should by rights have been hers to lead.

A Vulcan physician, Dr. N’Keth, approached to advise Trujillo on Davula’s condition. The man was dark-skinned and bald, clad in the stark white Starfleet Medical tunic and pants bearing the caduceus emblem in place of the Starfleet arrowhead.

“Commodore, Commander Davula’s present diagnosis is tenuous. She has shards of duranium and ferropolymer that have penetrated her neck and vertebrae, and which are impinging on her spinal cord. Her situation is so delicate that we must keep her in a null-g state to prevent complete laceration of the cord. Should that occur, the commander will be rendered quadriplegic. Federation medical science has still not found a way to synthesize nerve-cell tissue in Bolians due to their highly acidic cellular chemistry, meaning there would be no way to repair the damage.”

Trujillo took a long moment to digest this unwelcome news, and longer still to preserve the façade of complete emotional control that was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain.

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said simply, not trusting herself to say anything further for a moment. Finally, she asked, “What can you do for her?”

“Starbase 23 has a dedicated gravimetric treatment laboratory, where they may be able to draw the shards free micrometer by micrometer, allowing her body the chance to heal the impingement on its own over a series of weeks or months. The procedure is still highly experimental, but it is her best hope of making either a full or partial recovery.”

Trujillo murmured her thanks, struggling to contain the hot tears brimming in her eyes that threatened to fall. She cursed her own weakness and impotence, her utter inability to safeguard her own people. She pushed those thoughts and feelings down, compressing them into a white-hot, incandescent kernel of purest rage.

She took her yeoman in tow and moved on, continuing with her sad but necessary duty.

* * *

“Please stand,” the Mother said gently, taking a step back from Helvia.

He rose, appearing uncertain. “Where are the others?”

“I sent them away so that we might speak privately,” she answered, moving away towards one of the exotic benches nearby.

He followed her, remaining at a respectful distance.

“What am I to do with your people, Titus?” she asked, sitting awkwardly on the edge of the bench seat.

“I am not worthy of holding such an opinion, Revered Mother,” he replied, head bowed.

“Nonsense,” she countered. “We are both thinking beings, just ones of highly divergent evolutionary processes.” She examined him for a moment. “I think it may be necessary for you to see your world through my eyes in order to render such a verdict.”

“Such a thing is possible?”

Her smile was enigmatic. “Oh, yes.”

* * *

Rachel Garrett lay atop a biobed, covered in a blanket and reading a data-slate when Trujillo found her.

The younger woman tried valiantly to sit up, but Trujillo motioned her to remain at ease.

The commodore sat at the edge of the bed, near Garrett’s feet. “How are you doing, Rachel?” she asked, her eyes radiating sympathy.

Garrett’s eyes, conversely, were hard with the same repressed anger that Trujillo had struggled with earlier. “The doctors tell me I’m making a full recovery, sir. I should be released to full duty in the next forty-eight hours.”

Trujillo offered an encouraging half-smile. “Good, I need you back. We all do.”

In response to Garrett’s continued silence, Trujillo added. “I’m so very sorry about Farouk. He was an amazing young man and an outstanding officer.”

She was well aware that Rachel Garrett and Farouk Naifeh had a long standing on-again/off-again romance. The two young officers often found themselves at odds, and their mercurial relationship was one of the ship’s worst kept secrets which everyone knew and yet pretended not to.

Trujillo was also aware that due to Reykjavík’s typical mission profiles, the young woman had lost more comrades in the line of duty than other junior officers her age. Garrett had absorbed this service-related trauma as well as could be expected, better even, but the cumulative emotional damage was certain to catch up with her at some point.

“I know you two were close. Whatever you’re feeling right now, be it anger, sadness, guilt, or something else entirely, please know that it’s perfectly normal. Our emotions can carry us in directions that confuse and confound our intellects at times like these.”

Garrett nodded numbly, wiping away tears that hadn’t been there a moment before. “Thank you, sir. I guess it’s like Commander Glal told me after Lieutenant DeSilva died, ‘This job is many things, but safe isn’t one of them.’”

“The crusty old space-dog is wise,” Trujillo said. She reached into the satchel dangling from a strap over her shoulder, producing a medal that she held up briefly before pinning it to the pillow next to Garrett’s head. “Order of the Purple Heart. Now you have something to go with that Citation for Conspicuous Gallantry you earned last year.”

“Thank you, sir,” Garrett croaked, her eyes now streaming. She emitted a hiccupping sob before saying, “We’d just broken up again two weeks ago… we were barely speaking. I was still giving him the cold shoulder on the bridge when… when—”

Trujillo moved forward to embrace the younger woman, who sat up to allow her commanding officer enfold her in a tight hug. Trujillo knew it wasn’t dignified or officer-like, and in that moment she didn’t give a damn. The woman who had been her maid of honor at her wedding was in emotional agony, and she would not leave her to grieve this loss alone.

“I’m sorry, Rachel, I’m so sorry.”

* * *
 
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* * *

<<**You see everything like this?**>> Helvia asked, his tone still managing to convey wonder, despite his not possessing an audible ‘voice’ at all any longer.

<<**Yes. Here you can perceive not only the subatomic components of all matter and energy, if you look closely enough, you can see the matter/energy life-cycles of the individual quarks. You can observe when and how they came into being, how many times they were energy or matter, and how and when they will eventually be extinguished.**>>

He looked, closer and closer, finding himself drawn down infinite pathways of causality as he discovered that time had no meaning in this place. Without that comforting referent, he was lost. <<**It’s too much!**>> he panicked, flailing against the pull of too much information too quickly, drowning him in a sea of data devoid of context.

Helvia felt himself being steadied by some powerful outside force, drawing him back into himself.

<<**You’re too focused on the math, Titus. Numeric representations can help you grasp some of the fundamentals, but that’s only just scratching the surface. All that you perceive here, overwhelming as it is, represents only this single universe in its twenty-six dimensions. There are an infinite number of other such realms, each possessing its own fractal offshoots, the honeycomb of alternate realities that your people have occasionally encountered.**>>

<<**How is this supposed to help me understand what’s happening to my world, my people?**>>

<<**Your world and your people are inextricably woven into the fabric of this universe, Titus. Were I to annihilate Magna Roma this instant, they would still exist as their separate subatomic components.**>>

<<**Not as sentient individuals,**>> Helvia countered. <<**Their component atoms or quarks might remain as either energy or matter, but the living patterns they held, the thing that made them conscious beings with free will, all that would be extinguished.**>>

Patterns flowed all around them from their point of perspective, the very DNA of the cosmos itself, writ in chaotic subatomic geometries.

<<**Having lived a human lifetime among you, I know that consciousness in that form largely consists of suffering. I could spare them that, give them the purity and release of incorporating their patterns into the background radiation of the universe.**>>

<<**That is a crime against their sentience, robbing them of their agency. Yes, perhaps we are only meat to you, but that meat should have at least enough freedom to choose its own fate.**>>

<<**How ‘in control’ of your fate did you feel while in the arena?**>> the Mother asked pointedly. <<**Such control is an illusion in as fragile and ephemeral a form as yours.**>>

<<**I was as much in control as my opponents,**>> he replied. <<**Our skill, our strength, and our daring all combined to inform the outcome. Absolute control of a scenario is not necessary, so long as one can influence a sufficient number of variables.**>>

<<**What should I do then?**>> She asked again. <<**What fate is most fair for your people, given the pain and suffering they have caused themselves and so many others?**>>

Helvia thought about this for a long time, though he could not say how long, as time here was an illusory thing, more a psychological holdover from his physical form than anything else.

<<**The commodore’s suggested path is the most… humane,**>> he decided.

<<**Meaning what, precisely?**>> she pressed him.

<<**As you pointed out, the Romanii have developed their culture of competitive aggression and cruelty over millennia, crafted by the beliefs seeded in them by John’s people and enhanced by the very geography of their world. It will take immersion in a larger, pan-cultural environment to break those traditions and prejudices.**>>

<<**You mean, dilute the Romanii among the larger pan-humanoid culture of the Federation?**>>

<<**That is precisely what I mean.**>> he confirmed.

* * *

Lt. Commander Jarrod, acting captain of the tactical escort Gol, held up a maroon uniform jacket. The garment was holed through, tattered and burned in several places. It looked as if it had been used as target practice by a security team with weapons set to kill.

“Lieutenant Helvia was right next to the bridge console that exploded, sir. A dozen pieces of shrapnel from that explosion penetrated his uniform, yet there’s not a scratch on him.”

She nodded slowly, then took a sip from a mug of coffee. “I can understand why that would leave you with some questions.”

They were in the compact ready room situation just off Reykjavík’s Command-Information-Center, formerly the ship’s auxiliary bridge, situated on Deck 5 just forward of the computer core.

“I thought he was human,” Jarrod said of the man who had succeeded him as the ship’s chief security officer. “I mean, of Romanii stock, certainly, but human nonetheless.”

“He is,” Trujillo assured him. “Helvia was… elsewhere… in conference with me and the Mother-entity. She apparently decided to spare him, seeing as his untimely death would have cut short their conversation.”

Jarrod held her gaze for a moment, then balled up the uniform tunic and set it aside. “Okay, that’s one question down, only about fifty thousand more to go.”

Given that Jarrod’s ship, Gol, was currently under repair from her ambush earlier in the mission, and that most of Reykjavík’s senior officers had been wounded in the recent attack, Trujillo had made Jarrod acting executive officer of Reykjavík until a suitable replacement could be found.

Puget Sound, a Cle Dan-class repair tender, had docked with Reykjavík to affect the necessary repairs to enable the ship to return to the nearest starbase under her own power.

The door chime sounded, and Trujillo called out, “Just a moment.”

Jarrod stood, looking down on Trujillo. “Have you spoken with Glal in the past few days?”

She looked up, her expression uncertain. “No, I haven’t. Why?”

Jarrod wore his best poker face, the one he reserved for formal unpleasantness. “Not my place to say. You should speak with him, soon.”

Trujillo tamped down the urge to pry further. “I will. Thank you.”

Jarrod stepped forward, planting a kiss on the crown of her head. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m sorry. This mission has been one catastrophe after another. When all this is over, we need a nice long shore leave someplace.”

“Pacifica again?” she asked.

“Or Risa, maybe?” he proposed.

She gave him a smile that was very close to genuine. “As long as it has beaches, palm-tree analogues, and umbrella drinks, I’m in.”

He nodded, toggling the hatch open as he prepared to depart. The massive form of Lieutenant Helvia filled the doorway. The Magna Romanii officer nodded in deference to his superior and stepped aside.

“Come in, Lieutenant,” Trujillo invited, standing to gesture to the chair sitting across from her desk that Jarrod had just vacated.

Helvia stepped inside, coming to attention.

“At ease, Mister Helvia. Have a seat.”

He waited until she had resumed hers before taking his.

“Can you tell me what transpired after John and I were cast out?” she asked, picking up her coffee cup and grasping it in an unconscious effort to absorb the warmth of its contents.

“We… conversed,” he answered haltingly, trying to put into words impressions and sensations that seemed to dwarf the concept of spoken language. “She showed me things that I cannot explain, perceptions that I struggle to retain because they are so utterly alien to me.”

She took a sip from her now lukewarm beverage, eyeing Helvia over the lip of the mug. “Did you discuss the fate of Magna Roma?”

“We did, sir. I told the Mother that I supported your proposal to evacuate the planet and incorporate the Romanii refugees into existing Federation colonies in nearby sectors.”

“Was she amenable to that idea?”

“She was, sir.”

Trujillo felt some fraction of her cumulative stress begin to ease at that news. “And how long did she give us… give them?”

“One hundred years, sir. We have a century to evacuate the planet.”

She set down the mug and leaned back in her chair, running calculations in her mind’s eye. “That might just be enough.”

* * *

Ambassador Kelv looked as unconvinced as he did perturbed, his porcine features enhanced on the large viewscreen where both he and Vice-Admiral Ch'thannak sat, appearing via subspace comms from Starbase 19.

Admiral Markopoulos of Starfleet Logistics Command, a man holding more than a little personal enmity towards Trujillo, seemed to give voice to Kelv’s reservations on the split-screen transmission from where he was stationed aboard Starbase 14. The aging human’s white hair and beard appeared more unkempt than that of his Tellarite counterpart, if that could be believed. Though Curzon knew of Markopoulos only by reputation, he understood that the ‘Chic Greek’ was a polarizing figure within the halls of Starfleet Command, either loved or hated with seemingly no middle ground.

“And what benefit is there to the Federation in evacuating some six billion humans off this planet, Commodore?” Markopoulos asked sharply. “You must have some concept of the enormous resources we’ll need to dedicate to this mission over many decades to accomplish such a Herculean task? The best-case scenario estimates say it’ll take no fewer than seventy-five years to remove a population that size.”

Ambassador Dax, seated beside her, allowed Trujillo to field that question. He knew something of the history between the two officers, and that the commodore was going to have to impress the tightly wound admiral for her plan to have any chance of success. Moreover, the idea had been hers, and though initially skeptical, Curzon had come to see its promise as Trujillo mapped it out for him.

“I do, sir,” Trujillo answered. “It will be the largest humanitarian effort ever undertaken in the history of Starfleet and the Federation, and it will require a masterstroke of logistics planning and creativity to achieve. We will undoubtedly make mistakes and learn valuable lessons that might well save many Federation lives should we have reason to evacuate entire worlds in the coming decades.”

Trujillo continued, “I also know that the Federation has been trying, without much success, to draw colonists to our newest settlements in the sectors along the border with the Tzenkethi, only two sectors from here. I’ve seen LOGCOM’s own projections of one-point-seven percent growth yearly over the next two decades. You and I both know that isn’t going to cut it, and that the Colonization Authority is likely to cut resources to this effort and look elsewhere to promote flourishing colonial growth.”

She turned fractionally in her chair to fix her gaze on Markopoulos’ glowering visage.

“If the CA diverts those resources to other areas, those colonies will stagnate, and the region will become a backwater. A few Border Service cutters to patrol the space-lanes, perhaps, but few outposts or other vital infrastructure. Those colonies would then present ripe targets for the Tzenkethi, who if you will recall, had already tried to annex those systems before we established colonies there to cement our claim on them.”

Trujillo gestured towards the screen with opening hands, as though making an offering. “By transporting the Romanii to those already established colonies, you can grow them at over ten times your projected rate. Those enhanced population numbers will support more star stations, trade outposts, and Starfleet and Border Service bases, giving the region a significantly greater defensive posture, not to mention the added importance and representation in the Federation Council’s lower chamber.”

She saw Markopoulos’ expression begin to soften as he, too, started to put the same puzzle pieces into place that Trujillo had days earlier.

“And If the Tzenkethi do decide to make a nuisance of themselves again,” Trujillo concluded, “you’ll have millions of Romanii civilians with prior military experience to fill the home-guard levies. These people, unlike the majority of Federation humans, will run towards the sound of disruptors.”

Markopoulos shifted his gaze to encompass the image of Vice-Admiral Ch'thannak and Ambassador Kelv. “What say you, gentlebeings?”

The Tellarite smiled toothily, his single tusk quivering in anticipation. “It sounds, Admiral, as though we have a great deal to discuss.”

Ch'thannak kept his own counsel, but the proud look he directed at Trujillo from across the parsecs spoke volumes.

“Very well, Commodore," Markopoulos said, "let’s break this proposal down into its constituent elements, shall we?”

* * *
 
Trujillo's sentiments are mine exactly when it comes to immigration. Send a couple million people who want to become American citizens away? Are you NUTS?? We need them and we need their BABIES!!

Helvia has definitely become a Federation man. Give him a black suit, a Colt 45, and a fedora, he talks like a G-man. Perhaps the most fun thing about the ST franchise is that the Federation has always been a stalking horse not for human values, but specifically for the values of the American Enlightenment. Something that could use a hell of a lot more promotion in these times.

Thoroughly enjoyable story! Thanks!! rbs
 
* * *

Trujillo found Glal resting in his quarters aboard Gol, recovered enough to have been discharged from Sickbay, but still restricted to quarters for bed rest by order of the CMO. The older Tellarite roused himself and climbed out of bed, joining Trujillo in a round dining alcove built around a small, circular table next to a replicator station.

He was clad in a worn pair of Starfleet Academy sweat pants and matching hoodie, specifically tailored to Tellarite dimensions. Trujillo gave him a look of sartorial scorn. "What, no footie pajamas?"

"Ha-ha," Glal replied dryly. He still wore cortical monitoring patches on his temples, the devices keeping close tabs on his neurological function as his brain continued to heal.

Aboard a compact Akyazi-class escort, even senior officers’ accommodations were cramped in comparison to the almost lavish excess of a Shangri-La-class cruiser, and Glal slid in across from Trujillo feeling like he were in his grandfather's portable camping hutch.

"Aren't you supposed to be back down on the surface?" he asked.

"Tomorrow," she answered. "I told the Romanii we'd be back tomorrow. I need another day before I force myself to set foot on that miserable sphere again."

Glal gestured to a cabinet set above the small kitchenette. “We’d better break out the good stuff for this talk, sir.”

Trujillo stood and stretched to reach the cabinet, bottles tinkling as she perused his selection. Her facial expression contorted into something approaching abject horror. “By the gods, Glal, what do you consider ‘the good stuff?’ I’ve seen better selections in a Klingon brothel.”

He laughed so hard he sparked a fit of coughing, a sure sign that he’d gone far too long without regular access to dark humor.

“Aldebaran whiskey,” he wheezed, “the Ukvek’s. I’ve been saving it.”

She withdrew a dark green, exotic-looking bottle, bringing it down to eye level to inspect it. She blew a layer of dust off the decanter. “I can see that. Since the mid-23rd century by the looks of it.”

Trujillo retrieved two squat, squarish glasses from another cupboard and returned to the table, uncorking the bottle and pouring them each a measure of the emerald liquid.

“Kinda dark for Aldebaran whiskey, isn’t it?” she asked, sniffing at her glass as she handed Glal his.

“Ukvek’s is a traditional Tau distillery,” Glal answered. “The real stuff takes decades to ferment. The cheaper the knockoff, the more quickly it’s been artificially distilled, the lighter green it is. The swill you’re used to is the crap the Lissepians and Miradorn pawn off on the general public.”

She raised her glass. “What shall we drink to?”

He hesitated, finally settling on, “To new beginnings.”

They touched glasses and each took a sip.

Trujillo’s eyes widened in surprise at the strong, warm, and welcoming flavor of the liquid. “Damn, that is good.” She scrutinized him carefully. “To what ‘new beginnings’ do we offer our libation, old friend?”

He held her gaze, his expression uncharacteristically tentative. “I’m retiring, Nandi. This time for good.” He gestured to one of his cortical monitors. “When I woke up this time, I didn’t feel like myself. I still don’t, not really. I mean… I’m still me, as near as I can tell, but it feels like part of me is missing.”

“What do the doctors say?” she asked, masking her internal dismay.

“They say whatever feels missing will likely come back at some point, and that it's probably some kind of transient aphasia brought on by the neuro-trauma. But, they can't guarantee a full recovery." He set his face in an apologetic mask. "I’m sorry, Nandi, I’m just too old for anymore of this rough and tumble. If we were explorers, I might last damn near forever, but we’re old soldiers, you and I. We take more than our portion of wear and tear.”

He sipped his drink and then cocked his head as he studied her reaction. "Still, you got to keep me around for an extra year and a half, and I got to command a starship. That's something I never expected to do.”

She reached out and grasped his thick-fingered hand, giving it a squeeze. “We had a good long run, didn’t we?”

“That we did.”

“End of an era,” she reflected sadly. “I’m sorry for dragging you back into uniform for my own selfish ends,” she said, followed by a long sigh. “I’d been so afraid to lose what we had for those first five years on Reyky, all the while knowing that change is the only universal constant.”

“You didn’t exactly put a phaser to my head,” he replied with a chuckle. “You offered me Gol in an emergency, and then I voluntarily accepted command when the commission was formally extended.”

Trujillo offered a shrug, taking another appreciative pull off her glass of whiskey. “I didn’t even stop to think about what I might be losing when they offered me advancement to flag rank. I just dove in headfirst, practically giddy about getting to lead actual task forces.”

“You seemed to enjoy getting to employ your gifts,” Glal noted. “You’re very good at coordinating squadron tactics.”

“Yes, and as much as I enjoy it, it lacks the… intimacy… of commanding a single ship. My XO assumes most of the captain’s duties, and I just sit around fretting about the ‘big picture.’”

He cocked his head, throwing back a swig. “That’s the job.”

“Yeah,” she sighed again. “I know.”

“How long is Reykjavík going to be out of commission?” he asked.

Trujillo frowned, her demeanor downshifting even further. “She was due for a major refit in six months’ time anyway, so all told with this damage added to the scheduled work, twelve weeks or more.”

He nodded dourly in response. “Gol will be in drydock for at least eight weeks.”

She set down the glass, leaning back against the rounded cushion behind her while holding a hand to her forehead. “And on top of that, Zelenskyy’s reached the end of her tour. She’ll also undergo a full refit cycle, and her entire crew will be rotated into other assignments.”

“So, all of Defense Detachment Delta is going under the knife, eh?” he said with an empathetic wince.

“And Commander Withropp’s due for a new commission, probably a Constellation or Centaur, given his experience.”

Glal poured himself another measure, holding the glass up. “Good for him. He’s become one hell of a scrapper under your tutelage.”

Trujillo followed suit, refreshing her own drink before clinking glasses with Glal. “To Captain Withropp, may he have a long tour with a valiant crew and many accolades.”

“To the Farthest Star!” they said simultaneously, completing the old Starfleet toast.

“What’s next for you, Commodore?” Glal asked after they had drank, his eyes twinkling.

“Following a long shore leave on some remote atoll someplace, I’m sure Command will find me something to do until Reyky’s ready to get underway. Maybe I’ll try my hand a teaching a couple of tactical seminars at the academy?”

“May the Great Hoof protect the poor cadets!” Glal hooted.

“Hey, I’m not that bad!” she protested.

“And Jarrod? Are you going to give him command of Gol?”

She eyed him carefully. “You’re his CO. What do you think? Is he ready?”

“Yes,” Glal answered without hesitation. “He’s ready for the center seat. I couldn’t be leaving my ship in better hands.”

“Done,” she decided.

Trujillo finished the contents of her glass, and then wiped away a tear that was gathering in the corner of one eye. “Damn it, you crusty old…”

He laughed that deep rumbling laugh that she would miss so dearly.

"You didn't think you were getting out of here without me making you cry, did you?" he chortled.

* * *
 
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* * *

Magna Roma, System 892
Rome, Italia
The Forum


The wind here still blustered, ruffling the formal cloaks and tugging at the toga hems of the assembled Romanii dignitaries, but the drifting ash had abated with the notable decrease in volcanism across the planet.

Trujillo and Curzon stood with the Starfleet honor guard arrayed behind them, facing the Romanii delegates outside the Curia Julia, the setting for this final negotiation session. Trujillo had forgone her dress uniform, instead choosing to wear a bulky away-mission utility jacket over her standard uniform in deference to the temperature and windy conditions.

Liviana Ovicula, representing the Ministry of Alien Affairs was present, as was First Minister Macer and his retinue. Their collective mood seemed subdued, the higher-ranking officials shuffling uncertainly and talking among themselves, all sense of military decorum abandoned.

Curzon sensed the tension in the air. “Is there a problem, First Consul?”

“The latinum!” Macer called, his voice carried a hoarse edge, as though he had been engaged in substantial yelling of late. “What have you done with our latinum?”

Trujillo and Curzon exchanged quizzical glances before Trujillo replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, First Consul. Can you elaborate?”

“Our stores of latinum, in our vaults, our storage bunkers, the veins of it we were mining kilometers beneath the surface, it’s gone! All of it!”

Her expression was incredulous. “We have no such capability, surely you know this. Latinum cannot be replicated or transported via matter/energy conversion, hence its value. We have no means with which to have stolen it.”

Macer appeared torn, his hand dangling only millimeters from his holstered Orion disruptor pistol.

Trujillo’s hand inched towards the deep jacket pocket storing her assault phaser pistol. “This could be very bad,” she muttered to Curzon, not daring to take her eyes off Macer and his escorting soldiers. She knew she would never get off a shot if the Romanii opened fire first, but she’d be damned if she died without a phaser in her hand.

“Allow me to confirm this with my people,” Trujillo said, moving her other hand to slowly withdraw her flip-grid hand-held communicator. She found its activation chirp unaccountably reassuring. “Trujillo to Reykjavík, I need a priority scan of the planet. I’m looking to confirm or refute assertions that all the latinum on Magna Roma has gone missing.”

“Stand by, Commodore,” came the voice of the C-I-C duty officer, Lieutenant Shukla. “Transferring you to Sciences for results.”

“On it, sir,”
came Garrett’s voice. There was a pause as she digested the sensor returns. Garrett emitted a stifled giggle, something Trujillo had never heard from her before, the chilling sound of someone flirting with madness. “It’s gone, sir. All the latinum on the planet is no longer detectable. I… I can’t begin to explain it—”

“No need, Lieutenant. Thank you, Trujillo, out.” She flipped the communicator closed and pocketed it. “You’re correct, First Consul, it is indeed gone.”

“You have no explanation?” he spat accusingly.

“There are entities beyond even our science which have taken an interest in your world and your people. They are the ones responsible for easing the seismic activity of Magna Roma over the past day. Through them we have determined that your planet has one hundred of our standard years left before it disintegrates. The Federation has agreed to move your entire species to safety,” Trujillo offered.

“And if we refuse?” Macer challenged.

“Then you may spend your last century however you choose,” she replied. “These beings may have some rationale behind the disappearance of your latinum deposits, but our interest is only in getting your population to safety.”

“We’ll be settled in our own colonies?” Macer asked hopefully, the question striking Trujillo as unbearably naïve.

“No. As we discussed at length, Magna Roma’s peoples will be parceled out among already established Federation colonies.”

Macer’s expression was caught somewhere between hope and outrage. “Our culture, our history, what of that?”

“You’ll take it with you, of course, as all people do,” she answered.

“And we may live as we choose?” The question was weighted with enormous significance, and Trujillo knew it.

“So long as you observe those colonies’ established laws, you may live in peace and freedom. There will be no warring against your neighbors. Your people will recognize the equality of all races, genders and species, and you must agree to the cessation of all forms of slavery.”

Macer’s head dropped, his shoulders shaking in what sounded to Trujillo like mordant laughter. “So, it must come to this.”

“So it must,” Trujillo affirmed. “Or your people can die as your world comes apart around you. The choice is yours.”

Macer took hold of his disruptor with slow, deliberate movements, clutching the weapon like a talisman for a long second before throwing it skittering across the cobblestones in Trujillo’s direction. He shouted something in Latin, and the other Romanii dignitaries and the accompanying soldiers all shed their weapons. Pistols, rifles, swords and spears all clattered to the ground.

“You have our surrender,” Macer announced, his voice flat and emotionless.

“Surrender is not required,” Trujillo advised, moving to scoop up Macer’s pistol. She approached him with even steps, turning the weapon towards herself and offering it handle-first to the Magna Romanii leader. As he accepted the pistol into his left hand, she extended her right hand towards his.

“Welcome to the Federation.”

* * *
 
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What a great wrap-up of a fascinating and exciting story. Trujillo's visit to the wounded was some very powerful storytelling, as was the Romanii "surrender" and Glal's retirement announcement. I'll be sad to see him go, but well deserved. Plus, I won't be surprised to see the occasional subspace coms consult in their future (and I'm just happy you didn't kill him off, you bloodthirsty goul). :p I loved the "metaphysical" scene with The Mother and Helvia. And Trujillo had clearly put a lot of thought into the logistics of relocating the Romanii. Couldn't hurt to have Romanii cohorts entrenched for the long term along such a contentious border. And the Latinum disappearance was a brilliant stroke ... by you and The Mother. ;) I also think your explanation of why Latinum is so valuable was equally brilliant, and am curious whether that was a concept of your creation or if you adapted it from another source. Finally, I'll look forward to seeing what a "refit" Reykjavík will look like, and in following her further adventures. :bolian:
 
* * *

EPILOGUE

Vice-Admiral Ch'thannak’s transmission was piped down to Trujillo’s quarters as Reykjavík maintained a stately warp five en route to Starbase 71, the nearest Federation outpost to System 892.

She was dressed in comfortable civilian garb, her hair tied back into a messy bun as she sorted through correspondence and voluminous after-action reports.

“Good evening, Admiral. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Just checking in to make sure we close out this mission with as few dangling threads as possible,” he replied soberly. “I noticed that the repair yard commander at Starbase 71 says the latest reports from your chief engineer indicate that Reykjavík suffered significantly more structural damage than was initially assessed.”

“Yes, sir,” Trujillo confirmed, masking her irritation at that fact. “The impact of the Romulan plasma torpedoes fried multitronic networks throughout the ship, to include several diagnostic sensors. The true extend of the structural damage wasn’t detected until my engineer conducted a visual inspection of the starboard nacelle strut from outside the ship.”

Ch'thannak referenced a data-slate held in one hand. “It also appears that given your propensity for getting into fights, the Corps of Engineers wants to use Reykjavík as a testbed for some of the new tactical advancements being incorporated into the next generation of ships.”

She nodded in response. “Correct, to include strip phaser-emitters to replace our ball-turrets and reinforced shielding, along with upgrades to our photon torpedo fire control and guidance systems. They promise a seventeen-percent increase in phaser power coupled with a twenty-two percent increase in firing duration. I’m skeptical, but I’ll reserve judgement until I see the final results.”

He smiled at that. “If they deliver as promised, that’ll give Reykjavík sharper teeth than she already has. The downside is their estimates are that she’ll be laid up for the better part of six months,” Ch'thannak noted, observing her response.

“Yes,” Trujillo replied heavily. “I don’t mind telling you I’m worried about losing my senior officers, sir. Yes, some of them will take leave and then pursue some professional development training courses in the interim, but being placed on temporary-inactive status will result in their being bombarded with post offerings from other commands.”

“That’s the risk we always run between assignments, Nandi,” he said, though not without a note of sympathy. “Your people will be looking out for their careers, pursing training courses and new assignments that will get them to where they want to go.”

She bobbed her head in grudging agreement.

“In the near term we’re going to need to find you a new place to fly your pendant, following your own leave, of course. I have several ships available that could work. Given that you’re going to resume the Reykjavík commission later this year, it makes more sense to leave a captain in command of whichever ship you chose, while you assume flag duties as required.”

“I agree, sir. I’ll pick one from your list by the time we’ve completed our leave.”

“There’s still an entire ship of Augments out there, along with the remaining mercenaries the Orions sent against Starfleet. If you like, I’ll give you the mandate to run them to ground,” Ch'thannak offered.

Trujillo closed her eyes briefly. “I want nothing else,” she confessed. “But… I’m too emotionally invested, I can’t promise that’d I’d keep a clear head, or that I might not risk lives unnecessarily.” She blew out a breath, as though cleansing herself of some dark spirit. “Best you send someone else. Abe Amaechi if you want to send a message, or Captains R'Trrish or Sheinbaum if you want it carried out by the book. Any of them would get the job done.”

Ch'thannak inclined his head, noting with satisfaction that Trujillo knew her limits. “I’ll take those recommendations under consideration. So, with your leave, where to this time? Pacifica again? You’re getting a lot of use out of Demora’s private island.”

“Well, naturally that was my first choice, but Gael has overridden me this time. We’ve reserved a cottage on a Risan island in the equatorial zone.”

Ch'thannak mock shivered. “Far too warm for my taste, but you sun worshipping humans enjoy yourselves.” He squinted at her suddenly, his face drawn. “Dare I ask about the fate of the Pappy Van Winkle?”

Trujillo smirked. “Please, Admiral, this isn’t my first rodeo. The bar shelf in my ready room is on a high-speed, gravity controlled dumb-waiter system with its own inertial dampeners. When the ship goes to red alert, my liquor collection is deposited in a secure location on deck five which may or may not share secondary shielding emitters with the main computer core.”

He smiled appreciatively.

“If only my crew were so easily safeguarded,” she added, her expression darkening again.

“Yes, I’m sorry for the losses your ship and task force suffered. I’ve received and processed your recommendations for citations and medals. I don’t foresee any difficulties in those getting signed off on by higher command.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The conversation ended with some polite pleasantries soon after, and Trujillo returned to her datawork. She took brief breaks between administrative functions to pen notes for her eulogy at Lieutenant Naifeh’s funeral ceremony. His family would be at Starbase 71 by the time they arrived, to take custody of their son’s remains. They would escort him home to be buried in Tell Arn, a small town outside Aleppo in Syria. They had asked Trujillo to speak at Farouk’s funeral service, requiring a four-week journey each way.

Trujillo had encouraged Garrett to accompany them and to attend the service, but the young woman had yet to decide if she would.

The commodore also planned to push Garrett to take some courses in divisional leadership during the ship’s refit, and then to pursue a deep-space exploration assignment. In her two years aboard Reykjavík Garrett had grown considerably, maturing as a person and as an officer. Garrett had learned much about the tension, exhilaration and danger of defensive assignments, and Trujillo believed it was now time for the young scientist to broaden her horizons.

Something caught her eye, and Trujillo reached out to pick up the crystalline business card the John-entity had left her. She hadn’t had reason to call on him… it… again, and she just knew that if she asked for something as trite as resurrecting the dead from their recent battles that he was likely to laugh in her face. She tucked the card away, vowing to put it someplace safe for when she was in need of greater guidance.

Jarrod stepped into the small office cubicle from the quarters’ living area. He was wearing a semi-dressy civilian ensemble. “Almost time for the wake,” he announced.

She looked up and nodded fractionally, her thoughts hundreds of light-years away.

“Lots of change on the horizon,” Jarrod said softly. “Just remember to hold on to the memories of what was. That’ll help you get through tonight, and all the days after.”

She stood, going up on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his forehead. “That would be nice,” she replied.

* * *


** THE END **
 
A very nice, and fitting wrap up of this tale, and a nice setup for what's to come, including Garrett's eventual rise to command. Loved the bit about Trujillo's liquor cabinet, and the upgrade's to Reykjavik's armaments and defensive capabilities. Looking forward to seeing her in action.
 
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