When "Weird Al" Yankovic parodied Nirvana with his song "Smells Like Teen Spirit," he was a bit concerned at their reaction: Would they be flattered or offended?

He needn't have worried: The band was tickled at the attention, and their attitude was, essentially, "Wow… Weird Al's done a song about us. We've arrived, man!"

While I haven't achieved any particular amount of fame, I did experience an analogous situation some time ago: One of my more enthusiastic fans wrote a story centering on General Antonius Galenius Aerus, who made a fateful first appearance in the Liberty novelette "Roman Holiday." I, too, was flattered, but had already envisioned a certain direction for the character. Rather than consigning Paul Ord's work to the scrap heap, I set about making, with his permission, the editorial changes and prose additions that would bring his piece fully into alignment with Liberty canon. Below is the fruit of our labors. We hope you enjoy it.

 

 

"Philosopher King"

 

By Joseph Manno

and Paul Ord

 

(based on the short story

"Moments of Quiet Reflection"

by Paul Ord)

 

 

I know enough of Heaven's firmament to direct my gaze just so, and watch as a burst of light marks the passage of my son for the first time in his life towards a realm beyond my reach… and beyond my protection.

My feelings, needless to say, are mixed.

I am known, whether rightly or not, as a clever man. Certainly the reputation has been useful: On more than one occasion a stratagem borne more of desperation than brilliance has been hailed by chroniclers and hangers-on as a plan of impossible subtlety and precision—after the fact of its success, of course. No doubt there are those who will now say, with assumed sagacity, "Look, Aerus divests himself of weakness. By sending his son with the Federation captain, he gains Starfleet protection for the boy… even while freeing himself to do the things a father would prefer his son not see."

In this case, though, there was no foresight.

I, on many occasions, have disregarded the pull of my heart. This time, though, it spoke so strongly I felt helpless to ignore it.

I have instead, this time, delivered my son into the hands of a man I know is likely to become my mortal enemy—someone to watch closely during the eventual trials of the Roman people—and I did so without hesitation, as if he had proven himself to me after years of comradeship and affection.

Yet I know, with a certainty even I rarely experience, that it was rightly done.

He will return Tertius to me, and my son will have grown into the man my presence, my… genius… has prevented him from becoming. I know this captain of men will consider it his duty, and his privilege, to do so. I shall be more grateful for that boon than I can express…

…and then, with a regret the breadth of which will no doubt surprise me, I shall turn my hand to this man's death.

 

While we only met mere hours ago, I have known of him for quite some time: During the actual moments of his return I’d been on the shadow Earth, coordinating the acquisition of a dozen more “mothballed” vessels from what seemed at that time the Federation's countless reserve depots. In addition to my more public duties, though, I’d also been covertly conducting a dialogue with various amenable individuals in the Klingon Defense Force—with a view to purchasing modern cloaking devices and schematics (sad to say, they were interested only in pawning century-old technology for exorbitant amounts of latinum; when it comes to parting with modern military hardware, the natives of Qo’nos make the Ferengi seem almost congenial).

I had been bemoaning my ill fortune with the Klingons, and savoring a glass of exquisite wine from the valleys of Gallia—or as it’s called there, France—when the news channel to which my suite’s video terminal was tuned had begun broadcasting a “bulletin,” as they called it: The Federation News Network channel was reporting that a Starfleet vessel from a bygone era had reappeared in the path of a modern-day counterpart.

I had been intrigued, and watched as live footage had displayed a vessel of the venerable and venerated Constitution-class, USS Intrepid, settling into a berth at the Vulcan orbital shipyards. The feed had then changed, showing crew members as they’d disembarked. Like carrion birds, news reporters (almost all Terran and Bolian, naturally; Romans have far more restraint) surged forward to interview these “time-lost” personnel. What particularly caught my eye was that all of these were Vulcan—save their commanding officer, that is.

The... “journalists” (I am feeling generous just now)... had quickly begun an attempt to surround this poor individual, but had been kept at bay by a veritable wall of his officers—who, to my eye, had as a group managed to interpose themselves between a reporter and their captain at every turn, while manhandling not a single one. It was a uniquely Vulcan interpretation of “protecting their captain from harm.” I was impressed.

The fact that a human could inspire that degree of loyalty in such a coldly logical people impressed me even more.

According to the continuing coverage, this man was counted among the most famous “defenders of the Federation” in the late 23rd and early 24th centuries (as Terrans reckon it; for us, of course, it is 3210 years since the founding of the city), mentioned with such men and women as James T. Kirk, Hikaru Sulu, Robert Wesley, Rebecca Orde, and Angela Martine, to name but a handful. Startled by this ready comparison to those "warriors-of-old," I began to access the public historical databases to review the records on the varied exploits of this man.

As one might guess of a Roman, it was "Cicero" that had especially captured my attention: Cicero the lawyer, Cicero the orator, Cicero the philosopher. The very idea of a warrior with that name made me smile: After all, though Starfleet had, in days of yore, properly represented itself as a military organization, today its members arm their ships with weapons that can shatter a planet, and yet still dare to call themselves “explorers.” It is hypocrisy of such profound degree that I cannot help but admire its audacity. It is in such small observations that I confirm that Terrans truly are Romans who have lost their way.

What I found in the public records was enough to inspire a more… enthusiastic acquisition of information. Even in the supposedly evolved Federation, most things can be had for enough latinum in the right hand, and this was no exception.

I had been, thus, able to covertly acquire intelligence reports on all the military encounters in which this "neo-Cicero" had engaged prior to his eventual disappearance in 2301. Despite myself, I was impressed. His military tactics were unique; each ensuing encounter was met with a new approach, as well as a professionalism and discipline rarely found among Starfleet officers in those days of thriving peace. His final recorded engagement with rebel elements within the Romulan Star Empire was by far the most spectacular of all; with the ease of a seasoned veteran he was able to destroy several Romulan warships that had raided Federation space in what is now called "The First Galorndon Core Incident." The engagement, fought nearly a century ago, is reportedly still a sore point amongst the Rihannsu military establishment, as it was an astounding defeat for its supposedly superior fleet.

He was, from my readings and research, a superlative tactician, a cunning strategist, a deadly hand-to-hand combatant… in all, a formidable warrior, in the truest sense of the phrase.

Above all, though, he was a man the fates favored…

…and that made him truly dangerous.

 

***

 

It had been my opinion, then, that this man would find it difficult to prosper given the realities of the 24th century: The Starfleet he had known, the one justly proud of its martial tradition and ready for the military challenges of the future, had given way in large part to a collection of men and women who'd decided that the wars of the past had set the stage for the "peace and optimism" of the future. Their steadfast, obdurate lack of vision caused no small damage to the Federation when at last the inevitable great war came upon it. The Dominion was not interested in "understanding" or the "brotherhood of all sentient beings," and their willingness to act brutally, as conquerors often must, nearly brought the Federation to its knees. They had forgotten the all-important axiom, "Qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum"—loosely, "If you want peace, prepare for war." Once again, the wisdom of our mutual forebears had been shown axiomatic.

Mantovanni, though, had proven me wrong: He'd adapted to the needs of this new era, serving in what manner he could, until the moment when the need for a great captain of men was again upon him. Then, he'd done what needed to be done… and acted as ruthlessly as those with whom the Federation was at war—without descending to their level of barbarity.

But I digress... and my narrative suffers. My apologies.

I had, then, hastily arranged our schedule so that my "business" was complete even as Mantovanni's "ride," the USS Hood, was preparing to leave orbit; and had been able, during the journey homeward, to engage in several conversations with the master of that vessel, Captain Robert DeSoto. I had grown, after these discussions, ever more determined to meet his former passenger, but wished it to seem accidental—a simple fortuitous coincidence.

Eight years came and went before I could effect this to my satisfaction.

There are other ways to learn about a man, though… at least in part. In my investigations I'd learned of Mantovanni's affection for the ancient Persian game now called chess. It had never been an interest of mine; but for the sake of my curiosity, I learned it… only to realize it has possesses a grandeur—and creates a compulsion—all its own. I now play a game or two on a daily basis.

When I'd felt my skills had increased sufficiently—I had acquired a number of learned tutors in the art, since I have no desire to do anything by half measures—I'd engaged him in several games via subspace. I used various false identities to ensure my secrecy, since my primary goal was to test him. In all, we played a total of 11 games, nine of which were draws. We both managed a single victory with White, though I must concede that my anonymity perhaps gave me something of an advantage. Rarely, though, is any field of battle completely level. Thus, I make no apologies for my deception. 

I do not like to lose—who, after all, does?—but it gave me a measure of the man I'd not had until then... and besides, if your foe is clever and resourceful, victory is much the sweeter. I savor my lone triumph perhaps more fully than I should.

I imagine, also, that we have both replayed our defeat on more than one occasion.

It had been by dint of additional research and correlation I'd discovered that a Roman citizen, one Marcus Lucius Aldus, was in service with Mantovanni. Suddenly, I'd known two things: One, eventually Aldus would return home… and two, he would bring his captain with him. Then, I would test him in earnest.

And so, it came to pass.

Several attempts were made by government subordinates to anger him—at my instruction. I'd wished to see if his patience could be worn down prior to my meeting with him, but he never rose to these simple challenges. I'd had him watched on his tour of the one true Roma. On several occasions, I am told, he'd stopped and lingered at various landmarks—not necessarily those one might predict, either.  The Temple of Minerva in particular seemed to affect him visibly. I knew from my studies that Mantovanni has Christian leanings. He was raised a  Roman Catholic—offensive though that oxymoron might be to me—and by a Vulcan, no less. IDIC, indeed.

After we'd met and supped, I'd altered the venue and tone of conversation… at what many might have thought an inopportune moment, we were interrupted by my heir and son, Tertius. (Again, my pragmatism betrays me. I have three children: Two daughters, Prima and Secunda; and my son. Perhaps I am not so imaginative as my opponents believe.)  The results of their exchange were… illuminating.

I'd known he'd already predicted the final route our conversation would take, but I was unable to discern his response: In addition to a chess master's layered intellect, he has a card player's inscrutability. I admit that I was disappointed as I have rarely been by his rebuff…

…but I sensed he was no less so, in having to tender it.

I had then focused on my lesser goal: His young Roman officer, Marcus Lucius Aldus. Having been trained by Mantovanni, I know he will prove invaluable in the coming campaigns… and the knowledge he has gained of the galaxy at large will no doubt further enhance our prospects to mould it in the time-honored Roman fashion. Already he has spoken to me of certain races I believe can be suborned or coerced to our cause. If the Federation allows resources to lie fallow, we Romans will take advantage of them.

The long-awaited test of my skills—and the judgment of history—shall come at the last… and, if the gods grant my prayer, the cries of "Roma Invicta"—"Rome Unconquered"—shall be heard in the vacuum of the firmament itself, even unto the end of time.