Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War

by Michael A. Martin

  “Welcome to Earth Outpost 1, Commodore Archer,” he said. “Commander Richard Stiles.”

  Archer made a face. “‘Captain’ will do, Commander. I’m not in command of fleets these days. Hell, since Enterprise was mothballed, I haven’t put even a single sheet to the wind. So instead of ‘Commodore Archer,’ try to think of me as a celebrity hitchhiker who’s just dropped in for a quick autograph signing.”

  Stiles chuckled at Archer’s description of the purpose for his visit to Earth Outpost 1. Flip though it was, it was accurate enough. Once Stiles conducted Archer to the subspace transceiver room in his office suite, the captain’s participation in the formal signing of the Neutral Zone Treaty between Earth and the Romulan Star Empire would consist of little more than a biometric identity confirmation, an electronic endorsement of the treaty’s complex and manifold provisions, and the pressing of a button marked send on a technician’s console.

  Stiles led the way to the maglev that would carry his guests and their chaperones down into the outpost’s nickel-iron bowels.

  That ride, Stiles realized, represented a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to ask a few burning questions—and, perhaps, to get a better take on the unfolding of history than the first draft that media venues such as Newstime provided.

  “I’m curious, Captain,” Stiles said once everyone was settled and the maglev car began to move, its acceleration scarcely noticeable thanks to the new grav plating. “Why hold the formal treaty signing way out here in the sticks? It’s all being transacted through subspace. You could have done it in San Francisco.”

  “True,” Archer said, “but I’ve never visited Outpost 1 or 2 before. And San Francisco’s full of reporters.”

  That made sense to Stiles. But he still had plenty of other questions. “Some of us out here on the edge were surprised that Starfleet and the Vulcan Defense Force didn’t show any interest in pressing on into Romulan space,” he said. “Captain, shouldn’t we have taken the fight right to the Romulan homeworld itself?”

  Archer nodded, a grimly thoughtful expression on his face. “You’re not the first to bring that up. Some within Starfleet had a similar take on the war. Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed.”

  Stiles couldn’t help but frown. “You don’t think we’d have been better off beating ’em down a little more thoroughly than we did?”

  “No.”

  Stiles was having trouble believing what he was hearing. “Well, at least we managed to hang on to the Eighty-three Leonis system. We didn’t let ’em drag that onto their side of the Neutral Zone.”

  “True,” Archer said. “And if we’d tried to go any farther than that we could have undone the entire treaty effort.”

  “I’m not sure I see how, Captain. We won. They lost. End of story.”

  Archer shook his head. “You have to consider the history of World War One, Commander—how the terms of the Treaty of Versailles crushed Germany after the Allies won the war. If we’d done the same thing to the Romulans, we might have just given their next generation a damned fine reason to make war on us again.”

  “Respectfully, sir, the Romulans aren’t Germans,” Stiles said, scowling. “They aren’t even human.”

  T’Pau cleared her throat and raised an eyebrow in his direction.

  Stiles reddened. “Sorry. I must have sounded just like one of those Terra Prime knuckle draggers. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “I am incapable of being offended, Commander,” T’Pau sniffed.

  It’s a good thing I don’t know when to shut the hell up, Stiles thought. “What I meant was, nobody even knows what the Romulans look like, let alone how they think. As far as anybody knows, there’s no reason to assume we can trust them to stick to any peace agreement.”

  Archer shrugged. “I’ll grant that all of that is arguable, Commander, especially from your perspective—after all, it’s your job to stand on the ramparts and keep a watch on whatever the Romulans might be up to from day to day. But even on Earth we know how aggressive and paranoid and territorial the Romulans are. We know we might have to cross swords with them again someday.”

  “Let’s hope that day is a long way off,” Stiles said.

  “From your lips to the Great Bird’s ears,” Archer said. “But even if the treaty does hold for years, or even generations, there’s no guarantee that it’ll last forever. Still, less than a generation ago humans and Vulcans had misgivings about one another, just as we do today with the Romulans. Andorians and Tellarites could barely stand being in the same room with each other only a few years ago. Now, all four species are on the verge of formalizing a permanent multispecies partnership.”

  “I hope you’re right about that, Captain. But I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  Archer smiled in the manner of an indulgent parent. “I believe it, Commander. I’ve seen it already.”

  Stiles was about to ask Archer what he meant by that when he noticed that T’Pau seemed to be studying him closely, almost dissecting him with her sharp, dark gaze. He found it quite distracting.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Administrator T’Pau,” he said, “but why is Vulcan involved in this treaty signing at all? I mean, until the very end, the war was strictly between Earth and the Romulans.”

  To Stiles’s relief, neither T’Pau nor Archer appeared to take offense at his blunt query. “Our involvement in the war may have been brief,” she said, “but our participation in the consequent peace will be both intensive and open-ended. Vulcan, Earth, and all of our mutual allies will benefit from the labors of our most experienced diplomats, such as Foreign Minister Soval, Ambassador L’Nel, and Minister T’Maran.”

  “Forgive me, Administrator,” Stiles said, “but if my experience out here on the ragged edge of Here There Be Dragons territory has taught me anything, it’s that we’re going to need a lot more than diplomacy to make the Romulans toe the line.”

  To his immense surprise, she said, “I agree. That is why the number of outposts like this one needs to be increased greatly.”

  “I wasn’t aware that was in the cards,” Stiles said. “I thought the end of the war might have been the prelude to the end of my job.”

  “I imagine it will be quite the opposite,” T’Pau said. “Vulcan will be instrumental in expediting the process of building more Earth outposts, which will enjoy the support of the bulk of the Vulcan Defense Force fleet. Meanwhile, Earth and Alpha Centauri will continue to provide most of the required personnel.”

  “This stuff is all in the back of the treaty, Commander,” Archer said, leaning toward Stiles as he stage whispered from behind a raised hand. “Next time, give it a read before you criticize.”

  Stiles’s face flushed red with embarrassment. “Of course, sir. You’re quite right. I should have familiarized—”

  Archer interrupted, chuckling. “The document has about a thousand pages, Commander. Relax.”

  The maglev reached its destination, another platform that was essentially identical to the one at the asteroid’s surface. The walk from there to Stiles’s office took only minutes.

  As he stood before the computer-festooned desk that had been specially set up to convey Captain Archer’s electronic signature to his mysterious counterpart deep inside Romulan space, Stiles turned toward T’Pau to ask a final, nagging question.

  “Administrator, you mentioned something about supporting our new Earth outposts with most of the Vulcan fleet.”

  “I did,” she said.

  “Don’t you worry…Let me rephrase that. Aren’t you concerned that the Romulans might panic and attack if they see that kind of military buildup just outside the Neutral Zone? I mean, they’ll no doubt be watching us at least as closely as we’ll be watching them.”

  “Indeed they will,” said Vulcan’s highest official. “And they should be reassured by it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Stiles said, blinking.

  “Because they will witness with their own eyes Vulcan’s comm
itment to interstellar peace. The new Earth outposts, you see, are to be constructed on asteroids similar to this one. But this new construction will incorporate the hulls and power-generation systems of many of Vulcan’s most potent military vessels.”

  “What?” Stiles exclaimed, horrified.

  Archer, who had just finished having his retina scanned, turned away from the desk so that he faced both Stiles and T’Pau.

  “When it comes to peace, Commander, the Vulcans aren’t just talking the talk,” said Archer. “But they know better than most that the work of maintaining peace can be a lot harder than making war.” With that, Archer turned back toward the desk.

  I hope to hell the Romulans believe in this treaty as much as Archer does, Stiles thought, his chest filled nearly to bursting with both exhilaration and fear.

  As only Stiles, T’Pau, and the two bodyguards looked on, Jonathan B. Archer pressed the button that transmitted the official imprimatur of United Earth’s highest officials and brought humanity’s bloodiest war since the Xindi crisis to its formal conclusion.

  At least for the moment.

  PART IV

  2161

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Wednesday, August 12, 2161

  Candlestick Auditorium, Bayview Heights, San Francisco

  THE IMMENSITY of the enclosed auditorium gave Jonathan Archer a distinct sensation of déjà vu. He had seen this time and place before, or had at least glimpsed it, thanks to the machinations of the time traveler he had known only as Crewman Daniels.

  A crowd of at least fifty thousand, a few of whom were the former crew of the mothballed Starship Enterprise, watched him from the galleries that towered over him in every direction. Seemingly light-years away from the audience, Archer stood on a red carpet that bisected a wide circular stage in a centuries-old former sports arena. The San Francisco Giants had once called this place home, long before professional baseball itself had passed into cultural oblivion. Here, during earlier centuries, the San Francisco 49ers had played football—the kind that had involved helmets, rudimentary body armor, and tackling. Nearly two centuries ago, the Beatles gave their last concert here, perhaps on the very spot where Archer now stood, just another tiny figure on a stage that he shared with dignitaries he considered far more notable than himself.

  However, today’s spectacle was much more than mere entertainment or a sporting event. The murmuring throng that had assembled here today had come to witness history.

  Straightening his blue civilian blazer, Archer tried to avoid looking at the crowd, its uppermost extent in particular. He knew that at this moment a younger, angrier version of himself was standing behind the railings alongside Daniels, looking out over today’s proceedings. Daniels had begged him then to reconsider his decision to carry out a risky operation during the Xindi crisis. In those dark days, Archer’s only priority had been preventing the Xindi from completing the weapon with which they planned to annihilate the entire planet Earth.

  Archer would have gladly accepted death then if doing so could have accomplished his objective. But that eventuality wouldn’t have allowed him to be here now, years later, playing his own small part in launching this nascent multicivilization partnership, this fledgling United Federation of Planets. The UFP’s symbol, a white-on-blue star-map-and-laurel-leaf insignia, was emblazoned across the wall that overlooked the red-carpeted ramp that led to this very stage. Had he died trying to neutralize the Xindi threat, he would have missed this rare opportunity to stand behind the enormous boomerang-shaped table alongside the distinguished representatives of all five founding members of the new Federation.

  Now that the last of the seemingly interminable round of speeches was finished, each of these luminaries took a turn approaching the table, upon which multiple actual paper copies of the Federation Charter lay, alongside large numbers of old-style pens and countless modern padds, each of the latter containing an electronic version of the printed document.

  The United Earth contingent went first, signing the paper documents before thumbing a padd, beginning with Lydia Littlejohn, the recently elected UE president, and Prime Minister Nathan Samuels. Archer signed after Interior Minister Haroun al-Rashid, Environment Minister Thomas Vanderbilt, and Coalition of Planets Ambassador Sarahd had finished.

  Archer moved awkwardly along the carpet, following Sarahd, until the Earth contingent stood facing the crowd. The audience applauded, evidently aware that the work of Earth’s representatives was done for the day.

  The line of dignitaries that had yet to sign paused while the crowd settled down, then resumed shortly as Ambassador Jie Cong Li of Alpha Centauri III reached the table, followed by a couple of dozen others, including Special Representative Qaletaqu of the Martian Colonies, Vulcan’s Administrator T’Pau, Foreign Minister Soval, Ambassador L’Nel, Peace Minister T’Maran, Ambassador Solkar, Tellar’s Foreign Minister Gora bim Gral, Andoria’s Foreign Minister Thoris, retired Imperial Guard General Shran, and Special Aenar Representative Jhamel.

  Archer found the sight of Shran and Gral standing shoulder to shoulder inspiring yet somehow surreal. As the entire assemblage, Archer included, bowed as one before the cheering crowd, like the cast of a play making a curtain call, he thought, We put on a pretty good show on opening night.

  I wonder how long it’s going to run.

  “I’d be shocked if the straw vote is anything other than unanimous on the issue,” Samuels said afterward in the secure hospitality room, once he finally saw the chance to speak to T’Pau alone.

  Samuels was even more surprised, however, by the administrator’s reaction to the idea. “Thank you, Prime Minister. But no. Vulcan’s first seat on the Federation Council must go to another.”

  Not altogether certain he had heard her correctly, Samuels very nearly spilled his champagne. “But you’re the natural choice for the job. You’re not only the woman who overthrew a corrupt regime on your homeworld, you’re also the one who decided the outcome of the Romulan War.”

  She shook her head. “Only by abandoning the most fundamental teachings of Surak. I must rededicate myself to those teachings. Approach T’Maran instead.”

  “I don’t know T’Maran,” Samuels said. “Besides, she’s even younger than you are. Inexperienced, I mean.”

  “After this war, Mister Prime Minister, few of us qualify as truly ‘young’ anymore. But youth and inexperience are not necessarily liabilities. Building the Federation may be a craft best suited for the young. Or you could pursue the alternative of offering the seat to Soval. Or to Solkar.”

  “There’s no point in doing that,” Samuels said, swirling what remained of his champagne in the bottom of the glass. “They’ve both already made it clear that they don’t want to leave Vulan’s diplomatic service.”

  “Indeed,” T’Pau said. Samuels couldn’t tell whether the news about her colleagues surprised her or not. “Have you considered Minister Kuvak?”

  “Bad idea, Administrator. I don’t doubt that he’s a fine leader—you trust him, after all—but he still carries baggage from the V’Las era. The Andorians and the Tellarites wouldn’t be happy with him because of that.”

  “I will grant that the war may have aged me, Prime Minister, but I believe that T’Maran is older than I am. I have come to realize that my skill set is that of a revolutionary. It is ill suited to the task of governance. Which is why I’ll be supporting Kuvak’s candidacy for the office of administrator in Vulcan’s next planetary plebiscite.”

  With that, Administrator T’Pau, the most powerful person on all of Vulcan, bid Samuels adieu and vanished from the cocktail party throng of dignitaries.

  Samuels drained his champagne glass, found another on a nearby tray, and began searching the room for a Vulcan woman named T’Maran. It occurred to him then that he was on a quest for the future. And the future of this new Federation was bound to be fraught with surprises of all sorts.

  I hope T’Maran can surprise me at least as much as T’Pau just did, he though
t.

  PART V

  2186

  EPILOGUE

  Friday, August 11, 2186

  Late in the Month of T’Kuhati, YS 8805

  Outer ShiKahr, Vulcan

  AFTER THE EXPRESSIONLESS hovercar driver handed the FNS credit chit back to her, Rachel McCullers stepped out onto the red flagstone walkway that ran along the front of the house. As the vehicle began to hum and then rose back into the salmon-and-peach sky, a hot breeze brought her the sweet-pungent scent of exotic fruit. Though the smell was decidedly alien, it was also unexpectedly pleasant.

  Well, what did you expect? she asked herself. Pools of fire and brimstone? The caldera of Mount Tarhana, the catacombs of Jia’anKahr City, the Vuldi Gorge fogs of the Lyr T’aya region, or the Fire Plains of Raal don’t represent all of Vulcan, any more than Yosemite, the Atacama Desert in Chile, the Eyjafjallajökull volcano in Iceland, or the McMurdo Dry Valleys in Antarctica represent all of Earth.

  Hoping that the directions she’d been given were accurate, she walked up a gravel path that led toward the house’s front door.

  “Can I help you?” said a male voice that seemed to come from almost directly above her head. Rachel froze in her tracks, looking upward but failing to locate the source of the voice. All she saw were the tops of the tall trees—the Vulcan version of pines, from the look of them—that towered over the roof from behind the house.

  “Hello?” she said.

  The face, shoulders, and hands of a man appeared just over the edge of the terra-cotta roof. He looked to be in his early sixties, had the weathered complexion of a man who had spent a good many of those years exposed to Vulcan’s harsh elements, and was clad in a lightweight T-shirt and gardening gloves.

  “Sorry,” the man said with a disarming and decidedly non-Vulcan smile. “Didn’t mean to make you jump like that.”