by Dave Stern
“Reed here.”
“We need you up here, Malcolm.”
“On my way. Out.”
He closed the channel. Hart stood a few feet away from him, still holding the phase pistol.
“I have to go—can you—”
“I’ll clean things up, yes.” She paused a moment. “I have the same shift this evening.”
“I’m up late,” Reed said quickly. “I’ll call you.”
Her face fell, ever so slightly. “All right,” she said.
He hurried out of the armory, and onto the turbolift, thinking about the kiss and the little voice in his head and wondering what in the world he was going to do next.
For the first time in his life, Starfleet regulations made absolutely no sense to him.
One deck up, the turbolift stopped. Trip got on.
“Who died?” he asked.
“What?”
“You look like you’re comin’ from your best friend’s funeral. What’s wrong?”
“Oh—nothing. Just thinking.”
“Yeah, I can tell that. About what?”
Reed hesitated. Trip was just about his closest friend on the ship. He’d always been able to talk to him about anything.
“Ensign Hart,” he said—and right then, the turbolift door opened onto the bridge.
Trip nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll talk later, all right?”
“All right,” Reed said, and they stepped forward onto the bridge.
Enterprise had come across a marker buoy of some sort. It self-destructed before they could get a detailed scan of it. T’Pol thought it might have sent off a signal; Reed analyzed the explosion to see if he could come to any sort of conclusions about the level of technology they were dealing with.
Two hours on, they were able to finally pull together some low-resolution images of what the buoy had looked like intact, by extrapolating from the readings they had managed to get.
It resembled nothing so much as a small pyramid. Strange symbols—hieroglyphs of some sort—covered its surface.
“Now, that’s interesting,” Hoshi said.
She was still on the bridge, hard at work trying to decipher those symbols, when Reed left, just before midnight. He’d spent fifteen hours straight at his station, breaking only to use the head and stretch his legs. Someone had passed around sandwiches—he vaguely remember eating a couple.
Ensign Hart—Alana—had barely crossed his mind the whole time.
Back in his quarters, though…
She was all he could think about.
He thought about calling her. He thought about calling Trip.
He picked up the Corbett, and tried to read.
Finally, he just went to sleep. It took a long while. He dreamt. He was in the ready room, talking to Captain Archer.
“You wanted to see me, Malcolm?”
“Yes, sir. Well, sir, it’s about Ensign Hart. She and I—”
“How’s she working out? I noticed she hasn’t been on any of the landing parties yet.”
“No, sir. But we’ve been drilling with the phase pistols, sir, and I think she’s getting it. Fairly soon, she should be ready.”
“Good. How’s her state of mind? The Achilles, and all that?”
“Better. I think she’s working through what happened, and I’m—”
“Well, have Phlox do a psychological workup on her. Don’t you get involved in playing counselor, Malcolm. Too much temptation to abuse your position as her superior officer. That’s why we have those regulations, you know.”
“Regulations.”
“Against officers fraternizing with their subordinates. Very important rule.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now—was there something else? About you and Ensign Hart?”
“No, sir. Not at all.”
At some point, Reed remembered waking up and going to his workstation. He’d found a message from Ensign Hart. Alana.
Practice again in the armory? 0800?
He’d thought long and hard, formulating a response in his mind, seeing her face before him.
Then Reed sat down, and began to type.
Seven
CORRIDOR, C-DECK
1/16/2151 1924 HOURS
THE SOFT CLICK OF THE KEYS faded, replaced by the ever-present hiss of the air-circulation system.
“They don’t look any more comfortable with this than I am.”
Reed turned and saw Captain Archer looking past him down the corridor, to where Commodore Roan and Dr. Natir stood, heads bowed together, talking in hushed tones.
“See if you can find out why they’re concerned,” Archer suggested.
“Yes, sir.”
Reed walked over to the two Sarkassians.
“Gentlemen.”
Both inclined their heads in greeting. Reed turned to Natir. “I wonder if I could have a moment alone with the commodore.”
Natir looked annoyed. “I suppose so.”
“Perhaps Doctor Phlox could give you a tour of our sickbay,” Reed suggested.
“I need no tour,” Natir said. “Excuse me.”
The doctor huffed off.
Roan shook his head, a slight grin on his face. “You’ll forgive the lack of diplomacy, I hope, Lieutenant. It is not Doctor Natir’s field of expertise.”
“I would agree with that,” Reed said. And what’s the ambassador’s excuse? he thought.
“We are all under a considerable amount of stress at the moment,” Roan added, as if he’d read the lieutenant’s thoughts. “Will you please convey that to the captain.”
“Of course. I’m sure he understands already.”
“Thank you.” Roan hesitated a second. “If you’re here to ask me what Goridian might have to say to our ambassador, I can assure you I am as much in the dark as you are.”
“That partially. Though—it seems you and the prisoner know each other?”
“Ah. I see the ‘Butcher’ reference did not escape you.”
“No.”
Roan nodded. “We know of each other would be a more accurate way to put it.”
“Dar Shalaan.”
“Dar Shalaan, yes.”
Reed waited a moment, hoping Roan would continue. But the commodore seemed, suddenly, lost in a world of his own.
“I can’t say I’ve had a lot of experience doing this, Commodore. Establishing relations between two cultures. One thing I have learned, though, is that as some point, trust must always enter into the equation.”
“Of course,” Roan said. “Such has been my experience as well.”
Reed moved closer, and lowered his voice. “The captain and I—Starfleet on the whole, in fact—have an interest in helping you and the Ta’alaat find a way toward peace. But to do that, you need to tell us what you are fighting about.”
Roan sighed. “Everything. We are fighting about everything, Lieutenant.”
“That doesn’t tell me much.”
“Territory. Resources. History.” Roan’s eyes grew hard. “Or perhaps I should just say religion, and have done with it.”
“Religion?”
Roan nodded. “To hear them tell it, we have desecrated their holy places, stolen treasures given to them by their gods. We live in areas promised to them by divine providence.”
Reed was silent a moment. What Roan was telling him—this was not good. Conflicts over territory and resources could be resolved by compromise—a piece of this to one side, a piece of that to the other. History could be overcome by establishing new patterns of behavior. But religion…
Earth’s own history was full of bloody wars of cultural genocide, complete annihilation by one side of the other. Those who did not share the same beliefs were deemed less than human, and slaughtered. Most of those wars, however, had been fought with swords and spears, guns and grenades—rarely with weapons of the sophistication and destructive capability both the Sarkassians and the Ta’alaat apparently possessed.
Reed was beginning to get an
idea of how dangerous this fight was.
“We have been fighting the Ta’alaat for centuries,” Roan said. “Thousands have died.”
“At places like Dar Shalaan.”
Roan nodded. “Yes. The war has gone on so long—there are those on both sides who no longer think peace is possible. Valay is one of them.”
“And she’s your ambassador?”
“Well.” Roan leaned closer. “May I speak confidentially, Lieutenant?”
Reed shook his head. “I have to be able to share what I learn with the captain.”
Roan nodded. “Yes. That would be all right.”
He drew Reed farther down the corridor, away from the others.
“Valay serves as ambassador more as a result of circumstance than anything else—not by training. Or temperament. Quite the opposite, in fact. She is the closest thing we have to royalty on our world. Here and now—she represents one point of view among my people. A very popular point of view now, I must say, though not one I entirely agree with.”
“One with a pessimistic view of the war between your peoples.”
“Exactly.” Roan smiled wryly. “Unfortunately, I think you can tell whose point of view currently holds sway.”
As if on cue, the cell door hissed open. Ambassador Valay strode out. The ornamental band—the crown—that had held her hair back was gone, and a second later Reed saw that she was carrying it in her hand. He also noticed a spattering of dark stains on the front of her robe. Odd. He hadn’t seen them before.
Valay swept the hall with her gaze, and stopped when she found Roan.
“Goridian is dead,” the ambassador said. “We are leaving.”
For a split second, the corridor fell silent.
Then it erupted into pandemonium.
Reed was the first one into the cell. He didn’t know what he expected to find.
The mesh grid was intact. Goridian lay slumped on the floor next to it, one hand still gripping the wire. His eyes were wide with surprise. His blood coated the floor. It was red. For some reason, that stuck with Reed. Most of the aliens they’d met bled in different colors.
“Open this!” Phlox stood next to Reed, grabbing at the screen.
Bishop rushed in. Seconds later, Phlox was through the gate, kneeling next to the prisoner, tricorder in hand.
“No respiratory activity, no autonomic function. Massive”—and here the doctor’s voice registered momentary confusion—“neurological disruption. Cause of death,” Phlox said, “trauma here, and here.”
He pointed to the prisoner’s eyes. But he didn’t need to. Everyone—Reed included—could see how Goridian had died.
Reed spun around, and saw the crown Valay held in her hands.
The ends came to sharp, sticky, shiny points.
Reed turned to the captain, who stood in the doorway, looking from Goridian’s body to Valay.
Archer seemed at a loss for words.
Roan wasn’t. “Valay. You—what have you done?”
“His so-called offer to me was an insult. His presence here, alive, an even greater one.” She shrugged. “We are at war. And I have killed one of the enemy. That is what I have done.”
“You—” Roan was so angry, he actually sputtered. “You have done far more than that. You have abused the hospitality of—” He shook his head, clearly trying to control himself. “Captain Archer, on behalf of the Sarkassian government, I apologize most deeply for the ambassador’s actions and—”
“Have a care, Commodore,” Valay said. “I speak for the Sarkassian government. And you remember who you are speaking to. Who you take your orders from.”
“I take my orders from the Central Council of our government, Ambassador. Who will be as angry with you as I am when they hear of this.”
“I think not, Commodore. Remember, I take my orders from them as well.” She turned to Dr. Natir. “Come. We are returning to the outpost.”
“No.” Captain Archer stepped forward, having found his voice. He looked as angry as Reed had ever seen him. “Not just yet you’re not. You cannot just walk aboard my ship and kill someone.”
Valay regarded the captain impassively. “As I told you from the beginning, this affair was between us and the Sarkassians. Ta’alaat, excuse me. Between Goridian and myself. And now it is over.”
“And I say it isn’t. Not yet,” Archer said. “If I can’t get my answers from Goridian, I’ll have to get them from you.”
“I’m afraid not, Captain.”
“I’m afraid so. You will tell me the purpose of your outpost, Ambassador.” Archer stepped forward, till he stood inches away from the ambassador. They glared at each other. “I insist on it.”
Bishop’s hand went slowly to his phase pistol.
Valay noticed. “Perhaps you wish to be a part of our war, Captain? I know many of our ship captains would be happy to accommodate you.”
Archer stood for a moment.
“Go,” he said finally. “Now. Mister Reed, Mister Bishop—you’ll escort the Sarkassians directly to their ship.”
“Aye, sir.” Reed nodded to Roan. “This way, all of you.”
He led them down the corridor toward the turbolift, and then to the shuttlebay. The direct route, this time, the fastest way possible. Roan walked next to him in silence the whole way.
When they reached the shuttlebay, Valay, then Natir stepped through the airlock into their ship without a word. Roan hung back a second.
“This action would never have been ordered by the government,” he said quietly. “Valay acted alone.”
“I hope you’re right,” Reed said.
Roan’s eyes met his. “I am certain of it. Trust me, Lieutenant.”
Then he was through the portal, and out of sight.
Reed’s eyes lingered a moment on the spot where Roan had stood.
“It is over,” Valay had said. But in Reed’s experience, that moment—when you thought things were finished, ended, irrevocably complete—was exactly when they started up again, in ways you couldn’t have imagined.
He shuddered involuntarily, and his mind, unbidden, summoned up the past again.
Eight
ARMORY
1/05/2151 07:58 HOURS
THIS MORNING, THEY WERE BOTH EARLY.
“Ensign,” he said quietly, entering the armory and finding her waiting there.
She looked up and smiled at him—a rather forced smile, he thought.
“Lieutenant Reed. Hello.”
He saw that she’d already gotten out the phase pistol, and attached the targeting projector on the back wall. The remote lay on the console before him.
“Before we get started,” he began. “About yesterday—”
“It’s all right sir. No need to say anything. I read your message. It was just the moment, that’s all. I understand.”
“It wasn’t just the moment, Ensign. Alana.” He sighed. “That’s what I was trying to say. I think you and I—under different circumstances, we could be—we could have—”
“Sir, you don’t need to explain any further. Really. Regulations, I do understand.” She smiled that same forced smile again, and Reed felt suddenly sick to his stomach, realizing that at least part of his imaginary dialogue with Archer had some basis in fact. He had abused his position, and he’d hurt her, and he couldn’t think of a single thing to say that could change that.
“Shall we get started?” she asked.
“Yes, all right.” He forced a smile now. “Back to business.”
“We should use the projector, don’t you think?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head, and before she could infer that he wanted to return to the drill that had ended in their kiss yesterday, he quickly continued. “I was thinking of something else entirely.”
He went and got one of the old EM-33s from the weapons locker.
“Let’s go back to a weapon that has the particle drift,” he continued, holding out the gun to her. “Maybe that way you can see the differen
ce in the two weapons for yourself.”
“That’s an EM-33.”
“Yes. I saw in your records that you’d—”
He stopped talking, because even in the dim light he could tell that Hart had gone quite pale.
“Alana? Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She nodded mechanically. “I know the 33. That’s what we used on Achilles.”
Reed, realizing his mistake, cursed himself for an idiot.
He set the gun down.
“That was stupid. I’m sorry. It was thoughtless of me not to realize what the EM-33 might signify to you.”
“It’s all right, sir.”
“No, it’s not.” He heard an edge in his voice he hadn’t meant to put there, and shook his head. “Listen. Alana—you should find someone you can talk about all this with.”
“I can’t. I explained—”
“Doctor Phlox,” Reed interrupted. “Whatever sort of reasons you have for not speaking to me, or your shipmates, they can’t apply to him. He’s an advisor—plus I believe confidentiality would apply. Doctor-patient privilege.”
“I suppose so,” she said. “Though—when I was on administrative duty back at Fleet headquarters, they had me talking to a couple of the doctors there. And they didn’t really help, to be honest with you.”
“Fleet doctors,” Reed said. “I think Doctor Phlox would be different.”
“It’s not that they were Starfleet. It’s that—I don’t see how a doctor could understand the sorts of things we have to go through. The psychology of being out there, in a life-or-death situation.”
“I see your point,” Reed said. “But Phlox isn’t like that. I promise you.”
“All right.” Alana didn’t sound convinced—but Reed decided not to force the issue. Instead, they continued with the drills using the holographic projector—that day, and the next. Hart’s scores rose. They didn’t talk about Achilles, or Corbett, or themselves, or anything but the phase pistols.
At dinner that evening, Reed managed to brush Trip’s questions about Alana off by saying the problem had been resolved. He even agreed to help with some work in engineering the next day. Which meant he wouldn’t have time to do the drills with Alana. So he sent a message to Bishop, asking him to fill in. He sent Alana a message saying the same thing—no more, no less.
