Aftershocks is a series of short stories examining the aftermath of the Starship Reykjavík story Domum Soli, and contains spoilers for that story.
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Aftershocks #1 - The Funeral
‘We are assembled here today to pay final respects to our honored dead.’
Sadly, she had spoken the words many times before. They had been uttered beside a single casket accompanied by a handful of mourners, and while standing in front of dozens of caskets before a crowd of hundreds.
Commodore Nandi Trujillo had traveled twenty-three light years over four weeks to speak at this funeral, in a small cemetery outside the town of Tell Arn in northern Syria.
It was a cold day, an appropriately somber atmosphere for such a ceremony. Altostratus clouds blanketed the skies to the horizon, and a chill wind gusted incessantly, swaying the branches of the Aleppo pine and poplars surrounding the graveyard.
A small crowd had gathered, mostly family she surmised, though a few Starfleet personnel could be glimpsed among them.
Trujillo had worn a long, uniform overcoat to the service, shedding it and leaving it in her husband’s custody before she’d moved to stand beside the grave that would soon hold the remains of the vibrant young man taken too soon from family, friends, and comrades.
She wore her dress uniform, an ensemble not terribly dissimilar to the regular maroon Class-A Starfleet uniform tunic and black pants combination. She had her ‘fruit salad’ of medals, commendations and service ribbons affixed just below her communicator badge. Around her neck was a blue and white ribbon in the colors of the Federation flag, from which dangled the Starfleet Medal of Honor that Trujillo had earned at Eligos over a decade earlier when her first command had been shot out from under her.
She withdrew a small tablet from a pocket, reviewing her notes as she reflected on the intelligent, driven young ensign she had brought aboard Reykjavík. Farouk Naifeh had graduated in the top twenty percent of his academy class, and his skills as a pilot had made him eligible for a host of much sought-after assignments, to include helming pursuit squadron cutters, Special Forces transport and insertion duties, or single-seat interceptor piloting.
Naifeh had jumped at the prospect of an assignment to a Shangri-La-class tactical cruiser, a remarkably maneuverable ship for one its size, with an enviable sub-light acceleration rate thanks to the cruiser’s powerful impulse drives. He had fallen in love with the ship, admitting it unashamedly to all who would listen, and his steady hands had guided the Reyky and her crew through all manner of emergencies.
He would not be limited to those duties, however. A quick study, Naifeh took several training courses on off-duty hours in a variety of fields to broaden his skill set, while still serving ably at his primary post. He had ambition, yes, but they were healthy, realistic aspirations for advancement. Trujillo had come close to promoting Naifeh into the Operations position when Arwen DeSilva had been killed in the line of duty. Naifeh had been duly promoted to lieutenant, junior grade, and was on the cusp of earning his departmental leadership qualifications that would have made him eligible to transfer to another service department as its senior officer
Trujillo shifted her gaze slightly to inspect the younger woman who had accompanied her on this pilgrimage, Lieutenant Junior Grade Rachel Garrett. She, like Trujillo, was clad in her dress uniform, her face set in a stony mask of impassivity.
Garrett was struggling to maintain her composure, Trujillo knew, as the younger woman was not one given to obvious displays of emotion. Garrett and Naifeh had been lovers, a tumultuous, fraught relationship between young officers who exercised maturity and good judgement in all aspects of their professional lives to the exclusion of their personal ones.
Trujillo knew that Garrett was coming to realize that loss was an integral part of Starfleet service. Not just the deaths of friends, lovers and shipmates in the line of duty, but the smaller losses that accompanied such an itinerant lifestyle. Personnel constantly left family, lovers, friends and former shipmates behind as one moved on to different assignments throughout the fleet.
Trujillo desperately hoped that this event, tragic as it was, would not derail Garrett’s promising career.
And perhaps that was the greatest testament to Farouk Naifeh’s life, the impact he’d had on others and the absence felt in the wake of his passing. This service was not for Naifeh, after all, but as solace for those left behind.
The arrival of the Starfleet honor-guard squad tore Trujillo from her reverie. They moved into position as the pallbearers hoisted Farouk’s flag-draped coffin and carried it towards the grave. They set it down atop the anti-grav platform that would lower it into the grave at the end of the service.
The honor guard hoisted their flags, one for the United Federation of Planets, one for United Earth, and a third, the post-WWIII Syrian flag. Alongside these, waving in the same blustering wind, was the yellow, triangular guidon of Reykjavík, testament to the ship and crew for which Farouk Naifeh had given his last full measure.
Family, friends and shipmates huddled closer together as the imam began to read from scripture. Though Naifeh and his family weren’t religiously observant, it was tradition here in these ancient lands.
After a few moments, it was her turn. She cleared her throat and raised her face to the crowd.
“We are assembled here today to pay final respects to our honored dead…”
* * *
* * *
Aftershocks #1 - The Funeral
‘We are assembled here today to pay final respects to our honored dead.’
Sadly, she had spoken the words many times before. They had been uttered beside a single casket accompanied by a handful of mourners, and while standing in front of dozens of caskets before a crowd of hundreds.
Commodore Nandi Trujillo had traveled twenty-three light years over four weeks to speak at this funeral, in a small cemetery outside the town of Tell Arn in northern Syria.
It was a cold day, an appropriately somber atmosphere for such a ceremony. Altostratus clouds blanketed the skies to the horizon, and a chill wind gusted incessantly, swaying the branches of the Aleppo pine and poplars surrounding the graveyard.
A small crowd had gathered, mostly family she surmised, though a few Starfleet personnel could be glimpsed among them.
Trujillo had worn a long, uniform overcoat to the service, shedding it and leaving it in her husband’s custody before she’d moved to stand beside the grave that would soon hold the remains of the vibrant young man taken too soon from family, friends, and comrades.
She wore her dress uniform, an ensemble not terribly dissimilar to the regular maroon Class-A Starfleet uniform tunic and black pants combination. She had her ‘fruit salad’ of medals, commendations and service ribbons affixed just below her communicator badge. Around her neck was a blue and white ribbon in the colors of the Federation flag, from which dangled the Starfleet Medal of Honor that Trujillo had earned at Eligos over a decade earlier when her first command had been shot out from under her.
She withdrew a small tablet from a pocket, reviewing her notes as she reflected on the intelligent, driven young ensign she had brought aboard Reykjavík. Farouk Naifeh had graduated in the top twenty percent of his academy class, and his skills as a pilot had made him eligible for a host of much sought-after assignments, to include helming pursuit squadron cutters, Special Forces transport and insertion duties, or single-seat interceptor piloting.
Naifeh had jumped at the prospect of an assignment to a Shangri-La-class tactical cruiser, a remarkably maneuverable ship for one its size, with an enviable sub-light acceleration rate thanks to the cruiser’s powerful impulse drives. He had fallen in love with the ship, admitting it unashamedly to all who would listen, and his steady hands had guided the Reyky and her crew through all manner of emergencies.
He would not be limited to those duties, however. A quick study, Naifeh took several training courses on off-duty hours in a variety of fields to broaden his skill set, while still serving ably at his primary post. He had ambition, yes, but they were healthy, realistic aspirations for advancement. Trujillo had come close to promoting Naifeh into the Operations position when Arwen DeSilva had been killed in the line of duty. Naifeh had been duly promoted to lieutenant, junior grade, and was on the cusp of earning his departmental leadership qualifications that would have made him eligible to transfer to another service department as its senior officer
Trujillo shifted her gaze slightly to inspect the younger woman who had accompanied her on this pilgrimage, Lieutenant Junior Grade Rachel Garrett. She, like Trujillo, was clad in her dress uniform, her face set in a stony mask of impassivity.
Garrett was struggling to maintain her composure, Trujillo knew, as the younger woman was not one given to obvious displays of emotion. Garrett and Naifeh had been lovers, a tumultuous, fraught relationship between young officers who exercised maturity and good judgement in all aspects of their professional lives to the exclusion of their personal ones.
Trujillo knew that Garrett was coming to realize that loss was an integral part of Starfleet service. Not just the deaths of friends, lovers and shipmates in the line of duty, but the smaller losses that accompanied such an itinerant lifestyle. Personnel constantly left family, lovers, friends and former shipmates behind as one moved on to different assignments throughout the fleet.
Trujillo desperately hoped that this event, tragic as it was, would not derail Garrett’s promising career.
And perhaps that was the greatest testament to Farouk Naifeh’s life, the impact he’d had on others and the absence felt in the wake of his passing. This service was not for Naifeh, after all, but as solace for those left behind.
The arrival of the Starfleet honor-guard squad tore Trujillo from her reverie. They moved into position as the pallbearers hoisted Farouk’s flag-draped coffin and carried it towards the grave. They set it down atop the anti-grav platform that would lower it into the grave at the end of the service.
The honor guard hoisted their flags, one for the United Federation of Planets, one for United Earth, and a third, the post-WWIII Syrian flag. Alongside these, waving in the same blustering wind, was the yellow, triangular guidon of Reykjavík, testament to the ship and crew for which Farouk Naifeh had given his last full measure.
Family, friends and shipmates huddled closer together as the imam began to read from scripture. Though Naifeh and his family weren’t religiously observant, it was tradition here in these ancient lands.
After a few moments, it was her turn. She cleared her throat and raised her face to the crowd.
“We are assembled here today to pay final respects to our honored dead…”
* * *
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