Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War

by Michael A. Martin

  Archer sighed and shook his head. “Well, I hope for her sake that the Romulans don’t put that belief to the test. Advanced as the Vissians are, she has no idea what her people would be up against.”

  “I agree,” T’Pol said. “Should that occur, then I would hope that the moderator will not be too proud to ask Earth for assistance.”

  The captain chuckled. “I don’t care what anybody says. Vulcans do have a sense of humor.”

  She lifted an eyebrow. “I am completely serious, Captain. Word has already spread—across this sector and beyond—that the Starship Enterprise from Earth will provide assistance to anyone who requires it. Whatever ill will Fraddok may still harbor regarding the unfortunate circumstances surrounding humanity’s first contact with Vissia, even she must be well aware of the reputation you have forged for Enterprise—and, by extension, for the Coalition and Earth.”

  He shrugged again. “I’ll have to help a hell of a lot more old ladies across the street to drown out all the chatter about how I handled the Kobayashi Maru.”

  “It may not be logical for the Vissians to blame you for the cogenitor’s death,” T’Pol said. “It is, however, understandable, given the paramount importance that any civilization must place upon reproduction.”

  “It’s a lot more understandable than Starfleet’s decision to send me to negotiate with the Vissians. Admiral Gardner should have sent somebody else here to plead our case. Captain Ramirez, maybe. Or Narsu. Even Duvall would have done better.”

  T’Pol stepped away from the railing, approaching Archer. “I believe that would have been a mistake.”

  “A mistake? Compared to what? They turned us down flat, T’Pol. Exactly the way the Klingons did. Worse, in fact—even the Klingons spent a few minutes pretending to think about it before they told us ‘no’ and sent us packing.”

  “The Vissians might not have agreed even to hear Earth’s request had it come from anyone else, Captain. Your own personal willingness to come here to plead on behalf of Earth and the Coalition could be regarded as a willingness to face the consequences of your—of our—past mistakes.”

  Archer gazed at the setting sun. Thanks to the distorting effects of the thickest portions of Vissia’s atmosphere, he could look directly into the swollen orange disk without even having to squint. “I guess there’s no point grousing about it now. It’s done. I just wonder whom Starfleet will want me to charm next. For all I know, Admiral Gardner will send me to try to win over the new first monarch of Krios Prime.”

  “Unfortunately, the Vulcan Diplomatic Service reports that the head of state the Kriosians installed last year is far less amenable to entering interstellar mutual defense pacts than was her predecessor,” T’Pol said.

  Kaitaama. He recalled the beautiful young woman whom he and Trip had freed from her Retellian kidnappers some four years ago. Surely First Monarch Kaitaama would have felt an obligation to assist the Coalition, and thereby the homeworld of her rescuers. She no doubt would have thrown her full support behind Earth against the Romulans—had her government not fallen nearly two years ago to a military coup.

  The captain shook his head. “I still wonder why Starfleet keeps sending me out to make Earth’s sales pitch.”

  “Why should they send anyone else, Captain? You’re Jonathan Archer, the man who persuaded three Xindi species to abandon their plan to destroy Earth.”

  “My batting average seems to have slumped a bit since those days, T’Pol. Maybe I should try the Arkonians next,” Archer deadpanned, though he was well aware that Vulcans generally considered this aggressive, reptilian starfaring race to be dangerous and irrational—even in comparison to humans. “Or maybe the Orion Syndicate, or the Kreetassans.”

  T’Pol’s head tilted slightly in evident bewilderment. “You must be joking.”

  “Of course I’m joking.” He closed his eyes and let the transitory warmth of the waning sun wash over him. “But I suppose the joke is on us. I shouldn’t be surprised that Earth still has to stand more or less alone against the Romulans—with the paper that the Coalition Compact is written on as our only armor.”

  “That isn’t precisely true, Captain.”

  He turned away from the sun and faced her. “Oh? Did Andoria and/or Tellar suddenly decide to get off the sidelines?”

  Her lips pursed in evident irritation, and the intensity of T’Pol’s gaze nearly scorched him. “Not to my knowledge, Captain. But perhaps a reminder is in order that a number of influential individuals from both societies have pledged to aid Earth’s war effort by raising as much private assistance as possible.”

  Archer nodded, recalling a recent subspace communication during which the former Andorian Imperial Guard general officer Shran had confessed to finding his government’s decision to abrogate its mutual defense responsibilities under the Coalition Compact completely unacceptable, even to the point of being dishonorable. The Tellarite freighter pilots, Skalaar and his brother Gaavrin, had echoed Shran’s sentiments a few days later, after Enterprise had responded to their request for the tungsten, cobalt, and magnesium alloy they needed to rebuild their warp coils, which had been overtaxed by some of the very same gravimetric anomalies and subspace distortions that Enterprise had been so carefully mapping. Archer felt extremely grateful for these gestures, though he couldn’t help wondering if they would prove any more credible or effective than the yet-to-be-realized aid that Kolos had promised at the end of the captain’s last visit to Qo’noS.

  “It’s nice to know we might be able to count on a little help from somebody,” he said at length.

  “All across Vulcan today,” T’Pol said, “my people are observing the annual rite of Kal Rekk.”

  The apparent non sequitur nearly gave Archer whiplash. “Cal Wreck?”

  “Kal Rekk. All ordinary business stops on this day. It is a time of silence and solitary meditation.”

  He frowned. “You Vulcans seem to do a lot of that sort of thing anyway without having to declare a special bank holiday for it.”

  “Unlike other Vulcan rites, the contemplations of Kal Rekk have a particular purpose that requires our full attention as a people—atonement for our mistakes.”

  Archer took a silent moment to digest that. It occurred to him almost immediately that Administrator T’Pau would have much for which to atone. Her effective abandonment of Earth in the face of the Romulan threat made his failure to rescue the Kobayashi Maru seem almost petty in comparison.

  “Why are you telling me this, T’Pol?” he said.

  “Because you may find it useful to consider the fact that you are not the only one who feels the need to atone for the mistakes of the past.”

  A flare of anger rose in Archer’s chest, though he wasn’t certain whether it was in response to her words or her damnably calm tone. “You think this mission is about atonement? About my somehow making up for the Maru disaster? Or for the cogenitor’s death?”

  “Perhaps both, Captain. But it is not for me to say.” Her cadence abruptly downshifted, transitioning instantly from that of a Vulcan lecturer to the confidential tone of a close friend and confidante. “Regardless, it’s clear to me that those events still weigh heavily upon you. When I begin my own Kal Rekk observance tonight aboard Enterprise, I shall spend addition time in meditation to atone for whatever role I may have played in allowing you to carry such terrible burdens alone.”

  Archer didn’t quite know what to say. I think this may be as close as any human has ever come to getting a Vulcan to promise to pray for him.

  “Captain,” T’Pol said. She was looking directly at him. No, he realized a moment later. She was looking just past him.

  A voice sounded from behind, startling him. “Captain Jonathan Archer.”

  Archer turned quickly, not at all sure what to expect. His name had been spoken by a Vissian male, dressed in the white robe of a high governmental official. “I am Bote J’Ref, Vissia’s minister of science, Captain,” the old man said in a voice both strong and
reedy.

  “I’m sorry,” Archer said. “We were about to continue to the spaceport. I just thought I’d stop for a moment on the way to enjoy the sunset.”

  The old man appeared confused by Archer’s preemptive apology. “I haven’t come to hurry your departure from Vissia, Captain. In fact, I am delighted to discover that you haven’t yet left.”

  Archer wondered if he dared hope that the Vissian legislature had changed its mind about helping Earth beat back the Romulans.

  Archer asked, “What can I do for you?”

  “I have no request to make of you, Captain,” the old man said.

  “Then I hope you’ve come to announce that your government has reconsidered its decision not to share Vissian technology with us. The information sharing wouldn’t have to be extensive. If, say, we could start building our hull plating of out trinesium, that alone would set the Romulans’ invasion plans back quite a bit.”

  The Vissian shook his head sadly. “The Grand Moot passed the Permanent Embargo on Technology Transfers to Immature Civilizations Act by a significant margin. It is unlikely that the body will reconsider the measure anytime soon.”

  Immature civilizations, Archer thought, suppressing a wince. Ouch.

  “Then what can I do for you?” he repeated.

  “Nothing, Captain. But I do wish to discuss with you something you have already done.”

  Although the Vissian’s manner remained pleasant enough, a feeling of dread seized Archer. He braced himself, waiting to take the blame for some other well-intentioned fubar.

  “And what’s that?” Archer said.

  “Your vessel—Enterprise—recently responded to a distress call. My son’s vessel had suffered damage from an unmapped gravitational shear phenomenon. Your crew subsequently provided us with maps of such detail that no one else has run afoul of it.”

  “I remember the ship,” Archer said. “And your son?”

  “He is fine, Captain,” the old man said. Archer noticed only then that tears were standing in the Vissian’s eyes. “Your people even performed significant repairs on his ship before you parted company. For coming to my son’s aid, Captain, you have my gratitude. Earth has my gratitude.”

  Despite his earlier dour mood, a smile escaped onto Archer’s face. “Thank you for that, Minister J’Ref,” he said in a gentle tone. “But it wasn’t just me or my crew that helped your son.

  “It was the Coalition….”

  PART II

  2157–2159

  TEN

  Friday, January 28, 2157

  Cochrane Institute, New Samarkand, Alpha Centauri III

  THE VOICE THAT REVERBERATED across the semicircular bridge module was laced with characteristic impatience. “What’s the holdup, gentlemen? Let’s get the candle lit and fly this bird out of spacedock.”

  “Everything reads as ready now, Captain Jefferies,” Tobin Dax said, turning toward his colleague S’chn T’gai Skon. The Vulcan was on “temporary loan” from the Vulcan Science Academy to the Cochrane Institute and was due to return to his homeworld shortly. Dax hoped his nervousness about today’s simulation wasn’t audible in the timbre of his voice, though he suspected that Vulcans were far more sensitive to emotional cues than they let on. They can smell a flop sweat, Dax thought.

  The Vulcan nodded in Dax’s direction, apparently absorbed in the readings on the console before him. “Confirmed,” he said. “Initiate the simulation.” The taciturn mathematician then nodded to Dr. Pell Underhill.

  The sole human on the technical team, Underhill was seated in the center of the bridge module. To reach him, one had to negotiate a railing, a couple of steps down into what the team had come to call the “command well,” and then take as many steps back upward to reach the central dais—a riser that supported the bizarrely thronelike chair on which a nominal ship commander would have sat, were this an actual ship of the line rather than a mere test model.

  The team had labored for more than a local year on the gray, aesthetically unappealing technological kludge that now enclosed them. All the while they had endured with as much grace as possible the constant inquiries into their progress by their overseers, Captains Matthew Jefferies and Eric Stillwell. Despite Starfleet’s seeming omnipresence—and the team’s apparently endless difficulties in getting the various new systems integrated, calibrated, and synchronized—Dax felt satisfied that the three specialists had finally turned out a working prototype of the starship bridge of the future.

  All that remained to be seen was whether it would prove resistant to one of the Romulan Star Empire’s most effective weapons.

  Underhill pushed a button on the arm of his chair. “Simulation initiated.”

  Dax was seated at an angular computer console located near the rear of the bridge module’s starboard side. A quick glance at his displays confirmed that the simulation was up and running. He turned his chair toward the bridge’s center, where the two-person helm and navigational consoles blinked, whirred, and bleeped as though they were being manipulated by flesh-and-blood personnel instead of commands being relayed through the powerful central computer core of the starflight lab at the Cochrane Institute’s Henry Archer Hall.

  Dax noticed that Underhill was wearing a faint smile, which had to be a positive sign, an indicator that everything was proceeding well. Having been preoccupied with building and installing the bridge module’s hardware and firmware, Dax knew less than did the Terran physics specialist about every specific circumstance of the test that was now under way.

  “So what happens now, Pell?”

  Underhill turned the big chair toward Dax and shrugged dramatically. “Skon and I deliberately introduced an element of randomness to the tests. After all, this test would be useless if our tactical systems could anticipate every possible attack permutation in advance. You know that.”

  Dax reddened; of course he knew that. But with so many months of work at stake—time that might have been better applied to Starfleet’s goal of building the long-sought-after warp-seven-capable stardrive—he was feeling nervous. And he knew that led to his babbling incoherently.

  “The only thing we know with any certainty,” Skon added, “is that—”

  The bridge module’s sudden violent shaking interrupted all conversation in the chamber, which now reverberated like a colossal bell that had just been struck.

  “—the Romulans are going to attack,” Dax said, anticipating Skon while grabbing at the sides of his console to keep his chair from being upended.

  “Tactical Alert!” the Trill said reflexively in response to the flashing of his console. His neck and face flushed as he realized he had stated the blindingly obvious. Silence reigned for a few uncomfortable moments, and Dax found himself wishing that the team hadn’t voted down his desire to equip the simulator with a loud alert klaxon.

  “The hull plating seems to be holding, at least so far,” Underhill said at length, sounding slightly winded. Dax realized only then that the human had been thrown forward out of his chair, prompting the Trill to wonder why he hadn’t thought of installing some sort of inertial damper failsafe or restraint system.

  Oblivious of the simulated danger, Underhill stood where he had landed, behind the helm console, as he busied himself reading the indicators from the integrated ops controls. Curiously, Underhill looked just as happy and confident as when he’d been in the captain’s chair. “Programmed counterattack is now in progress,” he said.

  A gentle shuddering of the bridge, which repeated twice in as many seconds, confirmed the launch of a virtual return-fire volley. Photonic torpedoes, Dax guessed from the vibration patterns. The bridge’s central viewer displayed the weapons as intersecting, foreshortened strings of light that vanished into the infinitude of blackness.

  “How come I’m not seeing any simulated Romulan ships out there?” Dax said, frowning.

  “Many documented Romulan attacks have been conducted from ambush,” Skon said.

  “I know, but it’s no
t as though they’re completely invisible, is it?” Dax said. “The simulation seems to be giving them a pretty big advantage over us.”

  “A simulation that goes easy on us does us no good,” Underhill said. “If we can beat the Romulans in simulation under these conditions, we could develop a distinct tactical advantage over them.”

  Dax suppressed a grin; a playful part of his brain paraphrased a favorite bit of Terran musical theater that Underhill had introduced him to a few months ago: If we can beat ’em there, we can beat ’em anywhere.

  “Let’s hope,” Dax said quietly as he settled in to wait for the rest of the simulated battle to unfold.

  Underhill was grinning triumphantly. “Sensors have detected considerable debris from the enemy ship. We’ve hurt them. Helm is laying in a close approach course.”

  “Weapons systems are locking on the hostile vessel,” Skon said, a faint edge of distaste in his voice. Or was Dax imagining it?

  “Be careful, computer,” Dax muttered as he gently patted the console before him. “You don’t want to get cocky with these Romulans. They’re tricky bastards.”

  But the virtual starship soldiered on, as the main viewer quickly confirmed, with a wireframe rendering of one of the Romulan Star Empire’s nearly flat, semicircular warships. Dax felt a momentary sensation of regret that Skon, who had been in charge of creating the tactical displays, had not seen fit to create a more detailed representation of the hostile vessel’s hull, complete with hull-plating joins and the fiery mass of sharp talons and angry red feathers that usually covered the bellies of such ships.

  Dax’s console flashed. “They’re hailing us,” he said.

  “Ignore it,” Skon said. “We cannot risk any Romulan malware entering our main computer core.”

  “Firewall is up and functioning,” Dax said. He felt uncomfortable with the notion of ignoring a hail under circumstances such as these, even in a simulation. Suppose a shipload of real Romulans were to make a sincere surrender attempt at some point?