The Chancellor chuckled quietly, but not so quietly that the rank-and-file council members couldn’t hear it. Fleet Admiral Krell fumed silently as the laughter spread through the chamber, very briefly dispelling the room’s usual air of martial taciturnity.
In response to Chancellor M’Rek’s none-too-subtle hand gesture, a quartet of armed guards approached Archer and T’Pol, making it obvious that the audience had concluded—and that the rejected supplicants had better leave now, while some semblance of conviviality remained in the room.
Guess I’d better leave the “vainglorious displays” to the real experts, Archer thought as he allowed the glowering troopers to usher him and his exec back out into the corridor and through the outer vestibule that led to the landing pad where they had parked Shuttlepod One.
Archer approached the small spacecraft, but before he reached the portside hatchway, a gaunt, white-haired figure stepped into his path, blocking his way.
“Captain Archer,” the man said, his sonorous voice freighted with authority.
Archer nodded toward the elderly yet vital-looking Klingon and extended his right hand. “Kolos. It’s good to see you. You look well.”
Kolos’s lips drew back, his snow-white mustachios framing an ironic, snaggletoothed grin as he grasped Archer’s arm with almost painful firmness. “You are a poor liar, my friend.”
“And an even worse advocate,” Archer said, taking a step backward after Kolos relinquished his arm. This man, an accomplished Klingon defense attorney, had saved him from a Klingon criminal court’s death sentence—and had been rewarded for his efforts with a year of doing hard labor on a prison world.
“Fleet Admiral Krell has ordered your immediate departure, Earther,” said a rough voice behind Archer, who turned in time to see an armored soldier shove T’Pol forward. Archer’s rage rose once again as he helped his exec recover her balance.
Before Archer could protest, Kolos barked something in Klingon that the universal translator apparently couldn’t render in intelligible English. The guards spent a few moments regarding one another quizzically. One of them, doubtless the most senior member of the small squad, nodded curtly at Kolos. Then all four soldiers turned on their heels and strode away.
Impressed, Archer turned back to face Kolos. “What did you say to them?”
“I told them I would see to your departure myself. And I suggested that they might find something more constructive to do than to bully a helpless woman.”
“Indeed,” T’Pol said acidly. Kolos showed no awareness of having given offense, though his smile disappeared beneath a wave of solemnity.
“Evidently bad news travels fast around here,” Archer said, taking care not to allow any of his frustration with the High Council to spill over onto Kolos.
“I was informed earlier of the High Council’s decision, Captain,” said the Klingon attorney. “It appears it was a foregone conclusion. You have my sympathies, for whatever they are worth.”
That M’rek’s decision was a fait accompli didn’t surprise Archer in the least. “I wish my people had sent you to argue Earth’s case to M’Rek,” he said. “You’d have been a lot more persuasive than I was.”
Kolos waved a large hand through the air in a gesture of dismissal. “Targ droppings, Captain. The decision of M’Rek and his supporters was already etched in granite before your world asked to petition the High Council. It was as inevitable as it is unalterable.”
“If that is true,” T’Pol said, “then why did M’Rek make the pretense of having to subject the question to a parliamentary debate?”
The Klingon chuckled quietly, the way a patient adult might before answering a question from a precocious yet naïve child. “To obscure the unpleasant fact that the Klingon Empire faces certain intractable internal problems,” he said.
“Such as?” Archer asked, genuinely curious.
Clasping his hands behind his back, Kolos began pacing slowly along the length of the shuttlepod, his tone that of a peripatetic college professor. “Like any empire that can thrive only while expanding its boundaries, the Klingon state faces many chronic difficulties. These issues must be addressed to the High Council’s satisfaction before M’Rek can see his way clear to dealing with any problem that lies beyond our present borders.”
“You seem to be saying that the Klingon Empire has entered a period of consolidation,” T’Pol said, “as opposed to one of conquest. Alternation between phases of conquest and consolidation is a common historical pattern, particularly for long-lived empires.”
Kolos raised one of his bushy white eyebrows at T’Pol; he appeared nettled but maintained an even tone when he replied. “Take care never to speak that way in the presence of the High Council. M’Rek would have you gutted for even suggesting that conquest could ever be anything other than the Empire’s highest priority.”
Archer put up a hand in an attempt to get the discussion back on topic. “All right, so M’Rek is a politician who is trying to hang on to power,” Archer said, paradoxically reassured for a moment to discover that such a quintessential human foible motivated the leadership of such a decidedly nonhuman species. “So let’s set Klingon domestic politics to one side for the moment.”
“With pleasure,” Kolos said with a scowl of distaste.
“Granted that M’Rek has his own home-grown priorities to deal with, what kind of ‘intractable internal problem’ could be a bigger potential threat to the Klingon Empire than the Romulans? The last time I checked, they were every bit as expansion oriented as you Klingons are. M’Rek has to know that the Romulan fleet will be flying right up his ass someday in the not-too-distant future.”
“Indeed,” said T’Pol. “And if M’Rek sits back and allows Earth to fall, that eventuality is certain to arrive sooner rather than later.”
Kolos nodded. “M’Rek knows all of this. But he is still contending with the aftermath of that mutant viral outbreak that afflicted the Qu’Vat colony nearly two years ago. That plague has since swept out to N’Vak and beyond, dispersing itself across the length and breadth of the Empire.”
“You speak of the modified Levodian flu virus,” T’Pol said.
“Yes,” Kolos said. “The very same pathogen that your own Doctor Phlox manipulated at the genetic level.”
“The Klingon military forced him to do that!” Archer said, his anger threatening to boil over yet again.
“With your participation, Captain,” said Kolos.
Archer felt as though he was being cross-examined by a clever attorney—which, he realized, was exactly the case. “What Phlox and I did ended up saving millions of your people from what would otherwise have been a lethal epidemic.”
“I do not dispute that, Captain. However, your remedy turned the vast majority of the afflicted Klingon populations from HemQuch to QuchHa’ even as it cured them.”
Have to get Hoshi to refine these damned translator units, Archer thought. He said, “Come again, Kolos?”
“HemQuch translates roughly to ‘proud forehead,’ Captain,” said T’Pol.
Kolos grinned as he pointed toward the highly textured topography of his own cranium, bringing to mind a male deer displaying his antlers during mating season. “QuchHa’, by contrast, means ‘unhappy ones,’” he said.
“Sounds like Krell,” Archer said. “He’s usually pretty damned unhappy.”
Kolos nodded. “And he, along with countless others who received this so-called cure, now believe death would have been far preferable.”
Archer was incredulous. “Why?”
“Don’t you see, Archer? They now bear a stronger resemblance to your species than they do to any Klingon who ever lived.”
“Klingons are pretty tough people,” Archer said. “They’ll get over it.”
“Eventually,” said Kolos. “But in the meantime, the social upheaval associated with this…change is enough to preoccupy any chancellor. It will no doubt prove troublesome to the High Council for generations to come. Which
is why the council can furnish you with no help against the RomuluSngan.”
Archer stepped toward the shuttlepod and placed his hand against the external control pad. The portside hatch beside him hissed open in response, and T’Pol quietly entered the craft.
“Great,” Archer said, still half facing Kolos as he stepped up onto the hatchway’s threshold. “Earth gets invaded and burned, all because Phlox and I made the mistake of doing a good deed for the Klingons. Thanks for everything, Kolos. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get back to Enterprise and deliver the bad news.”
Before Archer could pass over the threshold, Kolos reached forward and placed a restraining hand on the captain’s shoulder. “I believe you misunderstand what has happened today.”
Archer released a mirthless laugh. “What have I missed? M’Rek has just signed Earth’s death warrant. And you’ve been kind enough to drop in a little bit early to pay us your last respects.”
“My coming here has nothing whatsoever to do with kindness, Captain. In fact, I am here at M’Rek’s behest.”
“To warn us not to expect any Klingon help against the Romulans,” Archer said, no longer trying to hold back a bilious wave of sarcasm. “I think M’Rek might have said a little something along those lines already. I get it.”
Despite the intensity of his gaze, Kolos’s voice was quiet, as though he wanted only Archer to hear it. “No, Captain. I came here to tell you not to expect any official Klingon help.”
Releasing his grip on Archer’s shoulder, the Klingon advocate abruptly turned and strode back toward the High Council Chamber.
Emotionally exhausted, Archer let T’Pol take the cock-pit’s left chair, contenting himself with the simpler duties that fell upon the occupant of the copilot’s seat. After running through the prelaunch checklist and initiating the shuttlepod’s liftoff, Archer and T’Pol passed the brief return flight to Enterprise in silence.
Despite Kolos’s sub rosa revelation, Archer still felt he was returning from Qo’noS utterly empty-handed. He wondered how things could have gone so badly awry so quickly.
And if the die had already been cast nearly a year ago, after his failure to prevent the destruction of the Earth Cargo Service fuel carrier Kobayashi Maru.
TWO
Monday, August 16, 2156
Late in the Month of et’Khior, YS 8765
Outer ShiKahr, Vulcan
CHARLES ANTHONY “Trip” Tucker III was dreaming, and he knew it.
He was aware of his present dream state because of what he saw as his dream self stepped through the doorway of T’Pol’s house—a dwelling he now shared with his espionage-cum-business partners Tevik, Ych’a, and Ych’a’s husband, Denak. Though Trip’s body told him to a certainty that the actual time could be no later than perhaps an hour past midnight, he looked out across the courtyard into the waxing ruddy light of another late-summer morning on Vulcan’s northern hemisphere. Though the dream sky was still transitioning from dawn’s deep vermilion toward the salmon tones of morning and the fiery reds and oranges of midday, he could see clearly enough into the backyard garden he’d been tending faithfully ever since T’Pol’s departure. Despite the omnipresent crescent-shaped shadow of Vulcan’s co-orbiting neighbor world T’Khut, the brilliance of the still rising yellow-orange dwarf star 40 Eridani A—Nevasa, as the locals called it—put his labors, such as they were, on brilliant display. The rows of hla-meth herbs were mere stubble extruded from the ruddy ground, overshadowed by the ranks of heavy, swollen rillan gourds that looked nearly ready to pick. The favinit and plomeek plants beyond were as bereft of flowers as the alem-vedik desert salt weeds that bordered them, and the i’su’ke and g’teth berry bushes were likewise bare. Only the towering gespar fruit trees, the nar’ru vines that climbed them, and the ic’tan conifers clustered in the middle of the courtyard had escaped the austerity of the incoming season.
When T’Pol gets back here, I wonder if she’ll notice what I’ve done with the place, he thought as he strode through the courtyard. He was almost one hundred percent certain he’d have to point it out to her before she would think to offer him one of her customary curt thank-yous. Of course, he also had to concede the possibility that the real garden might not live up to the image created by its dream counterpart.
Dream or not, it felt good to be outside. Trip inhaled slowly, drawing the dry desert air deeply into his lungs. He was thankful that mornings here were never nippy. It was already comfortably warm out, T-shirt weather, in fact. Of course, by midday this place would become a veritable oven. Romulus had been a far easier world to get used to. He walked on, trying not to dwell on that unpleasant fact any more than necessary. There, in the morning shadows…T’Pol.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
Trip heard a steady pounding, distant yet urgent. The garden vanished at once into a miasma of darkness. Trip closed his eyes as a sensation of vertigo momentarily overcame him. His equilibrium fled as he opened his eyes again, allowing the night to come flooding back.
Slowly shrugging off the amnesia that sometimes accompanies interrupted sleep, he realized he was lying on the bed in the main sleeping quarters—the room he had shared with T’Pol before she had returned to Enterprise.
THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.
The pounding was closer this time, more insistent. Now he could hear a deep, authoritative voice demanding immediate entry in clear, ShiKahr-accented Vulcan.
The front door, Trip thought as he threw back the blankets and stepped onto the chill stone floor. Not stopping to find his phase pistol, he raced barefoot through the main living area and toward the front-door vestibule.
He got there just in time to see the door fall swiftly inward, as though propelled by a great force.
“Lights!” Trip shouted to the household computer, which obediently brought the house’s internal illumination up to evening levels. Though the abrupt change in the lighting momentarily dazzled Trip, he saw several large humanoid shapes race across the threshold and into the house.
Before he could react, someone—or perhaps several someones—had gotten behind him and pinned his arms behind him, placing them in an unbreakable viselike hold.
“What the hell?” Trip shouted at the half dozen or so individuals who had just invaded the house. The rough hands released him and he fell painfully to his knees on the stone floor as he realized that his wrists had been bound behind him.
Vulcan Security, Trip thought, his heart sinking. Cops. Had Administrator T’Pau or Minister Kuvak somehow sussed out the fact that he was a disguised human spy rather than the Vulcan businessman he appeared to be? Or maybe Silok, the head of the Vulcan intel bureau, the V’Shar, had found him out. Trip wondered if he’d inadvertently tipped his hand when T’Pol was having him added to the ownership registry of this house.
Trip heard the sounds of a struggle to his left and turned to see a trio of security officers dragging Denak to the floor. Beside him lay Ych’a, prone and hogtied with slim cables; she appeared to be unconscious, and Denak appeared to be actively protesting that fact until a well-placed neck pinch made him go limp.
Trip watched, stunned, as the officers half carried and half dragged both Ych’a and Denak outside.
“What do you people think you’re doing?” Trip growled toward the nearest officer, a female. Trip had to crane his neck painfully to look her in the eye. “Denak and Ych’a are former members of Vulcan’s intelligence service.”
“They are,” said the woman, who seemed to be in overall charge of this raid. “And they are now formally under suspicion of having taken part in the destruction of the katra of Surak.”
Trip’s jaw fell open. He closed it with an act of pure will after he considered how terribly un-Vulcan he must have looked.
“This is the last one,” said a tall, thickset uniformed Vulcan male who had come to a stop beside the woman. This officer was pointing directly at Trip. “Other than him and the two suspects, the house was empty.”
“Very good
, Subaltern,” the woman said. “Now please unshackle this man.”
A moment later, Trip was rubbing his tingling wrists and once more getting to his feet. He noticed the woman eyeing him with evident patience and equally evident suspicion.
“So I take it I’m not a suspect in the Mount Seleya bombing,” Trip said.
“Not at present, Mister Sodok. However, we would advise you to keep yourself available for questioning should the need arise.”
Trip nodded, doing his best to look like an emotionally detached Vulcan rather than an outraged and put-upon human with artificially pointed ears. “Of course.”
Now that he was free to move about, Trip stepped slowly through the doorway that once held the now-horizontal front door, and walked into the house’s austere front yard. Several security officers were loading the unconscious forms of Ych’a and Denak into the back of a small antigrav transport vessel displaying the triangular logo of Vulcan Security.
There’s no way they could have had anything to do with the Mount Seleya bombing, Trip thought as the Vulcan security personnel secured the rear door of their vehicle. Denak and Ych’a are two of T’Pol’s oldest friends. They’ve put their lives on the line for Vulcan’s sake probably more times than either of them can count. How could they have betrayed everything Vulcan is supposed to stand for?
As Trip flogged his still sleep-muzzy brain for ways to extricate T’Pol’s old friends—his friends—from this situation, another thought occurred to him: That cop said the house was empty except for the three of us.
Four people had once resided in this house, a situation that had abruptly changed several weeks ago. It appeared that Tevik remained unaccounted for. Had he slipped the psionic leash that Ych’a had formerly used to control him? Had the man’s artificially suppressed real identity—Centurion Terix of the Romulan Star Empire—fully reasserted itself at last and taken over?
A chill desert wind blew across the front yard, raising goose bumps on Trip’s arms. If anybody I know is responsible for destroying Surak’s katra, he thought, then Tevik—I mean Terix—has got to be the guy.
Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War Page 2
