STAR TREK: Enterprise - The Expanse

by J. M. Dillard (Novelization)

  “Millions of people, Silik!” Archer’s tone was vicious, bitter. “You killed millions of people!”

  Smoothly, Silik answered, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Outraged, Archer took a threatening step toward the Suliban; the two soldiers stepped forward, weapons raised, and blocked him.

  Silik was unmoved by both the specter of violence and the thought of millions of human deaths. In the same self-composed manner, he said, “That wouldn’t be wise, Captain.”

  “What the hell am I doing here?” Archer demanded. Grudgingly, he stepped back; the soldiers at once dropped back as well, and lowered their weapons.

  “There’s someone who needs to speak with you,” Silik replied, regarding Archer calmly with his deep-set orange eyes. “He has information you should find helpful. Don’t worry, you won’t be harmed.”

  “Information about what?”

  “Something to do with your species,” Silik said. “It’s in great danger.” Even while discussing such an emotionally laden subject, he remained unmoved, distant, as though the human race and its fate were rhetorical subjects, centuries away from anything relevant.

  Archer did not permit his expression and posture to cease radiating outrage—but Silik’s words left him perplexed. The Suliban warrior was not necessarily devoted to the killing of humans, only to whatever gave him and his people the greatest advantage in his Temporal Cold War. This made dealing with Silik extremely difficult, for there were times he actually told the truth.

  The question was, was now one of those times?

  On the bridge, T’Pol had assumed command.

  It was fortunate that Trip Tucker had not; he was prepared to open fire on the Suliban vessel, and said as much. Clearly, his concern for his sister was seriously affecting his judgment.

  T’Pol, however, remained calm. The instant it was ascertained that Captain Archer was not aboard the Enterprise, she had ordered Hoshi to hail the Suliban ship.

  The hail was ignored, of course; but T’Pol insisted Hoshi keep trying. In the meantime, she considered possible alternatives. Most likely, Captain Archer was aboard one of the Suliban vessels; attacking them would only endanger him, and was therefore the least desirable course of action.

  T’Pol did not have much time to contemplate her next action. Within two minutes, Hoshi’s console beeped; she responded, and turned eagerly to face T’Pol.

  “It’s Captain Archer.”

  T’Pol gave a single, curt nod.

  Hoshi understood the silent command and opened a com channel at once.

  “Captain?” T’Pol said, into her companel.

  “Hold your position,” Archer said. “I don’t think we’re going to have a problem.”

  Were T’Pol human, the Captain’s words would have surprised her. The Suliban and problems normally went hand-in-hand. However, the Captain’s voice betrayed no sign of coercion or duress. T’Pol decided to obey the order.

  Trip Tucker, however, could not contain his worry. “Sir?” he asked, half disbelieving.

  Archer’s tone was reassuring. “It’s okay, Trip. Just be patient.”

  T’Pol was prepared to be as patient as she needed to be; she could not, however, say the same for Commander Tucker.

  * * *

  Silik led Archer to a different chamber, one where he saw a figure he recognized: the dark silhouette of a humanoid—perhaps Suliban, perhaps human or Vulcan, perhaps even Klingon; it was impossible to tell. The silhouette was enveloped by a column of fast-rippling blue light that made Archer dizzy when he stared at it too long.

  Archer stopped a distance away.

  Silik prodded him. “He can see you more clearly if you move closer.”

  The Captain refused to budge. “Who is he?”

  Rather than reply, Silik said, “He wants to talk to you. It would be foolish to ignore him.”

  Archer paused. He had played the fool before with Silik, let himself be manipulated, and he did not want to allow that to happen again. Yet the prospect of solving the mystery of what had happened on Earth was too important to ignore. He stepped forward and asked the figure, “What do you want?”

  “Your planet was attacked,” the humanoid said. His voice was definitely male though higher-pitched, more inflected with emotion, more concerned than Silik’s detached bass.

  “I’m aware of that,” Archer replied.

  “What you’re not aware of is why.” The shimmering figure paused. “The probe was sent by the Xindi. They learned that their world will be destroyed by humans in four hundred years.”

  “How would they know what’s going to happen in four hundred years?” Archer demanded. It was the meddling of characters like Silik and his soldiers—and this mysterious silhouette in his temporal chamber—that caused such problems.

  “They were told by people from the future,” the figure said evasively. “People who can communicate through time.”

  “Are they the ones the Suliban are working for?”

  “The Suliban work for me,” the figure stated flatly.

  “So you’re the one who tried to start a civil war in the Klingon Empire,” Archer said, his anger once again rising. “The one who’s manipulated my mission from day one ...”

  The humanoid refused to be distracted from the subject at hand. “The people who have contacted the Xindi belong to another faction.” He paused to give his next words greater emphasis. “The probe was only a test. The Xindi are building a far more powerful weapon. When it’s completed, they’ll use it to destroy Earth.”

  Archer took the thought to its logical conclusion. “Annihilate us ... before we can annihilate them.” The realization was chilling ... but another question remained. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “The Xindi were not supposed to learn about their future ... If they deploy this weapon, it will contaminate the time-line.” It seemed as though the figure faced him and fixed its gaze on him directly. “You mustn’t let that happen.”

  Archer felt deep frustration. It was like being caught in a spiderweb; once any time traveler intervened in the past, strands were bound to become tangled, broken. How did the humanoid know that he wasn’t contaminating the past even more by informing Archer about the Xindi? “Why should I believe you?”

  The answer, for once, was straightforward and simple. “You have no choice but to believe me.”

  Inside his ready room with T’Pol, Archer was angry and quite unable to keep it from showing.

  Silik had, for once, kept to his word and returned Archer to his ship; the Suliban vessels had already sped away. Once again, the Enterprise was slicing through space at warp five, and the stars were streaming past the window.

  And T’Pol was utterly skeptical of Silik’s story. She was in full Vulcan mode; eyebrows lifted, expression cold, arms folded across her chest, a physical symbol of her mental rejection. “If this ‘time traveler’ is trying to protect humanity, why didn’t he tell you all this before millions of people were killed?”

  The question had occurred to Archer as well. Frankly, it troubled him, but he had come up with an answer of sorts. “He didn’t think we’d believe him.” Much to his surprise, his tone was furious, filled with frustration; even more to his surprise, he didn’t try to edit the anger out. Millions of people had died, and he was trying to sort the situation out. Damn it, he was trying to do something, and he didn’t like the fact that in order to try to help the situation, he had to trust Silik and his mysterious leader. So he took it out on T’Pol. It didn’t help matters that she was disbelieving. “He’s probably right.”

  The more heated Archer’s tone became, the cooler T’Pol grew. “I’m sure Starfleet and the High Command will find a far more logical explanation of who attacked Earth.”

  That was it; Archer raised his voice. “He may be telling the truth. If he is, I need your support, not your damn skepticism.”

  She lifted her chin at that.

  It was pure instinc
t, at last, that had convinced Archer, and that was all he had to go on: pure instinct, that the time traveler was telling the truth.

  And if he couldn’t convince his second-in-command, how was he ever going to convince anyone at Starfleet?

  Captain’s Starlog, April twenty-fourth, twenty-one fifty-three. The journey home has been very difficult. We’ve learned that over seven million people have been lost.

  “Captain,” Mayweather said from the helm, glancing back over his shoulder. The ship had slowed to impulse, now that they were nearing their solar system.

  Archer clicked off his recorder and let his gaze follow to where Mayweather pointed. On the viewscreen, one white star shone some three times more brightly than the rest.

  “That’s our sun,” Mayweather explained softly. Child of starfarers though he was—he’d grown up on a space freighter—even the helmsman couldn’t keep the sentimentality from his voice. Earth was home, a fact embedded in every human’s DNA, even if they hadn’t been born on the planet’s surface.

  The bridge grew silent. Archer took a step forward. It’d been a long time since he last set eyes on old Sol; there was a sense of joy and wonder at seeing it again. When he’d left it behind, filled with excitement at Enterprise’s launch, he’d wondered whether he’d survive to see it once more.

  There was also a sense of sorrow, greeting it under such circumstances. It was far from the happy homecoming he’d imagined.

  His reverie was interrupted by the shrill sound of an alarm at Malcolm Reed’s station.

  “A vessel’s dropping out of warp,” Reed reported tersely.

  “Where?” the Captain demanded.

  “Two hundred kilometers off port.”

  Archer turned to T’Pol, who was already consulting her scanners. “Who are they?”

  Reed called out, “They’ve fired some kind of—”

  He never finished. The roar of the blast temporarily deafened Archer; he fought to stay on his feet as the deck shuddered beneath his feet.

  He had barely enough time to make it to his chair before the next blast came.

  Chapter 4

  Through sheer tenacity, Archer managed to hold on as the ship reeled beneath an onslaught of weapons fire. There could be no question: whoever was attacking them was hellbent on destroying the Enterprise.

  Over the roar of the next blast, and the sound of the ship trying to shake herself apart, Reed shouted, “That one took out both forward phase-cannons!”

  “You’ve still got torpedoes!” Archer called back.

  Reed gave a curt nod without looking up from his console and set to work launching a counterattack.

  From her station, T’Pol managed to project her voice without shouting or sounding in the least bit alarmed. “It’s a Klingon bird-of-prey.”

  As she spoke, an image appeared on the viewscreen: the Klingon vessel, brilliantly illuminated against the dark backdrop of space by a salvo of Reed’s torpedoes. Archer watched in amazement as each burst of light swiftly dissipated, leaving the bird-of-prey unscathed.

  We’re outgunned, he realized at the precise moment that the Klingon ship released a vicious blast.

  The deck heaved, listed violently to the left, then slowly righted itself. The Captain knew instinctively that his vessel had just sustained heavy damage.

  Another blow.

  Why? Archer asked himself. Certainly, he wasn’t popular with the Klingons—but why would they pursue him so far from their own territory? It made no sense to pick a fight here, so close to Earth.

  Hoshi turned toward him, her earpiece in place, her gaze unfocused as she listened and translated for Archer. “They want you, sir. They’re saying that they won’t destroy Enterprise if you surrender to them.”

  A loud boom silenced her, as the ship shook under another blast. She waited it out, then continued, quoting, “ ‘Archer is an enemy of the Empire ...’ ” She paused, mentally translating. “ ‘He must be brought to justice if honor is to be regained.’ ”

  Suddenly, Archer understood, at the precise instant the Enterprise sustained another hit. Only one Klingon would be desperate enough to pursue him, all the way to Starfleet Headquarters, if need be.

  “Duras,” he murmured, beneath the flickering bridge lights.

  On the Klingon bird-of-prey, Duras was exultant, reveling in the sweet taste of revenge. On the viewscreen before him, he watched as the Enterprise listed, her starboard nacelle destroyed, scorched into uselessness by disrupter fire. Soon, Archer would be standing before him, a prisoner, and Duras would have the pleasure of delivering him to the Klingon Council and seeing him properly executed.

  It would be a gloriously slow, agonizing death.

  From his scanner, Duras’s temporary first officer reported, “Both their nacelles are crippled.”

  “And weapons?” Duras asked. While it seemed obvious the Enterprise’s firepower was at least partially compromised, Archer had proven himself quite capable of trickery. Duras wanted to be certain before issuing his next command.

  His tactical officer replied. “Their cannons are down.”

  Duras straightened in his chair, and for a time said nothing, preferring instead to bask in the sense of pride and accomplishment. His moment of vindication had come; his foe was defeated, and the glory of his house would be restored. He thought of his old command, the Bortas; it would not be long before her deck would be beneath his feet once more.

  “Cease firing,” he ordered at last. “Prepare a boarding party.” Raising his voice in victory, he bellowed words he had long yearned to say. “Bring me Archer!”

  As if in reply, a nearby console issued a shrill alarm. His first officer glanced down at once, then raised his startled gaze to meet Duras’s.

  “Three ships approaching!”

  The image coalesced on the viewscreen: three ships, indeed. Duras’s lips twisted as he gnashed his ragged teeth at the sight.

  The screen filled with blinding light; the bird-of-prey convulsed under the attack.

  “Earth vessels!” the first officer shouted.

  Duras was filled with venom; so great was his hatred that, had he been able to reach out into space and pommel the vessels with his own hands, he would have. How dare they interfere now, when victory was so close! “Return fire!” he roared.

  But the bird-of-prey was no match for the relentless fire of three ships. The bridge began to shake as if it were trying to tear itself apart; Duras lifted a hand to shield himself from the rain of sparks as first one, then two consoles exploded.

  “Shields are failing!” the tactical officer called.

  The ship reeled; Duras held on to the arms of his chair as he responded, “Are they offline?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then keep firing!” Duras insisted. He had not come this far to give up so easily.

  The bird-of-prey continued to vibrate so fiercely that Duras’s teeth chattered; the vessel began to groan like a wounded targ.

  The first officer turned to direct a meaningful stare at Duras. “We’ve lost disruptor banks three and four!”

  In other words, the ship had no way of protecting herself or continuing the attack.

  For an instant, fury so blinded Duras he could not see his first officer’s face, or the viewscreen beyond, where the Earth ships continued firing. His warrior’s heart yearned to stay, to do whatever desperate act necessary to capture Archer. ...

  And yet, his mind was forced to admit that there was no way to capture Archer. Not now, at least. He was forced once again to bide his time.

  Duras slammed his fist so hard against a console that the metal was dented.

  “Withdraw,” he growled, bitter. “Go to warp speed!”

  On the bridge of the Enterprise, Archer struggled to sort out an odd mix of emotions: relief that Duras had called off his attack and disappeared, gratitude that Earth ships had come to his aid, and both gladness and sorrow to be home.

  “It’s Captain Ramirez, sir,” Hoshi announce
d from her console. “On the Intrepid.”

  Archer nodded.

  A new image appeared on the viewscreen—that of Carlos Ramirez, a captain in Starfleet and an acquaintance of Archer’s. Carlos was, like Archer, in his early forties, a fit, olive-skinned man with smooth dark hair. At the moment, his lips curled upwards in a genuine smile, revealing small, even teeth.

  “Captain Archer ...”

  Archer smiled faintly, and replied, his tone grateful. “It’s good to see you, Carlos.”

  “What the hell was that all about?” Ramirez asked, referring to the encounter with the bird-of-prey.

  Archer shrugged. “A Klingon named Duras ... He’s not very fond of me.” Nor, Archer reflected, was he particularly fond of Duras at the moment. The Klingon had tried several times to kill him ... and was responsible for having Archer’s advocate, an old Klingon lawyer named Kolos, sent to Rura Penthe, the unspeakably brutal penal colony. Kolos had actually been a compassionate, decent sort, interested in helping Archer—but had paid for his concern. Archer wondered whether the old Klingon was still alive.

  “Welcome home, Captain,” Ramirez said, drawing Archer from his reverie. “I wish it was under better circumstances.”

  The first time Archer had seen Earth from low orbit, he’d thought it the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen: now it was one of the most painful.

  As much as he hadn’t wanted to direct the Enterprise to hover over the area of the attack, it was impossible—as impossible as staying away from a loved one’s funeral. Mayweather had silently guided the ship to the coordinates, and now, Florida and Cuba filled the bridge viewscreen.

  The peninsula and island were still green, as Archer remembered, lightly obscured here and there by wisps of clouds, and the Gulf of Mexico a turquoise blue ... But a series of long, black, diagonal lines strafed both land and water. Each one several miles wide, Admiral Forrest had said. ‘Fire from the sky,’ survivors called it. It just incinerated everything in its path, leaving lifeless craters behind.