What Price Honor?

by Dave Stern

  He happened to see Bishop the following day, and learned Alana had qualified on the phase pistol. He saw Phlox as well, and learned Alana hadn’t spoken with him at all.

  Give her time, he told himself.

  He gave her two days. And then he buzzed her in her quarters.

  “Lieutenant.” Alana sounded surprised to hear from him.

  “Ensign. I’ve just finished reading the Corbett.”Which wasn’t exactly the truth—he’d actually finished it several days ago, and it had lain next to his bunk that whole time. But it provided a convenient excuse now to talk to her. “I thought I might drop by and return it to you.”

  Alana was silent a moment. “I’m on day shift tomorrow—you can just leave it there, if it’s easier.”

  “Actually, I wanted to talk to you as well. About Doctor Phlox,” he added hurriedly. “Why you haven’t been to see him.”

  “I didn’t think it necessary.”

  “That’s what I want to talk about.”

  “Sir, I think I can work this through on my own.”

  “I know you do. I—” Reed stopped, because he realized he’d forgotten to punch the button in on the com so she could hear what he was saying.

  “Look,” he said, pressing the button and starting over, “this is a silly way to have a conversation. Let me come talk to you—or we can meet in the mess hall.”

  More silence. “No. Here is fine.”

  “Good. I’ll see you in five minutes. Reed out.”

  Reed closed the com, and picked up the Corbett.

  You’re making a mistake, the little voice in his head whispered. Going to her quarters.

  But he wasn’t. He was her superior officer, and he had a responsibility to see that she was in optimum mental and physical health. And when Alana’s door opened, and they both smiled on seeing each other, he knew he’d done the right thing.

  “Here,” he said, handing her the Corbett, and stepping inside. “And thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She set the book down behind her, next to a glass of water.

  “I’ve been doing some thinking,” she said. “And I’ve decided you’re right. I need to get it off my chest—what happened on the Achilles.”

  “Excellent.” Reed smiled. “So you’ll call Phlox tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She looked at him then. “I want to talk to you about it, actually.”

  And all of a sudden that little voice was back.

  It sounded like Captain Archer.

  “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.”

  He pushed it to the back of his head.

  “Of course,” he said, pulling out a chair and sitting. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “We were there to show the flag,” Alana said. “Out near Arcturus. Just letting the colonies—and the pirates—know that Starfleet was still out there. Keeping an eye on things.”

  She was sitting on the edge of her bunk. Reed’s chair was pulled up next to her. It had taken them a while to work around to their subject—first he congratulated her on qualifying on the phase pistol, she asked him about the marker buoy, they talked about Bishop, and some of the other armory crew, and a whole lot of other things as well, managing, Reed noticed, to skip entirely over the fact that he’d been avoiding her for the last several days. Which he was glad of, because he felt stupid about it now. Acting like an idiot schoolboy of all things. He and Alana—he and Hart—were going to be fine. They were going to have a professional relationship, and be good friends as well, and that little voice in the back of his head was just plain wrong.

  Alana had poured herself a drink—offered him one too, but he’d declined. She sipped from her glass now, and continued her story.

  “Dinai Station—you know where it is, right? All the way out in Starfleet’s patrol territory—the end of the line. We got there two months into our mission, and everything was fine. Stopped for a couple days, stretched our legs, and continued on our merry way. Two days later, though, we were back.” She shook her head. “That’s when everything went wrong.”

  “You went back to Dinai? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s so stupid,” she said, standing up suddenly. “A gasket or something blew on the protein resequencer. We were low on everything, so we had to turn around. Get it fixed. When we returned—the pirates were there.”

  Reed shook his head. Pirates. The word seemed like such an anachronism here in the twenty-second century, but what else could you call them? He’d heard enough horror stories from Travis, who’d grown up on cargo ships, to know that they were real enough. And quite dangerous.

  “They were probably stalking you the whole way,” he said. “Waiting for Achilles to leave the station so they could move in, knowing you wouldn’t be back for a long time.”

  “I suppose so,” Hart said. “Only it didn’t work out that way. As soon as we hailed the station, Captain Lyman knew something was wrong. They used a code word in responding. An SOS.”

  “So what’d you do?”

  “Captain Lyman sent two of us in, from security—myself and Lieutenant Ayers, he was the head of our department. We pretended to be engineering staff, looking for the resequencer parts. Once we got down to the storage sheds, we were supposed to use the maintenance ducts to double back—surprise them. But the pirates had already gotten nervous. They had doubled the guard on the hostages. Put people on the ducts as well.”

  “So they got you too.”

  “Not me. Ayers, yes, but not me.” She shook her head. “But after that—we lost the element of surprise. They were waiting for us. Captain Lyman tried to send in reinforcements, but—I don’t know, it turned into a madhouse. When it was over, two of the hostages were dead. So was the captain, and five more of my crewmates. Achilles had a big hole in her side, and the pirates were gone, with all the dilithium.”

  Reed could only shake his head.

  “What a disaster,” he said finally. “I’m sorry that you had to go through that.”

  “Me? I lived,” Hart said sharply. “Not a disaster for me.”

  “I still don’t understand, though—why does Starfleet want what happened covered up?”

  “Because,” she said, draining her glass, “the hostages that died were Vulcans. And Starfleet weapons killed them.”

  “Dear God.” Reed understood at last. The last hundred years of Vulcan policy were based on the assumption that mankind was too volatile a species to be allowed out into the wider galaxy. Only in the last decade or so had they relaxed enough to give humanity access to more of its technology, enough so that ships like Enterprise could be built, and sent out among the stars.

  If what really happened at Dinai had been made public, odds were this ship would never have been launched.

  “No wonder they didn’t want you to say anything,” Reed said. “Then, or now.”

  “Oh, it’s even worse than that,” Alana said. “I was the one who killed them.”

  Now Reed truly didn’t know what to say.

  “Everyone who worked at the station wore these orange coveralls. That was their uniform. So when—I came around one corridor and saw these two walking toward me, and I didn’t see those uniforms—I fired.” She drained the last of her glass. “With my trusty EM-33.”

  “Alana—”

  “Compensated for the particle drift, and all. Hit them both dead-on. Thing was, though, the pirates were smart. They dressed the hostages up like bad guys, and used them as stalking horses. See,” she shook her head, and poured herself another drink. “So you really can’t tell anyone about this, you know. Not even the captain.”

  She raised the glass.

  “Stop,” he said. “That’s an order.”

  She took a healthy swig, and set it down. “I’m off duty, sir.”

  He reached for the glass, inten
ding to take it away from her. She reached at the same time. The glass tipped…

  And spilled all over the Corbett.

  “Christ, I’m sorry.” There was a towel on the table—he grabbed it and started mopping up.

  “Leave it,” Alana said. “It’s just a facsimile.”

  Her voice came from right behind him. He turned around, and she was inches away.

  “This is real,” she said, leaning forward. Her lips brushed his.

  It was real.

  It was wrong.

  “Alana,” he said, pushing away. “I want to, but—we can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Malcolm,” she said. “It’s a stupid regulation.”

  “But there it is,” he said. “I’m a lieutenant. And you’re an ensign.”

  “For now. Not always.” She smiled. “If I’ve learned anything in my short awful career, it’s that you never know what disaster tomorrow might bring. I mean, we’re here right now. And beyond that…”

  Reed felt for her. He wanted to take her in his arms.

  “I can’t have this conversation with you.” He spun on his heel, and headed for the door.

  “Wait. I’m sorry.” She stood there, head bowed. “Please. Don’t go away mad.”

  “I’m not mad,” he said. “Not even close to it. I’m—” He waved his hands in frustration. “I don’t even know what I am.”

  She smiled then—a bittersweet smile.

  “I just wanted to say thank you—for listening. For everything.”

  “Of course,” he said, and their eyes met, and Reed knew that if he stayed one second longer he was going to take her into his arms, and he wasn’t going to stop with a kiss.

  He left without looking back, wondering briefly why she had said thanks “for everything.”

  The mystery cleared when he woke the next morning and checked his computer for messages.

  The first thing he found was a copy of Alana’s transfer request.

  Nine

  CAPTAIN’S MESS

  1/16/2151 2204 HOURS

  “SUCH BEHAVIOR IS ILLOGICAL in the extreme.” T’Pol steepled her hands together on the table in front of her. “The Sarkassians have antagonized and alienated Starfleet as well as its many allies. Diplomatic relations will be affected for years.”

  “It’s the worst damn bit of ambassadoring I’ve ever heard of,” Trip said.

  “Agreed,” the captain said. “So why would she do it?”

  The Enterprise’s senior staff—Archer, Trip, T’Pol, Reed, and Hoshi—were gathered around the table in the captain’s mess. Someone had brought in a pot of coffee and a tray of sandwiches. Both sat untouched in the middle of the table.

  “Malcolm, Commodore Roan told you this was a religious war. Do you think—”

  “No, sir.” Reed shook his head. “I think the religious component of the war comes into play on the Ta’alaat side, not the Sarkassian. They seem far more pragmatic. This is the act of a—” He paused, searching for the right word.

  “Fanatic?” Hoshi suggested.

  “Exactly.”

  Archer shook his head. “So we come back to why again.”

  “Crime of passion?” Trip said after a moment. “He said something that got her so angry that she lost control for a moment?”

  “So why not say that?” Archer replied.

  Trip shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Sir,” Reed said, suddenly realizing something. “Why not say it even if it weren’t true?”

  “I don’t follow,” Hoshi said.

  “I believe I do.” T’Pol turned to Reed. “The lieutenant is suggesting that the ambassador’s actions after the murder were intentionally inflammatory. That she could have at least attempted to minimize the effects of her crime.”

  “Exactly,” Reed said.

  “So the question becomes not so much why, as why here?”

  The room fell silent.

  “You’re suggesting she intentionally sabotaged relations with Starfleet?” Archer said.

  “We must consider the possibility,” T’Pol said. “The ambassador indicated she acted on the orders of her government.”

  “Though we’re not sure of that,” Reed hastened to add. “Commodore Roan felt positive she wasn’t.”

  “She was doing a pretty good job of pissing everybody off even before the murder, Captain,” Trip said. “In a way, that was just the icing on the cake.”

  “Killing two birds with one stone,” Archer said. “Get rid of Goridian, get us angry at the same time. Why, though? Why would they want to do that?”

  “They do not want us around,” T’Pol said.

  Archer nodded. “Because of the outpost.”

  “That is the logical deduction. There is something down there they don’t want us to see.”

  The captain frowned. “I don’t know. What she did—that seems to me to have far worse consequences than any possible revelation.”

  “I would tend to agree with you, sir.”

  “Something else,” Reed added. “Let’s not forget that Goridian was the one who suggested the two of them talk. She may not have gotten the chance to do anything if not for him.”

  “That’s right,” Trip said. “And if you stop and look at it from that perspective, the one who really gains from us and the Sarkassians getting off on the wrong foot is Goridian and his people.”

  “Except he’s dead,” Archer said.

  “Yeah.” Trip threw up his hands. “Well, like I said, just another perspective.”

  “All right,” Archer said, taking in everyone at the table with a look. “We need more information. About the war between these two people, about what exactly Ambassador Valay’s orders were, and most especially about the outpost. Hoshi?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “I want you to get down to the lab and take a look at those new symbols Lieutenant Reed found.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “T’Pol, you said the Vulcans haven’t been out this far.”

  “That is correct.”

  “But they may have had contact with people who have—yes?”

  “The possibility exists.” She nodded. “I will conduct an extensive search of the database.”

  “Good. Malcolm?”

  “Sir.”

  “Commodore Roan—he was going to contact you again?”

  “He said he’d try.”

  “Let’s be proactive,” Archer said. “Perhaps you can contact him.”

  “The Sarkassians have refused all attempts at communication, sir,” Hoshi cut in. “Lieutenant Reed and I tried to reach the commodore just before this meeting.”

  “Well, let’s keep trying. Let’s keep pushing. The way things stand right now is not acceptable. Anyone has any ideas on how to change the status quo, find me. All right?” He looked around the table. “All right. Dismissed.”

  Reed stood and pushed his chair in.

  “Lieutenant,” the captain said. “Hold on a minute.”

  Archer waited until everyone else had left.

  “Sit,” he said.

  Reed sat. So did the captain.

  “Malcolm. Ensign Hart’s autopsy results—”

  “Yes, sir,” Reed said, interrupting. “They’re not ready yet. The doctor told me he would let me know as soon as they were.”

  “No. They are ready.”

  “Sir?”

  “Doctor Phlox just transmitted them to me.”

  “Yes, sir.” Reed kept his eyes straight ahead.

  “Don’t be mad at him. My orders. I wanted them before anyone else. I needed them.” Archer shook his head. “Though I’m not sure I understand them any better than the doctor does.”

  Reed frowned. “Excuse me, sir?”

  “Phlox says”—the captain hesitated—“that the cause of death appears to have been asphyxiation.”

  “What?” Reed wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

  “Asphyxiation—Ensign Hart simply stopped breathing.”

  “But
why…”

  “We don’t know, Malcolm. The doctor did also find considerable neurological disruption. It’s possible that was the root cause.”

  “I see.”

  Archer sighed. “For what it’s worth, he was able to confirm that the phase pistol was set on stun. She shouldn’t have died, Malcolm.”

  “Yes, sir,” Reed said, nodding tightly. “I know.”

  Except she had.

  “I’m going to need to file a report with Starfleet,” the captain said. “Which means I’ll need your version of what happened.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I know there’s a lot going on,” Archer said. “But as soon as you can—”

  “By tomorrow morning, sir. It’ll be in the system.”

  “Good. I appreciate it.” Archer hesitated. “One other thing, Malcolm. Just so you know—there’s no question in my mind about the incident. I stand behind you one hundred percent.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Which means I’m taking your word for something else, too.”

  “Sir?”

  “That no matter what Doctor Phlox found—or didn’t find—something happened to Ensign Hart down there. Something that made her behave the way she did. And we’re going to get to the bottom of it.”

  “So we’re not leaving yet?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Archer said. “Listen. Try to get Roan one more time tonight. But if you can’t—get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

  Reed smiled. “That is an understatement, Captain.”

  “All right, then.” Archer stood up. “Dismissed.”

  The captain was right. He needed to sleep. The way his mind was racing, though…he wasn’t sure he could. What he could do was eat—he hadn’t had anything since breakfast.

  The mess hall was practically deserted. Two crewmen from medical in the corner, laughing, heads bowed together over what looked like coffee and dessert. Fraternizing.

  The regulations didn’t apply to them. Not the way they had to him and Alana. It wasn’t fair. It was blatantly unfair, in fact. Trip was right—those rules were going to change. Too late for him, though.