Captain’s Log, Stardate 41800.9:
I have just returned from a very disturbing session with the remaining officials of Tenara’s Great Saavta.
The death of Chairman Melkinat has shaken the whole government to its core. They are now calling for the removal of all Federation forces, and that call is being led by Gretna Melkinata—the late chairman’s daughter. Up until a week ago, I would have counted on her support for a continued Federation presence here to help the Tenarans defend their world. I am at a loss to explain her actions—while Commander Riker, who knew her best of all, remains unconscious in sick bay, recovering from wounds received during the latest attack by the M’dok.
There is one encouraging piece of news in all this, however. The M’dok we have captured bear out Commander Data’s hypothesis of famine in the empire. We have dispatched this information to Starfleet, who are bringing increased diplomatic pressure to bear. In the meantime, the situation here remains explosive. I feel that Captain Sejanus and Centurion are merely waiting for the M’dok to reappear to start a full-scale war.
PICARD SIGHED AND LEANED BACK in his chair, shutting off the log recorder.
“Quite a day, sir,” Deanna Troi said.
“Indeed, Counselor. And it’s only morning.” He put a finger to his lips and rubbed them thoughtfully. “I wish I could talk to Commander Riker about all this.” He flipped a toggle on his chair, opening a channel to sick bay. “Dr. Crusher, how’s our patient?”
“He’s lost a lot of blood, Captain.” Beverly Crusher’s voice came back. “But he’s coming along nicely.”
“I need to talk to him.”
“And he needs to sleep. At least another twenty-four hours.”
The determination in her voice was clear. Picard gritted his teeth. “Very well, Doctor. Keep me informed.”
He turned his attention to the main viewscreen, dominated by Tenara and the Centurion.
Much more than I need to talk to Commander Riker, I need to talk to the captain of that ship. To find out what he’s thinking, what he plans to do next.
And he might as well be a million miles away.
The door to Sejanus’ quarters slid open, and Ensign Jenny de Luz stepped inside. Sejanus was waiting” for her, standing beside a desk. He was wearing a simple Starfleet uniform just like that worn by Jean-Luc Picard; it made his similarity to the Enterprise captain all the more striking, even uncanny. He smiled with pleasure and came forward to take her hand in greeting. “Ensign de Luz. Welcome to my ship. May I call you Jenny?”
“Yes, Captain. Of course.”
Sejanus released her hand and walked over to the windows and stood looking at Tenara spinning lazily below them. “I’ve been monitoring your holodeck exercises.” He turned back to her and smiled. “Your scores are most impressive.”
“It’s thanks to Gaius, sir.”
“You’re too modest, Jenny. He tells me everything—and he tells me you’re one of the most promising young officers he’s come across in years. Even including the Magna Romans. But then, there’s a little bit of Rome in your background, isn’t there?”
Jenny smiled. “Actually, sir, only partly. Most of my ancestors were the native peoples conquered by the Romans.”
“The same may well be true of me,” Sejanus said with a laugh. “I’ve never been convinced that the Volcinians, or any of the other gentis who claim to trace their ancestry back to the original Roman patrician families, have kept their bloodlines as pure through the centuries as we like to tell ourselves.” He seated himself on the edge of the desk. “I was brought up believing that all of that—ancestry, purity of blood—was more important than anything else. I believed every detail of it. But for years I’ve struggled to overcome that upbringing. First I tried to make myself see that I had to think in terms of my whole world, of all Magna Romans, and not just of Romans. Then I tried to expand my view still further, to embrace all the member peoples of the Federation.”
“Yes, sir.” Jenny nodded. “That’s just what I had to learn when I left Meramar. That’s what Captain Picard says quite often.”
“Does he?” Sejanus cleared his throat. “Your captain is a great man. He’s famous throughout Starfleet and the Federation, and justly so. A scholar, a soldier when necessary, a diplomat, a leader—yes, he deserves his fame. I can certainly understand why his crew admire him.”
“We do, sir.”
Sejanus nodded. “And I’m sure that Captain Picard’s real concern is for the good of the peoples and worlds that make up the Federation.”
“I’m sure of that too, sir.”
Sejanus raised his eyes to meet hers. “But, Jenny, it’s important not to be blinded by hero worship. Even Jean-Luc Picard is capable of making mistakes.”
“Of … of course, sir. I’m sure he’d be the first to agree.”
Sejanus nodded. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said seriously. “That’s partly a measure of the man’s greatness—that he’s willing to admit that he’s as fallible as anyone else. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean that he’s always able to see where he’s going wrong, even if it’s pointed out to him. He may wish for the best for the Federation, but he may not be taking the best approach to ensuring the Federation’s health.”
Suddenly Jenny began to feel confused. “I don’t know what you mean, Captain.”
Sejanus stood slowly. “Let me give you some background to the Battle of Britannia. No, I’m not changing the subject. You’ll see; it’s relevant. Do you know why the German tribes put aside their differences and undertook an expedition to Britannia to attack Londinium?”
“Gaius told me they thought it was undefended, that the legions had been withdrawn.”
“Yes, but why did they think that?”
Jenny shook her head. “I didn’t ask.”
His voice turned crisp and authoritative. “Like the Romans of Earth, my ancestors tried unsuccessfully to conquer the Germans. We lost untold numbers of men in those forests, and we scarcely gained any ground.
“But we noticed that the Germans were becoming more like us! They resisted us as conquerors, but between fights, they traded with the Roman settlements along their borders, they learned Latin, they learned to emulate our forms of government and military organization. If anything, we realized that this made them an even greater threat to us. But it also pointed the way to a different method of conquest.
“So we started sending in teachers and traders instead of soldiers. The first few were slaughtered, of course, but eventually the Germans let them survive and stay. Bit by bit, our culture, our civilization, was bringing about the conquest that our armies had failed to achieve.
“And then a revivalist movement started in Germania—cultural revival, nationalism, rejecting everything foreign, which is to say, Roman. Within two years they had dismantled everything we had built, killed or imprisoned all of our people, and terrified all the Romanized Germans into returning to primitive ways. Food, language, housing, the arts—everything became primitive again. And we were back where we had started centuries before.
“Then we realized that we were even worse off than we had been. The new leaders of Germania were cooperating with each other, and they were more aware than before of our empire as a threat. Our spies discovered that they were trying to organize an invasion of the empire, with Rome itself as their goal.
“Our first impulse was to organize as large an army as we could and send it north into Germania to crush them once and for all. But the Emperor Belisarius feared that his legions would simply be slaughtered in the forest, as had happened centuries earlier. He and his generals hit upon a brilliant strategy. They sent couriers through Germania, on one of the shorter routes toward Britannia, carrying secret messages to the legions in Britannia.”
“But that seems very foolish,” Jenny protested. “They might have been captured.”
Sejanus grinned. “They were. And they were tortured and killed, and their messages were translated. The messages were orders that the legions withdraw to Italia to help repel the expected German invasion. The true orders, that the legions were to stay where they were, were sent to Britannia by sea, along with many reinforcements. The Germans fell for the ruse and sent the cream of their forces to attack what they thought was unguarded Britannia. They thought to eat away at the empire from the edges, but instead they fell into a perfect trap, as you saw on the holodeck. The aftermath was that Germania was denuded of its defensive forces, and Emperor Belisarius then sent his legions in and conquered all of Germania in a brilliant campaign taking only three months.”
“That was a very risky trick,” Jenny pointed out.
“Yes, but it worked, and that’s what really counts, isn’t it?”
“Would those couriers think so, Captain? I mean, the ones who were sent across Germania with fake messages? You said they were caught and tortured and killed.”
“They were Romans, Jenny. They knew the risk, and they accepted it as part of their duty.” He paused. “Perhaps you’re beginning to see my point, why I told you this whole story about the background to the Battle of Britannia. What saved Britannia and the rest of the empire was the willing self-sacrifice of brave Romans. A direct approach—a brute-force invasion of Germania—would have failed. It might even have led to the downfall of the empire. There might be no Magna Roma today. And that’s really my point. That’s what I want you to think about.”
Jenny shook her head, confused. “I’m afraid I still don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
Sejanus now turned his back on her and began pacing across the ready room. “What I’m getting at, Jenny, is that what your captain is doing now—here, on Tenara—is a mistake.” He turned to face her. “It’s cost the lives of dozens of Tenarans, and it will cost the lives of many more people—from this ship and yours, I would say—before Picard will admit his mistake.”
“With all due respect, sir, that’s something you should take up with him, not me.”
Sejanus laughed. He walked over to Jenny and put his hands on her shoulders. “I can understand Gaius’ interest in you. He has chosen exceptionally well”
His voice vibrated through her. Jenny stepped away, breaking the contact. “Thank you, sir.”
Sejanus turned toward the window and studied the stars outside. He waited a moment before speaking again. “I remember your words on the surface of Tenara, Jenny—how you felt the deaths there were unnecessary. Do you remember mine?”
Jenny nodded. “You said there were other measures we could take to ensure the Tenarans’ safety.”
“Exactly,” Sejanus said. He turned back to her, his eyes alight with excitement.
“The time has come to take those other measures, Jenny. To strike back at the enemies of the Federation, to do something bold, something daring, something that will do more to ensure the long-term safety of our worlds and peoples than any number of defensive outposts we could ever set up!” He gripped her shoulders again, and stared into her eyes. “Something that will require brave followers of the old Roman mold, followers unafraid to sacrifice their lives for what they believe is right.
“Jenny,” Sejanus drew her closer. “I think you are of that mold—I know Gaius Aldus does. We want you here, aboard the Centurion, to help in that undertaking.”
“I…” Jenny chose her words carefully. “Captain, it may happen that I’ll be requesting a transfer to the Centurion in the future anyway. I’ve been thinking that I ought to speak to you about it, to make sure you’d approve the request.”
“Approve!” Sejanus fairly shouted. “Jenny, I’d be delighted. I want officers who can think on their feet, react quickly—above all, officers unafraid to do what has to be done. People like you, Jenny.”
She drew a shaky breath. “Thank you, sir. Then I would be honored to serve under your command.”
“Excellent, Jenny.” He clapped his hands. “Why don’t you speak to your captain? And I’ll make all the necessary arrangements here.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sejanus nodded, and watched her go. The two members of his personal guard who had been standing outside his door would escort her safely back to the transporter room—or to Gaius’ quarters, wherever she wanted to go.
Of course, had Jenny balked at his offer, or behaved even the slightest bit suspiciously, he would have had them escort her someplace else entirely.
It was much easier this way.
Deanna Troi was not surprised when Jenny asked for a counseling session so soon after the M’dok attack; she was, however, surprised by what Jenny wanted to tell her.
“A transfer, Jenny? Why?”
“Maybe I’m just tired of not fitting in here, Deanna. On the Centurion, I feel I belong. They’re all warriors there, like I am!”
“Jenny …” Deanna shook her head. “I know how fond you are of Gaius, how much you feel a part of the Centurion. That’s all wonderful. But you need to get one thing very clear in your own mind. Starfleet is not an organization of warriors. We fight when we have to, yes, but—”
“But we have to fight now! After what happened yesterday, isn’t our obligation to pursue the M’dok to their homeworld and destroy their ability to wage war?” Jenny asked. “Rid the Galaxy of the threat they pose! The same applies to any other enemy that threatens any of our worlds. Why shouldn’t we really train the Tenarans to defend themselves, force them to change their society so that they’ll be safe even when our two ships leave? After all, no enemy in his right mind would attack Magna Roma or Meramar. We should insist that the Tenarans be able to fight for themselves—shouldn’t we?”
“Isn’t that a choice for the Tenarans to make?” Deanna asked carefully.
Jenny’s hand cut the air like a weapon. It was more than an aggressive gesture; it betrayed suppressed nervous tension and energy. “Not if they’re going to keep on asking the rest of us to protect them from attack! They’re using us as their shield so that they can have the luxury of living the way they want to.”
As Jenny spoke, Deanna listened to her words, and at the same time she listened to her feelings. The empathic sense Deanna derived from the Betazoid half of her told her that Jenny was being torn in two. This was more than an intellectual argument she was having with herself, an internal debate about two conflicting value systems; this was a fundamental split, a tear in her being.
“Jenny, I can’t decide questions of political philosophy for you. You have to do that for yourself. Every adult, every citizen of the Federation, has the duty to do just that. I’m here to help you with your problems of emotional adjustment. I don’t—”
“That is my problem!” Jenny cried. “Everything I believed in is coming apart! Can’t you tell?”
Yes, Deanna thought, of course I can tell. But I still can’t prescribe an answer for you. “Jenny, I think you could use a bit of a break from your work before you decide to transfer to the Centurion. One way or another.”
“All right,” Jenny said dully. “With Lieutenant Worf down there, they really don’t need me at all.”
“Good. I’ll get permission from the captain for you to get some time off, and then I’ll want to see you again after that. In the meantime, here’s what I want you to do. I know you had sections in your Academy history courses on fascism and English common law.”
Jenny nodded. She seemed suddenly spent, as if her furious outburst had used up all her strength.
“I don’t feel that they cover either subject in enough detail,” Deanna said. “I want you to spend your days off reading as much of what the computer has on those two topics as you can manage. All right?”
“All right.”
Deanna patted her on the shoulder. “I’ll speak to you later.”
The Captains’ Honor “Thank you, Counselor.”
When Deanna Troi left, Jenny threw herself onto her bed and stared up at the painting on her cabin wall. She had brought it with her from Meramar—the only keepsake she’d allowed herself from her native world. It was a rendition of Servado’s Agony: the semidivine hero crucified by the barbarian horsemen he had held off single-handedly for so long. Below the rough cross, Servado’s sword lay broken in two. Despite the nails through his palms, the crown of thorns on his head, and the lance wound in his side, Servado gazed out of the painting with inhuman calm. His eyes held a message that Jenny had treasured all her life: “Be courageous, my daughter. Be a warrior in my image, and we will meet in heaven.”
The message that tradition said was the last he had spoken in this world was written across the bottom of the painting: “Resorgo.” In the language of Meramar this meant, “I shall rise again.” It was Servado’s promise to his people.
Beneath the painting was a small altar covered with a white cloth. A plain sword lay on it, much like those produced for generations in Hispania by Jenny’s ancestors for the legions of Rome. Straight, two-edged, unadorned, it was a slender, lightweight version of the legionary’s sword. Jenny, dressed in white, knelt before the altar.
“Holy Servado,” she whispered, “bless my weapon and my undertaking. Be with me as you were with my father. Show me the right way.”
She looked up at the painting hanging above her. Servado’s gaze looked as stern and loving and approving as it always did, but now she thought she saw something else there as well. Something she had seen in Sejanus’ eyes too.
“Holy Servado,” she whispered. “Did you reappear after all on another world?”
But there was no reply. She bent her head again and continued to pray, sometimes in English, sometimes in her native language—that corrupted, convoluted tongue that had once been Latin.