The viewer abruptly went dead, joining the many other systems that had given up. Archer cursed under his breath.
“Captain T’Pak of the Vulcan Defense Force Cruiser Sepok wishes to speak with you, sir,” Hoshi said. “He asks if we require any assistance.”
Archer chuckled, and the sound rolled, snowball-like, until it became a belly laugh. To his relief, he saw that Hoshi, Malcolm, Travis, and D.O. had all joined in, while T’Pol sat at the science console in a silent display of put-upon, long-suffering patience.
Who says that Vulcans don’t have a sense of humor? he thought.
After he’d regained some measure of control over himself, Archer said, “Hoshi, please ask Captain T’Pak what gave him the idea that we needed any help.”
THIRTY-ONE
Early in the Month of T’keKhuti, YS 8771
Wednesday, July 30, 2160
Central ShiKahr, Vulcan
“THANK YOU FOR AGREEING to speak with me, Excellency,” Commander T’Pol said from the wide oblong screen that dominated the subspace transceiver located near the center of the Administration Tower’s top level.
“Not at all, Commander,” T’Pau said, noting how tired and gaunt the blue-uniformed woman on the other end of the subspace connection appeared. “Are you still aboard Enterprise?”
“I am, though there will be little for me to do here until the Sepok finishes towing us to Earth so that Enterprise can be properly decommissioned.”
“Will you remain in Starfleet after that, Commander?” T’Pau asked.
The commander looked almost wistful. “I haven’t decided yet. Some matters of a personal nature must be resolved first.”
T’Pau could wait; the commander would doubtless furnish details if she felt the need to do so.
“I understand, Commander,” T’Pau said. “If there is anything I can do…” She trailed off, the end of the sentence being an obvious rhetorical superfluity.
“Perhaps there is,” the younger woman said. “I have reason to believe that a close…colleague of mine was carrying out a mission of espionage on the Romulan flagship during the Battle of Cheron. You know him as Sodok.”
Despite her well-known emotional control, both of T’Pau’s eyebrows rose almost with a volition of their own; Starfleet’s only Vulcan officer seemed to be an inexhaustible font of surprises.
“Indeed,” T’Pau said, recovering her composure. “It would be gratifying to know that Mister Sodok somehow succeeded in avoiding the fate that befell so many others at Cheron.”
“I concur. He appears to have debarked in an escape pod. But it exploded a short time after its launch. I haven’t been able to determine whether he was in the pod at the time.”
“I will order the Vulcan Defense Directorate to undertake a thorough investigation,” T’Pau said. “And I will offer your friends Denak and Ych’a prominent roles in the proceedings.”
“Thank you, Administrator,” T’Pol said. T’Pau thought for a moment that the commander might be about to weep.
“I have been told that Mister Sodok was…is your mate,” T’Pau said.
It was T’Pol’s turn to raise her eyebrows. “That is true, Administrator.”
“Then may I assume that the two of you were linked in the Syrrannite manner?”
T’Pol nodded. “We shared a psionic bonding, yes.”
“Does your link persist?” T’Pau knew she didn’t need to mention the fact that the death of a mate would immediately break any telepathic marriage bond.
“I am finding it difficult to tell,” said T’Pol. “I suffered some neural trauma during the Cheron engagement. And the other neurological difficulties I experienced years prior to that seem to have compounded the problem.”
“Problem?” T’Pau asked, recalling the Pa’nar Syndrome that she had helped the commander overcome several years earlier during the waning hours of the V’Las regime.
“I cannot tell my impressions of the link from mere wishful thinking,” T’Pol said. “It is…a most frustrating experience.”
“Do you have reason to believe that anyone—on either side—might have recovered him prior to the pod’s explosion?”
“Not specifically, Excellency,” T’Pol said, her dark eyes glistening brightly. “I have only hope.”
Hope, T’Pau thought, marveling at the commander’s unconscious, unrepentant show of emotion. She has dwelled almost exclusively among humans for far too long.
She said, “Now that our adversaries are suing for peace, Commander, a visit to your homeworld may be in order. After all, you have earned the thanks of all of Vulcan.”
“Perhaps, Administrator,” said T’Pol. “But I am not the one most deserving of gratitude. As you say, the enemy now sues for peace. That is a direct consequence of the breaking of much of the Romulan fleet at Cheron yesterday, both their primary invasion force and their reinforcements. And all of that is a direct result of your decision to commit the Vulcan Defense Force to the conflict.”
T’Pau had little faith that the Romulan desire for peace was genuine; she knew only too well that they preferred to play a centuries-long game of treachery, conflict, and conquest. They would negotiate a treaty while refusing to show their faces. That made the current Romulan peace overture little more than an insincere bid to buy time, in increments of years or decades, during which they would revert to type by breaking their pledges and going back on the offensive.
“As you have pointed out on numerous occasions,” T’Pau said, “it was the only logical decision possible, given the complete dearth of better options. Had the Romulans not been stopped at Cheron, their forces might already be headed for both Vulcan and Earth. Whatever the risks, I could not afford to allow that to happen. I could not allow the Romulans to deny Vulcan its future by denying humanity theirs.”
“I understand.” T’Pol tipped her head slightly to one side in evident curiosity. “But I can see that the decision continues to trouble you, even now.”
T’Pau nodded. “Yes. It remains freighted with grave implications. Whether history ultimately judges it a necessity or an indulgence, my decision may yet prove inimical to the Syrrannite cause over the long term. Rather than accept accolades uncritically, I must face the possible repercussions honestly.”
“I’m sure that Syrran would have told you that regrets are illogical,” T’Pol said. “As would Surak, for that matter.”
“I shall learn to live with my decision,” T’Pau said. Or at least I shall find a way to atone for it.
“If you will forgive my boldness, Excellency, allow me to suggest that your fears might be unwarranted.”
Once again, T’Pau raised both eyebrows. “My fears, Commander?”
“Forgive me, Excellency. I chose my words poorly. I merely meant to suggest that your…concerns about warfare causing our species to lapse into an earlier, less-evolved condition may be groundless. We aren’t Romulans and will never emulate them, either by accident or by design.”
“You seem very confident of that.” T’Pau experienced a pang of fervid longing for such certainty.
“I am, Administrator. Because unlike the Romulans, who lack the guidance of the Kir’Shara, Vulcan will select its own future, using logic and deliberation to navigate there. Unfortunately, there will be instances when the road to that future requires brief detours.”
“Perhaps,” T’Pau said with a nod. “But I…hope that your observation proves incorrect.”
Regardless, T’Pau thought, suddenly feeling more determined than ever before, the Battle of Cheron is the final act of violence I will ever sanction on Vulcan’s behalf.
THIRTY-TWO
Day Forty-Three, Romulan Month of T’Ke’Tas, 1184 YD’E
Tuesday, September 13, 2160
The Hall of State, Dartha City, Romulus
TERIX KEPT HIS EXPRESSION carefully neutral as he stepped into the foyer to greet the admiral’s visitor.
“I see you have risen steeply in rank since our previous encounte
r,” First Consul T’Leikha said. She eyed the new plumage on his collar and then dipped her head in an imperfect counterfeit of respect. “Congratulations, Commander. The new rank suits you.”
“Such are the vicissitudes of war, First Consul,” Terix said curtly, returning the politician’s nod. In truth, Terix took little pride in his rapid rise through the ranks during the past few wartime fvheisn; the deaths of far too many good officers, some of his closest friends numbering among them, had been responsible for a good deal of it.
“Ah, yes,” said the First Consul. “The very thing I’ve come to see Admiral Valdore about.”
Terix nodded. He turned and led the way through a high archway, his clacking boot heels echoing through the ancient cavernous building, into an outer vestibule, and then finally into the personal office of Admiral Valdore.
Still healing from the burns he had sustained at Cheron, Valdore remained seated behind his huge sherawood desk. He acknowledged the First Consul’s entrance only with his eyes.
“Admiral,” said T’Leikha, visibly annoyed by Valdore’s casual greeting. Terix suppressed a smile, quietly enjoying her discomfiture.
“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, First Consul?” Valdore said.
“This isn’t a social call, Admiral. I have come to discuss the treaty that the Praetorate is at present allowing the hevam to dictate to us.”
Since he hadn’t been formally dismissed, Terix merely stood at parade rest near the door, quietly watching the exchange.
“The praetor is hardly allowing the Earthmen to dictate terms,” Valdore said, still seated because it would have caused him a great deal of pain to stand. Having seen the admiral’s wounds, Terix understood how much healing and therapy still lay ahead before Valdore could be considered fully recovered.
T’Leikha began pacing the ancient stone floor that fronted Valdore’s desk. “That is not how it appears to many of us on the Continuing Committee of the Senate. First, the cowards have refused to consent to face-to-face negotiations. Not only do they insist that the entire agreement be conducted via the subspace channels, they’re restricting us to audio. Our negotiators cannot even look into their eyes as they bargain for the future.”
Valdore scowled. “Don’t start believing your own party’s propaganda, T’Leikha. We’re negotiating via the audio subspace channels because the glorious Praetor Karzan insisted upon it. He believes that if the hevam ever discover our distant relationship with our thaessu brothers—the Vulcans—then they will come to believe that we share their obvious weaknesses.”
“Weaknesses that snatched victory from our grasp at Cheron,” the First Consul scoffed. “You evacuated Cheron when we could have held it. You have done damage to the fleet that has set our military posture back half a century or more.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Valdore said, visibly angry. “All it really takes to do that is a succession of warmongering civilian regimes, such as those that preceded Karzan’s.”
T’Leikha pointed one of her long, delicate fingers at him as though it were a disruptor pistol. “You go too far, Admiral!”
“Kllhe’mnhe,” he swore, using language more commonly heard among enlisted uhlanu than among those who wielded the levers of power. “How many of you august members of the Continuing Committee have ever been in uniform, First Consul? How many of you have carried arms in the Empire’s service? How many of you have shed your blood securing the Outmarches?”
T’Leikha averted her eyes, looking downward and thereby proving the admiral’s point. “It is true what they say about you, then,” she said at length. Now Terix heard more sorrow than anger in her tone. “You really do lack the heart to defend and expand the Empire.”
“Nonsense, First Consul.” Valdore’s anger appeared to have receded as well, at least somewhat. “But after having spent so much of my career planning and executing the Empire’s military adventures, I can see the benefit of putting up a treaty-defined border, with a corresponding demilitarized region.”
“The so-called Neutral Zone,” T’Leika spat.
“Yes. Karzan appreciates the positive aspects of this as well, First Consul. I find it strange that you do not. Were you not one of the strongest supporters of his ascension to the Praetorate?”
“Perhaps I made my choice too hastily, Admiral. I can see now that Senator Vrax would have been a better candidate.”
Terix recognized T’Leikha’s words as nothing less than treason. But Valdore chuckled, dismissing her words as though they were merely the gripes of enlisted legionaries.
“Vrax is a foul-tempered old man with a sadly limited imagination,” Valdore said. “He would fail to use the Neutral Zone, and the coming interval of peace, to our advantage. On the other hand, Praetor Karzan will make the Neutral Zone an impenetrable curtain, behind which we will work to rebuild everything we have lost to the hevam, their Coalition, and Haakona.”
“And you will trust the hevam and their allies not to go right on expanding their presence, with or without this ‘Neutral Zone.’”
Valdore smiled slightly as he shook his head. “It isn’t a matter of trust, First Consul. It is a matter of constant vigilance. We will watch them well from our side of the Neutral Zone.”
She nodded, and a look of extreme sadness creased her otherwise unlined face. “Just as you are watching me now.”
Terix didn’t much like the sound of that, so he began moving toward Valdore’s desk.
But not in time to prevent her from drawing a forearm-long blade from her sleeve. Almost before Terix realized what was happening, she had thrown the knife with all the skill and grace of a professional assassin. The blade’s elegant bone haft protruded from the right side of Valdore’s upper abdomen, where it very likely had pierced his heart. The admiral slumped forward across his desk, his face frozen in a rictus of surprise.
“That was for the Empire,” she said, glaring at the admiral’s bleeding body. “For our humiliation at Cheron, and for the all the future humiliations that you, Praetor Karzan, and the hevam would heap upon us all. And for Nijil.”
Judging that little could be done for admiral, especially while his killer had yet to be dealt with, Terix drew his Honor Blade.
Then T’Leikha, first consul of the Romulan Senate, turned away from her victim and faced Terix.
“Where do you stand, Commander?” she asked, her eyes agleam with a fervor that Terix could interpret only as madness. “With the past or the future?”
Idly wondering whether his next action would gain him yet another promotion or summary execution, he raised his sacred, ritually sharpened dathe’anofv-sen—the Honor Blade of his ancestors—in a two-handed grip.
Deciding to let the gods of ancient ch’Rihan sort past from future, he lunged forward.
“I stand,” he said as the weapon’s lethal downward arc neatly cleaved the first consul’s head from her shoulders, “with the Romulan Star Empire.”
THIRTY-THREE
Wednesday, November 9, 2160
Earth Outpost 1
FOR UNCOUNTED BILLIONS of years, the battered potato-shaped asteroid had tumbled through the cold depths of interstellar space between yellow Iota Virginis and yellow-white Gamma Tucanae. Today, thanks to the half-decade-old foresight of both the United Earth government and the United Earth Space Probe Agency, as well as the Starfleet Corps of Engineers’ diligent application of controlled fusion blasts and high-intensity mining lasers over the past four years, the ancient five-kilometer-long body’s nickel-iron interior now boasted a two-kilometer-wide hollow space.
Roughly spherical in shape, this internal lacuna—protected from external attack by approximately one and a half kilometers of nickel-iron in every direction—now supported a permanent crew of upwards of sixty civilian technical specialists, Starfleet officers, and MACO personnel, all living and working in a honeycomb of observation facilities, work areas, and residential space. From its inception during the first year of the Earth-Romulan War, Earth Outpos
t 1, along with the nearby Earth Outpost 2, had been dedicated to keeping a vigilant eye on the Romulan fleet.
Now, in the war’s long-overdue aftermath, Outpost 1 still functioned like a well-oiled machine, and Commander Richard C. Stiles, the outpost’s Starfleet CO, wouldn’t have had it any other way.
Especially today, when the prospect of conducting regular daily business had to overcome a new and significant challenge: the arrival of the Vulcan Diplomatic Vessel Maymora and the pair of VIP guests she was carrying.
After delegating his responsibilities for the rest of the afternoon to key members of his senior staff, Stiles returned to his quarters to change out of his rumpled blue duty jumpsuit and into his meticulously pressed dress uniform.
He was still adjusting his tie minutes after the maglev had deposited him at the docking bay built into the asteroid’s surface. He continued fiddling with it nervously as he waited for the indicator light on the airlock door to turn from red to green. After a seeming eternity, the hatchway rolled open with a pneumatic hiss, and a man and a woman emerged onto the maglev platform a moment later. A pair of civilian-garbed bodyguards, a human female and a Vulcan male, stood discreetly behind them.
Stiles’s mouth fell open, and he had to make a conscious effort to close it again. Before this moment, he hadn’t realized just how much “I” the term “VIP” was capable of carrying.
Though apparently quite young for one who wielded so much influence, the woman was dour faced, slight of stature, and wore a loose, flowing robe that brought to mind images of abstemious monks and dawn prayers. She raised her right hand in a split-fingered gesture of greeting as distinctive as the delicate upward taper of her ears, which her long, dark hair nearly concealed from view.
“Administrator T’Pau of the Confederacy of Vulcan,” she said. “We come to serve.”
The man beside her wore a blue standard-duty Starfleet jumpsuit with captain’s bars on the collar, and stood a full head taller than the woman. There was no mistaking his identity as he smiled and extended his right hand. Numb with surprise, Stiles took Archer’s hand, gripped it firmly, and shook.
Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War Page 29
