What Price Honor?

by Dave Stern

  Bridge

  1/13/2151 1704 Hours

  “Captain Archer,” Roan said without preamble. “I have been instructed to read you the following statement. Enterprise, your presence in Sarkassian territory is an act of aggression, which we take as indication that hostilities exist between our two peoples. Should you wish to provide an explanation for your presence, it must be given according to the protocols of Contact between the Empire and outside races. Only ministerial-level officials may preside over such contact. Do you wish to provide such an explanation?”

  “I’ve already told you—”

  “Captain, do you wish to provide such an explanation to the appropriate government official?”

  Reed saw the captain visibly holding his temper. At that second, his display beeped, and he looked down and saw something else.

  The two Sarkassian ships had charged their weapons systems.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

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  To Dr. Bones, Ollie Jones, Tree Tavern Pizza,

  the real WPIX,

  Tiny, Steiny, Bet, and Larry….

  Six o’clock it is, was, and forever will be.

  Prologue

  CAPTAIN’S READY ROOM

  1/15/2151 1745 HOURS

  STARS DRIFTED BY. The impulse reactor thrummed.

  Alone in his ready room, Jonathan Archer tapped his fingers on his desk. He shifted in his seat, and frowned. He opened his mouth to speak, paused, then shook his head and stood up. He paced the length of the small room once, twice, a third time, instinctually ducking the bulkheads.

  “Damn,” he said, and sat back down at his workstation.

  There was no easy way to say this. Might as well just get started.

  He keyed a series of commands into his computer. It chirped at him. He cleared his throat, and started speaking.

  “Message begins,” he said. “Captain Jonathan Archer of the Starship Enterprise to Nicole and Jonathan Hart, Lake Armstrong. Mr. and Ms. Hart, on behalf of all Starfleet, and most particularly the armory crew of the Enterprise…”

  Archer’s voice trailed off. He frowned.

  “No. That’s not right,” he said, and keyed in the erase command. Third time he’d started the message; third time he’d deleted it. It wasn’t like him to be indecisive like this—or indecisive about anything, in fact. That wasn’t how he’d gotten to be captain of the fastest ship in the fleet. How he’d gotten to be the man leading Starfleet out into the galaxy.

  He looked at the monitor before him. In the dim light of the ready room, he saw his own face reflected on the display screen. A hazy shadow, an imprecise rendering of the man he was. The imprecision hid the lines on his face, the flecks of gray at his temples, and for a moment Archer imagined himself as he was without them twenty years ago, a young man, with no responsibilities, with an endless sea of possibilities ahead of him. He had drifted for a while in those early years, angry about the patronizing treatment humankind had received from its reluctant tutors, the Vulcans, angry about a career in Starfleet that seemed unlikely to ever lead him out into the stars, angry in particular for how his father had been cheated of his lifelong desire. But he’d found his way past the anger, found a way to channel his emotions into a productive career.

  Some people never got that chance.

  Archer shifted in his chair, and his reflection vanished from the screen. The display came into focus. It was split into three sections—a horizontal bar of text at the bottom, with two boxes stacked, one next to the other, above it. The box on the right was all text. The box on the left contained a young woman’s picture—a standard Starfleet ID photo. He quickly scanned the text to the right of it.

  Alana Marie Hart

  DOB: 4.4.2125

  POB: Lake Armstrong, Luna

  Graduated: Perth University 2146 cum laude

  Rank: Ensign

  Serial #: SC 007–8787

  Enlisted Starfleet 2146

  Hart had jet black hair, a round face, and a hard set to her jaw. The expression distorted her features—pulled her brow down, scrunched up her nose, thinned her lips. Archer remembered the first time he’d seen her picture, thinking immediately that she’d be much more attractive in person. He’d been right.

  They’d met on Enterprise’s third day out from Kronos, after delivering Klaang back to his people, after Admiral Forrest had given Archer the go-ahead to continue the ship’s mission. The captain had set up meetings with every member of the crew—ten minutes or so, just to get to know the faces aboard his ship. Most of the meetings had gone on longer than that.

  Not Ensign Hart’s.

  She’d entered his ready room at attention, her gaze fixed not on Archer but the wall behind him, wearing the same grimly determined look on her face.

  “At ease, Ensign,” Archer said.

  Hart was tall, and angular. She snapped into position, her hands behind her back, her elbows jutting out to her sides like weapons.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “I meant relax,” he said. “Smile, if you like.”

  She looked directly at him for the first time. “Sir?” she asked, a puzzled look spreading across her features. For a second then, the frown disappeared, her face and features relaxed, and the captain saw that he’d guessed right.

  Ensign Hart was beautiful.

  He grinned at her. “I said smile. Like this.”

  “Yes, sir!” The edges of her mouth went up reflexively, and then snapped right back down, like a door sliding shut.

  She looked toward him expectantly.

  “Very good,” Archer said a second later, and then went on with the interview, which was similarly unrevealing. Questions from him, clipped answers (“Yes, sir,” and “No, sir”) from her. Archer cut it short after two minutes. He’d always meant to set up another meeting with her after a few months went by, after she’d had a chance to get comfortable aboard the ship. But he’d never been able to find the time.

  Archer turned his attention back to the monitor. The display—a single line of text scrolling across the screen like an old-fashioned news ticker, displaying (among other things) the date, Enterprise’s coordinates, systems status, and ship’s time. It was 1415. He’d been in the ready room for twenty minutes—long enough to send a dozen messages to Hart’s parents.

  He was stalling. Hoping that inspiration would strike, that he would find exactly the right thing to say. Except that there was no right thing to say in a situation like this.

  The com beeped. Archer pressed a switch on the panel.

  “Captain?” It was Hoshi, in communications.

  “Go ahead.”

  “The Sarkassian ship is hailing us. They’re requesting permission to dock.�
�

  “They’re here already?” Stupid question, and he knew it the minute he spoke.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn,” Archer said under his breath. He had to be there to greet the ambassador. Relations between the two races had gotten off to a rocky start, and Archer couldn’t afford to do anything that might make things worse.

  “Captain? Ambassador Valay sounds pretty insistent, sir.”

  Archer could believe that. She hadn’t struck him as the patient type. “All right. Send them to launch bay two. I’m on my way. And I’ll want you with me when they dock. Archer out.”

  Posted Europa Base 6/2/46

  Achilles 2/8/49

  Promoted to Ensign 11/11/50

  Assigned Enterprise 1/30/51

  Deceased: 1/14/52

  The captain sighed. He should send Hart’s parents a simple message of condolence. Speak plainly, which Archer always prided himself on doing. Except plain speaking in this instance came off as cold and insensitive. Plain speaking in this instance went something like: Folks, your daughter’s dead. She went crazy, and one of my officers had to shoot her.

  No. He had to say something beyond that.

  Except it would have to be later. For now, the Sarkassians were here, and he had to focus on finding a way to smooth over relations with them.

  He stood up then, clearing Hart’s picture and record from the screen, and exited the ready room.

  One

  SCIENCE LAB, E-DECK

  1/15/2151 1804 HOURS

  LIEUTENANT MALCOLM REED turned the metal fragment over in his hands, brushing away some of the dirt clinging to it as he did so. It was roughly the size and shape of a brick, a thick, dull gray colored mass that he’d fully expected would weigh about the same as titanium. When he picked it up, though, he was surprised to discover it was significantly less heavy—literally as light as a feather. An unusual alloy, one that had already proven resistant—in fact, impervious—to the usual battery of scans.

  Scattered on the table in front of him were a dozen or so metal fragments identical to the one in his hand—debris the landing party had brought back from the ruins of the Sarkassian outpost to analyze. Standing behind him were Crewmen Duel and Perkins, whom the captain had assigned to help him.

  Normally this kind of scientific analysis would have been out of Reed’s field of expertise. But Captain Archer had agreed with him that a different approach to analyzing the material—an approach that focused on determining what sort of weapons could have destroyed it—might prove helpful. And that kind of analysis, Reed could handle.

  Except now, Reed wondered if the captain had been humoring him.

  Everyone had handled him with kid gloves all day—Trip (“Maybe you should take some time”), Dr. Phlox (“If you want to talk, my schedule is wide open”), even Hoshi (“I’m around if you need me”), they all treated him like he might go to pieces at any second. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. He was fine. Tired, but fine.

  “Sir?”

  He looked up and saw Perkins staring at him.

  “Did you say something?”

  “Did I say something?” Had he spoken aloud? Reed shook his head. “No. I most certainly did not.”

  “Yes, sir,” Perkins said, with a look of sympathy on his face. “Sorry, sir.”

  Reed almost snapped at him. Then he remembered that with Hart gone, there was a vacancy in the armory rotation. He also remembered that Perkins had put in for a transfer to weapons duty some time ago, and so Reed would more than likely be working very closely with him for the foreseeable future. There was no sense in getting off on the wrong foot with the man.

  So instead of snapping, Reed took a deep breath, and turned back to the fragment.

  “All right, let’s get started.”

  “What’s up first, sir?” Duel asked.

  “A stress test, I would think,” Perkins said instantly. “Even if we can’t directly scan the material, we can infer a number of things from its behavior under various conditions. Wouldn’t you agree, sir?”

  The two looked toward Reed expectantly. Reed looked back at them. Duel was short and squat, Perkins tall and thin. An old nursery rhyme floated through his mind, and he smiled. Only for a moment.

  This was not an occasion for levity.

  “No. I’d prefer to start with a spectrographic analysis of this dust. Perhaps it can provide us with some clues.” Reed brushed off another chunk of caked-on dirt from the fragment. “We might be able to pick up traces of whatever material…” His voice trailed off.

  “Sir?” Perkins prompted.

  “Hang on a minute.” Reed ran his fingers along the fragment. Clearing away the debris had exposed a raised surface on one side of it—a design of some sort?

  He laid the fragment down on the table so that the raised surface was facing up. Then he began clearing away dust from some of the other fragments. Behind him, he sensed Duel and Perkins crowding closer.

  Fully half the fragments had the same sort of ridges on the back.

  “Are those more symbols?” he heard one of them ask.

  “Yes,” Reed said, nodding. “Indeed they are.” They looked, in fact, identical to the ones they’d found throughout the outpost. Symbols, though, were not his field of expertise.

  He walked over to the com panel, and opened a channel.

  “Reed to bridge.”

  “Bridge. T’Pol here.”

  “Can I speak to Hoshi, Sub-Commander?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. She and the captain are in launch bay two, greeting the Sarkassian ambassador.”

  Reed’s mouth almost fell open.

  “The Sarkassians are here?”

  “That is what I just said.”

  Reed nodded grimly. He would have expected to meet with the Sarkassians as well. He should be there—a potentially hostile race coming aboard Enterprise. Mentally, he added the captain to the list of those treating him with kid gloves.

  “We’ve found some more symbols—on the fragments in the science lab,” Reed said to T’Pol. “She should know about this.”

  “She is occupied right now,” T’Pol told him.

  “But—”

  “Is this an emergency?”

  “No.”

  “Then it will have to wait. T’Pol out.”

  Reed stared at the com panel a second. It wasn’t an emergency. But Hoshi would likely be with the captain, and the Sarkassians, for the rest of the day. At least several more hours.

  This might be a clue. And Reed couldn’t wait that long to find out.

  “I’m going to launch bay two.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll be back shortly. In the meantime, I’d like a full spectrographic analysis. You can run your stress test too, Mister Perkins—only not on any of the fragments with symbols. I want Hoshi to see these just as they are.”

  Perkins nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Of course, sir,” Duel said.

  “Carry on then,” Reed said, and set off at a brisk walk toward the nearest turbolift.

  When he arrived at launch bay two, Captain Archer and Hoshi were standing on the main deck, facing the Sarkassian ambassador and two others of her race.

  The Sarkassians were humanoid, and as pale and thin in person as they’d appeared on the viewscreen. They looked anemic to him, as if they’d spent their entire life indoors. Perhaps they had—they clearly had no aversion to enclosed spaces, as the ambassador’s shuttle, like the larger ship that had first contacted Enterprise, was windowless, a seamless surface of shining black metal.

  “We want to accommodate you,” Captain Archer was saying. “But—”

  “Good,” the ambassador interrupted. Her voice had a harsh, grating quality that hadn’t been clear over the com system. “Then you will turn the prisoner over to us.”

  Ambassador Valay stood front and center in her party. She wore a long, iridescent purple robe that shimmered in the bright glare of the overhead lights. Her l
ong red hair was held back from her face by an elaborate silver headpiece, more of a crown almost, with three sparkling red gems set in its face. Each stone was about the size of an egg—by Earth standards, Valay was wearing a fortune in jewels on her head. Whether or not Sarkassians valued such things the same way humans did was an open question, but at any rate, the headpiece made for an impressive display.

  Reed was not as taken with the woman wearing it.

  “I grow tired of having to repeat myself, Captain,” Valay said.

  “Forgive me, Ambassador,” Archer said. “I’m afraid turning the prisoner over to you is not as simple a question as you make it out to be.”

  “It is precisely that simple, Captain,” Valay said. “Our war is none of your concern.”

  “It is now,” Archer said. “One of my crew is dead, and I’d like the chance to question this man about that.”

  “You have my sympathies, Captain,” Valay interrupted, though her tone of voice suggested anything but compassion. She shook a long, thin finger at Archer. “But let me put the matter in perspective for you. You have one dead crewman. There were close to sixty people working in the facility below us, and every single one of them is now a body for me to bring back to their families. You are holding the person responsible for that outrage, and I want him.”

  “You may see him,” Archer said. “But until I know exactly what went on down there—”

  “Have you not heard what I’ve said? This man is responsible—for your crewman’s death, the death of our scientists, everything. There is no doubt.”

  “There is in my mind,” Archer said. “The pictures you transmitted to us are not an exact likeness. Moreover—”

  “He has most assuredly been using drugs to alter the pigmentation of his skin,” said the third member of the Sarkassian party. “Which is no doubt how he got onto the outpost in the first place.”

  “I will provide you evidence, Captain,” the ambassador said. “He has used similar methods in the past. This man is a murderer many times over, a butcher, a—” The translator spluttered in a burst of static.