What Price Honor?

by Dave Stern

  The com sounded.

  “Captain.” It was Hoshi. “Transmission coming in—from the Sarkassians.”

  He and Trip glanced at each other.

  “On my way,” Archer said, and hurried onto the bridge.

  They’d had no word from the Sarkassians since Reed had returned from the planet’s surface yesterday. They’d tracked a flurry of com traffic between the Sarkassian ships—and a few hours afterward, the jamming beam had gone down, and there was even more subspace traffic, between the ships and the Sarkassian Council, no doubt.

  “Put it up,” he said, nodding to the screen.

  The monitor filled with the image of another Sarkassian, one Archer didn’t recognize at all. Significantly younger than either Roan or Valay had been.

  “Enterprise, this is Lieutenant Col of the Striker Amileus.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “We have found the records from our outpost. The story your lieutenant put forth—regarding Commodore Roan and the ambassador—it appears to be possible.”

  “Well.” Archer smiled. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  “Even so,” Col’s face remained grim, “I am authorized to inform you that your actions in interfering with our affairs—and in removing Sarkassian property from the outpost—are cause for great concern.”

  “Seems to me we helped you set your affairs in order,” Archer said. “And saved a lot of lives in the process.”

  It seemed to him as well that a little “thank you” might be in order, but he suspected that was not on the list of items Col wanted to discuss with him.

  “As for your property,” Archer continued, “we returned that. As I think you know.”

  “We retrieved the sample containers from the outpost’s surface. However, I have been instructed to inform you that your possession of any artifacts or records of such artifacts would be considered tantamount to an act of war. Which would be responded to in kind.”

  “We understand,” Archer said. “And as our lieutenant told you—we’ve returned everything that we took from the outpost.”

  “And the records?”

  Archer sighed. “If you insist—we will destroy them.”

  “We insist,” Col said.

  “Very well.” He’d expected this—had already asked Hoshi and Malcolm to gather together their data in a single node on the network, so it would be easier to wipe clean. He’d already talked himself out of keeping a second copy of the data hidden elsewhere in the system.

  When the Sarkassians were ready to deal with the rest of the galaxy in a more open manner, that information would be available again. He wasn’t going to lecture them on the importance of being good neighbors, though.

  That, he was saving for T’Pol.

  “We’ll have every record from the outpost wiped from the system in a matter of minutes.”

  “Good. I will take your word for this.”

  Archer nodded. “Good.”

  “Then I believe our business here is finished, Enterprise. You are free to leave our space.”

  “And don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Trip added quietly, from behind the captain.

  “One last thing, Col. We answered the distress call because we wanted to help. Remember that. And if you want help in the future—we’ll be around.”

  Col seemed momentarily taken aback by Archer’s statement.

  And at that moment, T’Pol stepped forward.

  Archer glanced sideways at his science officer, and suppressed a small smile.

  In the long-distant past, the Vulcans had been a volatile, destructive people. Having served with T’Pol for over a year now, he knew that those emotions, suppressed though they were by the discipline of logic she practiced, were still present, buried deep beneath her calm exterior.

  Once in a while, though, he caught a hint of them. Most recently, in the ready room, when T’Pol had told him the gist of what she was going to say to the Sarkassians.

  Archer settled back in his chair.

  This ought to be good, he thought.

  “Lieutenant Col, I stand here as both a member of Starfleet, and a representative of the planet Vulcan. It is in that latter capacity that I speak now.

  “I must be blunt, Lieutenant. You and your scientists have behaved irresponsibly. You are like children given a box of dangerous weapons. You take them out and play with them, one by one, not knowing or caring what damage you do to others or yourself. Your dangerous activities threaten to harm not only yourselves, but others. On behalf of my government, I urge you to cease your careless exploitation of the resources left by the Anu’anshee.”

  Archer watched Col throughout the speech by T’Pol. The lieutenant’s expressionless mask gradually gave way to an expression of anger.

  “Who are you to lecture us?”

  “That was not a lecture, merely a statement of fact,” T’Pol said. “In two days we rendezvous with the Vulcan research vessel Shi’ar. She will carry information back to Vulcan regarding the nature and kind of your activities.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning the matter is now out of our hands, I suppose,” Archer said. “How you eventually decide to relate to the rest of the galaxy is up to you.”

  He looked at Col. The man still stood, ramrod straight, on the bridge of his ship. He hadn’t moved an inch.

  In his eyes, though, Archer thought he saw some give. Or maybe it was only wishful thinking on his part.

  Someday, he hoped to find out for sure.

  “Goodbye, Lieutenant,” Archer said. “And good luck.”

  At his nod, Hoshi closed the circuit.

  “Excuse me—if we could get started.”

  From the back of the armory—jammed in among the rest of the crew, who filled the small room to overflowing, crowding in on the ladders, on the second-floor gantry, along the two torpedo bays—Archer craned his neck and watched Lieutenant Reed, at the firing console, as he waved his hands for attention.

  The room quickly fell silent.

  “Thank you,” Reed said. “I have a certain reputation to uphold here—as a man of few words—and I promise not to disappoint.”

  Archer smiled.

  Reed cleared his throat, and clasped his hands behind his back.

  “We’re gathered here today to pay our respects to our fallen comrade. Ensign Alana Hart—who, I think I speak for all of us in saying, we never got to know quite as well as we should have.” Reed cut the last word short, and stood quite still for a moment.

  Archer suddenly realized how hard this was for Malcolm—and suspected that there was more than a little truth to the rumors he’d heard.

  He swallowed hard himself then, and exhaled deeply.

  “We honor her and remember her by being here,” Reed continued, “and I think Alana would also agree that we honor her by continuing to look forward, toward the future, and not to focus too hard on the past.”

  He nodded then, and the members of the armory crew—Bishop, Diaz, Santini, and Perkins, who’d just rotated in, stepped forward and saluted him crisply. Reed returned the salute.

  Archer’s eyes, and the eyes of all those around him, of everyone crowded into the armory, turned then toward the starboard torpedo bay, where Alana’s body lay inside an empty tube—a makeshift coffin.

  At the firing console, Reed was mouthing something quietly to himself. Good-bye? A prayer? Archer didn’t know.

  The lieutenant reached down and pressed a button on the console.

  The torpedo tube slid along the bay, and into the firing chamber. The airlock sealed shut behind it. A second later, Archer heard the sound of the tube being shot off into space.

  “Godspeed, Ensign,” the captain whispered.

  He turned back and saw Reed, still at the console, facing away from the crew, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly.

  Reed did not turn around for a long time.

  The crew dispersed. Archer made his way to the firing console, where Reed was ta
lking to the rest of the armory crew.

  “Nicely done, Malcolm,” the captain said. “I feel sure that she’s watching us and smiling from somewhere.”

  “Thank you, sir. I hope so.”

  Archer joined in their discussion—a gentle razzing of Perkins, the newcomer. A gentle razzing of Reed’s leadership style. A few memories of Ensign Hart.

  The com sounded.

  “T’Pol to Captain Archer.”

  “Go ahead, Sub-Commander.”

  “We are approaching another star system.”

  “Already?”

  “I had put us at warp four to make our scheduled appointment with the Shi’ar.”

  “Right. So what about this star?”

  “Data coming in now…two Minshara-class planets, in synchronous orbit about the star.”

  “Synchronous orbit?” Archer frowned. “What’s that mean?”

  “One hundred eighty degrees opposite each other sir, along the orbital plane. The planets also appear to be…mirror images of one another.”

  She sounded puzzled. Archer was too.

  “I’ll be right there. Out.”

  He turned to Reed, who was frowning as well.

  “Mirror images, a hundred and eighty degrees apart along the orbital path—how is that possible?”

  Reed shook his head. “It’s not, sir. At least, not in my experience.”

  “Well. Come on, then, Malcolm.” Archer walked over to the armory door, which hissed open at his approach. “Let’s go broaden your experience.”

  Reed smiled then—the first genuine smile the captain had seen from him in days—and moved toward the open door.

  Acknowledgments

  A lot of people helped make this book happen in a timely fashion, though I must single out in particular:

  Margaret Clark, who has a calm demeanor…

  Paula Block, who has good questions…

  The Pocket Rocket, the real D.O., the one and only managing editor who can take a licking (or at least, an airplane-spinning) and keep on ticking…

  And of course, the famiy—Caleb, Cleo, Jill, Madeleine, and Toni.

  Thanks are also due to:

  The Pocket Books production staff.

  Vonda McIntyre, for a most opportune shot of inspiration.

  Mike Okuda, who provided valuable technical info and once, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, let me sit in the captain’s chair.

  Rick Berman and Brannon Braga, who created Enterprise, and thus brought forth manna from heaven.

  And Gene Roddenberry, without whom…

  Coming in March 2003

  Surak’s Soul

  by J. M. Dillard

  Captain’s Starlog. Supplemental. While mapping an area of uncharted space, we have encountered a populated planet—which is sending out a beacon that our universal translator has garbled. Hoshi is currently trying to decipher what she can.

  Jonathan Archer sat in his command chair on the bridge of the Enterprise and stared at the image of the M-class planet on the main viewscreen before him: the larger-than-Earth globe, blue-speckled with large verdant islands rather than continents, rotated lazily.

  Frankly, Archer was grateful for the signal, and suspected the rest of his crew was, as well; the process of mapping lifeless planet after lifeless planet had grown tedious, and he was looking forward to some interspecies interaction. He was hoping that this particular planet, which they would have labeled Kappa Xi II, was transmitting its signal in order to welcome interstellar travelers.

  But, as he turned to look expectantly at Hoshi (already under the scrutiny of Travis May weather at helm, Malcolm Reed at tactical, and T’Pol at the science station), his hope grew fainter. As Hoshi listened and relistened to the message, her dark eyes focused on a far-distant point, her lips resolved themselves into a thinner and thinner line, and the crease between her delicate jet brows deepened.

  “Anything?” Archer prompted at last.

  “I need more time to do a thorough translation.” Hoshi shook her head, then added, “It’s not good.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s a distress call. Some sort of medical emergency. But I can’t get any more detailed than that….” She sighed. “From the articulation of the sounds, I’d say the population is humanoid; at least, their lips and tongues and teeth are like ours.”

  Archer considered this for no more than a matter of seconds, then turned to T’Pol. “What’s the atmosphere down there?”

  The Vulcan swiveled elegantly to her station, then looked back at the captain, her expression and tone impassive, despite the news she conveyed. “Breathable. However…” Her gaze became pointed. “I detect very few life-forms.”

  It took Archer no more than an instant to make a decision. Regardless of the number of survivors, Enterprise was present, capable of assistance, and therefore obligated to intervene. An entire species, perhaps, was at risk of annihilation. He pressed the intercom. “Archer to sickbay.”

  “Phlox here.”

  Keeping his gaze fixed on the worried Hoshi, Archer said, “Doctor, we have an unknown medical emergency down on the planet’s surface; the population is probably humanoid. Bring whatever you need to the shuttlepod launch bay. Archer out.”

  He stood. “Hoshi, I’ll need you to translate what you can. T’Pol…” He gestured with his chin, and together the three of them headed for the bridge doors. “Mister May weather, you have the conn.”

  The flight down to Kappa Xi II’s surface was pleasant; Archer was privately cheered by Hoshi’s attitude toward it. She had made up her mind to learn to enjoy such expeditions, and peered through the small viewscreen at the looming image of large emerald islands adrift in a vast turquoise sea—a far different distribution of land to water than Earth’s.

  “Gorgeous,” Archer murmured, half to himself, as he piloted the shuttlepod closer to one of the larger islands, their destination.

  “Yes,” Hoshi echoed, while Phlox made an enthusiastic noise. “Too bad they’re having an emergency. This looks like it would be a beautiful place for shore leave…”

  “It is rather Earth-like,” T’Pol commented neutrally from the copilot’s chair, which made the captain consider that a blue-green planet might seem inviting to humans from what he’d heard, but perhaps to Vulcan eyes, a red desert planet would be more aesthetically pleasing.

  Still, the ride down through the atmosphere to the coastline of the island was breathtaking; the water closer to the shore was celery-colored and so clear that even from a distance, brightly colored creatures could be seen swimming beneath the surface. The sand was pure white, reminding Archer of a Florida beach he’d once visited; at the meeting of water and shore, long-legged birds raced to pluck buried meals from the wet sand before waves rolled in again.

  Archer brought the shuttlepod to a smooth landing at its destination, a large paved strip closest to the largest cluster of remaining life-forms. He had wondered whether this large paved area was used strictly for airflight—but a glance at his surroundings made it clear that this culture, if not used to extraterrestrial contact, was probably capable of spaceflight. In a nearby hangar, a number of sophisticated and apparently spaceworthy vessels rested; Archer eyed them covetously as he brought the shuttlepod to a halt, wishing there were time to inspect them. Instead, he pushed the hatch controls open, and followed his away team out onto the landing strip, adjacent to the coastline.

  Once he was outside, the first thing Archer noticed was the sun. Shining bright in a cloudless Earth-blue sky, it reflected off the nearby diamond-white sand, off the dappled water, off tall, spiraling buildings that shone like mother-of-pearl, reflecting pale green, turquoise, and rose. Tall trees, their great blue-green leaves draping down like weeping willows, rustled in a light breeze.

  “An island paradise.” Archer sighed. Trip would have felt at home down here, given the time he’d spent in the Keys. The landing party had dressed in the large—and rather unwieldy, the captain tho
ught—space suits on Phlox’s insistence. Had the captain been alone, he would have risked exposure and relied on the decontam procedures on board the Enterprise just for the chance to feel the sun and wind against his bare skin. The notion of breathing in a lungful of sea air was enticing. Besides, the suits, with their great domed headgear, might make them look rather outlandish to any species unused to regular extraterrestrial contact. But he respected Phlox’s opinion, and where his crew members were concerned, he would take all precautions. Reed had insisted on their arming themselves with phase pistols. Medical emergency or not, it was impossible to predict exactly what they might encounter.

  “Ambient temperature twenty-five degrees Celsius,” T’Pol announced clinically, her gaze on her scanner. “Life-forms…” She paused, then pointed in the direction of the spiraling buildings. “In that direction, Captain. Very few, and very faint.”

  “Let’s move,” Archer said, all appreciation for his surroundings dismissed. He led the group at a rapid pace, slowing only when Hoshi cried out behind him.

  “Captain!”

  He turned and followed his communication officer’s gaze. Peeking out from the profile of one of the silver ships was a hand. Not a human hand—this one was six-fingered, curled in a limp half fist, the skin a deep greenish bronze.

  Archer arrived at the humanoid’s side first, closely followed by Phlox. In the open hatch of the shuttle-sized ship, a male had fallen backward, so that his torso lay faceup on the stone-and-shale landing strip, his legs on the deck of his vessel. Clearly, he’d been stricken as he attempted to leave…fleeing, perhaps, whatever had decimated his people. His complexion was deep bronze, his scalp and ridged brow entirely hairless; the cartilage of his nose terminated in a sharp, triangular tip, framed by large diagonal slits for nostrils. He stared up at the cloudless sky with almost perfectly round, dark eyes, dulled by death. His expression was entirely neutral, his lipless mouth open to reveal a hard dental ridge mostly covered by pale gums. The hands that fell so limply from his flailed arms were slightly webbed, suggesting that his people had evolved from the sea that covered most of their planet.