It suddenly came to Trip that he’d seen her before, nearly two years earlier, the last time he and Terix had visited the planet the Romulans called Cheron. Her manner was subtly different today, however; instead of an ambiguously flirtatious spy, her manner was somber, like that of a Valkyrie.
Or an executioner, Trip thought, all at once hyperaware of the fact that he may finally have reached the end of his tether—not to mention his life. Reminding himself that he was already dead, at least officially, provided no comfort whatsoever. He pulled unconsciously at the shackles that bound his wrists securely behind him but succeeded only in emphasizing how helpless he truly was.
“Centurion Terix, at your service,” Terix said, bowing slightly toward the admiral while performing a crisp Romulan military salute, right fist over left lung and elbow over the lower abdominal cavity, where the Romulan heart was located.
It seemed to Trip that Terix was pretending that the woman wasn’t even there.
“Centurion, where is Captain S’Ten?” Valdore said after taking a moment to look his welcoming committee up and down.
“The captain has remained on the command deck,” Terix said in a neutral military monotone. “He wishes to remain on high alert for any accomplices of the prisoner that may be lingering nearby.”
Valdore nodded. “Have you found any evidence of such accomplices?”
“Not yet,” Terix said, maintaining his ramrod-straight posture. “I will summon the captain, should you wish it.”
“Not necessary, Centurion. I cannot fault your commander for his diligence.” Valdore turned and began studying Trip. “Mister Cunaehr. Or would you prefer to be called Sodok?”
Bastard’s gonna have me killed no matter how I answer, Trip thought bleakly. He said only, “Sodok will do. You’re looking good these days, Admiral. Have you been working out?”
Moving with a grace that belied his considerable size, Valdore approached Trip, fixing him in place with a hard stare that would have made a mongoose flinch. He shook his head, apparently disgusted by Trip’s impertinence, while the woman in the black paramilitary clothing rushed Trip from behind and pulled roughly on the restraints that bound his hands behind his back. He resisted the urge to cry out.
“You Vulcans must truly enjoy the sound of your own voices,” Valdore said.
Apparently satisfied that Trip posed no threat, the admiral approached Terix. “I have read your initial interrogation report, Centurion. Good work.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
“Have you anything significant to add to it?”
Terix hesitated. Although Trip hadn’t read the report, he doubted it mentioned the ambiguous friend-foe conflict that Terix seemed to be experiencing. Might Terix be weighing the possible consequences of keeping this embarrassing truth concealed?
“No, Admiral,” Terix said at length. “But may I make a request?”
If Terix’s slight lapse had roused Valdore’s suspicions, the admiral was revealing no outward sign. “Of course, Centurion.”
“Will you permit me to carry out the prisoner’s execution?” The question sent a chill down Trip’s spine.
Valdore answered with no hesitation. “Request denied, Centurion.”
“I understand,” Terix said, stiffening his shoulders. “I should have anticipated that you would already have planned the prisoner’s descent into the embrace of Erebus.”
With a dispassion that surprised him, Trip began to wonder exactly how they would do it. One quick, merciful sweep of Valdore’s Honor Blade? Or would they convene a disruptor-rifle firing squad after he’d finished delivering an exhausting, rambling testimonial monologue for the record, per the Romulan Star Empire’s revered Right of Statement?
Or maybe Valdore goes in for plain vanilla hangings, Trip thought. He worked hard to suppress an absurd surge of laughter.
“See y’all in hell, I guess,” he said, chuckling slightly.
The woman reached behind him again, pulling his restraints tighter. The sharp pain in his wrists was all that prevented him from slipping into an apathetic fugue state. He noticed that Valdore was regarding him quizzically for a seeming eternity. Then he lifted an eyebrow in Terix’s direction.
“Both you and the prisoner appear to misunderstand, Centurion,” the admiral said. “Allow me to clarify. There will be no execution.”
Valdore now had Trip’s complete attention.
Terix stared at Valdore as though the other man had just sprouted two-meter-wide pink fairy wings and was now levitating above the deck plating.
“Admiral?”
“Your report indicated that one of Mister Sodok’s espionage specialties is the Ejhoi Ormiin and their illicit technologies,” Valdore said. “Because finding and destroying the radicals is one of my primary goals, I see no reason to allow his talents to go to waste. Therefore, Mister Sodok will discover the location of the hidden Ejhoi Ormiin shipbuilding facility and research complex. You will instruct Captain S’Ten to prepare and provision the captured scout ship for that mission and to make whatever repairs are necessary. I want Mister Sodok on his way as soon as possible.”
“But this thaessu has no loyalty either to you or the praetor!” Terix said, his eyes wide as dinner plates. “With respect, he cannot be trusted!”
“Which is why I will assign him a minder, Centurion. An experienced supervisor whose loyalty cannot be questioned.”
Terix calmed himself quickly, smoothing his ruffled military bearing. “I have acted in that capacity before.”
“I know, Centurion.”
“I hereby volunteer to do so again, Admiral.”
Valdore shook his head. “Your involvement with this thaessu has become far too personal and emotional, Centurion. I have selected another minder for the assignment that awaits this prisoner—Special Agent T’Luadh of the Tal Shiar.” He gestured toward the black-clad woman, who now stood at Trip’s side.
“Nice to see you again,” Trip said, making a partial bow in the woman’s direction. “I like what you’ve done with your hair.” T’Luadh’s only response was to step silently behind him once more and yank painfully on his restraints.
Trip considered asking Valdore to reconsider his choice for the chaperone job in favor of Terix but decided it would be more prudent to simply hold his tongue.
And hope for the best.
Terix’s offer to serve as Trip’s executioner was beginning to look downright gracious.
THIRTEEN
Monday, August 22, 2157
Enterprise NX-01
Quebec sector, near Galorndon Core
JONATHAN ARCHER FELT palpably relieved that Starfleet Command had finally decided to expand Enterprise’s participation in Earth’s defense to encompass more than her ongoing “generosity offensive.” Even on the front lines, encounters between Starfleet’s fastest ships of the line and their Romulan counterparts were often separated by long uneventful intervals. But thanks to Malcolm Reed’s diligent insistence on continual tactical upgrades and his ever-changing menu of battle drills, Archer felt confident that his crew would remain busy enough to avoid succumbing to the ennui and frustration that sometimes surfaced when the “business” of war was slow.
As the span between Romulan encounters extended from days to weeks, however, Archer always began feeling less confident about his own morale. Having to endure Phlox riding him about his poor eating and sleeping habits wasn’t helping. The battles that punctuated the beginnings and endings of those lengthy periods of mounting tension felt almost cathartic.
Today’s battle was no different. The second-guessing, the questioning of the loss of life that seemed inevitably woven into each encounter, would come later, probably in the dark, during the dead of the ship’s night.
On the bridge’s main viewer, a single large, menacing shape hung suspended. Barely visible along the viewer’s bottom edge was a portion of the blue-green world over which both vessels contended.
Archer didn’t doubt that Enterprise
might have been a little worse for wear after the last exchange of fire between the two vessels. However, he noted with grim satisfaction that much of the Romulan’s port side was visibly singed.
Unlike Enterprise, the Romulan vessel’s weapons tubes were dark and cold. Archer maintained a fervent hope that this condition would not change anytime soon.
“Still no response to our hails, Captain,” Lieutenant Sato reported from the comm station.
“Why am I not surprised?” Archer said. “Can you ID this particular warbird, Lieutenant?”
“The vessel’s exterior markings identify her as the Imperial Warbird Raon. Good name. It’s Romulan for ‘accomplishment.’”
“Let’s hope we don’t give them the chance to live up to it,” Archer said.
“So far there’s no sign that our systems have been compromised by any remotely launched malware,” said Malcolm Reed from behind his tactical console. “Apparently the Romulans have yet to counter our countermeasures to their remote-hijacking weapon.”
Either that or we took that system down before they had the chance to use it on us, Archer thought. Instead, he said, “Contact the personnel at the Galorndon Core science station, Hoshi, and make sure the Romulans can’t listen in on us.”
“Yes, sir. Opening a secure channel and scrambling it.”
At least a minute passed while Hoshi worked. Then the image of the Warbird Raon rippled momentarily, as though projected onto the surface of a pond, then vanished. In its place were a pair of humans, a man and a woman, both of whom wore light-hued civilian clothing and appeared to be in their early fifties. Behind them was a comfortable-looking farrago of well-filled bookcases and what appeared to be local potted ferns.
Archer rose from his chair. “I’m Captain Jonathan Archer of the Starship Enterprise.”
“Archer,” the woman said, apparently distracted by whatever task Enterprise’s hail had interrupted. “I believe I’ve heard of you.”
Archer wondered whether she was thinking of the humanitarian renown Enterprise had earned lately, or of the last minutes of the Kobayashi Maru. It took him all of two seconds to decide that it didn’t matter.
“Everyone on the surface of Galorndon Core is in grave danger, Doctor…” Archer said before trailing off.
“Jensen,” said the woman, apprehending Archer’s meaning. “I’m Doctor Emily Jensen.” Indicating the bemused-looking man who stood beside her, she said, “This is Doctor Hans Ruden.”
“Exactly how are we in danger, Captain?” Ruden said, his brow wrinkling in evident skepticism.
“Enterprise has just immobilized a Romulan warship, which is right now about nine hundred kilometers directly above your heads.”
Dr. Jensen shook her head, scowling. “Romulans? I fail to see why the Romulans would take any interest in us, Captain.”
“They’re interested in this planet, Doctor,” Archer said as T’Pol left her science console and approached the bridge’s center. “It’s located in a sector of space they’re trying to lay claim to as they expand outward and into Coalition territory. Believe me, when the Romulans remove aliens from the worlds they annex, they’re rarely gentle about it.”
“But we’re no threat to them, Captain,” Ruden said. “We’re xenobiologists, not spies.”
Jensen nodded. “What’s more, we’re all alone here on Galorndon Core, just the two of us. This world is a treasure trove of biodiversity that could keep an army of scientists in a dozen disciplines busy for lifetimes. We’re interested in the local biosphere, not in galactic politics.”
Standing behind the empty command chair, T’Pol faced the main viewer. “According to Vulcan’s planetary database, Galorndon Core possesses resources useful to disciplines other than the biosciences.”
“What do you mean?” Ruden said, his frown deepening.
“Like Coridan, this world contains substantial quantities of high-grade dilithium ore,” T’Pol said. “The Romulans may very well believe that you have come to Galorndon Core merely to exploit that resource for Earth’s war effort.”
“What would you know about Earth’s war effort, Vulcan?” Jensen said with unconcealed resentment. “I thought your people didn’t want to dirty your hands with such things.”
Archer put up his hands, like a referee in a boxing match. “Stand down, Doctor. Trust me, even if the Romulans didn’t have a clue about the dilithium deposits on Galorndon Core, they’d be way too territorial to give a damn why you’re there. That’s why I’m under orders to get you out of harm’s way, at least until the shooting’s over up here. A squad of MACOs is preparing to land and evacuate you.”
“But I thought you said you’d ‘immobilized’ the Romulan ship, Captain,” Ruden said.
“Yes, I did say that.” Archer smiled, though he was gritting his teeth in frustration. “I just can’t guarantee how long they’ll stay that way.”
“But sending a squad of soldiers down—isn’t that overkill?” Jensen asked.
“Not if the Romulans start sending down ground troops of their own,” T’Pol said.
“You’ll stop them. Won’t you?” Ruden said.
“We’ll do everything we can. In the meantime, I’d encourage you to archive all of your data. Be ready for evacuation within the hour. Archer out.”
Without waiting for either of the xenobiologists to reply, the captain leaned on his chair’s right-hand comm button, closing off the channel. The image of the Warbird Raon, juxtaposed against Galorndon Core’s eastern limb and the eternal stars beyond, returned a moment later.
“Captain, I’m receiving an audio transmission from the Romulan vessel,” Hoshi said, her voice tense with tightly bridled excitement.
“Let’s hear it, Hoshi,” Archer said as he retook his seat.
After a momentary delay caused by the activation of the universal translator matrix, a stern, authoritarian voice reverberated across the bridge. “Earth vessel, this is Commander Chulak of the Imperial Warbird Raon. You are encroaching on space that has been formally annexed by the Romulan Star Empire. You will withdraw immediately.”
“Commander, this is Captain Jonathan Archer of the Starship Enterprise.” Archer infused his voice with as much duranium as he could muster. “Even if Earth or the Coalition of Planets recognized your claim, your vessel is in no condition to enforce it. I advise you to withdraw.”
He sat in silence, awaiting the vainglorious reply he’d come to expect after so many similar audio-only encounters.
“I read a buildup of power in the warbird’s impulse engines,” Malcolm Reed said, prompting Archer to grip the arms of his chair tightly.
A moment later, the Warbird Raon fell away from the backdrop of Galorndon Core’s limb and began dwindling swiftly into the dark reaches of the system.
Archer released his grip on his chair. He turned toward Malcolm, who was watching his tactical board closely. “I’ll be damned, Malcolm. Those new high-yield photonic torpedoes must have hit him harder than I thought.”
“Perhaps,” Malcolm said with his usual conservatism. “Or else Chulak would like us to believe that.”
“Either way, he’s given us the opening we need,” Archer said. “Stay alert, in case that warbird comes back. Or reinforcements somehow manage to sneak up on us.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Give Major Kimura the signal to send down his ground team.”
Galorndon Core
Pressing his face against the port, MACO Private Owen Salazar-Tucker admired the planet that slowly turned hundreds of klicks beneath the belly of the descending shuttlepod. This world’s rapidly expanding vista looked even bluer than the waters off of Ireland’s Iveragh Peninsula, where he had spent so much of his childhood. It was an achingly beautiful planet, and it filled him nearly to bursting with thoughts of home.
A hard but familiar voice spoke up directly behind Owen’s head. “Stay focused, Private. We’re here to rescue two research scientists. We haven’t come to admire the scenery.”
Good-natured laughter and jeers from the rest of the assault team reverberated throughout the auxiliary craft’s snug personnel compartment, which now accommodated a dozen tense and beaked-up MACOs. Startled by the abrupt onslaught, Owen turned in his seat and found himself face to face with Selma Guitierrez, the most senior noncom currently serving aboard Enterprise.
“Yes, sir,” Owen said. “I’m focused on this mission like a laser, sir.”
She sat in the row behind him and started arranging the multiple straps of her crash harness. “Glad to hear it, kid. Just make sure you’re not so focused that you forget to strap in before this bad boy hits the atmosphere. These fast landings are designed to inflict kidney damage.”
Owen suppressed an embarrassed gasp as he scrambled to follow Guitierrez’s example by untangling his restraints.
“I think it’s all about a lack of restraint,” Albert Tucker said while Miguel Salazar, Dad’s husband, scowled in silence.
Owen had no idea what his father was talking about. He did, however, have a pretty good grasp of why both his parents had reacted with such reflexive negativity to his announcement that he intended to join the MACO. He could only hope that they’d rise above their protective impulses in order to see the bigger picture.
“I have to do this, Dad,” Owen said, careful to keep any hint of pleading out of his voice. “People are dying every day. The Romulans are on their way, and they’re bulldozing everything in their path. I can’t just ignore that.”
“You’re overstating things,” Dad said.
“I agree,” said Miguel.
“And you’re both burying your heads in the sand.” Owen crossed his arms truculently to show his folks that he wouldn’t be dissuaded from doing his duty.
“I know what my parents would say to this,” Dad said, shaking his head. “This family has sacrificed more than enough already to threats from outer space. Didn’t this family earn a pass after those Xindi horror shows vaporized your Aunt Lizzie? Or when those space pirates murdered my brother, your Uncle Trip?”
Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War Page 12
