Finis Origine Pendet - Part II

Posted on Wednesday, 18 March 2020 - 4:37pm by Commander DeVala Victrix Ph.D

Mission: Operation: Overdrive
Location: Paris, Earth | USS Camelot

'When one door closes...’ mused Victrix as she readied herself for another day. The evening prior had been unremarkable, and lacked any productivity unless one counted making a potential enemy. She was fairly certain the Vulcan admiral with whom she corresponded the prior evening was not about to assist her in the near future. Some would say that when one door closes another opens. It was an old saying from the humans on Earth, but she believed differently. 
Devala believed that sometimes you just had to make your own doorway. With very little sleep that night, she all but pulled an all nighter checking and re-checking her options. Though the Vulcan admiral had been a dead end, that did not mean she would give up. If her career had taught her anything, it was always lead soft and stack your line up. Never just go into a meeting with one plan... have several if possible.
Taking a seat at the same desk she had been sitting the evening prior, Victrix made another call. She was not about to bother the Vulcan admiral again. Poking that hive was risky enough just the once, continued agitation would lead to a mess that even she was not confident that she could get out of even with all the admirals, diplomats, and politicians she could pull into her corner. She went through the proper channels to arrange the ‘call,’ but she was not sure the woman would even agree to speak with her. They had no previous working relationship and Victrix didn’t know enough about her to lean one way or the other. 

Frequently tied up as she was, amongst ordinary life, Gwen Darcourt always gave her all to make time for those in need. She ran her ship that way. She ran her life that way. She even believed in the principles of good nature, and the inspiration it could bring others. There was no reason in her mind not to offer that courtesy to others in such an age, when hope was scarce.

Unfortunately, not everyone appreciated such a grace. Or the light in the dark, for that matter. Where the stalwart clung to their traditions, fighting through the struggle, others... well. Not everyone knew how to respond. Some were best left unnamed, instead choosing to block everything irrelevant to themselves out. Those outside that perspective believed they did it because they refused to acknowledge other paths, nor admit there was more than one way to achieve success. To Gwen, it didn’t matter. People would always be different, and while the approach to that difference lingered, it didn’t faze her desire to help others.

It wasn’t as if she ever demanded payment; it wasn’t in her nature. She wasn’t an entirely altruistic person. She had needs too, but her morals guided her path from the first step in life. True, the woman had lost her way for a period after the war, during the initial phase of her retirement. Once again, she somehow found her way to serving the Quadrant, however, albeit in another capacity. For some, she was a diplomat. To others, a commanding officer. A guardian, for those who needed it. But there was only so far she could go, with limits imposed by the Federation.

Starfleet let her keep her title. They even let her take hold of an effort once abandoned as a lost cause, just near the end of the Dominion War. But there had been little else. Every remaining step was a labour of love -- fighting for resources and a place to call home. For others to call home. After all, that was what had called her to the project she now claimed as her own. The Talal, once named after a Vulcan philosopher dedicated to inspiring peace and leading a trek amongst the stars.

It had been a hulk designed to be a frontier explorer and a mobile base, dedicated to project the Federation’s influence. These days it was a community. To some a city to call refuge, traveling beneath the cosmic tapestry. While it no longer carred the title of the Talal, it had been given a more fitting name. The Camelot. It didn’t carry the Starfleet emblem any longer, and the Talal’s registry had worn off on the hull with each maintenance shift. But it was home. To many. Especially to her.

And for many, she was at the centre. Want it, or not. Gwen was only fortunate to never have married, viewing it as her own personal lost cause. She never found the time for it, but she had found the time for a hope she once saw impossible — a family. Not a metaphorical one either. Lady Fortuna had blessed her along that desperate path in retirement, guiding her back to this project. Back to hope. And a son to call her own.

No, she didn’t birth him, nor did she name him. But for as many struggles as she’d faced throughout the past several decades? It had all been to bring her vision to life. Not for herself. But for others in need. Particularly those who society had cast out, and would give no chance. Others like the one she called her son.

Morning called, a long shift after. Gwen may not have been Starfleet any longer, but many of the principles and standards remained the same aboard the Camelot. It may have been named for the mythical kingdom of hope, but with that came a vigorous set of expectations. Maintaining technologies and cultures which blended from the furthest aspects of the Alpha and Beta Quadrants took work. And time. And resources. A never ending chain of all of them. Thirty hours to the clock. It wasn’t standard. But it worked for them.

Every able person pulled ten-hour shifts then had twenty off. Whatever they could offer to the community. Every department had their own organisation, which did admittedly follow some course of inspiration from her days in Starfleet, if only to have a foundation. And while they all reported to her, she treated each person as a member of the family. It was known on her ship.

But when she pulled back to her quarters, or the ready room? People knew to give her space for the first several hours. Out of respect for the lady. They worked hard. She worked harder. No one was unimportant. And she strove to emblaze that belief, placing her all into her job. She even stayed beyond her own expectations often.

A casual stride dragged tired legs over to her bed, taking off her boots as the comm unit on her personal desk began thrumming. “Incoming communiqué,” the vessel intelligence responded, materialising within the room as the figure of a noble woman from an era long since in ancient history. A velvet dress and corded belt, carried by firm but polished boots and a headdress. In the present era, the figure was out of place, but to the local residents? A warming sight.

“Thank you Cam,” Gwen acknowledged with a tired sigh. “I’ll take it in my office.” Once more she rose, this time padding on socked feet over to the adjacent room as the hologram flickered out of existence with but a nod as the flag officer sat down with an exhausted breath. Identifying herself through several gestures over the screen, Gwen opened the channel. Time to put on the face everyone expected of her, even if she was on the brink of passing out. She was only fortunate it came naturally, being a genuine part of her personality.

She squinted for a moment, shifting her glasses before returning focus to the screen as the image of a Starfleet officer filtred over the display. “Good morning, commander. This is Gwen from the Camelot.”

'This seems off to a better start already.’  “Ikara, Gwen of the Camelot, and good morning to you as well,” Victrix greeted the woman with a traditionally Risan hello. There was a sincerity and purity about this woman, opposite her that radiated and pulsed in a way that a Vulcan never could. Victrix smiled warmly. 'I may have a better chance here with her,’ she thought as she allowed herself to get a baseline reading or ‘feeling’ of the woman’s present state. It was difficult and inaccurate to do via screen, but Victrix compensated with studying the woman’s posture and facial expressions as best she could. 

Victrix sipped from a mug of coffee, a little heavier that her usual. It kicked a bit of a punch to help wake her up a bit from the long night she had. “I apologize for having to come to you with my problems. I assure you, Gwen, that I tried to pursue a more direct means of handling this matter, but the admiral was rather prickly about it and did not leave me much room for negotiations,” explained Victrix referring to Prisai. “I do not know if you’ve ever made Admiral Prisai’s acquaintance, but she’s everything you’d expect from a Vulcan and then some. It was the then some that threw me off. She had brought up some conspiracy theories towards the individual I’m calling you about,” began Victrix. 

She knew Camelot had to be huge. Gwen probably had so many individuals aboard, the manifest was genuinely labyrinthine, that Victrix immediately named him. “His name is Rhydian il’Vastam, and I very much need him assigned to my starship for an important mission. Admiral Prisai, however, was not about to let him go,” Victrix said with a bit of a sigh. “Apparently, he has a bit of a incident history and somewhere along the line these ‘suspicions’ were conjured against him,” added Victrix. 

Exhausted as she might have been, the commodore nonetheless continued to project a warm smile as she listened to the request being made of her. Gwen’s morning had been eventful; not that days aboard the Camelot were dull -- not a day went by without a new challenge; if there wasn’t one, she made a new goal. The past eight hours had cruel, however, despite her hopes it had been a past long behind her. The woman curled her thumb with her forefinger, resting it underneath her chin as she rubbed it for several moments before responding. “Well, that would explain the call earlier. You’re the commander Prisai was on my case about this morning. Took me the better part of an hour to get her ultimatum reversed.”

Victrix shifted in her seat 'Damn it. Knew I should have pushed this call for earlier, the Vulcan bird always gets the worm,’ thought the Risan woman. She should have anticipated a calculated move by a Vulcan, to cut her off at the pass or at least make a harrowing attempt at doing so in the wee hours of the morning. 

Gwen drummed her fingers across the desk, thinking as she yawned for a moment. Padding over to the replicator she called for a mug of hot chai tea, retrieving it as she walked back to the her seat. “One problem fixed another arises though. Game of the universe, is it not, commander...?” Leaving the statement hanging, the woman held the question aloft as she inquired for the other’s name. “And don’t worry about that ancient Vulcan. This is hardly the first attempt either she, or her mentor made. I doubt we’ll be hearing from them anytime soon. Not after I sicced the JAG on her for documented discrimination. With unfounded accusations, proven illegitimate no less.”

Victrix took a sip of her coffee. 'Where was this woman, every time I needed someone like her in my corner?’ thought the Risan. She liked this woman. She had something that Prisai did not. Aside from a personality that is. Gwen had pizzazz and gumption. Commander Victrix became intrigued, and wanted to hear more of what Gwen had to say on the matter. It was sounding like the cards may have been in her favor. 

Sipping from her cup, Gwen placed it down in front of her, nodding as Victrix went on about her reason for calling. “Rhy? I know him. Or rather, I’d hope I would know my son.” Drumming her fingers once more, the woman beamed. “Well...you seem to have done your homework. I’ll give you that. I’m uncertain I’m the one you need to convince though.”

A somewhat defeated look formed on the commander’s face. She winced internally feeling like a balloon getting punctured by the prick of a pin. 'All this for a shut down,’ she pondered.

Gwen chuckled, waving off what she immediately assumed might draw worry. “Relax. I’m not going to give you any trouble. That said, ask him. Convince him and I’ll help get the paperwork in order.” Drawing herself closer to the display, the woman drew the cup to her lips once more as she took a sip.

“Piece of advice -- ask in person. Braidans are a very sensitive species. Their customs are...delicate. May not want to use his given name. It’s considered a bit invasive unless you’re invited. We can talk more when you get here.” Gwen paused silently laughing.  “What? Thought I would give you more trouble? I recognise a woman on a mission when I see one.”

“If I may speak freely woman to woman...that Prisai is a bitch,” replied Victrix, “and I do very much appreciate your help to recognise a woman’s desperation regarding this mission. I’m not all that familiar with Braidans, although I have looked over his personnel file thoroughly. When you say their customs are delicate...how delicate are we speaking? What’s the best way to address him?” inquired Commander Victrix. 

Warmed by the mug of chai still pulled to her lips, the commodore only formed a brief smile. “I’ve heard the woman called worse. She started with good intentions. Like her mentor and predecessor, though, she seems to have lost her way with age. I’m hoping they’ll put a fresh, preferably non-Vulcan mind in her post next. That’s up for the C-in-C and JAG to decide, though.” Her face drew neutral for a moment, taking a sip before placing the mug down on her desk.

Gwen entertained the request, visibly pondering for a few moments before deciding on the prudent choice of words. “Well...you wouldn’t be the first. Or the last. They’re a reclusive species. The few times they’ve reached out to the Federation they’ve been soundly ignored.” A glum expression painted over her as she recollected a fragment of history that may have been available, although given the period there were a swarm of other issues, which often drowned out the attention to smaller details.

“Back in the war, the Braidans rescued a Vulcan colony under siege. It was the first time we had any proper contact with them. They paid for it with the loss of several border outposts in the far galactic south. After the Federation refused to offer any aid, the Dominion quickly pillaged the area and as far as we know the Braidans retreated back to their home territory. Most haven’t been seen since, unless you count frontier descendants. Hybrids at best; we haven’t seen a pure one since...well...I suspect that’s why you’re calling.”

The woman sighed, tapping her chin not wanting to draw the call into a history lecture. “Point being, there’s a great deal we don’t know. A grain of sand amongst an infinite beach, just upon the precipice of an fathomless ocean.” She drummed her fingers, “We have little, save for a few documents in the Federation archives, dating back to before its unification. Alternatively, I can tell you about him.”

Victrix had listened to every word that Gwen had said. Though it was all fascinating, outdated information that predated the United Federation of Planets was probably not going to do her much good. Hell, the star charts from back then were amateurish, at best, compared to the sophisticated and accurate charting that had been done in the past several decades. “Respectfully, I am more interested in him rather than his species. It is not his species I am hoping to take on as crew of my starship” commented Victrix. “So, what can you tell me about the man?” inquired the Risan woman. She was invested in trying to understand how to approach him. 

Little more than a brief smile met the younger counterpart as the retired flag officer relaxed into her chair. “To be fair, you asked about their customs. That said...what I told you is relevant. He’s reserved. Exceptionally private, arguably moreso than a Cardassian or Romulan. Just withholding the dagger; he doesn’t believe in unnecessary violence.” Rotating her neck slightly to get out lingering kinks of soreness, Gwen sighed. “My best advice? Respect his personal space. If he doesn’t offer personal information -- don’t press. If it becomes pertinent he’ll share it, if he views it necessary. Names and spirituality hold power in his people’s beliefs; he’s no different there. For that reason, I wouldn’t advise an outsider to use anything, other than their house name when addressing them. Rank, if needbe.”

Delicate as the matter was, they didn’t have the time to engage in a doctoral study over the explorer. Nor was there much on his record, outside of his academics or medical history, all of which fell under the Hippocratic Oath. Placed between the unfortunate circumstance of holding personal knowledge and a semi-professional call, Gwen knew she had to strike a balance.

“Prisai no doubt made you aware of his ‘troubled’ history -- I’m uncertain if it matters to you, but some insight that I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. Most people mistake his kind for Romulans, or worse...Borg. And I suspect you’re well aware of society’s present day attitude, often treatment towards them. It’s anything but gentle, or kind. Don’t take it personally if he keeps his distance, both literally and figuratively.”

Commander Victrix nodded “Yes, I understand the general Federation public is not very fond of the Romulans,” she replied. It was a sad but very real truth. The feeling seemed to go both ways. “I’ve even found myself in a room with a Romulan who would try her best to be as stoic and void of emotion as she could be to try and pass as a Vulcan, not that they have it any better. To have pointed ears right now is an instant sentence for prejudices,” added Victrix. “We do not even need to mention the Borg. I think the synthetics who caused the destruction of the fleetyards and took the lives of those on Mars have made anyone with an cybernetic augmentation feel unwelcomed.”

Opposite the commander a grimace reluctantly formed, Gwen sighing as she rested her face in her palm for a brief moment as Victrix reflected on the Federation. The state of prejudice and distrust amongst all peoples, especially the discrimination which unhealthily reigned in many people’s minds. “They’re isolationist for a reason, I suspect -- his people,” she admitted. “Although I do know what often triggers the ‘Borg’ expectations is something unfortunately very necessary. Your medical officer will love or hate him. I hope they’re up to a unique challenge.”

Pulling over a PADD, the flag officer wrote out a string of notes to be delivered when the woman-with-a-mission arrived. “I’ll just leave it at, to live he has some very specific requirements, few of which can be replicated because of their complicated atomic living structure.” Gently tossing the device to the side of her desk, she returned her attention to the screen once more.

Victrix mulled over the information. “So, you are saying that he will be distant emotionally and physically,” commented the Risan woman. “Which means my first greeting should not be a hug,” she said almost teasingly. She was not personally known to just hug a stranger, but her species were customarily not so great with respect for personal space. “You implied that you were his mother? I imagine that not in the biological sense of the word,” added Victrix.

The Risan’s suggestion of a hug, non-serious as it might have been from what she could read through expression was, while amusing something she took note on. “Probably not the best idea, no,” Gwen offered amidst a strangulated chuckle, a weakened attempt to hold it back. “Adoptive. I found him, emaciated and quite possibly on the brink of death, in the Orion slave market. He was probably somewhere between the ages of five and six, at the time.” Her grimace returned, as the woman reflected on the story. “If a record of what happened to his parents exists, I still haven’t found it.”

“I did my best to bring him south; took me nearly a six months to run across a Braidan scout probe, which I barely convinced to open a channel to their world. His living family wanted nothing to do with him, until he completes his pilgrimage, so...as any woman with a family conscience might do, I took him in. I wasn’t about to leave him in a hostile situation. Nor an unethical one. Not an easy life.” Open as she was about the incident, the strain in the older woman’s voice became clear she wasn’t comfortable talking about it. Nor was it a pleasant memory, likely for any involved. “Let’s just say I can sympathise with people who have been forgotten and left behind.”

DeVala nodded as she listened and took in the information. It was a lot to take in and honestly she had to fight back the emotional response of her tear ducts watering up. “That’s terrible,” she admitted immediately after Gwen finished speaking. “There is a plus-side of the synth attack on Mars, and everything that had been going on in recent years. The Federation and Starfleet probably did not put up much resistance from you liberating a young Braidan boy from the Orion slave trade” commented Victrix though she imagined Gwen’s status and rank at the time probably carried significant clout if she threw her rank around. 

Victrix tried to focus on the positives and not dwell on the young man’s past. It was no wonder he had the problems that he did, especially being around the Federation in a time like this. Ex-Borgs were shoved aside, anyone synthetic had practically been forced out of Starfleet service, and Romulans were treated far worse than ‘second-class citizens’ even on worlds as prosperous as earth. “He’s not going to trust anyone uniformed or not,” remarked Victrix. It was less of a question and more of a deductive reasoning assertion. “I am starting to understand your advice of caution, ma’am. I have to be gentle broaching this with him, yet sincere. Any hint of insincerity even in the slightest and it will cause his suspicions to heighten and he won’t likely come willingly....” mused the Risan. 

A gentle palm was held aloft once the commander returned to her formalities, the senior of the two woman sighing as both of them reflected on the delicate situation. “Most likely not. He only trusts his squad because he grew up around them, here on the Camelot. Diverse, if not motley crew. But the Camelot isn’t your ordinary ship -- nearly most, if not all of us act as a family more than a crew.” Drumming her fingers, as she often had made a habit of doing when pondering the elder woman considered the information at hand.

“He may be part of the exploratory corps, but anyone wearing a full uniform outside of this ship? He’ll likely be skittish, if not outright distrustful. Distant. Especially Vulcans -- the two species have bad blood. I’ll let you guess who the aggressors usually are. I’ll give you a hint; it isn’t the Braidans.”

Victrix acted surprised, although she clearly wasn’t. Vulcans may not have been known to be violent aggressors, but they were most definitely passive aggressors. They had their beliefs and sometimes that was enough to come across as hostile. 

Looking over the commander, Gwen paused before drawing up the master schematics of her ship. “The Morgana is currently out on assignment. If you can get here in a week, maybe two -- you can dock in her slot, on the ventral ring. I don’t know if you plan on bringing anyone else with you, but your crew are welcome for as long as they need.” Dismissing the master display, she returned her attention wholly to the call. “If you can convince him, I’ll draw up a schedule for supply shipments. There aren’t any friendly starbases in the region.”

“I won’t be with this starship for too long” replied Victrix. “At least I hope that I am not. This is a single mission assignment for me, once we complete it I will leave the starship in the hands of a more capable and qualified commander; However, this starship is small and I am optimistic that your son will come to find it a home if he so wishes. A week...maybe two? I suspect we can make that deadline. I’ll be coming with as much of a crew compliment as I can get right now. When fully crewed the starship has only about a hundred souls aboard.” 

Considering the information passed along, Gwen made several personal notations on her own log as she drew from the mug placed between her palms. “Works for me,” the woman acknowledged. “What’s mine is yours, within reason. I’ll draw up the paperwork, assuming you manage to convince him.” Looking at her calendar the woman created a tentative reminder for the docking reservation before proceeding any further. “You might like to try one of the agencies, or auxiliary corps if Starfleet is being stingy with resources. In either case, we’ll look forward to your arrival.”

Lieutenant Commander Victrix nodded. She liked this woman. She could get used to dealing with this woman and happily so. “I may not be a Commodore, but I know how to get what I want and what I need out of Starfleet even when they are being stingy,” replied Victrix. “There are a few admirals out there who owe me for catching errors in their paperwork,” added DeVala. “I will, however, take you up on that offer, if necessary. We have a trail of breadcrumbs to follow which I am hoping your son will be able to assist us with. Nevertheless, see you soon.”