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

by Christopher L. Bennett

  9

  June 21, 2164

  U.S.S. Endeavour

  “HAIL PIONEER,” Captain T’Pol ordered once Endeavour dropped to impulse within Rigelian space.

  Hoshi Sato moved to comply. “That’s odd,” she said after a few moments. “They’re responding . . . but from a position behind Rigel IV’s moon, and on an encrypted channel.”

  “Onscreen. Encrypt our reply.”

  The bearded visage of T’Pol’s erstwhile first officer appeared on the main viewer. “Welcome to Rigel, Captain T’Pol,” said Malcolm Reed. “You made good time.”

  “I shall relay your compliments to Chief Engineer Romaine. What is your current status, Captain?”

  Reed did not comment on her preference to get straight to business; he was habitually much the same. “We’re providing support for an infiltration down on Four. One of the target ships was tracked to a spaceport in the territory of the Corthoc Family. Lieutenant Williams is checking it out.”

  T’Pol’s brows raised. “How did you arrange access to First Family airspace?” Even if Reed had deemed the situation extreme enough to warrant the risk of transporter use, the Families would still have detected the beam.

  “Fortunately, the Families are far from a united front. The Commission was able to bribe one of the lesser Families, the Kanyors, who have a fierce rivalry with the neighboring Corthocs. They granted our team access to their airspace and transport onto Corthoc lands.” He gave a tight smile. “Nothing like a little dissension in the enemy ranks.”

  “Indeed. May I join you aboard Pioneer? I would appreciate a fuller briefing while we await word from your armory officer.”

  Reed frowned, contemplating. “Actually, Endeavour could be more useful elsewhere. One of the target ships went to Rigel VII, but the Commission is reluctant to send a ship of its own there, even in an emergency.” He grimaced. “Apparently, while the Kalar shun most modern technology, they make an exception when it comes to defending their territory. They have weaponry that can shoot down atmospheric craft.”

  “Then the ship that traveled there was most likely a decoy and may have already been destroyed.”

  “Possibly, but we must follow every lead.”

  “Understood,” T’Pol said. “I would still like to meet with you, Captain. With your permission, I shall come aboard in a shuttlepod while Endeavour proceeds to Rigel VII.”

  Reed hesitated for a moment. “Very well. Less risk of detection that way, I suppose. We’ll send you the safe approach vector.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” She offered an appreciative nod, softening her expression slightly. “It will be agreeable to see you again, Malcolm.”

  He paused before replying more stiffly. “And you, Captain.”

  Babel Station

  Archer awoke to find Sedra Hemnask sitting up in bed beside him, her knees pulled up against her bare chest, arms wrapped around her legs. She seemed lost in thought. “Hi,” he said.

  She started and looked at him, relaxing her pose in a way that considerably improved his view. “Welcome back to waking,” she said.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve woken up to such a beautiful sight.”

  “Always the deft-tongued diplomat,” she teased.

  But before he could reach for her, she sighed and eased herself out of bed, moving to gaze out the window of her suite, which looked out on the hangar dome and the cratered landscape beyond. “Penny for your thoughts,” he ventured.

  She turned to stare. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s an old Earth expression. It means, what are you thinking?”

  Her brow furrowed endearingly. “Why does it mean that?”

  Archer sat up in bed. He was coming to enjoy this game. “Well, a . . . penny is a kind of old coin.”

  “A coin. So you’re offering to bribe me into telling you my thoughts?”

  He got out of bed and slipped on a bathrobe, not as accustomed to the cool air as a Rigel V native like Hemnask. “It was a very small coin. The lowest denomination. So it’s—”

  “So you’re saying my thoughts are of minimal value.”

  He stepped closer to her. “I was going to say, it’s a token gesture. And you’re avoiding the question.” He put his arms on her bare shoulders. “Something’s on your mind, Sedra. I’d like to know what it is.”

  “Jonathan, I . . .” She pulled away, moving closer to the window. “I’m wondering if this was a mistake.”

  His face fell. “Oh. I’m . . . sorry, I thought . . .”

  “Oh, no, not because of you!” Her hand rested on his chest. “No, what we shared was . . . special. That’s why I fear it was selfish of me to seek it from you.”

  He stroked Sedra’s cheek. “The last thing I would call you after last night is selfish.”

  “But I was.” She moved away and finally donned her own robe, not from the chill. “I didn’t think about how it would look. Politically, I mean.”

  Archer frowned, shaking his head. “But we’re both already known for supporting membership. I don’t see a conflict of interest.”

  “That’s just it. They could claim our relationship existed earlier, back on Rigel. Accuse you of seducing me into supporting the Federation.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  She spread her arms. “Welcome to politics! All it takes is the appearance of scandal to poison a deal. And our chances of winning over both Rigel and the Federation are tenuous enough already. It wouldn’t take much to ruin them.”

  Hemnask smiled wistfully, coming up to Archer and tenderly stroking his cheek. “It’s sweet and romantic of you to speak up for what we did. But can you truly tell me you never contemplated that it might be unwise?”

  Archer pondered her words. The truth was, he had recognized last night that his behavior was a little out of character. Maybe that was why he’d done it. Ever since his talk with Dani, he’d been aware of how solitary he’d let himself become. After all, he wasn’t getting any younger. If he ever wanted to pass the Archer legacy forward to another generation . . . or even just have someone to keep him company once he finally retired . . . he had to change his way of doing things. Maybe his yearning for a companion had made him reckless in giving in to his attraction to Hemnask.

  After a moment, he shook his head, rejecting the thought. “You are not just someone I slept with because you were convenient. I may have been feeling a little lonely lately, but not that needy. There’s something real between us. Something worth pursuing.”

  She came up to him again. “I’m not saying there isn’t. This does mean something to me. But . . . it was ill-timed. We should probably defer exploring it further until after the conference, when there’s no longer a potential conflict of interest.” She gave a lopsided grin and moved in against him. “Or at least we should keep this as private as we can.” She kissed him slowly. “We Rigelians value our secrets.”

  He kissed her back, and it was a while before they parted. “All right. For now, this is just between us.”

  “Agreed.” She self-consciously grasped his hand and shook it in the human manner.

  But he took her hand in both of his, smiling. “You know . . . it’s still a few hours until local morning.”

  She tilted her head. “I believe you’re right.” She pulled his head down to hers again.

  Archer had barely gotten her robe open again when his communicator beeped. He let it sound a few times before they both sighed, pulled apart, and rolled their eyes in mutual understanding. Retying his robe, he fished the palm-sized instrument out of his uniform pocket and flipped open the grille. “Archer here.”

  “Admiral, this is Captain Williams. You’d better get down to the esplanade, sir.”

  Sensing the intensity in his aide’s voice, Archer frowned. “What’s wrong, Marcus?”

  “Sir, someone just took a shot at Councilor Thoris.”

  • • •

  Many of the ambassadors and their aides had gathered near the center of the esp
lanade by the time Archer arrived, and a fair number of the Andorian Starfleet troops handling security for the conference were there as well, keeping the crowd back and questioning witnesses. Archer spotted Marcus Williams easily: his aide was a tall, strongly built man, a former wide receiver for Starfleet Academy’s gridiron football team back in the ’30s. Once Williams spotted Archer, that background assisted him in negotiating the crowd to rendezvous with the admiral. “Where’s the councilor?” Archer asked.

  “Back aboard his ship,” Williams replied in his Iowa drawl. “Babel security’s taking his statement there.”

  Archer furrowed his brow. “What was he even still doing here? He should’ve headed off for his next campaign stop hours ago.”

  Williams worked his lantern jaw. “Seems like they had some engine trouble. Had to lay over for repairs.”

  “That seems oddly convenient for whoever wanted to take a shot at Thoris.”

  “The thought occurred to me as well.” Archer turned at the new voice, seeing the serene Vulcan visage of T’Rama, Solkar’s aide and daughter-in-law. “I trust Babel security will investigate the matter.”

  “I’ll make sure they do,” Archer said. Over T’Rama’s shoulder, he noticed Hemnask’s arrival, arranged to come a comfortable interval after his own and from a separate direction. Their eyes met briefly without overt acknowledgment.

  He caught a snatch of conversation from the nearby cluster of Planetarist-leaning ambassadors. As usual, Mikhail Kamenev was raising a fuss to make a Tellarite proud. “Mark my words, this has Federalist fingerprints all over it,” the Martian exclaimed.

  Avaranthi sh’Rothress tilted her antennae skeptically. “You aren’t seriously proposing they attempted to kill him.”

  “Scare him off, maybe. Intimidate him, intimidate us into backing down.”

  “Al-Rashid himself wouldn’t dare try it,” Ysanne Fell put in. “But perhaps some deranged supporter. You know how fanatical some of their followers are. Or maybe some Rigelian gangster trying to guarantee admission.”

  Archer tried to tune them out. “I take it the shooter hasn’t been found yet?” he asked Williams.

  The captain shook his head. “The station’s been locked down. No ships are allowed to leave, and shields went up automatically as soon as the station’s sensors detected the weapons fire.”

  “So the assailant is still present,” T’Rama said. She quirked an eyebrow. “Not a reassuring insight.”

  Archer’s gaze went to her belly. “Maybe you should hang back.”

  “Your concern for my embryo is appreciated, Admiral, but I judge the risk to be minimal,” T’Rama said, striding toward the security contingent. “The sniper targeted Councilor Thoris specifically,” she went on as Archer followed, “and he, she, or other would not risk capture by firing at another target with security already on the scene. Not to mention that if there were an active shooter, this crowd would not have been allowed to assemble.”

  “You make a good argument,” Archer conceded.

  “I am a Vulcan,” she replied, though he caught the same kind of deadpan teasing in her voice that he’d learned from long experience to recognize in T’Pol’s. “Additionally, I had eleven Vulcan years of experience as an investigator in ShiKahr prior to joining Administrator T’Pau’s security detail.”

  “I imagine such crimes were more common before the Kir’Shara reforms.”

  “Not particularly; it was mostly the High Command that was prone to aggression for what were deemed logical reasons. But violent crimes did occur among immigrants or visitors. And on occasion, the policies of the High Command provoked political assassination attempts by Andorians, Mazarites, and the like.”

  They reached the security contingent as she spoke, and its head, a gray-uniformed lieutenant commander named Astellet ch’Terren, turned to them, holding a scanner he’d just been handed by a subordinate. Looking up from it with a solemn expression, the young Andorian gazed at Archer for a moment before turning to T’Rama. “Ma’am, you say you have investigatory experience?”

  “That is correct.”

  “We could use your assistance, then,” he said, eyes still darting to Archer. “It may have now become a rather sensitive matter, and it might be preferable to have a non-Starfleet investigator involved to avoid a conflict of interest.”

  T’Rama studied him. “What have you found, Commander?”

  Ch’Terren hesitated. “My people identified the rooftop from which the shots were fired. The ledge around it shows radiation traces consistent with a Starfleet phase pistol, matching the burns on the street below. And . . . well, see for yourself.”

  The Vulcan diplomat took the scanner he offered and studied its readings. Raising her brows, she turned to Archer. “Admiral. This says that hair and skin cells found at the shooter’s position are consistent with your DNA.”

  Archer did a double take. “What?! That’s ridiculous!”

  “Then I trust you can provide an alibi for the time in question.”

  “Of course. I—”

  He realized that Sedra Hemnask was standing close by in the crowd. No doubt she had heard everything. He met her eyes, prompting her to come forward. Surely this changed things.

  But Hemnask returned his gaze with apology . . . then turned and walked away without a word.

  Corthoc estate, Rigel IV

  The guard slumped, unconscious, and Valeria Williams released her grip from around his neck. She’d employed a Vulcan Suus Mahna sleeper hold that left no mark; with luck, when the Zami guard recovered, he’d simply assume he’d fallen asleep on watch and gotten a crick in his neck. But she had to act quickly to be in and out of the hangar before that happened.

  Getting into Corthoc territory had been relatively easy with help from the rival Kanyor clan, a well-bribed operative of whose had brought her across the border in the garb of a servant. Her light skin and auburn hair let her blend in well with the Zami, and those who lived in the Kanyor lands often had rounder pinnae than the species norm, so Doctor Liao hadn’t even needed to give her prosthetic ears (which was almost a shame; she was somewhat curious to see how she’d look with points added). After that, she’d been transferred into the care of the local resistance, though indirectly. The Kanyors were happy to abet anyone who wished to undermine the Corthocs, but they were still feudal lords who oppressed their own commoners just as harshly (according to the resistance, though the Kanyors insisted they treated their serfs better, like beloved pets), so any cooperation between the two groups was strained at best.

  The downside of the stealth approach was having to leave her phase pistol and communicator behind. The Corthocs, like most of the First Families, hoarded higher technology to themselves and constantly scanned the peasant districts for contraband. The districts that Williams had passed through on her way here had been an odd mix of technological levels. The most advanced contrivances the peasants were allowed were the 2D viewscreens that broadcast an endless barrage of propaganda and pabulum to lull them into complacency. The screens seemed out of place in dwellings that, in some districts, were virtually medieval. The farming and construction vehicles were cumbersome, rusty things on rubber wheels, powered by hazardous and unreliable internal-combustion engines. Many farmers and merchants made do with carts pulled by four-horned, orange-furred Rigelian yaks, which were arguably better suited for the rough, cobbled roads than the combustion-powered trucks were, at least when they didn’t find one of those trucks broken down in their path.

  Yet Family-owned facilities such as this hangar, or the fortresses where the feudal lords dwelt, were full of the modern technologies and comforts that the Families denied their serfs. Which included security sensors to supplement the live guards, so Williams had to be careful from this point. Luckily her scanner could operate at low enough power to avoid tripping the contraband sensors, unlike the power pack in a phase pistol or the subspace transceiver in a communicator. Plus, she had intelligence from the local resistance about the b
est places to subvert the security system. Williams was thus able to locate the sensor fields, tap into their control circuits, and do to them essentially what she’d just done to the guard.

  The resistance, sadly, was still weakened from a series of recent purges, biding its time and rebuilding its strength. So it hadn’t been able to spare anyone beyond a single junior recruit who still hadn’t overcome his fear of the Corthocs enough to risk entry into one of their facilities. Williams supposed that someone whose only exposure to high technology was the lash of the oppressor’s whip could be forgiven a certain technophobia. So she had the youth stand watch outside while she infiltrated the facility.

  An emergency ladder, a couple of picked locks, and a maintenance-catwalk crawl later, the lieutenant stood above the target vessel, a Grennex RK6 light freighter. After ensuring its own systems, security included, were powered down, Williams lowered herself onto its bridge tower by rope, then made her way down and back to the vessel’s dorsal spine. She found a maintenance port and hooked her scanner to its computer interface. Two minutes later, she’d verified that Grev and Sam had never been aboard this ship—which frustrated but hardly surprised her. It had always been unlikely that the Corthocs would have brought the abductees to their own estate. But the RTC’s intelligence reports suggested that the Corthocs were not known for having much intelligence of their own, due to extreme decadence and a degree of good old-fashioned inbreeding, so it had been worth checking the possibility.

  But even after she successfully exfiltrated the hangar, the mission was only half finished. Her friends—and the vital secret files—may not have been here, but the Corthoc estate’s computers probably had information on their location. So now she simply had to break into one of the most heavily secured and technologically advanced facilities on the planet, hack its computers, and get out again, with no useful assistance from her resistance escort. Why did I have to go and convince Captain Reed that a sole infiltrator had the best chance?