Rovak's Reprieve

Posted on Fri Feb 21st, 2025 @ 3:40pm by Captain Rovak & Doc & Llaudh Drusilla Creon
Edited on on Fri Feb 21st, 2025 @ 3:44pm

3,490 words; about a 17 minute read

Mission: Histories
Location: The Forge, Vulcan
Timeline: 2399

The sands of Vulcan sing through the night, Rovak would insist to anyone who had stumbled across him.

He had not eaten in days, he had not tasted water for at least a week. This was his penance, this was his cause. The sands would purify him.

Had he been so wrong? Could anyone be so wrong? Had there been a single instance in the history of Starfleet or the Vulcan Administration where an individual had raised accusations and brought a case, only to be so thoroughly, incomprehensibly refuted?

These thoughts were distractions, he told himself. Kolinahr is a pure and logical state, reflection is required only for analysis. These situations had been analysed. He was mistaken, he had already concluded this every day since he had wandered into the desert. He was wrong to cast the aspersions that he had. But there was such certainty. So many who agreed, only to change their minds on the stand. No.

He dwelled again in the past. He opened his eyes, and looked to the purple horizon. He sat bare before the open sky. From the position of the sun, it was the middle of the day. He had assumed with certainty as he meditated that it was at least near evening. As his distractions grew, so did his lack of accuracy. He chastised himself internally and brought his mind back to focus, closing his eyes.

He felt mad. He had felt mad every day since he had resigned his commission in disgrace. Could a mind be correct, that recollected as his did? So many voices had shared his discontent, his concern, his accusations. Yet when the time came, each called him a liar, each told of threats he had made, falsehoods he had told. Had he so misunderstood them? Had he been mad all along?

He remembered then, even as he tried to banish the thoughts, of the testimonies in his defence, made all the more unlikely by the obviousness of his failure. Ambassador Velt. Admiral Reardon. Professor Sutulhar.

Evidence was evidence, and even the most impassioned plea cannot overturn reasonable doubt, or probable cause.

He felt then, something he would not name, but that the emotionally inclined might term despair.

Nearly a century of service to Starfleet, lost in a vortex of insanity and confusion. Who was this woman, in the worst of possibilities, that Rovak had set to defame and destroy her so?

She was director of Starfleet Security, a position he may have fancied without serious consideration, as one fancies a trophy when they first behold it. She was half-Vulcan, half-Romulan. They said he held desire for her, and that her rejection had made him so. Was it possible this had happened, and he did not recall? He had felt no desire for any woman but his wife, lost to interphase, since she had first hit him with a snowball.

No. He had discussed her with Ambassador Velt. He who asked every detail of every woman he encountered, when they had time to get together. He had verified his story, as it was told. Velt, who he had once needed to extricate from one of his own junior officers in flagrante delicto. Velt testified that if he was wrong, then someone else was responsible. He had even heard that Ambassador Velt made time with the President to discuss the case. He was the only point in reality keeping him sane, beyond his children and his wavering faith in his own true logic.

He opened his eyes, and stared directly into he sun. He felt his nictating membranes react and respond, shielding his retinas and anything else sensitive within his eye from the worst damage. It was an undesirable experience, to stare into the midday sun. Rovak tried to purge the inconsistencies with it, but after a moment, looked away. His eyes wept instinctively. How long had it been? Every day his path of thoughts remained the same. Like stones he walked across to a common goal. He could not accept that he was wrong. He would not. It brought to mind, every time he had quarreled with each of his wives, or any he had called a friend. Certainty that had later been replaced by doubt, or even certainty of an opposite perspective than originally envisioned.

In his exile, he had considered almost every moment of significant response in his adult life, and could not find a plausible outcome in his estimation where he had done what logic and the judges of his court martial had said he had done. He could not accept guilt. Either he was mad, or Oh was the greatest traitor to Starfleet since Colonel West and Admiral Cartwright.

He felt the winds kick up suddenly, and by instinct grabbed instantly at the Poncho he left folded to his side, unfurling it with a flick and throwing it over himself. He pulled the hood across and lowered his head, a sandstorm was nothing he could not endure, properly dressed. He returned to the inner recesses of his mind.

Had it been three months, four?

Was it no longer the 24th century?

He could not say. In less time than he had expected, the winds had died. Rovak leaned back, throwing off the sand, throwing back his hood. He knew then that the winds were the usual response to transporter activity, causing sudden massive localised pressure differentials.

A woman stood there. A woman he did not believe he would see again. He stood, and considered reaching for the antique phaser he kept tied to the inside waistband of his poncho. Instead, he offered her a Vulcan salute, and considered how her Starfleet uniform differed from the last variety he had seen.

---

“You look uncomfortable, Mister Rovak.” Captain Drusilla Creon said to the scruffy Vulcan on the other side of her desk. “Perhaps you should say what’s on your mind.”

“In addition to not understanding why I am here, I need a haircut, Captain.” He was not up to any Starfleet codes in his current condition. He looked as one would expect of a man who until an hour ago had been living in a desert for the last six months with nothing but a pair of pants, a poncho and a 70’s style hand-phaser.

“I feel like there’s more to it than that.” The Captain angled her head in a way that she hoped would reach some fundamental part of him that was not actively repressing all feeling. “The last time we met was under very different circumstances. You were a Starfleet Officer and I was a criminal under arrest. The law said I was to be arrested and processed by the nearest Romulan embassy. You made sure it was the Federation who took custody of me, ensuring I enjoyed their protections.”

“You had saved my son from harm. I was then, and remain now in your debt.”

“Are we going to pretend that’s all it is, or are you going to be honest?” Creon insisted.

“All I can say to be honest is that I do not understand what is happening. I did not wish to be disturbed.”

“I ask because now I am to be your Captain, should you choose to accept your new assignment.”

“You are offering me a commission?” Rovak asked after a moment of silent contemplation.

“Starfleet is offering. I’ll be taking you with me if you accept. I’m new to the chair, I need an XO.”

“And this a genuine offer, made in good faith?”

The Captain nodded, her face as serious as it could become.

“Then I look forward to resuming my duties and carrying out your commands, Captain.”

“Mister Rovak, I order you to be completely honest with me at all times. No tact. No reservation. No consideration. As my first officer I want to know your every thought, as it strikes you.”

Rovak seemed to refocus on her, narrowing his eyes momentarily as he ordered his words. “You are, to the best of my awareness, a spy and an assassin. You had killed four people on that freighter and as far as I am aware you intended to kill the rest, my son included. If not for our interdiction, you may very well have succeeded.”

“The bounty, Mister Rovak, was only for the Bolian, the human they found in the mooring equipment, the Trill and the Betazoid. I regret that I am responsible for their deaths, but they were hardly innocents.”

“Assassination is a capital violation of Federation law, that Starfleet can turn a blind eye to such behaviours speaks volumes about the precarious tactical situation the Federation found itself in after the Hobus cataclysm.”

“Lethal force is permitted to Federation bounty hunters. I was licensed and in pursuit of legally registered bounties.”

“A license assumed under false pretences, whilst impersonating a deceased Federation citizen.”

“Have you ever done anything you regret, Mister Rovak?” The Captain asked, the barest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Because I can assure you, when one finds oneself inexplicably pregnant and alone shortly after a cataclysm annihilates everything one has ever known, one begins to consider decisions more seriously that may one day lead to regrets.”

“To put it simply, Captain, I foresee difficulties in serving under someone I do not trust. And as you are a Romulan, a murderer, as well as next of kin and a one-time agent of one of the most cruel and callous spymasters ever to be produced by the Star Empire, I do not trust you.”

“How many lives have you taken in your service, Commander?”

“More than I would care to count. But none were taken when an alternative was possible.”

“I realise your mind is made up, but it behoves me to remind you that Starfleet does trust me. I voluntarily undertook a level five telepathic probe before joining, the intelligence I offered upon defection was of sufficient quality for them to offer me amnesty, and I have had an exemplary service record over the last twelve years that you can read unredacted if you so choose. Failing that, I am willing to engage in a mind-meld to demonstrate my sincerity.” She explained, examining him without expression as she spoke, doing her best impression of a Vulcan, hoping that might build some rapport.

“While I can see the utility of someone with your skills as an intelligence officer, the command of a starship is an entirely different matter. Starfleet’s trust in you may be augmented by their pragmatism.”

“You on the other hand, are a different matter when it comes to the trust of Starfleet.” The Captain responded with a raised eyebrow.

“I cannot help but feel this sudden reactivation of my commission is some manner of practical joke. Has Commodore Oh determined I am to receive some additional punishment for my transgression?”

“Commodore Oh has been exposed as a Romulan infiltrator. She and her associates were responsible for the android attack on Mars. She had been using her Vulcan telepathy extensively to manipulate those around her.”

Rovak looked as much as he could like a man controlling himself, but the mere fascination that the sentence he had just heard was true was enough to make even a Vulcan of his composure tremble at the chin, before his jaw slid shut and still once more.

“My accusations, then..” He said, pausing to consider the possibilities. “They were correct.”

“The full details of her treason are not yet public knowledge, given the reputational damage it would inflict. You’re to be reinstated at previous rank, with the sincere apologies and thanks of the C-in-C and all of Starfleet Command. I have also been tasked with informing you, entirely unofficially, that should you decide to rejoin the fleet, you will have your choice of command and a promotion to Captain when our mission is done.”

He was like a man who’d been starving for a century presented a meal. His emotional mastery faltered for the briefest moments in the form of a sudden exhalation through his nose and slight jerk of his head, and he returned to his usual unmoved stoicism.

“Lieutenant Rizzo?” He asked, his knuckles turning white for a moment as he tightened his grip at the thought of her.

“Tal Shiar agent. Dead.”

“Good.” He said. “Did you know?”

“No. I never had any involvement with their particular sect. I had suspicions about the Commodore’s motivations in the last few years, as had a margin of the intelligence community, but after what happened to you, none dared accuse her again.”

“What has become of the Commodore?”

“She returned to Romulan space. The situation there remains unclear. You may not have heard, but things are declining in what remains of the Star Empire. New Imperialist factions have emerged, they’re devastating the Free State at every turn.”

“That does not sound like Starfleet business.” Rovak said dryly enough for Creon to know he didn’t mean it.

“Things have changed since you’ve been gone. Many Romulan and Neutral Zone systems are seeking Federation protection if not full membership. Since Oh was excised, Starfleet command and the Federation Council have been noticeably less intransigent when it comes to aide to the Romulan Diaspora, even if relations between our governments are at an all-time low. We have been assigned to the Urva'Ntaan subsector, where the Consul is preparing to officially activate the instrument of secession.” Creon explained.

“Urva'Ntaan. I am not familiar with the region.”Rovak admitted.

“Better known this side of the border as the Romulan Aventine.”

“A densely populated and extensively mistreated outer border region. That seems a task more suited to a consular vessel with an ambassador. This is a warship.” Rovak noted.

“The law that allows the Consul to secede requires a period of 13 Romulan months of independence before entering into any new treaties. The Free state has allowed this, under the proviso that the Federation may deploy only a single combat-capable ship into the subsector during this time.”

“I assume the multi-vector functionalities of the Prometheus-class give us unique exception to that provision.”

The Captain smiled, a reassuring and genuine grin that broke through her polished Vulcan impression. “I see why command insisted on you, Mister Rovak. You don’t miss a beat.”

“Insisted?”

“I was only made Captain in the last week. The Hercules’ last commander was killed at the summit formalising the Aventine withdrawal from the Romulan yoke. Starfleet trusts me as an officer, even as an XO, but as a Captain they want to be sure someone with all the necessary experience is by my side. Someone beyond reproach.” She had clearly given up on her impression of stoicism, and now spoke to him as she would to a peer.

“Reproach has been the central theme of my last few months. It is strange to think that pall has lifted all at once. I will need time to meditate on this.” Rovak admitted.

“Just make sure you’re on the bridge at 0600.” The Captain said, raising an eyebrow. “Dismissed.”

Rovak stood from the seat and turned to the door of the Captain’s ready room.

“Oh, and Mister Rovak,” The Captain stopped him as she remembered, standing from her desk and moving to him at the doorway, “Welcome back.” She held a closed fist to him, he held a hand underneath it to catch what she held. Three rank pips fell into his palm, and he beheld them for a moment, as if to ensure they were real. He closed his hand and nodded to her.

---

Sickbay was empty, but lit. Rovak moved to get a better view of the Chief Medical Officer’s desk, nobody was there.

“The Doctor will be with you shortly.” Came the familiar voice of the computer. Rovak remembered these autonomous protocols from the Nimitz, and how they disquieted him.

“Doesn’t look like an emergency. What can I do for you?” Came a human voice to his left. Rovak felt surprised, he had not heard any footfalls or the opening of doors.

He smothered the response internally and turned to face the Doctor, finding someone he did not expect.

“Well? If you got something wrong with your voice, give me a thumbs up.” The Doctor said, gesturing to the biobed nearest Rovak.

“I am here for my onboarding physical, Doctor. My apologies, I find myself not expecting your appearance. I feel.. something I am unaccustomed to.” Rovak explained, taking a seat on the end of the bed.

“Starstruck?” The Doctor asked with polite amusement. “Don’t be. I’m standard issue on everything that’s hit starbase since November 2399. At least until the next model comes around to replace me. But I guess it’s nice to feel like a celebrity, and not just a project saved on someone’s terminal. Around here, folks just call me Doc.” The hologram said, moving to collect a tricorder.

“If it is all the same, I will use the rank approximate to your skillset, Doctor. I feel I must maintain a certain decorum if I am to serve properly as Executive Officer. To abbreviate would create unnecessary familiarity.”

“No skin off my nose. Just what it says on the label, is all. You do seem to feel an awful lot, for a Vulcan.” Doc said as he began to take readings.

“I refute the accuracy of that observation. My adherence to kolinahr is well documented, and likely demonstrable using your instruments.” Rovak said without expression.

The Doctor laughed at that. “I don’t doubt it. But if there’s one thing I know about Vulcans, it’s that they’re usually the last one to know how they’re feeling.”

“Pithy, Doctor. Your opinions on Vulcans are well known, if only for their problematic associations. I see you are a comprehensive recreation.”

“Oh, you bet your boots I am. Every log, biography or sensor reading that ever got committed to memory bank by the Admiral or people who knew him went into my matrix.” He finished his scans, and folded up the tricorder. “If I get could get you to lie down, I’m going to take you through another quick test.”

“Of course.” Rovak said, laying down on the biobed. As he did, bright light that made his bones visible in slices glowed from underneath the cushion of the biobed. It shone and swept down across Rovak towards his feet, obviously scanning him. “Is there something that concerns you?” He asked in response to the additional attention.

“Just wanting to be sure on a couple of dubious readings.” Doc explained. “Yep, that’s what I thought.” He said, tapping the panel at the head of the bed.

“Well, looks like life in the desert has done you good. Other than some mild cellular dehydration, you’re actually in better shape than you were at your last physical. Not bad for a man coming up quickly to his first century.”

“I employed the lifestyle of the early nomads that remained in the desert after Surak founded the new cities.” Rovak said, sitting up.

“Well, those nomads knew what they were doing. The ones who managed to avoid radiation poisoning, anyway. It’s a clean bill of health, near as I can see.” Doc said, folding his arms with satisfaction.

“Thank you Doctor. May I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course, I’m your doctor. I get to see your bones, only seems fair you get to ask me about mine.”

“Are you able to provide opinions that could be considered.. unprofessional? I understand it was a habit of the late Doctor you are based on.”

“You want me to call you an ice-blooded hobgoblin or some-such? I can, I just tend not to without good reason. Problematic, after all.”

“What is your opinion on the new Captain’s appointment?” Rovak asked.

The hologram looked surprised by the question and took a moment to think about it. “I’m not generally given to disparaging my fellow officers, commanding or not. But if you’d have told me in the 23rd century that we’d put a Romulan spy in command of one of Starfleet’s most powerful ships before sending it across the neutral zone, I’d tell you that you were out of your Vulcan mind. That said, our Captain was always known to be good at her job. I can’t fault her beyond the associations of her past.”

“Thank you Doctor, I will keep your opinions in confidence. Until our next meeting.” Rovak said, standing and moving to the exit.

“I can recommend a barber.” Doc called out to the XO.

“Under control, thank you Doctor.” Rovak responded.

With his patient gone, the Doctor shook his head, replaced the tricorder he’d taken, and deactivated himself silently.

 

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