CHAPTER
ELEVEN
“Amare et sapere vix deo
conceditur.”
[“Even a god finds it
hard to love
and be wise simultaneously.”]
– Publius Syrius
Unlike Deep Space Nine, which had begun its operational life as an
oppressively dingy Cardassian ore-processing facility, and graduated only
through circumstance and desperate need into one of Starfleet's most famous
postings, Way Station 242 was still a
relatively obscure little destination... and would probably always remain so.
The planet to which it was
attached—literally attached, by one
of only three operational space elevators in the entire known galaxy—was an
ugly little world known as Mokhara Prime. Its inhabitants were a secretive,
resentful people whose culture was rife with taboo and tradition; and both of
these were often at odds with the mores of their Federation “guests.” Even more
so than the Bajorans, the Mokharans' inflexibility on certain matters had made
assignment to the sector that bore their name one that most personnel dreaded
receiving, struggled to avoid once selected, and transferred away from as soon
as was possible.
Only an engineer could be
grateful at having received such a posting. Maintenance of the station, not to
mention the umbilical between Mokhara Prime and her ungainly little offspring,
was incredibly challenging, essentially thankless, and, for the most part,
prohibited anything resembling a life.
Since most engineers didn't
have or want lives, anyway, though, it worked out just fine for them.
A team of those
aforementioned undead was diligently at work with metallurgic tricorders and
hand-welders, repairing the innumerable micro-fractures that developed
chronically along the structure's length, and which, if left untended, would
eventually turn the space station into a free-floating feature of the Mokhara
star system.
And, tempting though that
happenstance might be to some of those stationed there, having your charge
wander away wouldn't do anyone's performance evaluations, or career, much good.
Lieutenant (junior grade)
Peter Trask, repair team leader and current chieftain of the armies of darkness
while his supervisor, Lieutenant Michelle Kochlin—or, as he frequently liked to
call her, “la belle terrible”—attended
a conference on Tellar, deactivated his welder and took a quick look around.
Though most of his fellows knew that thoroughness was critical in such a task,
it didn't stop them from engaging in a friendly little competition to see who
could finish restoring their section of the umbilical first.
Especially since “Field
He couldn't win this one,
since he was the arbiter and declaring his own triumph would garner him smirks
and ridicule rather than free drinks at The Orion Coffeehouse.
Damn. Today I'm
first, and can't capitalize.
Trask settled down to wait,
nudging his spacesuit's thrusters just enough for a half-pirouette.
He'd turned around just in
time.
The odds of actually
directing your gaze to the perfect point, and thereby seeing a random vessel
drop out of warp with the naked eye, were nothing short of astronomical…
…but he'd just managed it.
Where an instant ago there
had been only blackness, Trask saw first the telltale burst of violet Cochrane
radiation—far more beautiful and wondrous, somehow, when viewed with no
intervening bulkheads—and then a vessel… appeared.
The ship didn't coast into the area and settle to a stop; instead it was as if
God had stopped the game of creation for an instant, and inserted this new
piece onto the board.
To put it more simply: It
wasn’t there, and then it was.
Trask was certain he was the
only one who'd seen it… and his gasp wasn't quite
loud enough to activate the suit's comm badge.
For a moment, he had an
unobstructed, and unobserved, view.
Wow.
Such a simple thing as the
arrival of a ship… and he knew he'd remember it for the rest of his life.
***
Aboard the object of Peter
Trask's mesmerized gaze—the former Starfleet Miranda- and now Imperial Roman Minerva-class
starship SPQR
“Do you require anything
further of us, Captain Mantovanni?” If the graying noble had any personal
opinion of his vessel having been diverted at the word of General Antonius
Galenius Aerus and placed at the disposal of a barbarian, he hid it beneath a
well-crafted veneer of Roman stoicism.
“Just an open comm link,
Tribune… unless I miss my guess, we'll be on our way soon after I've delivered
a certain message.”
Casca frowned, but gestured
to a nearby centurion, and ordered, “Activate transmission array.” When his
subordinate had complied, he turned back to Mantovanni, inclined his head, and
said, “At your discretion, Captain.”
Mantovanni nodded his
gratitude, and instructed the young crewman, “General omni-directional hail,
please, Centurion.”
“Prepared and awaiting you,
sir.”
The Romans were not the only
ones curious as to his game. Hatshepsut was nervously regarding him, her tail
wrapping once around her friend's leg before returning to a more dignified and
disciplined position behind her.
“USS Griffin, this is Captain Luciano Mantovanni… recognize
command override alpha epsilon seven seven.”
For a long moment, there was
no response.
Then, a pleasantly female,
but clearly automated voice replied, “USS Griffin, acknowledging command override. Awaiting
instructions.”
“Prepare to momentarily
disengage stealth device as required to comply with the following instruction:
Lock onto my comm signal; beam myself and Lieutenant Commander Hatshepsut
aboard in 30 seconds.”
“Orders acknowledged. Will comply.”
The tribune smiled slightly;
it wasn't an expression to warm hearts, so much as chill them. He had too much
of the ruthless soldier about him to express positive emotion.
It served him in battle,
though.
“I had wondered whether I
would be stranding you here, Captain. It seems you were prepared after all.
“Fare you well.” Again, Casca
offered him a salute; this one, though, seemed more sincerely presented—as if
the demonstration of cleverness had somehow impressed him.
This time, Mantovanni
returned the martial gesture, fist to chest, and replied, “My thanks again to
General Aerus. I owe him a debt.”
The older man seized on that.
“He warned me you might think
so, and said I should inform you that your mentoring of his son cancels all
such obligations, and leaves him yet far in arrears.”
As
“Tell him I hope not to see him soon.”
The tribune stared at the
spot in which his guests had, until a moment ago, stood.
“Was that an insult, sir?”
asked the young centurion.
“No, Quintus. It was a
compliment. Roma and the Federation will soon
be at odds… and Captain Mantovanni has no wish to meet Aerus in battle.”
Casca smiled again; this one
was more attuned to his demeanor: Cold and dispassionate.
“Wolves such as they do not clash…
“…but that often one does not
leave the field alive.”
***
Hatshepsut was confused and,
once they'd rematerialized aboard the powerful little fighter, let him know it
in no uncertain terms.
“How did you know
“No doubt they were,” he
answered. “But Lady Liberty has a mind of her
own. I had a feeling our resident sentient computer would restore them, or had
actually blocked their removal, simply as a protest against what had happened
to me.”
“Starfleet would be furious if they knew,” the Felisian observed.
Mantovanni's perpetual scowl
lightened perceptibly.
“Precisely,” he said. Then his expression darkened again.
“Stay here.” He glanced out
the cockpit window, wherein was centered Way Station 242.
“I have an errand to run.”