Star Trek: Enterprise - 016 - Rise of the Federation: Tower of Babel

by Christopher L. Bennett

  Archer nodded, understanding her refusal to have anything to do with transporter research after all the losses her family had suffered as a result of her late father’s work developing the technology. She’d only stayed with Emory Erickson as long as she had in order to care for him after the transporter accident that had crippled him.

  But then Dani caught herself. “Oh, I’m sorry, Jon. I realize my petty problems don’t compare to what transporters did to you . . .”

  He gently waved off his childhood friend’s concern. “It’s okay. It’s barely even a problem anymore. Phlox’s latest treatments have pretty much halted the nerve damage and repaired most of it. I’ll never be quite back to top fighting form, but then, I probably wouldn’t be anyway now that I’m not . . . younger . . . anymore,” he finished, echoing her emphasis.

  “Well, that’s good to know, at least.” She shook her head. “I’m almost glad Dad passed on before he found out about this. The thought that his invention was hurting people because of something he missed—”

  Archer reached out and rested his hand atop hers. “Hey. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The assembly errors are cumulative, gradual. Nobody could’ve known until transporters were in heavy use for years.”

  “He still would’ve blamed himself. You know that. You know how obsessive he could be about—” She broke off, remembering how her father’s desperate experiment to retrieve her lost brother from transporter limbo had led to the accidental death of one of Archer’s crew and Erickson’s own incarceration for the final years of his life. Danica herself had not been held accountable for her involvement, partly due to Archer’s advocacy; but it had scuttled her ambitions for joining Starfleet, forcing her to settle for a civilian engineering career.

  He squeezed her hand more firmly for a moment. “It’s okay. We caught it in time, you know. Nobody’s died from it. And I’m sure we’ll crack the problem sooner or later. For now, we just have to get places the old-fashioned way—in skimmers and shuttlepods.”

  She chuckled. “Just like our primitive forebears.”

  “That’s right.” He was glad to see her bright smile again. “Oh, speaking of travel,” Archer went on, hoping to distract her further from her regrets, “I’m going to be heading out on Endeavour next week.”

  “Oh! Back in space again, good for you! Where to this time?”

  “The Beta Rigel system. Since we helped them with the Vertian crisis last year, the Rigelian Trade Commission has been more receptive to the possibility of joining the Federation, and President Vanderbilt wants me to help convince them.”

  “The Trade Commission?” Danica asked. “How is it their decision?”

  “They’re the de facto government of the Rigel worlds—at least, the allied ones. The individual planets and colonies have their own local governments, but it’s the Trade Commission that’s managed commerce and communication among the inhabited worlds of the system since it was founded six hundred years ago. So it’s evolved into the administrative body that holds the alliance together.”

  “Sort of like the way the British East India Company ran the British Empire’s colonies.”

  “Something like that, but more egalitarian and not for profit. Almost like the Federation in some ways, just on a more local scale. That’s part of why the president thinks they’re a good prospect for membership.”

  “They’re big, too. Multiple planets and . . . how many species?”

  “Three native intelligent species. Let’s see, there are the Jelna from Rigel V; they’re the ones with the gray skin and green and black facial tattoos. There are the Zami from Rigel IV—that planet isn’t part of the trading community, but they have a large expatriate population on Five and on the Rigel II colony.”

  “They’re related to Vulcans, right?”

  “They’re very similar, though we’re not sure how or if they’re related. They have less pointed ears and generally have lighter hair—many of them could almost pass for human.” He took a sip of his tea. “And then there are the chelonian bipeds from Rigel III—basically big shell-less tortoises. Their name is hard to pronounce, so we call them Chelons.”

  “But they all like to be called Rigelians.”

  “That’s right—even the colonists from other races like the Xarantines and Coridanites. Don’t get me wrong, they value their cultural plurality, but they take pride in the larger community they’re part of. They usually see themselves as Rigelians first and different species second.” He gave her a wry grin. “Plus it doesn’t hurt to present a united front to the rest of the galaxy—or to play up Rigel’s reputation as an economic powerhouse.”

  “Something tells me that reputation is why the president is so keen to have them join.”

  “True, it would help boost the Federation’s economic and political standing. And maybe add even more names to our roster—since Vanderbilt hopes that where Rigel leads, its trading partners will soon follow. He’s determined to see the Federation grow and solidify itself before his term ends. Plus, with Vega Colony applying for membership, adding a multispecies community like Rigel at the same time would help ease concerns about humans becoming too dominant in the Federation.”

  “Well, the more, the merrier.”

  “Anyway, I’ve still got my work cut out for me,” Archer went on. “Joining the Federation would mean adopting certain laws and regulations about interstellar commerce and security. But the Rigelians pride themselves on their so-called ‘tolerant’ trading practices, which means they’ll deal with just about anybody and not be too picky about the legalities. That’s one reason why it would mean so much to get them to join—it would help curb interstellar piracy and groups like the Orion Syndicate. It would—” He noticed that Danica’s eyes were glazing over a bit. “I’m sorry, I’m boring you.”

  “It’s not that, exactly,” she said. “I was just thinking . . . all you ever seem to talk about anymore is your work.”

  He shrugged. “They do keep me pretty busy around here.”

  “I know, but . . . don’t you ever feel there’s something missing? I can’t remember the last time I heard you talk about going on a date or being in love. At least, not since . . .”

  She trailed off, but he completed her thought. “Not since Erika.”

  “Jon . . .” Now she reached out and took his hand. “I know how much she meant to you, but it’s been seven years. Sometimes I worry about you. I’m afraid you’re going to end up alone.”

  “It’s not . . . that I’m not open to the possibility,” he said. “It’s just . . . other things keep getting in the way.”

  “You were always busy,” she said. “You’re the most driven man I know. But you didn’t always let that keep you from having a social life.”

  “No. But . . . it kept it from getting too deep.” He reflected back on Margaret Mullin, the woman he’d loved in flight school. She’d turned down his marriage proposal on the grounds that he cared more about Starfleet than about her. He’d been devastated at the time, but it hadn’t affected his absolute commitment to Starfleet, and he’d since come to realize that he would never have been able to commit to her as much as she’d deserved. He’d had other flings in subsequent years—Caroline, Rebecca, even Ruby from the 602 Club, though she’d been equally “close” to quite a few other flyboys. The one other woman he’d grown truly attached to was Erika Hernandez, but they’d had to break it off when he’d been promoted above her. Once aboard Enterprise, his only romantic fling of note had been with the intrepid scientist Riann on the Akaali homeworld; after that, the only women he’d been involved with were either illusions created by shapeshifting aliens or spies sent to extract information.

  Then Erika had become captain of her own NX-class starship, Columbia, and she and Archer had rekindled their relationship at last. But Columbia had been lost in the first year of the Romulan War. Since then . . . since then there had only been his work.

  He shook his head. “I’m not the young hotshot I used to be, Dan
i. These days . . . after what I had with Erika, what I—when I think about what we could’ve had if she’d lived . . .”

  She smiled in sympathy. “I understand, Jon. It’d have to be something deep enough, meaningful enough, to compare to that.”

  “And I’m just not sure I have the attention to devote to that now. Not while there’s still so much work to do to get the Federation through its growing pains.”

  Her brows rose wistfully. “But is there ever going to be a time when the work ends?”

  Archer had no reply. Instead he tried to brush it off with a smile. “Hey, don’t worry about me. I’ve still got Porthos.”

  It did little to reassure her. She knew as well as he did that Archer’s beloved beagle was getting on in years, and even modern geriatrics could only do so much. Porthos might still have a few good years in him, but nothing lasted forever.

  They spent the rest of lunch talking about inconsequential things. When they parted, Danica hugged him longer and tighter than usual. After she’d left, Archer found himself wondering if there’d been a subtext to her talk of romance that he’d overlooked.

  Dani? No way. They’d been friends since childhood, more like brother and sister than anything else. Sure, she was smart and beautiful and warm, a good catch for anyone, but there was no way she could think of him in that way.

  Is there?

  2

  March 20, 2164

  San Francisco

  T’POL PAUSED on the threshold of her groundside apartment, sharpening her senses. She wasn’t familiar enough with the environment to judge if anything was out of place; though Starfleet maintained it for her use when Endeavour was at Earth, Admiral Archer allowed the vessel to spend more time abroad on exploratory or diplomatic missions than was typical for an admiral’s personal flagship. Still, she sensed something that did not belong in an unoccupied dwelling. As she advanced into the main room, allowing the door to close behind her, she refined her impression . . . soon realizing that what she sensed was a familiar presence, and a welcome one.

  She turned just in time to see a lanky figure in black coming up behind her. “Trip,” she greeted in the most casual and unsurprised tone she could muster.

  The light-haired human whom she knew as Charles Tucker (despite his having abandoned any open use of that name upon feigning his death nine years before) rolled his eyes, though he was smiling as well. “Shoulda known I couldn’t sneak up on you.”

  She did not soften her stance. “How did you get in here? The door was locked.”

  Trip smirked. “Maybe I beamed in.”

  T’Pol gave him a disapproving glare. “That would be most unwise. You realize the damage is cumulative, and you have been transported more than most.”

  “I said ‘maybe.’ ” He shrugged. “Guy’s gotta have some secrets.”

  She turned away. “That is not amusing.”

  After a moment, she felt his hand on her shoulder. “Hey. What is it, T’Pol?”

  She hesitated briefly, then her hand went to his. “I . . . your safety is a source of ongoing concern to me. I have . . . had unusually many opportunities to fear your imminent or actual death.”

  She didn’t have to see him to know he was giving an understanding nod, narrowing his lips. “And you’re upset about my line of work puttin’ me in danger.”

  “There is more than that.” She walked away, not to distance herself but merely to release tension. She paced around him, a body in orbit—the bond that drew them together balancing the momentum of her motion. “This ongoing pretense of your nonexistence. Having to meet only in secret or through our telepathic bond. Keeping the truth from Hoshi and other friends.” She stopped and turned to face him. “How long can we sustain this, Trip?”

  He stared. “Is this the talk?” he said at length. “The ‘where are we going’ talk?”

  “It is a valid question to consider.” She tilted her head, eyes darting and lips pursing. “There has been a certain . . . stimulation . . . to the challenge of maintaining a relationship in secret. In the short term, it does have its fascinations. But have we no goals beyond the short term? Have you?”

  “I . . . I dunno,” Trip replied. “Like you said, I’ve kinda gotten used to not plannin’ on a long-term future. Not . . . that I’m in any hurry to give up breathin’,” he assured her when he saw her reaction. “I just—I’ve learned to make the most of livin’ in the moment.”

  He underlined his position by kissing her, drawing her into his embrace. She found it agreeable to indulge his professed philosophy for now. It had been too long since they had been together in the flesh. Her ability to sublimate her emotional responses was limited at the best of times, but her feelings for Trip strained her Vulcan disciplines to the breaking point. Her need for release was not nearly as intense as the compulsion of pon farr, but it was close enough.

  Once they were sated, they showered together briefly, after which she stepped into the air-drying tube. “Hey, why not stay here a while longer?” Trip invited.

  She closed her eyes, concentrating on the sensation of the powerful air flow against her skin. The laminar current was quiet enough that she could speak normally. “You know that Vulcans do not thrive in conditions of high humidity.”

  “Come on, live a little. It’ll be fun.”

  She opened one eye to give him a sidelong glance. “More of your ‘live in the moment’ philosophy? Enjoy the here and now, even if it harms you in the long term?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Is it not more logical to attempt to optimize all future moments, rather than simply the current one?”

  He shut off the shower and came to join her in the air tube. “So what are you suggesting? Where do you plan for this to go? We can’t exactly have a close relationship as long as you’re a starship captain.”

  “You could reveal yourself. Resume your Starfleet commission.” He winced. “I know you feel you have changed too much, compromised too much. I know you are reluctant to face your former friends.”

  “You’ve been talkin’ to Jonathan.”

  “I’ve been sharing minds with you,” she riposted.

  “All the more reason you should understand why I can’t come back.” He fidgeted. “Top o’ everything else . . . if I did come back to Starfleet, explained what I’ve been doin’ all these years, I’d serve out my whole tour on a penal asteroid.”

  T’Pol had to concede he had a point. The agency he worked for had ambiguous legal authority at best, relying on a certain interpretation of the imprecise wording of Section 31 of the Earth Starfleet charter—a section that, perhaps suspiciously, had been copied without alteration into the Federation Starfleet charter upon the merger of the founder worlds’ space services. Officially, their actions were performed without the knowledge or sanction of Starfleet Command, and thus they had no legal protection if their actions were exposed.

  She sighed, stepping out of the tube and turning to face him. “So this is all we can have? The status quo?”

  He came out to join her, meeting her eyes. “Can you live with that?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Recognizing that they were at an impasse, they let the subject drop, helping each other into light robes before leaving the ’fresher. Trip tried to steer the conversation onto a new topic once she had reached the bedroom and begun brushing her shoulder-length hair. “So how soon before you and Jonathan ship out to Rigel?”

  She quirked a brow. “You are aware of Endeavour’s itinerary?”

  “I keep current.”

  “We leave in two days,” she said. “Are you available for the duration?”

  “Far as I know.” He stepped closer. “By the way, we’ve been pickin’ up some chatter from those parts. The Malurians have put out some feelers to the First Families on Rigel IV. We’re concerned they might want to sabotage the Federation talks.”

  “That is neither anomalous nor surprising. The Malurian crime syndicate has had dealings in
Rigelian space for decades.”

  “All the more reason they’d want to try to screw up this agreement. T’Pol, you remember what a mess Garos caused last time. He shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

  She turned to him. “I am doing nothing of the sort. I simply question why this is any business of your section.”

  He sighed. “I know, I know. I get it enough from you and Jonathan both: the section’s about dealin’ with extraordinary threats, so why butt into everyday Starfleet problems?”

  “Exactly. The Federation’s safety is our responsibility. Your ‘Section Thirty-one’ is an adjunct at best. Yet sometimes it seems as if you perceive that relationship in reverse.”

  “It’s not that,” he said, stepping closer. “It’s just . . . I worry about you, T’Pol. I want to keep an eye on you, make sure you’re safe.”

  She put down the hairbrush and rose, staring at him. “You believe that makes it better? Trip, I am the captain of a Starfleet flagship. I am not a damsel in distress from one of your antiquated movies.”

  “That’s not what this is about! I’m just . . . tryin’ to help out. To do what I do now, but on your behalf. Because you’re someone important to me.”

  “ ‘Someone important.’ A nebulous characterization. Why should I accept your unsolicited intervention when neither of us even knows how our relationship is defined?”

  “So now you’re mad at me because I care about you?”

  “Because you seem to care more about your secrets, your evasions, and your games of deceit.”

  “It’s my life now. I can’t help that.”

  “And what kind of life is it? A life without truth is illogical. Surak wrote that the truth is simply the actual state of the universe. To live at odds with the truth is to be in conflict with reality itself. Such an existence is unsustainable.”

  Trip threw up his hands. “Good ol’ Surak, a quote for every occasion. Like Vulcans are some great paragons of truth. What about that Kolinahr thing Surak preached? Purging all emotion forever? You and I both know there’s no such thing as a Vulcan without emotion. Where’s the truth in that?”