Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War

by Michael A. Martin

  Trip still felt an overwhelming urge to sprint across the yard toward the transport into which Ych’a and Denak had been placed. Instead, he stood motionless as the transport’s antigravs carried it slowly into a sky illuminated by only a narrow slice of bleak and pockmarked T’Rukh, whose name meant “the Watcher.”

  Terix has to be the key to freeing Ych’a and Denak, Trip thought as he watched the transport quickly dwindle away and vanish. A way of killing two lanka-gar with a single stone. He walked back to the house, shaking his head to dispel an unexpected wave of homesickness.

  Damn. Now I’m even starting to think in Vulcan.

  THREE

  Monday, August 16, 2156

  The Presidio, San Francisco, Earth

  UNITED EARTH’S PRIME MINISTER, Nathan Samuels, slammed his fist down on the podium hard enough to send a spike of pain shooting up through his elbow. He concealed his discomfiture as the impact echoed like a small thunderclap through the high-ceilinged debating chamber of the Coalition of Planets Council.

  “There is only one decision possible for my planet’s government,” he said, raising his voice in oratory. Wherever his small but significant audience—a collection of civilian and military leaders that included flag officers from both MACO and Starfleet, as well as senior diplomatic representatives from Alpha Centauri, Draylax, Vulcan, Andoria, and Tellar—stood on this afternoon’s debate, Samuels felt confident that he at least had their full attention. “Both houses of the United Earth Parliament have voted with me on this issue, by overwhelming majorities.”

  Even if he were to have a sudden change of heart regarding a decision for which he himself had pushed, Samuels knew he would be powerless to defy the planetary legislature’s decision; he lacked both the political clout and the constitutional authority to oppose its collective will.

  “The United Earth Parliament has voted to place the force of law behind an executive order I issued back in June,” he continued. “Earth now has no choice other than to employ the vast majority of its Starfleet and Military Assault Command Operations resources on the critical task of defending the Sol system. We must be prepared to bring all available force to bear immediately whenever the Romulans succeed in breaching the home system’s warp-field detection grid. We can no longer afford to make the space beyond our home system the subject of regular patrols.”

  MACO General George Casey rose from his front-row seat, glowering at the podium from behind a forest of medals and ribbons. Samuels knew he was about to receive an earful from the iron-haired military officer, whether or not he tried to preemptively gavel the general back into his seat, as required by protocol.

  “Yes, George,” Samuels said with his most disarming smile. He hoped that his manner, as well as his casual use of the general’s first name, would put the old warhorse off balance, at least for a moment. “You have a question?”

  No such luck. Casey had clearly had a change of heart after initially supporting Samuels’s now two-month-old executive order. Although the general was clearly angry, he was, at least, respectful. “I do, Prime Minister. Sir, may I assume you’re aware that this decision will greatly limit Earth’s ability to mount effective offensive operations against the Romulans?”

  Samuels nodded, doubling down on the smile. “Contrary to what you may have heard on the newsnets, General, I didn’t nod off during any of the military briefing sessions.” Low chuckles echoed briefly through the chamber, providing an undercurrent of gallows humor in which all the nonhumans present were ostentatiously refusing to participate. Samuels wondered if this was because they failed to understand the danger their governments were creating through their collective inaction.

  Or perhaps they understood it all too well and were ashamed.

  Casey appeared unmoved by any of it. “Prime Minister, the parliament’s action has committed us to maintaining a purely defensive posture. It has turned this conflict into a war of slow attrition that will ultimately trap us.”

  Slow attrition is better than quick conquest, Samuels thought, though he wasn’t sure he really believed it anymore. If death was both inevitable and imminent, might it not be better to get it over with quickly?

  “I’m not unsympathetic to your viewpoint,” he said.

  The general scowled. “Sir, if the MACO and Starfleet are to have any serious chance of containing the Romulan fleet—much less driving it back where it came from—then we’re going to need a lot more than sympathy.”

  Although today’s session was closed to the public—and therefore to the press—Samuels was already having visions of how weak-kneed the planetary newsnets could make him look by lunchtime. Never mind that this decision was the work of a parliamentary majority. If that goddamned Keisha Naquase from Newstime somehow gets a recording of this, he thought, at least half of humanity will see me as a political eunuch.

  “True enough, General,” Samuels said, “but we also have to think practically. We can’t expect to win on the offensive while going it essentially alone.” He paused, fixing his gaze firmly upon the section of the gallery where the delegations from Vulcan, Andoria, Tellar, and Draylax were seated. He squared his shoulders and turned to make it clear that his next words were intended for Earth’s allies.

  “We are receiving essentially no support from our nonhuman Coalition of Planets partners,” he continued, gratified to see the usually unflappable Vulcan Foreign Minister Soval appear to squirm slightly in his padded chair, while his Tellarite and Andorian counterparts—Ambassador Gora bim Gral and Foreign Minister Anlenthoris ch’Vhendreni—absorbed the rebuke without any discernible reaction. The thoughts of Grethe Zhor of Draylax were impossible to divine from behind her calm, still countenance.

  General Casey returned quietly to his seat, now evidently content to stay out of Samuels’s way.

  Samuels stepped into the silence that had enfolded the room, using it to his best rhetorical advantage. “Therefore any all-out offensive on our part would be tantamount to simply casting all the military resources of both the United Earth and the Alpha Centauri settlements to the solar winds, leaving the worlds of the Sol system unable to beat the Romulans back.

  “Once the Romulans are through with us, will you decide only then to fight shoulder to shoulder against them? Only after it’s far too late for us, and therefore perhaps for your own planets as well? Or will your governments continue to sit back, each looking the other way while an aggressive empire annexes your homeworlds one by one, enslaving and murdering your people?”

  A low, dismayed murmur began to pass through the extraterrestrial assemblage, but Samuels ignored it. Raising his voice a notch, he said, “A human named Martin Niemöller once thought as your leaders do. More than two centuries ago, he witnessed a great evil sweeping through his country and came to regret having made no serious attempt to oppose it, or even to speak out against it—until after it was far too late to stop it. Many of you have probably read his words, so I apologize in advance for repeating a familiar sad refrain:

  They came first for the communists,

  And I didn’t speak out because I was not a communist.

  Then they came for the trade unionists,

  And I didn’t speak out because I was not a trade unionist.

  Then they came for the Jews,

  And I didn’t speak out because I was not a Jew.

  Then they came for me

  And there was no one left to speak out for me.

  “Good day,” Samuels said sharply when the last reverberations of his recitation had been swallowed up by the hush that had scattered all murmurs and now ruled the chamber.

  Uniformly stony-faced, the nonhuman contingent rose and began moving toward the exits, silent except for the muted, echoing clatter of their footfalls. Samuels could only stand and wonder whether he had done either too much or not enough today to prevent the Romulans from devastating the Coalition.

  Once the alien exodus was well under way, General Casey rose as well.

  A
nd began, very slowly, to applaud.

  Maybe letting the holo-cameras in here today wouldn’t have been such a bad thing after all, Samuels thought.

  “You shamed them, Prime Minister,” the staid, gray-suited humanoid woman said when she was safely behind the closed door of the prime minister’s private office at the Coalition Council building.

  “Goddamned right,” Samuels said as he gestured toward the low sofa near his desk, offering Ambassador Grethe Zhor of Draylax a place to sit. “They had it coming. Vulcan, Andoria, and Tellar are all charter signatories to the Coalition Compact. Their decision to allow Sol and the Centauri planets to twist in the wind is a clear violation of the agreement’s mutual-defense provisions.”

  Grethe Zhor shook her head and declined to sit. “Vulcan, at least, has provided the Sol system with an automated proximity alarm system to warn you of impending Romulan attacks.”

  “That’s nowhere near good enough, and the Vulcans know it. Just as everybody knows how easily the Romulans can game the Vulcans’ defense grid.”

  The Draylaxian crossed her arms over her chest, prompting Samuels to wonder if this was a new habit she had developed after she’d noticed many human males staring during encounters with Draylaxian females. He hoped he hadn’t done it himself, though he had to admit that her tailored gray suit served only to emphasize her upper body’s three-breasted topography.

  “You humans are living with a terrible vulnerability,” she said, sounding sincerely sympathetic rather than patronizing. “I presume that is why you have asked to meet with me.”

  Samuels smiled, though he wasn’t at all sure how Draylaxians interpreted such nonverbal cues. “Thank you for coming. I’m grateful for any opportunity to do a little gentle arm-twisting.”

  “Arm-twisting, Prime Minister?” She tipped her head slightly to the right, a maneuver that caused the downy coat of feathery orange-brown “hair” on her head to move as though by its own volition.

  Samuels chuckled. “Polite persuasion. To do something about humanity’s ‘terrible vulnerability,’ as you call it. And call me Nathan, please.”

  “Nathan, Draylax is not yet a full signatory to the Coalition Compact.”

  Samuels’s smile faltered as his patience began to fray. “It’s been over an Earth year since your world applied for membership, and nearly that long since you signed the official induction documents on behalf of your government. Your superiors got around to officially upgrading you from observer status to a full ambassadorship only a few weeks ago.”

  “The wheels of Draylax’s government grind forward but slowly, I must admit,” she said with a slight bow of apparent deference. “Unfortunately, such thoroughness is the hallmark of Draylaxian legal protocol.”

  “But from the viewpoint of the United Earth government,” Samuels said, “Draylax is already a full signatory to the treaty. And that status carries certain responsibilities—prime of which are the mutual-defense provisions.”

  “But Draylax cannot regard its Coalition of Planets membership as active until our own internal treaty-ratification process is completed. Protocol must be observed.”

  Samuels held up a hand. “All right. But Draylax already had mutual-defense arrangements with both Earth and Alpha Centauri that predated the Coalition Compact,” he said, conscious that a tone of pleading had entered his voice. “Why aren’t you fulfilling your preexisting obligation to contribute ships, personnel, and matériel to the front lines?”

  “Because the Coalition Compact has superseded those earlier arrangements,” Zhor said. “Such is Draylaxian law and protocol.”

  Samuels bit back a scathing retort as he collapsed into the big padded chair behind his desk. He fumed in silence and slowly wrestled his frustration to the ground, pinning it there only after expending a considerable amount of effort. All the while he kept telling himself that there was nothing to be gained by offending—and possibly forever alienating—a powerful ally that apparently perceived itself as still legally able to walk away from the Coalition.

  The ambassador spoke up again before Samuels could recover his train of thought. “In previous times of danger, Earth and Alpha Centauri have never hesitated to come to Draylax’s aid.”

  Samuels nodded. “Thanks for noticing,” he said curtly. He’d been about to argue that very point.

  “I shall do whatever I can to…hasten law and protocol as pertains to this matter,” Zhor whispered, as though she had dared to raise a taboo subject and feared being overheard by her leaders. “The Draylaxian fleet could conceivably be deployed to the Romulan front lines in fairly short order after that.”

  Samuels reminded himself that to a Draylaxian—the product of a culture that seemed more than content to run freighters that weren’t capable of making warp two—the definition of “fairly short order” was really anyone’s guess.

  “Thank you, Ambassador,” Samuels said, matching Grethe Zhor’s whisper. He studiously avoided the contours of her chest, keeping his gaze focused instead upon her unreadable black eyes. “Because unless you can do something to expedite the paperwork back at the home office, Draylaxian law and protocol just might turn out to be the death of us all.”

  After Grethe Zhor had made her farewells and exited the office, Samuels reached for the bottle he kept in his desk’s bottom drawer. The goosenecked flagon contained brandy from a faraway place known as Sauria.

  Let’s hope, he thought as he poured a single small glass nearly full, that Captain Archer’s diplomatic initiatives are all going at least this well.

  FOUR

  Monday, August 16, 2156

  Enterprise NX-01, near the Mu Arae system

  THOUGH SHE WAS GARBED in a fully functional Starfleet environmental suit, Commander T’Pol realized that she had been holding her breath as she stepped onto the transporter platform. She exhaled quietly, took a deep breath as the sparkling blue curtain of light intensified, then faded and vanished. She was standing on a disconcertingly uneven surface, under the influence of a noticeably more intense gravitational field than the Earth-normal default setting aboard Enterprise.

  “Secure the area,” she ordered the MACOs via her suit’s transceiver.

  Sergeant Guitierrez and Corporal O’Malley were already in motion, their helmet lights illuminating the crippled vessel’s interior. They moved in opposite directions down an extensively battle-damaged corridor. As T’Pol’s sensitive Vulcan eyes began to adjust to the low light levels, she noticed a number of blackened rents in the exterior walls.

  Stars and the damaged exterior were discernible through the breaches. She shuddered slightly, chilled by the knowledge of the fate that had befallen anyone in this corridor when the hull had torn open. As T’Pol trained her helmet lamp toward her feet, she saw that she was standing on the remnants of a leg. Lifting her foot, she saw a humanoid form. Its eyes, or at least the four of them she could see arranged about its bulbous head, were easily five times the size of those of a Vulcan, and the distal appendages of its four upper limbs were entwined with the gridwork of the bent, twisted deck plates beneath it.

  After receiving an all-clear from both Guitierrez and O’Malley, T’Pol stepped away from the beam-in spot, moving the body aside with her foot. She activated her helmet’s communicator and gave Enterprise the “go” signal to transport the rest of the boarding party over. Seconds later, the device’s energetic shimmer returned and a trio of environmental-suited figures appeared: Enterprise’s armory officer, Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed; Chief Engineer Mike Burch; and the Denobulan chief medical officer, Dr. Phlox.

  “Damn. Can’t say I enjoyed that,” Burch said, his voice slightly distorted by his suit’s comm system.

  “Welcome to the E=mc2 club,” Reed said as the Starfleet members of the boarding team began to deploy their scanners. “Don’t worry, Commander. You’ll get used to it.”

  “No, thanks,” Burch said as he brandished his own scanner at arm’s length and began turning slowly in a circle. “Great hau
nted house vibe.”

  The engineer recoiled when he noticed the alien corpse on the deck.

  “I don’t know. More of a Flying Dutchman,” Reed said as the group moved past the dead body.

  Whistling past the graveyard. T’Pol pushed aside the intrusive human thought. “This vessel has sustained a great deal of damage. It may not remain intact much longer without considerable intervention on our part. Therefore we’ll need to confirm the sensor scans as quickly as possible.”

  From a distance of more than fifty thousand kilometers, T’Pol had identified this vessel as M’klexa. Vulcan-M’klexa first contact was less than a year old. Relations between Vulcan and the M’klexa had been peaceful; unlike the Klingons, the M’klexa were unlikely to misinterpret a good-faith attempt to rescue one of their vessels in distress as an act of belligerency.

  Therefore, T’Pol’s primary concern was to make this a quick sortie. Life signs hadn’t been apparent to Enterprise’s sensors, even at her present distance of a mere ten kilometers. Her mission was to discover what had just succeeded in ripping open a vessel that seemed technologically comparable to Enterprise. Judging from the extensive pattern of damage, anything from Nausicaan pirates to an unfortunate brush with a cloaked field of Romulan gravitic mines could have been responsible.

  And if the Romulans were in any way responsible, then their warbirds could appear at any time, intent on finishing off the M’klexa. She did not want to add Enterprise to their rapidly expanding list of kills.

  “Commander,” Reed said, “I’m picking up very weak life signs scattered all over the ship. Apparently, some sections of this vessel haven’t yet lost their atmospheric integrity.”

  “I’m picking up bio readings as well,” Phlox said. Turning toward T’Pol, he added, “Forty distinct life signs. Commander, we have to get them off this ship immediately.”

  “That’s not going to be easy,” Reed said, tapping his scanner hard with a gloved index finger. “Something’s making it hard to pinpoint the exact location of each life sign.”