Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War: Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Star Trek : Enterprise)

by Michael A. Martin

  I.K.S. Mup’chIch, near Alpha Centauri

  “WE HAVE ESTABLISHED simultaneous control over both of the thhaei warships, Commander,” Centurion T’Vak said in excited tones as he leaned over one of the awkward bridge consoles on the seized Klingon vessel. “The arrenhe’hwiua telecapture system continues to function flawlessly.”

  Commander T’Voras sat back in his chair—a chair built to Romulan specifications, the sole concession to pure comfort he had allowed himself since he had seized this rattletrap battle cruiser from its vermin-infested klivam crew. Taking control of a ship operated by those bumpy-headed savages had been far more challenging than today’s mission had proved to be so far. He savored the relative ease with which the ships constructed by the Romulan Star Empire’s Vulcan cousins evidently could be taken by remote means.

  He knew he could scarcely imagine how greatly the Empire’s military would benefit from reverse engineering these highly advanced Vulcan starships. But he understood well enough just how much their acquisition would bolster his own career and the wealth and status of his family.

  “Very good, Centurion,” T’Voras said, steepling his fingers before him in an effort to keep his thoughts focused and to ward off over-confidence. After all, if the Vulcans somehow managed to recover control over their communications equipment, they could both summon and receive assistance very quickly this deep inside Coalition territory. “Secure our prizes for towing back to Romulus. And make certain that the crews aboard both vessels are dead before we get under way. We don’t need any mishaps on the way home.”

  “It will be done, Commander,” said T’Vak.

  T’Voras decided then to allow himself one luxury in addition to his padded chair—a small, triumphant smile.

  Early in the month of re’Ti’Khutai, Year of ShiKahr 8764

  Tuesday, July 22, 2155

  Vulcan Defense Directorate Vessel T’Jal, Near Alpha Centauri

  The main bridge viewer abruptly succumbed to a wash of static, failing along with the main bridge lights. Despite the suddenly dimmed illumination, Captain Vanik could see the young subaltern’s eyes widen momentarily in an unaccustomed display of emotion.

  He could hardly blame the young officer, of course, considering that circumstances—not to mention Vulcan’s commitment to defending her Coalition allies from alien attack—had just forced her to take part in firing upon Vulcan vessels that had been hijacked by an extraordinarily pernicious and lethal adversary.

  “Our life-support functions have just shut down, Captain,” Subaltern T’Pelek said, recovering her equanimity as her training reasserted itself. “Along with the helm and the propulsion and tactical systems. I can access neither the backup systems nor the tertiary redundancies.”

  It was a most vexing and logic-defying problem. Vanik had planned to solve it from a safe distance after the T’Jal’s sister ship, the Toth, had experienced an apparently identical shipwide systems failure only a few lirt’k earlier. Unfortunately, whatever effect had just immobilized both vessels had a far longer reach than Vanik had realized.

  “Contact the rest of the task force,” Vanik said, swiveling his seat toward the comm station. Most of the task force had already gone to warp, bound for Vulcan, but they could be recalled very quickly to render aid.

  “Captain, the communications grid is not responding either,” Communications Officer Voris said a moment later after checking his board. “The subspace bands are presently unavailable to us.”

  “Another vessel has just appeared on the sensors,” Altern Stak reported from one of the forward science-monitoring stations that was apparently still functional. “It fits the profile of a Klingon battle cruiser.”

  Another Klingon vessel, Vanik thought, not surprised to find that the threat that the T’Jal and the Toth had been dispatched to address still lurked nearby, like a hungry le-matya stalking the sunbaked plains of Vulcan’s Forge in search of prey.

  “Why did we not detect this vessel earlier?” Vanik asked, his tone measured.

  “It is difficult to tell, Captain,” said Stak, still staring into his hooded viewer. “The orbits of a number of dark, icy cometary bodies intersect this vicinity. Perhaps the Klingon vessel was concealed behind one of these bodies.”

  And deployed its weapon against both us and the Toth from that place of concealment, Vanik thought. It was reasonable to assume that this was the very same weapon that had just induced a pair of D’Kyr-class Vulcan ships to wipe out a peaceful human convoy near the Alpha Centauri system, leaving the Vulcan Defense Force no choice other than to destroy two of its own vessels and crews.

  “The Klingon vessel is changing position, Captain,” Stak said. “Accelerating toward us.”

  “Helm and propulsion remain off-line,” T’Pelek said.

  “Is there any way to contact the Toth?” Vanik asked, addressing Voris.

  “Negative, Captain.”

  It occurred to Vanik only then that he had never experienced quite such dire circumstances, either during his earlier tenure as commander of the science vessel Ti’Mur or during his six preceding decades of service to Vulcan’s space-exploration efforts.

  “Continue attempting to raise the Toth, Subaltern,” he said. “I need to confer with Captain L’Vor to learn what countermeasures she is taking to prevent the capture of her ship.”

  At that moment a transitory burst of light brightened Altern Stak’s side of the bridge. It had already faded by the time Vanik had turned to face the young science officer, whose features were frozen in a curiously un-Vulcan expression of dismay.

  Vanik realized exactly which countermeasure Captain L’Vor had employed even before Stak said a word.

  “The Toth has exploded, Captain. And the Klingon vessel has not yet opened fire.”

  Logical, Vanik thought. If their desire is to capture rather than merely to kill.

  It was also logical to assume that L’Vor would not have acted out of panic, but merely out of the prudent necessity of preventing an enemy from acquiring sensitive Vulcan technology.

  “Altern Stak,” Vanik said as he arrived at a decision that was as unfortunate as it was both logical and inevitable. “Prepare our log buoy for launch.”

  “Immediately, Captain,” Stak said.

  The air was beginning to smell dank and stale to Vanik, although he knew that the failure of the life-support system had occurred far too recently to have allowed the ship’s atmosphere to degrade significantly. But he also knew that the T’Jal would be a silent, life-hostile flying tomb soon enough if Stak failed to carry out his next order.

  “And try to determine whether we can activate our autodestruct system,” Vanik said, quietly grieving for every katra lost this day. “As the commander of the Toth just did.”

  TWO

  Friday, July 25, 2155

  Enterprise NX-01, Gamma Hydra sector

  THE READY ROOM DOOR CHIME buzzed like an ugly accusation.

  Jonathan Archer tossed the padd he’d been reading toward the top of his desk. It landed squarely on the cockeyed stack of paper printouts that had accumulated between his computer terminal and a framed photograph of Trip Tucker and himself, taken years ago during a fishing junket in the Gulf of Mexico. Though he wasn’t eager to speak with anyone at the moment, he felt grateful for any opportunity to postpone dealing with the padd’s contents, or the other paperwork beneath it.

  “Come,” he said after jabbing a thumb at the desktop intercom beside the stack. The door opened a moment later with a faint pneumatic hiss.

  Commander T’Pol stepped across the raised threshold, her Vulcan features as impassive as ever, her hands behind her back. Immediately behind her was Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, who carried himself far more tensely than T’Pol did; his demeanor was that of a man tiptoeing across a minefield.

  The door closed behind his visitors, and Archer swiveled his desk chair toward them without making any move to rise.

  “T’Pol. Malcolm. What can I do for you?”


  “We haven’t come to make any specific request of you, Captain,” T’Pol said, then glanced briefly in Malcolm’s direction.

  Reed cleared his throat. “Actually, Captain, we came to see if there’s anything we can do for you.” He looked as though he’d have preferred to be inventorying the armory’s stock of photonic torpedoes or rewiring his tactical console to having this conversation.

  Not again, Archer thought, trying to keep his all but omnipresent frustration out of his voice. “All right, Malcolm. I appreciate the sentiment. Really. But I think I’ve already been getting quite enough of that sort of thing from Phlox, thank you. The last thing I need right now is my senior officers... nursemaiding me.”

  Now Reed looked as embarrassed as T’Pol looked perplexed, his English reserve standing out in such sharp relief against the executive officer’s Vulcan stoicism that Archer almost succumbed to an urge to chuckle.

  Almost.

  “Captain, it’s been three days since the, ah, incident with the Kobayashi Maru,” Malcolm said, apparently mastering his discomfiture, if only barely. “But we’ve hardly caught a glimpse of you in all that time.”

  Archer felt a scowl coming on, and decided not to try to stop it. “A captain has to keep a certain distance between himself and his crew. You both know that.”

  Reed and T’Pol paused to exchange another quick but significant glance before they both trained their gazes back upon Archer in an ocular crossfire of concern.

  “Captain, may we speak freely?” T’Pol said.

  “Of course,” Archer said, leaning back in his chair.

  T’Pol raised an eyebrow at Malcolm, who then picked up the figurative talking stick, though not without some apparent reluctance.

  “We understand that a captain needs to keep his professional distance,” said the tactical officer. “But we don’t think he can afford to become a complete recluse either.”

  Archer nodded. “All right. Noted. I’ll try to make a little more time to walk the decks before we reach the Tarod IX outpost. By the time we get there everybody aboard this ship will be far too busy to waste their energies fretting about my delicate feelings, anyway.”

  Malcolm looked relieved. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “No problem. You both worry too much. What’s our ETA at Tarod IX, anyway?”

  “We will enter sector thirty of Coalition space in a little less than twenty-four hours on our present heading, Captain,” T’Pol said. “The Tarod system lies approximately two hours inside the region.”

  “And we’re already prepared to receive refugees and wounded from the Tarod outpost,” said Reed.

  Archer nodded again, feeling the muscles in his jaw beginning to harden. Prepared. If I was really prepared, we might have made it to Tarod IX before the goddamned Romulans attacked.

  And the crew of the Kobayashi Maru might not be part of a floating debris cloud right now.

  It was the same thought he’d had every time he’d made eye contact with Travis Mayweather over the past three days. Enterprise’s young helmsman had grown up on the Horizon, an Earth Cargo Service freighter that was very much like the Kobayashi Maru—and might well have met a similarly unhappy end a week or more ago. Although no wreckage from the Horizon had yet turned up anywhere along her route, the ambiguous nature of the Mayweather family vessel’s disappearance nevertheless gave Travis’s gaze a vague air of silent, sullen accusation.

  Of course, the ensign’s eyes weren’t the only ones aboard that seemed focused in summary judgment of Archer’s failings, real or perceived. He couldn’t help but notice the whispers. And the earnest, quiet conversations that abruptly ceased whenever he entered one of the ship’s common areas.

  Places he’d since begun studiously avoiding as much as possible, perhaps before he’d even realized he was doing it.

  Archer suddenly noticed Malcolm regarding him with an expression that commingled sympathy with puzzlement.

  “Sir?” Reed said.

  “Yes, Malcolm?”

  The weapons officer reddened noticeably.

  “You said something about not being able to look Ensign Mayweather in the eye anymore,” T’Pol said quietly, an expression of quiet understanding replacing her earlier perplexity.

  Christ, Archer thought. Now I’m mumbling to myself.

  “I assume—” T’Pol said, interrupting herself momentarily to exchange another quick glance with Reed. Again facing Archer, she continued: “We assume that you are still blaming yourself for what happened to the E.C.S. Kobayashi Maru.”

  “Admiral Gardner himself told the news services that you didn’t have a choice in the matter,” Malcolm said. “You had to save Enterprise. You had to save your crew. Everyone on Earth understands that by now.”

  But I should have found a way to save the Maru, too, Archer thought. You can’t convince me that everybody on Earth isn’t also saying that under their breath.

  “Captain,” T’Pol said, “We all understand that if you had stayed to fight off the hostiles that were attacking the freighter, they would have used their new weapon to seize Enterprise by remote control.”

  Malcolm nodded enthusiastically. “And nobody needs to tell you what would have happened after that.”

  “That doesn’t change anything for the people aboard the Maru,” Archer said. Although he understood that a remotely hijacked Enterprise would almost certainly have become a deadly weapon in the hands of the freighter’s destroyers—people who could have used his ship to destroy countless other Earth vessels, and doubtless also would have reverse engineered Earth’s most advanced propulsion and weapons technologies—none of it made any difference to Archer, at least not emotionally.

  No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the plaintive memory of the last words of the Kobayashi Maru’s Captain Kojiro Vance out of his head.

  “Vance begged me to save his ship and his crew,” Archer said. “And I failed him.”

  “You didn’t have a choice, sir,” Reed said.

  “It was a no-win scenario, Jonathan,” said T’Pol. Her use of his first name was almost startling, a sign that his first officer was doing her utmost to reach him on a purely emotional level despite her devotion to her Vulcan principles.

  Archer raised his hands in a gentle warding-off gesture, directed at his officers. “All right. Message received. Thank you. Like I said, I will bolster crew morale by walking the decks at my first opportunity.” He paused to rub his chin, and noticed for the first time just how scratchy his jawline had become over the past three days. Summoning up a smile that he hoped would convince them both that their work here was done, he added, “I’ll even shave first so as not to scare the horses. Now get back to work before I tell Phlox you’ve been working his side of the street.”

  Reed returned Archer’s smile, albeit at somewhat lower wattage, before exiting the ready room and leaving Archer alone with T’Pol.

  “That goes for you, too, T’Pol,” Archer said. “Really, I’m fine.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “I believe I have lived among humans long enough to know when they are... shading the truth. You are still in turmoil.”

  A tart rejoinder about minding one’s own business sprang to his lips, but he bit it back. She was his executive officer, and his business was hers as well—especially when so much of it was personal, and shared by them both.

  “Trip,” he said at length.

  T’Pol’s perplexed expression abruptly returned. “Pardon me, Captain?”

  “I can’t help but wonder if I would have found a way to save both Enterprise and the Maru if Trip were still here.”

  She nodded as understanding appeared to dawn on her. “I see.”

  “If you weren’t a Vulcan, I probably wouldn’t have admitted that to you. The last person I’d want to offend is my exec.”

  “But I am Vulcan, Captain. Therefore I take no offense. But I do understand how valuable the relationship is to you.”

  Archer felt his eyebrows go aloft. “
‘Is’? Present tense, T’Pol? I’d say there’s a pretty damned good chance that Trip is dead. For real this time, I mean.”

  T’Pol shook her head. “I am confident that I would know it if Commander Tucker were dead.”

  “Vulcan optimism?”

  “It is an empirical fact. As is the fact that Trip’s absence is not the only thing distressing you.”

  She nodded in the direction of the uneven stack of paperwork on his desk and the padd that lay across the top, its display still showing the document he had been reading when she and Malcolm had entered the ready room.

  He reached across his desk, picked up the padd, and rose from his chair. “T’Pol, you and Malcolm have both put a lot of energy into vindicating my decision to leave the Maru behind. But not everyone on this ship feels the way you do. Over the past three days I’ve received fifteen formal transfer requests. So far.”