“I was the penultimate keeper of Surak’s katra,” T’Pau said. “Speaking as one who knew Surak intimately, I must insist that he would oppose entering this war. Surak’s destruction has overtaxed the emotional control of every Vulcan.”
“Perhaps,” said Soval.
“Becoming party to a war could only worsen the collective damage. We would risk becoming atavisms, returning to the primal, bloodthirsty ways of our ancestors.”
“Perhaps.”
“We would risk becoming the very Romulans you insist that we fight, Soval.”
“Administrator, we can avoid that risk only by condemning an entire world to death, or whatever might be worse than death.”
T’Pau turned to face him again. “Surak has taught us that peace sometimes comes at great cost.” She moved toward the exit, signaling her wish to end the discussion.
“I do not dispute that, Administrator,” Soval said as she walked past him to open the door. “But allow me to pose a final question, if I may.”
She paused on the threshold and looked back at the senior diplomat. “Very well.”
“Should Earth fall before the coming invasion,” Soval said, “which world do you believe our Romulan cousins will go after next?”
T’Pau left the room without answering the question.
TWENTY-SIX
Day Seven, Romulan Month of ta’Krat, 1184 YD’E
Monday, May 10, 2160
The Hall of State, Dartha City, Romulus
THE MAN KNOWN AS Cunaehr and Sodok sagged between the grasp of the two uhlanu who half carried, half dragged him into Valdore’s office. The admiral studied the vacant expression on the engineer’s face with some trepidation. Then he turned toward the paramilitary-garbed young woman who stood at rigid attention beside his sherawood desk.
“If you’ve lobotomized him by overusing those damned mind probes, Agent T’Luadh, I promise I will spit you on my Honor Blade,” he said, speaking in a low growl.
“A Tal Shiar physician has certified that he is essentially unharmed,” she said, apparently unfazed by Valdore’s bluster. “No permanent damage has been done. I believe he may be coming around now.”
The engineer’s head lolled limply as the two guards continued holding him upright. Then his neck stiffened and he raised his head, blinking repeatedly in the harsh, orangetinted light of Valdore’s office. Valdore doubted he even knew where he was.
“Mister Cunaehr,” the admiral said, approaching the engineer very closely. “I have been told you are making steady progress preparing the avaihh lli vastam fleet for maximum warp.”
He blinked again, and a look of recognition crossed his face. “That’s right, Admiral. I still need to…make some settling-in adjustments to the command-and-control interfaces. But those ships you found at Gasko II will be ready to deploy alongside the main invasion force, right on schedule.”
“I hope for your own sake that you’re correct about that,” Valdore said, recalling the many occasions when the late Nijil had disappointed him with unfulfilled promises.
“I have…faith in my work, Admiral,” said the engineer.
“Then surely the other members of your engineering team can handle the remaining details,” T’Luadh said, placing a hand on the disruptor pistol she kept holstered at her hip. “Admiral, I would be happy to dispose of him for you.”
Valdore held up a hand. “Not yet, T’Luadh. As Mister Cunaehr has already indicated, we may have further need of his technical expertise as our invasion plans near fruition.
“You will take charge of him aboard the Warbird Dabhae tomorrow, when we begin the voyage to Cheron.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Early in the Month of Z’at, YS 8771
Monday, May 10, 2160
Vulcan’s Forge, Vulcan
LOST IN HER MEDITATIONS, T’Pau sat cross-legged on the wind-carved top of Surak’s Peak. She had left her robe’s hood down, since the slowly lengthening shadow of T’Klass’s Pillar provided more than adequate shielding from the rays of brilliant red Nevasa, which illuminated a wide, crescent-shaped swath of T’Rukh, the Watcher that dominated the entire hemisphere’s vermilion sky. The thin but not uncomfortably warm desert air caressed her hair and the tips of her ears, which picked up the long, echoing shrieks of the scavenging sha’vokh birds that wheeled vigilantly somewhere overhead.
Before her and far, far below lay a wide span of flat, blistering, red hardpan, a forbidding stretch of inhospitable desert that spread out in all directions from the ancient mountain’s foothills. Beyond lay the distant expanse of ShiKahr, Vulcan’s venerable capital, whose outer agricultural fields, roads, dwellings, and delicate central stone spires rippled thanks to the heat distortions of the desert air.
The cries of the carrion-eaters gave way to a gravel-crunching footfall behind her. T’Pau’s spine stiffened; she had ordered Kuvak to have this space cleared for her exclusive use.
She turned her head and saw a tall, slender man in a dark traveler’s robe approaching her. Moving with the grace of a Suus Mahna master, he dropped gently to the stony ground near her and adopted T’Pau’s cross-legged posture.
“Forgive me, Administrator,” he said, his robe’s baggy hood still obscuring his face.
“Who are you?” T’Pau demanded.
“Do not be concerned,” the man answered. “I am not actually here.”
She scowled. “You are speaking blatant illogic.”
“That would be ironic if it were so. Allow me to offer you proof.” He raised his hands to his head and doffed his hood.
T’Pau recognized the man’s long, angular, gray-topped face immediately. “Surak,” she said. “This isn’t possible. You can’t be here. You can’t be anywhere.”
“You are correct, in essence. However, no process can be one hundred percent efficient. Whenever a Vulcan’s immortal katra is extracted and moved—be it from permanent interment within one of the vre’katra, or katric arcs, that the Vulcan Masters maintain deep within Mount Seleya, or from the mind of an individual katra keeper such as yourself—a small residue is left behind. An echo, if you will.”
T’Pau had never seen any empirical research into this topic, yet the argument presented by this…apparition?…echo?…of Surak struck her as logical.
“If what you say is true, then this conversation must be taking place entirely inside my mind.”
The man who resembled Surak nodded. “Indeed. But this fact alone cannot invalidate the truth of anything you and I may discuss. After all, what is the entire universe, at least as you perceive it, other than a construct of your mind?”
Her senses reeled momentarily. Perhaps she had been working too hard. With all the weighty matters that burdened her at the moment, the last thing she wanted was to debate epistemology with a likely hallucination.
“What do you wish to discuss?” she asked the Surak simulacrum.
“Many things are now vying for your attention,” he said. “For one, you aren’t certain you are pursuing the correct course of action.”
T’Pau controlled an impulse to reply. Given everything that had happened during the years since she had transitioned from revolutionary leader to politician, how could she be certain of anything?
“Your reticence is only logical, T’Pau,” Surak’s image said softly. “You worry that you lead out of vanity. You have a world to govern, day to day and hour to hour. Ceaseless responsibility that allows no time for misgivings.”
A world to govern, she thought with bitterness. During the years she had spent opposing Administrator V’Las’s warmongering, she had never envisioned taking V’Las’s place. Even after the reactionary administrator’s ouster, she’d assumed that Kuvak, the veteran minister who had proved instrumental in thwarting V’Las’s plan to start an Andorian-Vulcan war, was the most logical choice. Kuvak had probably harbored the same assumption, though he never spoke to her of such things.
Three tendays after V’Las’s fall, a special planetary plebiscite was c
alled. The results had taught her two important things immediately: that the Confederacy of Vulcan’s highest leadership post was hers, and the wisdom of doubting her hitherto unquestioned trust in the logic that guided the Vulcan electorate.
“I believe I understand what troubles you, T’Pau,” Surak’s image said. “You are experiencing second thoughts about having accepted the mantle of leadership.”
“Perhaps.”
“Do not underestimate yourself, T’Pau. You have much to offer Vulcan.”
“No. Syrran had much to offer Vulcan.” Her eyes stung at the thought of her late colleague, a fellow peaceful revolutionary and student of Surak, and the man after whom the Syrrannite sect had been named. “You had much to offer Vulcan, Surak.”
“As you have noted, I no longer exist, even as a discorporate katra. Whatever I have to offer Vulcan is already available to all through the Kir’Shara. Finding the wisdom to interpret those offerings for the benefit of all of Vulcan is up to you.”
Hearing the words of Surak delivered in mild tones but with such authority was gratifying. Illogically, her doubts remained. “My skill set has made me a successful revolutionary,” she said, “but it has also made me a poor choice for the task of governing after the revolution, at least so far.” A logical electorate would have understood that, she thought, and chosen Kuvak over me.
Surak’s lips curled into something that looked suspiciously like a small smile. “Assuming that your dismal assessment of our people’s logic is correct,” he said, “then who better to correct this deficiency than a Syrrannite leader?”
“Perhaps.” T’Pau could not deny the logic of his words, having already concluded that the best way to navigate the paradoxes of war and peace was to follow the strict discipline of logic as laid out in the path of the Kolinahr.
“But there is another subject that you need to discuss,” the residue of Surak continued. “I speak of the war that our Romulan cousins are prosecuting, and the fate of the Terrans. I know you have had a change of heart regarding Vulcan’s involvement in that war.”
T’Pau understood why her mind had conjured this image of Surak. He represented the repressed guilt she felt over her tentative decision to violate the great man’s central teaching of pacifism.
“T’Pol is right, Surak,” she said at length. “So are Kuvak and Archer, and every one of Vulcan’s allies.”
Surak’s image raised an eyebrow. “Right?”
“About Vulcan not being able to afford pacifism during this time of crisis. Before the Romulan threat to the entire Coalition is neutralized, and Earth is back on a path to long life and prosperity.”
Surak’s countenance remained neutral, but T’Pau sensed a profound sadness. “You are aware, of course, that this…reversal puts at risk your vision of a reformed Vulcan.”
She nodded. “I understand that. I have come to accept that the risk is an acceptable one. It would be logical for me to step aside and allow Kuvak to take charge. He understands that staying out of the conflict may be riskier than entering it.”
“Kuvak is a fair-minded public servant,” said Surak. “But he isn’t a Syrrannite. He lacks a long-term vision for Vulcan.”
“Perhaps. But his leadership may be crucial in securing Vulcan’s short-term survival. His analysis of the conflict has always been sound.”
Surak’s gray eyebrows gathered together. “Has it? Does Kuvak recognize that a decision to fight in this war will turn Vulcan entirely away from the philosophy contained within the Kir’Shara? Does he understand that the war could transform Vulcan into a second Romulus?”
T’Pau noticed that Surak was staring at her. She met his gaze squarely.
This is my own mind, she cautioned herself. I argue with myself, not with Surak.
“Vulcan will embrace the Kir’Shara. It will take time. It will be a lengthy process. But as you say, no process can be one hundred percent efficient.”
“You believe it better to sanction some violence than to risk an entire civilization being destroyed,” the shadow of Surak said, speaking in tones both accusatory and disappointed. “How do you reconcile that with your Syrrannite beliefs?”
Weary of the counsel of her conscience, T’Pau brought her knees together and stood. “I no longer find it logical to try,” she said.
Without sparing a backward glance at the spirit that had climbed the mountain to haunt her, she began making her descent to the Forge.
When T’Pau reached the hot, rocky flatland, she was gratified to discover that she had arrived there alone.
Fourthmoon, Fesoan Lor’veln Year 471
Northern Wastes, Andoria
Anishtalla zh’Dhaven stood on the ice plain, her sighted eyes trained upon the ringed gas giant that Andoria endlessly circled. The little girl’s intense feelings of fear reverberated through the mind of her mother, Thirijhamel zh’Dhaven, causing an almost palpable sensation of pain.
Thirijhamel—known to her bondmates and fellow Aenar simply as Jhamel—was as blind as any Aenar. Nevertheless, her antennae formed a nonvisual map of her daughter’s small, delicate features as the girl’s antennae turned upward in an inquisitive yet cautious posture. The tears that had gathered in the child’s eyes and on her cheeks crystallized in the harsh wind.
Jhamel’s only non-Aenar bondmate, Hravishran th’Zoarhi—his three shelthreth mates called him Shran—had often spoken wonderingly about the unique blend of Andorian and Aenar-Andorian traits that their daughter, the first and only product of their quadrogenetic union, had so far exhibited. For example, Shran had described the little girl’s facial skin tone as greenish blue, beneath a full head of hair as white as the face of the fairest Aenar.
Not for the first time, Jhamel wished that she could see her daughter, her precious zhei, through the sighted eyes of Shran, the little girl’s thaan-father.
The child spoke aloud, as had been her habit since she’d attained her initial fluency in Old Common Andorian three winters earlier.
“Where has Father Thavan gone?”
Jhamel smiled at Talla’s use of a childish endearment to refer to Shran. But her smile faded as she considered her daughter’s almost plaintive question. She did not wish to frighten the girl unduly, but she also had no desire to mislead her. Speaking wordlessly directly into Talla’s brain, Jhamel said, “Your thavan had to leave Andoria for a while, my heart.”
“What is he doing?” Talla said, still speaking aloud. If she had inherited any psi potential from her Aenar parents, it had yet to manifest itself as telepathic ability.
“He’s…” Jhamel paused, trying to decide how much to reveal. “He had to help some friends who are in trouble.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what friends do, Talla. Because that’s who your father is.” She’d seen how hard Shran had worked to fit in among the Aenar, who had over the centuries built a pacifist society. Shran had tried to adopt the ways of peace, and Jhamel felt confident that he would continue to try, no matter what impediments the outside world threw into his path.
“When is he coming home?”
Jhamel paused momentarily to compose herself before replying. “Soon, I hope, Talla. Soon.”
“Is he coming home?”
Jhamel silently cursed herself; she had allowed too much of her own fear to show. Now she couldn’t muster another telepathic answer without revealing even more of her anxieties about the call Shran had found impossible to ignore. She could only hope that her other two bondmates, Lahvishri sh’Ralaavazh and Onalishenar ch’Sorichas—Vishri and Shenar—would do a better job than she had of allaying Talla’s worries once they concluded the day’s business and returned home for the evening.
In the meantime, Jhamel replied by shedding tears of her own.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Tuesday, July 29, 2160
Enterprise NX-01
Near 83 Leonis B
THE STAR FRAMED almost dead center on the bridge viewer glowed a dull orange, conjuring incongru
ous images of peaceful citrus orchards in Archer’s mind. It’s weird where your imagination can wander when you’re looking right down the cannon’s throat, he thought as he leaned forward in his chair.
“Any sign yet of the Romulan fleet?” Archer asked.
“No sensor contact with vessels of any kind as yet, Commodore,” T’Pol said as she squinted into the hooded viewer that extended toward her face from the main science console. “Aside from the other twenty-three vessels in our task force, we appear to be alone in this system.”
“Navigation beams confirm Commander T’Pol’s sensor scans,” said Lieutenant Travis Mayweather, who briefly turned his chair toward Archer.
Archer favored his alpha-watch helmsman with a small smile. It was good to have him back—especially under the present dire circumstances. Elrene Leydon was an able pilot, but Travis Mayweather was the best in the fleet.
“Bring us to a full stop and keep station here, Travis,” the captain said. “Hoshi, relay that order to the rest of the task force.”
Lieutenants Mayweather and Sato answered with simultaneous “Ayes” as they set about their business. A few moments later, a subtle shift in the vibrations that passed from the deck plates to his boots told Archer that his order had been carried out.
“Task force reports all stop, Commodore,” Hoshi said. “Keeping station just outside the fifth planet’s orbit.”
“Starfleet Intelligence reports that the Romulans have a small garrison on that planet, Commodore,” Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed said from behind the tactical console.
Here’s hoping we won’t have to land MACOs on the planet’s surface this time, Archer thought.
“Any sign of activity on the ground, or in nearby space?” Archer asked T’Pol.
“No. Perhaps the Romulans haven’t noticed us,” said T’Pol.
“Or maybe they have seen us,” Malcolm said, “and they’re just hunkering down because their outpost here isn’t provisioned well enough to stand against us.”
“They could just be waiting for an incoming Romulan fleet to take us down,” Commander D. O. O’Neill said from the secondary tactical station.
Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War Page 24
