Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War

by Michael A. Martin

  Silok steepled his fingers before his face, apparently gathering his thoughts and deciding just how much to reveal. “Tevik’s precise location is unknown to me. However, I can state one thing about him with near certainty.”

  Trip leaned forward expectantly. I’m all ears, he thought. On their way to his lips, he amended those words to, “I suppose that means you know where he’s not.”

  Silok nodded. “We can find no trace of Tevik on Vulcan. In addition, my investigators discovered that he chartered a private transport to take him offworld.”

  “When did he leave?” Trip wanted to know.

  “He appears to have departed during the confusion immediately following the…attack…” Silok said before trailing off into silence.

  “The attack on Mount Seleya,” Trip said.

  Silok nodded.

  Before he’d taken up residence on Vulcan, Trip had never considered himself very good at reading the emotional states of most of the planet’s inhabitants. He remembered T’Pol describing one of the priests of P’Jem as “agitated,” even though Trip had found the man about as expressive as a corpse. Unlike that priest, Silok wore his heart on his sleeve. He looked pale, even for a Vulcan, and he wore an expression of grief that Trip remembered having seen in the mirror many times during the aftermath of the Xindi attack on Earth.

  He looks the way I did after I found out Lizzie was dead, Trip thought. It finally hit him how deeply the callous destruction of Surak’s katra must have affected the entire population of this world.

  “Tevik appears to have left no word of his final destination,” Silok said with a slight stammer.

  “So he could be literally nearly anywhere.”

  “Unfortunately so, Mister Sodok. We would like you to find him. Bring him back to Vulcan as a person of interest with respect to the Mount Seleya bombing. Administrator T’Pau herself has personally requested your assistance in this matter.”

  Despite his best attempt to maintain a façade of Vulcan equanimity, Trip’s forehead crumpled slightly. “I might have had a better chance of finding him if your bureau had let me go after him right after the Mount Seleya attack. Why have you stopped me until now?”

  “Because until very recently I believed that Ych’a and Denak were responsible for the atrocity at Seleya.”

  Trip’s eyebrows rose at this surprising but welcome revelation; after all, Ych’a and Denak were among T’Pol’s oldest friends. “Does that mean they’re free to go?”

  Silok’s answer was free of both stammer and hesitation. “No.”

  Trip’s eyebrows rose again, this time borne aloft on an updraft of incredulity. “No? Why not?”

  “They are still being somewhat…less than candid concerning their knowledge of the Mount Seleya attack—and about your mutual friend, Tevik.”

  Of course they’re not sharing, Trip thought. Their operations in the Romulan Star Empire might not have been authorized entirely according to Hoyle. It was possible that Silok had no knowledge of those ops, even though he was Vulcan’s security minister and thus nominally in charge of everything the V’Shar did.

  “And how did you determine this?” Trip asked, keeping his voice quiet. “Telepathic interrogations?”

  The look of disgust on Silok’s face replied more eloquently than any words could have done. “I am as Syrrannite as Administrator T’Pau, Mister Sodok. I will countenance no such abuses in my bureau.”

  Trip spread his hands before him in a peacemaker’s gesture. “Sorry. I did not mean to offend you.”

  “Does your trading company have access to a ship?” Silok said, suddenly all business.

  Does a le-matya crap in the desert? Trip thought as he nodded. Several small scout vessels were registered to Sodok’s trading company, Ych’a, Sodok, and Tevik, a business entity that Trip still referred to privately as “Dewey, Cheatham & Howe.” Trip had gone out of his way to ensure that one of those vessels would always be available to him and ready to get on Tevik’s trail at a moment’s notice.

  Silok rose from behind his desk, signaling that the meeting had come to an end. “Will you assist us in finding Mister Tevik? And in assessing and neutralizing certain Romulan technological capabilities?”

  “Of course,” Trip said as he, too, rose. “But I’d like to see Ych’a and Denak first. If you don’t mind.”

  “That is a reasonable request.” Silok wasted no time summoning a pair of dour-faced, uniformed Vulcan males, either of whom would have been convincing in the role of museum docent or bodyguard. Trip’s guides conducted him efficiently through a maze of bureaucratic office buildings and finally into a surprisingly spacious collection of mostly empty holding cells.

  There was little that either Ych’a or Denak could convey to Trip—or vice versa—without also sharing it with the guards. Nevertheless, he told them that he was going after Tevik, and at Minister Silok’s official request. Trip went away from the brief meeting reassured at least that T’Pol’s friends weren’t being overtly mistreated.

  Once he was out of sight of his Vulcan handlers, Trip took a public hovercar to the large commercial spaceport located just beyond ShiKahr’s western limits, where a fully fueled and equipped vessel awaited him.

  The spaceport’s central control spire grew ever larger in the hovercar’s windows. Contrary to folklore, he thought, Vulcans can and do lie. He wondered whether Silok’s sudden decision to ask for his help was the consequence of one such lie having finally worn out its usefulness.

  Or was he merely out chasing down yet another lie?

  SIX

  Wednesday, September 29, 2156

  Enterprise NX-01

  PHLOX WASN’T comfortable with the idea of intentionally spreading gossip. But despite his unique position as chief medical officer, he was a member of Jonathan Archer’s crew, and orders were orders. And he wasn’t putting any of his patients in jeopardy by obeying those orders, however distasteful he might find them. Archer himself had tried to assuage Phlox’s initial misgivings by asking him to think of his task—a task to which the captain referred, confusingly, as “Operation Hotspur”—as a primitive exercise in mass persuasion that had been known on Earth in past centuries as an advertising campaign. Finding that the last reference raised more questions than it settled, Phlox instead tried to regard what he was doing as a kind of intelligence op, even though such matters usually lay far outside his sphere of professional experience and expertise.

  “It’s fortunate we found you when we did,” Phlox said as he slowly moved his scanner over the apparently genderless alien—a Tenebian engineering specialist called Crenq—who lay before him on the sickbay biobed. Each of the biobeds that flanked Crenq supported an unconscious Tenebian, the last of the other aliens Phlox had yet to release and return to the Tenebian vessel.

  “Indeed,” the creature said, its singsong natural speaking voice apparently being converted instantly to Denobulan by a small electronic device attached to the choker it wore about its neck. Because the being before Phlox was quadrupedal, it lay on its side as it displayed an epidermis that consisted of thousands upon thousands of iridescent green-and-brown scales, many of which seemed to have been painfully charred. “Had your vessel not come upon ours when it did, I would no doubt be dead by now,” the alien said in its sexless, synthetic voice. “Along with everyone else on our ship.”

  “I only wish we had detected you earlier than we did,” Phlox said. “Nearly half of your crew had already succumbed to radiation poisoning and general life-support failure before we even knew you were out here.”

  “Detecting us any earlier than you did wouldn’t have been likely,” said Crenq as it scratched at its heavily scaled neck with one of four surprisingly nimble, double-thumbed hands. “With our sensors damaged, we had to assume that any approaching vessels were more Raptor ships, intent upon finishing us off.”

  “Raptor ships,” Phlox said. “Interesting.”

  “Your vessel has encountered them before?” the Tenebian ask
ed, its two wide-set yellow eyes large and alert.

  “If their hulls are painted with the bright red feathers of a predatory bird, then, yes, we have already had our share of…trouble from them.” More than our share, Phlox added silently. And no one can guess how much more might be to come.

  “I am sorry to hear that,” Crenq said. “I wish now that I was in a position to help you.”

  Phlox set the scanner down on the tray beside the biobed. “Perhaps you can help us. Would you mind sharing any data you’ve collected concerning the…Raptor ships’ recent movements throughout this sector?”

  The Tenebian answered with no discernible hesitation. “Certainly. I will direct the underchief in my department to present that data to your repair team before it leaves my vessel. It is but a small token of the thanks we owe you—not only for rescuing us but also for making our vessel operable again for its homebound voyage. Your people have even offered to restock our food stores to replace what had been irradiated after our shielding and life-support safeguards began to fail.”

  “There’s no need to mention it,” Phlox said.

  Crenq moved awkwardly on the biobed, pulling its two equine forelimbs forward in an apparent effort to sit up. “But I must. Your captain’s generosity is extraordinary. It must be reciprocated. Or, failing that, it must be sung to the stars.”

  Phlox could feel the color rising in his cheeks. He shook his head. “There’s no need,” he repeated.

  “There is,” Crenq insisted as it perched itself on the edge of the biobed, which was sagging slightly beneath its weight. “My colleagues and I already owe your people more than we can ever repay—and we do not know the name of the captain who made it possible. Or even the name of this ship, for that matter.”

  Based on multiple experiences over the past year or more, Phlox was reasonably sure that the Tenebian had already heard a great deal, both about Enterprise and her captain. Ever since the cargo vessel Kobayashi Maru met her unlucky end, it seemed that one would have to venture to another galaxy to find anyone without an etched-in-stone opinion about the culpability of NX-01’s commanding officer in that disaster.

  “Crenq, you are aboard the Starship Enterprise, from Earth,” Phlox said. “Under the command of Captain Jonathan Archer.”

  Crenq lapsed into contemplative silence for a lengthy moment, then lay back on the biobed, on its side. “Archer’s reputation precedes him. His actions spring not merely from generosity but also from a need to perform a penance.”

  “Perhaps,” Phlox said quietly. While he could never fault the captain for the difficult decision circumstances had forced upon him on the day of the Maru’s demise, the doctor knew that Archer was considerably harder on himself.

  “When you said you were fortunate for having come upon us when you did,” Crenq said, “I see now that your words carried more than one meaning.”

  Phlox lofted an eyebrow. “How so?”

  “The good fortune was not ours alone. Some of it also belongs to your captain.” Crenq raised its long skull. A knowing look crossed the alien’s otherwise inscrutable features. “Archer. The Earth commander who has so much for which to atone. I may not receive my underchief’s cooperation once Archer’s involvement becomes known to my colleagues.”

  Phlox sighed as he realized it was probably not in the nature of Tenebians to simply order compliance with the wishes of a superior officer. “I suppose there are times when we can only hope.”

  “Perhaps,” Crenq said.

  A few minutes after the shuttlepod containing the last of Chief Engineer Burch’s repair team had returned to the launch bay, Malcolm Reed watched from the bridge as the Tenebian vessel’s impulse drive began glowing a dull red. Moments later the alien vessel was under way, dwindling in size quickly as the distance between it and Enterprise multiplied exponentially.

  Reed checked his tactical display for incoming messages. Still nothing.

  Looks like the Tenebians never intended to give our repair team the data Phlox requested from their chief engineer, he thought. All because the rumor mill out here has decided that the one Starfleet captain who happened to be anywhere near the Kobayashi Maru when she exploded is the bloody angel of death. He was beginning to question the wisdom of Captain Archer’s policy of displaying absolute generosity to ships in need during this period of extended picket duty. Even given the fact that Starfleet had laid in extra stores of virtually any raw material Enterprise might need for the next several months, what was the point of all this mostly unreciprocated largesse, demonstrated to virtually every little ship Enterprise encountered, during a time of desperate struggle against an intransigent enemy? What, after all, was Enterprise—and by extension Earth—getting in return for such excessive unselfishness?

  A glissading bosun’s-whistle alarm from the tactical console grabbed Reed’s attention. “Sickbay to Commander Reed,” came the familiar voice of Enterprise’s chief surgeon.

  Trying to keep his voice free of annoyance, Reed said, “What can I do for you, Doctor?”

  “I’m not completely certain, Commander,” Phlox said. “I just received a private data transmission from the departing Tenebian ship. However, I can’t make any sense of it. I’m uploading it to your console now.”

  “Yes, I have it,” Reed said. “Thank you, Doctor. Tactical out.”

  He refused to allow his hopes to rise until he started scrolling through the data itself. The formatting was alien, as were the time referents, but he was sure that Hoshi could help him sort out those wrinkles within a day or so. What remained might well be what he had hoped to receive hours earlier—a detailed record of the movements of Romulan ships throughout this sector.

  Reed grinned as he uploaded the data to Hoshi’s station. Maybe the captain’s new generosity-to-a-fault policy isn’t such a bad idea after all.

  SEVEN

  Early in the Romulan Month of Khuti, Year of D’Era 1181 Wednesday, September 29, 2156

  Romulan Transport Pod Eireth, outbound from the Eisn (Romulus) system

  THE LITTLE VESSEL RUMBLED and shook to exclamations of surprise and dismay from the handful of junior functionaries who occupied the compact passenger compartment amidships.

  No sooner had the Eireth crossed the theoretical boundary between the heliopause of Romulus’s home star and the near reaches of the Glintara sector than the pilot, a smartly uniformed uhlan, began shouting urgently from the forward section.

  “We’re under attack!”

  Seated in the most forward passenger seat, Nijil, chief technologist to Admiral Valdore i’Kaleh tr’Irrhaimehn, supreme commander of all the fleets of the Romulan Star Empire, smiled as a sensation of relief flooded him. The attack had come slightly later than his timetable had called for, but soon enough not to pose any insuperable problems to his overall plan. It was the eve of the fleet’s biggest offensive into Coalition space, and thus a good time for Nijil to flee while Valdore was preoccupied by matters strategic and tactical. Nevertheless, Nijil planned to have a word with his Ejhoi Ormiin confederates once their “pirate raid”—the cover Nijil hoped would account for his quiet escape from Valdore’s watchful eye—was completed.

  “We’re losing power,” the pilot said as he continued frantically flipping switches in an effort to maintain control of the dying transport pod. The Eireth rocked and shuddered again, apparently having just absorbed more weapons fire. A conduit that ran across the ceiling before Nijil chose that moment to rupture, spraying cold, high-pressure vapor toward the aft portion of the cabin. The shouts and screams Nijil heard behind him accentuated the escalating chaos.

  Let’s don’t overdo it out there, gentlemen, Nijil thought. He scowled as he rose and moved toward the cockpit section, steadying himself against the deck’s heaving motions by grabbing the back of the empty copilot’s chair.

  “Who’s attacking us?” Nijil asked the pilot, as if he didn’t already know.

  The young uhlan in the cockpit shook his head. “I’m not sure. Sensors
are blinded now, and I can’t fire either of our torpedoes without risking us being blown apart. Whoever’s attacking us came out of warp almost directly on top of our heads. They opened fire before we even knew they were there.”

  Nijil was impressed despite the annoyance this surprise departure from the plan was causing him. He knew that some of his fellow anti-Praetorate Ejhoi Ormiin radicals were accomplished engineers and pilots—many had served in the Romulan military—but he hadn’t expected such near-surgical precision from his rescuers. Nijil had hoped to make it appear that he and his staff had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, mere targets of opportunity during their otherwise quiet passage from Romulus to the Empire’s newest secret offworld tech lab and shipbuilding facility in the Glintara system.

  “Try to hail them,” Nijil told the pilot. “It might buy us some time.”

  The pilot hastened to comply. But as he began working the console, a weird orange glow engulfed him, accompanied by an otherworldly hum. Within a space of three or four heartbeats, the pilot had vanished, leaving his seat conspicuously empty.

  What in the name of Erebus? Behind him, Nijil heard the hum again, repeating and overlapping. He turned to face the passenger compartment and moved cautiously back into it. Though the fog emitted by the ruptured ceiling conduit interferred with visibility, he could see plainly enough that all of his junior functionaries had vanished, just as the pilot had.

  Transporter beam, Nijil thought as his momentary confusion gave way to anger. He had ordered the Ejhoi Ormiin crew in charge of effecting his “kidnapping” to leave the others behind, aboard a crippled Eireth. The faux raiders were to have taken Valdore’s loyal chief technologist against his will—and alone—to cover the fact that Nijil was willingly joining a band of political revolutionaries in order to rescue one of their own from the clutches of a Romulan military commander whom Nijil had come to fear might turn on him at any moment.

  As Nijil moved back to the cockpit, intent on raising his errant colleagues on the Eireth’s comm system, he heard the hum once again. This time it was accompanied by a vague itching sensation, as though a hundred newly pupated kllhe grubs were crawling on his skin.