“But,” she added in conclusion, “it will all be too late.”
The commander raised a single eyebrow as he considered T’Pol. Then he turned to the guard. “Leave us, Decius.”
“But, Commander, the prisoner…”
“Kroiha!” the commander shouted impatiently. “Go, report to the chief engineer. You’ll be of far more use on one of the repair crews than you are here.”
The guard was not happy, but he put his fist to his breast in a show of deference to his superior. Once the door closed behind the guard, the commander considered T’Pol silently, then said, “We’ve detected the Earth ship, tracing our warp signature directly to this system. They will intercept us within two veraku, well before we’ll have been able to finish repairs.”
“At which time, you will destroy this ship in order to avoid capture.”
The Romulan commander did not answer, but the sad, faraway look that overcame him confirmed her conjecture.
“Why?” she asked. “What was the point of all this subterfuge, of giving yourself Councillor Sarek’s face?”
The Romulan chuckled without humor. “As unlikely as it may seem, it was nature that gave me this face. Perhaps he and I share a common forefather from back before the Time of the Sundering.”
Somehow, T’Pol managed to hide her emotional response to that unexpected revelation. It had long been speculated that the Romulans were the descendants of those who left Vulcan during the Age of Surak, but there had never been anything more than circumstantial evidence pointing to that conclusion. Her captor, however, spoke of his racial connection to her people as established fact—something she found vaguely distressing. “Still,” she finally said aloud, “what is it that makes me so important, that you had to go to these lengths to capture me?”
“I would have thought Vulcans would eschew modesty just as they did pride.”
“I am not modest, only curious.”
“You are surely aware of what you represent—what you symbolize—to the cause of uniting Earth with the Interstellar Coalition?”
“Too aware,” T’Pol said with a sigh. “But why would that concern Romulus?”
“The Earthers are a very consternating people,” the commander explained. “The Empire began to take an interest in them when they started launching their first primitive interplanetary probes, using the same chemical rockets they employed to threaten each other with atomic fission weaponry. Then, mere years after they finally did launch those weapons against themselves, they’d broken the light barrier. Fortunately, your people were there to hold them back for a time.”
T’Pol bristled slightly, remembering how long it had taken her Enterprise crewmates to overcome that unjust perception and put aside their initial suspicions of her. “But they eventually managed to reach warp five,” the Romulan continued, “and quickly became the power brokers in this part of space, imposing peace between Vulcan and Andoria, Andoria and Tellar, then attempting to position themselves as founders of a multispecies Coalition…”
T’Pol nodded, recalling the holographic ship that had nearly scuttled one of those early missions. “Their goal was peace,” T’Pol said. “Did Romulus so fear peace?”
“Not at all,” the commander said, shaking his head. “My people have seen far too little of it down through the generations. What they feared was that, once a part of this Coalition, the Earthers would revert to their baser instincts. Fortunately, this degeneration happened before any treaties could be finalized and signed.”
“Not so fortunate for the millions murdered in the attack on San Francisco,” T’Pol said.
“Fortunate compared to what might have been instead,” the commander countered. “Had the humans continued their expansionism unabated, rather than pulling back from their unexplored frontier, war with the Romulan Star Empire would have been inevitable. Tens of millions of lives would have been lost, on both sides.”
T’Pol had to admit, given what she knew about the Romulans and their territorialism, that this was a logical conclusion. Such a war would have undoubtedly dragged on for years, and Enterprise would have certainly been at the vanguard. She could well have ended up one of those casualties, right along with Trip…
“It is pointless to imagine what might have been in a different reality,” she told her captor, pushing all other thoughts and memories aside. “And I question your claim that the Romulans desire peace, when this plot of yours will almost certainly spark a conflict not only with Earth, but with the full Coalition.”
“Yes,” the commander nodded bitterly. “My gift to the home-land: another glorious war for the praetor.”
The Romulan turned away from her then, almost as if, T’Pol thought, he were ashamed to have voiced such a disloyal thought aloud. “But I am a creature of duty,” he continued, to himself as much as to his prisoner. “I have lived my life by it. And if we are to die for it…” He turned back again and looked her in the eye. “I envy and admire you greatly, T’Pol of Vulcan.”
T’Pol didn’t bother to hide her surprise at that claim. “Why do you say that?”
“I studied your record as I prepared for this mission. How you defied the Vulcan High Command in order to join the Earthers in pursuit of the Xindi, and then defied the humans by remaining on Archer’s crew after Earth cut off its relations with all alien worlds. You have, throughout your life, acted on what you believe to be right, regardless of your orders or—if you’ll forgive me—of logic.”
T’Pol raised an eyebrow, but could not immediately offer a response. “He got you on that one,” Trip’s voice mocked her.
“Why should you envy me in doing what I think is right, rather than doing what you believe to be right yourself?” T’Pol finally asked him.
He shook his head in remorse as he stared at the deck. “It is not our way.”
“And illogic is not our way,” T’Pol answered. “But if there is a way to save your people from a war, would not both logic and duty demand you do everything within your power to do so?”
The Romulan commander said nothing for a long time. Nor did he make any move to leave her cell. Eventually T’Pol turned away and settled onto the cell’s small hard cot. Since screaming had not helped in the face of impending death, she decided to attempt meditation again…
“Yes.”
T’Pol’s head snapped around toward the Romulan, and as their eyes met, she realized that he had answered her question. “But how?” he asked.
T’Pol rose again from her bunk, keeping her eyes on his, and offered the words of a classic literary work she had read, at Jonathan’s persistent urging, a lifetime ago: “Let me help.”
9
Pike gradually returned to consciousness and became aware of the padded bed underneath him and the dull rhythmic tones repeating above his head. His eyelids fluttered, then opened a crack against the bright light of the sickbay.
“You’re awake,” a gruff voice said, as a blue-clad figure moved to the edge of his vision. “How do you feel?”
“Like I was shot in the back,” Pike answered with a voice like sandpaper. He put his hands on either side of the bed and started to push himself up.
“None of that, Captain,” the voice said, as a firm hand fell on his shoulder and pressed him down flat on his back again.
Pike grabbed the doctor’s wrist and tried to pull the restraining hand off. “Dammit, Phil, I don’t need to be mollycoddled,” he growled in annoyance.
“Who?”
Pike jerked his head to the side and forced his eyes fully open. “Sorry, McCoy,” he said, suddenly remembering. “Old habit.”
“Yeah, well, old habit or new concussion, you don’t leave my sickbay until I say you’re ready,” McCoy told him.
“Aye aye, sir,” Pike surrendered. He settled back into the pillow at the back of his head, but then quickly snapped back up as the circumstances around his being shot came back to him. “The Vulcan ship! What happened?”
“Easy!” McCoy scolded,
his hand back on Pike’s shoulder, but the sudden burst of adrenaline helped the captain remain upright. “Their vessel was lost with all hands. They were attacked by some kind of stealth ship, with light-bending shields that made them invisible. That pushy young Vulcan lady with you, she says Lady T’Pol was being held by Romulans on that ship, and we’re chasing after them now.”
“Oh, hell,” Pike muttered, and swung his legs off the edge of the pallet. He stood up, testing his weight and pausing just long enough to let the dizziness subside.
That gave McCoy the time to circle the bed and try to block his way. “Were you not listening to me just a minute ago? You’re staying put!”
Pike narrowed his eyes at the new sawbones. For a man who had never served in Starfleet before, he had certainly taken to the idea of hurling orders around, even toward his commanding officer. From Phil, he might have taken this, but not from a virtual plebe like this fellow. “Doctor, my ship is heading into a potentially hostile situation, my crew is at risk, and I need to be on the bridge, making sure we don’t end up sending a hell of a lot more people here for you to patch up.”
Having matters put that way for him, McCoy backed down. “I don’t like this; that was a pretty bad blow you took. Let me just give you a shot of this…” He turned to a nearby cabinet, selected an amber vial and loaded it into his hypospray. “I guess it’s better you’re on the bridge than that Kirk kid…” he said as he raised the hypo to Pike’s neck.
The captain turned his head before the doctor could administer the drug. “What about Kirk?”
“Well, no disrespect, sir,” McCoy answered as he pressed the instrument’s cold nozzle to his neck, “but all things considered, I don’t think he should be in command right now.”
Pike hid both his surprise at learning Kirk was in command and his irritation toward the plainspoken doctor. Pike had never refused a request from any of his officers for permission to speak freely, but he still liked to be asked.
“Obviously, I don’t know him near as well as you do,” McCoy continued, “but he strikes me as a bit of a hothead. Honestly, I don’t know that I’d feel comfortable serving under him on more than a temporary basis.”
“You’re right, McCoy, you don’t know him,” Pike told him. “I’ll grant you, in terms of making a first impression, this mission hasn’t been a very good one for Mister Kirk. But he is a good man, and a solid first officer.”
“Yes, sir,” McCoy said, looking properly abashed.
Pike considered the doctor just before turning to leave, then paused to say, “I will tell you, though: he can be impulsive at times. And until now, I’d always depended on my ship’s surgeon to be a kind of counterweight, to provide me with more of a thoughtful, analytical view to balance things out. I’d like it if I could look to you for that kind of advice going forward.”
McCoy nodded cordially. “I’m happy to help any way I can, Captain.”
Pike clapped him on the shoulder as he headed out of sickbay.
T’Pring was surprised by the variety of emotions her presence on the Enterprise bridge provoked in the individual crew members.
From some, such as Science Officer Masada and Helm Officer Leslie, it was simple curiosity. In contrast, Navigation Officer Stiles exuded a disconcerting and perplexing degree of hatred, and it took considerable willpower to meet his loathing looks with any kind of impassivity.
Then there was the communications and intelligence officer. She was the only member of the bridge crew to have attempted conversation with her. “That was a rather foolish risk you took, breaking your cover and revealing your V’Shar status like that,” she had said, sotto voce, while pretending to focus on her board and avoiding eye contact as T’Pring paced behind her.
T’Pring had then paused to supposedly examine the communications board from over her shoulder. “It was the only logical option, given the circumstances,” she told the human woman in a similarly quiet voice. “I naturally assumed a Starfleet Intelligence agent would be aboard this vessel for this mission, and my message would be understood. Which proved accurate,” she added.
“Still, you were very trusting that an agent of a rival power would have broken cover also,” the dark-skinned lieutenant said, in what sounded to the Vulcan agent like an accusatory tone.
T’Pring nodded. “Earth is in attendance at this mission because they no longer wish to be perceived as a rival power.”
The human woman turned toward T’Pring to offer a retort, but stopped herself when she noticed Commander Kirk watching suspiciously, and turned back to her console. His gaze lingered a moment on the back of her head, then flicked briefly to T’Pring before darting quickly away. It was First Officer Kirk who had the most intriguing emotional reaction to her presence. His feelings appeared to be severely conflicted, despising her and at the same time feeling guilt over doing so. Such dynamics to her were, in a word, fascinating.
Her psychological study was interrupted by Lieutenant Masada, who announced, “The warp trail ends at that star system, dead ahead.”
“Mister Leslie, bring us out of warp,” Kirk ordered. “Mister Stiles, put us on Yellow Alert. Main viewing screen on.”
There was little to see on the viewer, however. The system’s star, designated only as NGC-8149 in the UESPA database, was an unremarkable red dwarf that barely stood out from the rest of the starscape beyond it. Kirk stared at the nearly featureless screen for a moment, then turned back toward the science station. “Any sign of them?”
“I’m not picking up anything,” Masada answered, his frustrated expression bathed in the blue light of his hooded viewer.
“That is a positive sign,” T’Pring said. “We’ve determined that, while the Romulan ship did enter this system, they have not left it.”
“Great,” Kirk replied, “but that leaves the question, where are they?”
“I do not know,” T’Pring answered.
“Gotta mark my calendar.”
Both T’Pring and Kirk turned toward the man at the navigation post. “What was that, Stiles?” Kirk asked.
“A Vulcan admitting there was something she didn’t know,” Stiles explained. “That’s got to be one for the history books.”
T’Pring raised one eyebrow. “That would be an example of human humor?”
Stiles flashed an insincere smile at her. “Sure. Why not.”
“All right,” Kirk said, preempting any further exchange between them. “Where do you suggest we start looking?”
In answer, T’Pring turned back to the library console and brought up a chart of the system on the large screen positioned just above her head. “NGC-8149 is orbited by three gas giants, and one Minshara-class planet, plus—”
“‘Minshara’?” Masada asked.
“Oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, capable of sustaining humanoid life,” the Vulcan clarified.
“Then that’s probably where they’re headed,” Kirk said, nodding thoughtfully.
“Perhaps,” T’Pring said. “If we assumed they were headed anywhere.”
“What does that mean,” Kirk asked, frowning at her.
T’Pring answered, “Considering the path of their warp trail, I believe this system was picked as a destination well after they left Babel, either in order to stop and repair whatever damage they took in their exchange with the Kuvak, or—”
“Aw, dammit, Jim, she’s rambling!” Stiles blurted, spinning away from his console. “Why are you even bothering to listen to her?”
“Or,” T’Pring continued, “they are lying in wait, ready to spring a new attack on this ship.”
Stiles was silenced by that suggestion, realizing that she had proposed a very real possibility. Kirk turned to face him, as if expecting a retort, and when one wasn’t forthcoming, turned back to T’Pring. “And if they are waiting to attack us?”
“Assuming they have not been able to repair their invisibility screens, the magnetospheres of any one of the system’s gas giants would be the most logical plac
e to seek cover. I would scan the outermost planet first, on the assumption they would want to attack from astern as we headed in-system.”
Kirk nodded slightly, then turned toward the helm. “Mister Leslie, bring us toward the outermost planet, one-quarter impulse, then assume a high polar orbit.”
“Aye, sir,” Leslie answered. One of the dim dots of light on the screen began to grow and resolve itself as a planetary body.
“I never thought I’d see it,” Stiles muttered. “She’s got you cowed, Jim. Completely!”
“Lieutenant Stiles…” Kirk said in a warning tone
The navigator ignored the warning. “What the hell’s happened to you, Jim?” he asked as he stood up from his chair and put himself far too close to the other man. “Taking orders from a Vulcan?”
“Sit down, Stiles,” Kirk said through his now-clenched jaw.
Stiles didn’t waver. “Have you forgotten that the bastards murdered your family? What would Carol say if she—”
And in a burst of heated emotion, Kirk swung his right fist at Stiles’s jaw. Stiles was staggered, but stayed on his feet and returned his own punch into Kirk’s abdomen. The commander let out a loud moaning breath as he doubled over, and Stiles took the opportunity to deliver a roundhouse blow to his right eye.
“Stop it!” the SI officer shouted, moving down from the bridge’s raised level toward the skirmish. Her voice seemed to prod the rest of the crew into motion, as well as T’Pring, who had been watching the show of unchecked emotion in detached fascination. Masada joined Penda in attempting to pull Commander Kirk free from the confrontation, while Leslie tried to pin Stiles’s arms behind his back.
But whereas Kirk’s flare of violent impulse had quickly extinguished itself, Stiles’s was still burning bright. He pulled his left arm free and swung wildly at the large man restraining him, at the same time trying to pull his other arm free. Leslie tried to grab the other flailing arm but missed, and Stiles spun away, and found himself staring straight into T’Pring’s dark, emotionless eyes.
“Bitch!” he snarled, straining against Leslie in an effort to lunge at her.
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