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

by Michael A. Martin

  In spite of a rising wave of despair at the prospect of yet again indefinitely postponing his return to the land of the living, Trip felt the left corner of his mouth draw itself up into something that felt a little like a wry grin.

  “Are you sure my bosses agreed to this ‘loan’ out of a shared sense of purpose?” he said. “Or is it more likely that they rolled over for it because they have no more power than I do to force you to do anything else with me?”

  Trip could have sworn he saw the mirror image of his own grin trying to appear on Ych’a’s face. “Does that distinction really matter?”

  He paused to think about that for a moment. “I guess it really doesn’t, when you put it that way.”

  As his profound feelings of disappointment began to give way to a kind of resignation, he plopped himself down into a half-recumbent position on the hard, narrow cot that spanned the length of the back wall.

  “So, tell me exactly which of our common ‘strategic goals’ am I gonna be stuck dealing with?”

  “The Romulans have constructed a secret shipbuilding facility near the planet Achernar II,” Ych’a said, her tone glissading gracefully back into a businesslike lack of affect.

  Trip searched his memory of the star charts and stellar atlases he had studied during his sojourn in Romulan space, mentally comparing the alien place names he had encountered to their common Coalition equivalents.

  “Achernar II,” he said after a few moments of concentration, during which he recalled that the maps also sometimes called the planet Achernar Prime. “It’s tucked away deep inside the faraway boonies of Romulan space, but it’s not formally aligned with the Romulan Star Empire.”

  “Correct,” Ych’a said. “But the planet does support a thriving multispecies trading colony that services many of the economic needs of several adjacent sectors of space, with a special emphasis on the extraction and sale of dilithium and other valuable mineral commodities.”

  Ych’a’s description of the place brought to mind images of the Yukon Territory or California during the Gold Rush era of three centuries past, the sort of rough and lawless environment to which he’d first been exposed in old flatvid films before experiencing something very much like it firsthand nearly two years ago, while scouring the Delphic Expanse for the Xindi who had attacked Earth.

  “Sounds like a good place to hide whatever secret research the Romulans might be doing nearby,” he said. “They can keep it out of sight but still maintain fairly easy access to raw materials.”

  Ych’a answered with another firm nod. “Again, correct. According to the V’Shar’s analytical division, pursuing this strategy has put the creation of a viable warp-seven-capable bird-of-prey-class vessel very nearly within the Romulan military’s reach.”

  The chill-footed spiders abruptly returned to Trip’s spine, arranging themselves into an energetic Radio City–style kick line. “How long before they can pull it off?”

  “A handful of your Terran months, at most,” Ych’a said, her shoulders rotating in a gesture that strongly resembled a shrug. “Hence the current close alignment between our intelligence service and yours. This Romulan research initiative presents a clear danger to both Vulcan and Earth, as well as to the other member worlds of the Coalition of Planets.”

  As badly as he wanted to go home, and to leave the shadowy world of espionage behind forever, Trip couldn’t help but agree. “Okay,” he said. “This thing has got to be stopped. The odds against Earth are bad enough right now without the Romulans getting their hands on Vulcan-level warp technology.”

  “Which is why Vulcan intends to do everything possible to prevent such a catastrophic upheaval in the relative balance of power between Earth and Romulus,” Ych’a said.

  “But Vulcan’s gonna do it using the V’Shar from behind the scenes,” Trip said, not asking a question. “Instead of going after the Romulans directly with the whole Vulcan fleet.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Of course. We are a logical people, Commander. And subtlety is part and parcel of logic.”

  Tucker wasn’t sure how to take that. He was sorely tempted to point out that subtlety might not have been the ideal way to meet a challenge like the invasion of Calder II, which as far as he could tell had already become a Romulan beachhead right on the Coalition’s back porch.

  Instead, he said, “You know, Vulcan could just decide to share its warp-drive technology with Earth. That would sure as hell short-circuit everything the Romulans are doing to try to change the balance of power.”

  Ych’a appeared unsurprised by Trip’s idea, which led him to believe she had already given the issue a fair amount of consideration. “Such a move would be neither subtle nor logical, Commander.”

  “Maybe,” he said, matching her earlier shrug with one of his own. “On the other hand, if the Romulans’ warp-seven project actually succeeds, Vulcan might find that it’s finally run out of better options.”

  “That is certainly possible, Commander. However, it is also a moot point at present. And we should both do everything in our power to see that it remains so.”

  “I understand,” Trip said with a grudging acquiescence that did little to ameliorate his frustration. After all, there was no getting around the reality that such decisions were never made at Ych’a’s pay grade, let alone his.

  “All right, Ych’a. Neither of us wants to find out what’ll actually happen if the Romulans pull this thing off,” he said. “At least not badly enough to actually let it happen.”

  “We must work together to neutralize their warp-seven project,” she said, nodding. “As quickly and as completely as possible, given the months of preparation that may be required. Whatever the cost.”

  Even if that cost turns out to be another Calder outpost or three in the meantime, he thought, grimly aware that a warp-seven-capable Romulan fleet could open up new beachheads all across Coalition space exponentially faster than before.

  “Maybe now would be a good time to talk details,” Trip said.

  “Such as?”

  “Such as exactly how you and I are going to take down an entire Romulan shipyard without a Vulcan flotilla at our backs,” Trip said, already finding the scope of the mission ahead more than a little daunting.

  “The plan is relatively simple,” she said, as deadpan as ever. “You will sneak inside and blow it up—with some help from the enemy.”

  And with that she reached into her jacket and withdrew a small padd, which she placed in Trip’s hand as he stood mute, trying to process her words, slack-jawed in spite of himself. Then she exited, leaving him alone with the padd.

  Trip activated the device with his thumb and began reading its contents. He very quickly became so engrossed in the detailed intelligence report on Achernar and vicinity that he could almost forget the close resemblance his current surroundings bore to a jail cell.

  Almost.

  It felt to Ch’uivh like an eternity since he had placed the tiny listening device against the inside of the locked door to his quarters.

  It had been a fortunate circumstance, though not a surprising one, that the freighter’s security crew hadn’t bothered to scan his boot heels for the hidden compartments in which he’d stowed a few critical pieces of electronic and chemical gear; this was, after all, a working merchant ship rather than a military vessel.

  But it is strange, Ch’uivh thought as he listened for signs of movement out in the corridor, that Ych’a didn’t do a thorough search herself.

  Just as he was beginning to wonder if the V’Shar spy was slipping, he heard the telltale sounds of booted footfalls on deck plating that signaled the departure of the guard who had been watching the secured hatchway to his quarters and the arrival of her replacement.

  Right after the shift change is always the best time to take a security guard by surprise, he thought as he waited for the locking device to succumb at last to the silent ministrations of the molecular solvent that he had slathered onto the hatch. The solvent, which
was a mixture of chemical components he had carried in separately inside his hollow heels, would have made short work of any flesh it encountered. Therefore Ch’uivh took the thin mattress off the room’s narrow cot and braced it against the door before shoving it open.

  A moment later he was standing out in the corridor amid the chemically seared hatch and mattress, facing one extremely surprised-looking Vulcan male whose sidearm holster and uniform patch revealed him to be a member of the Vulcan Kiri-kin-tha’s small cadre of security personnel.

  And not particularly well-trained security personnel at that, Ch’uivh thought a few scant heartbeats after that, as he gingerly lowered the young guard’s still twitching corpse to the deck plating. The slain man’s neck was bent at an awkward angle, his mouth frozen into an oval of terminal surprise. Ch’uivh dragged the body into his otherwise empty quarters, then knelt beside it long enough to recover the fallen guard’s sidearm.

  As he made his quiet way down the empty corridor he thought, Perhaps I should have asked for directions to the nearest shuttlebay before I did that.

  “Captain, security reports that Crewman Sitok has been found dead.”

  Seated in the chair located in the precise center of the Kiri-kin-tha’s bridge, Captain T’Vran found the almost shrill timbre of the bridge communications officer’s voice very nearly as surprising as the content of his words. She spared a moment to observe the reaction of Ych’a of the V’Shar, who stood nearby, a single raised eyebrow providing the sole clue to her reaction.

  “Where did this happen?” T’Vran said as she rose and approached the bridge comm station. She was grateful for the equanimity with which she was able to shroud her own voice.

  “Uncertain,” said the comm officer. “Sitok’s body was found inside the quarters issued to one of our recent guests. One of the two that was recently released from the infirmary.”

  “Ch’uivh,” Ych’a said in matter-of-fact fashion.

  Sopek, T’Vran thought. “Where is our... guest presently?”

  “Security found no one in the room other than Sitok’s body,” said the comm officer.

  “Inform security that I want the ship searched thoroughly,” T’Vran said. “They are to institute a room-by-room, deck-by-deck search, with armed personnel deployed in pairs, as well as a thorough series of scans using the ship’s internal sensors.”

  As the comm officer busied himself relaying her orders, T’Vran turned to face Ych’a, who had remained in her seat, where she studied the small display on a handheld communications device.

  “Security has confirmed to me that both Mister Sodok and our most recent guest are still precisely where they are supposed to be, Captain.”

  T’Vran nodded a silent acknowledgment, relieved to hear that at least Commander Tucker and the amnesiac Romulan centurion, the man Tucker had identified as Terix, were, respectively, in secure quarters and in the ship’s infirmary.

  “How long has Sitok been dead?” T’Vran asked the comm officer.

  “Doctor Sivath is presently on her way to make a precise determination,” the officer at the comm console said as he continued silently relaying internal communications.

  “Ch’uivh most likely would have acted immediately after the guard’s shift change, Captain,” Ych’a said. “A significant fraction of the ship’s day has already passed since that time. Might I suggest you begin your search with a complete accounting of the Kiri-kin-tha’s complement of auxiliary vehicles? The ones you keep moored against the outer hull would be particularly relevant.”

  It took only a handful of fleeting lirt’k later for Ych’a and the ship’s small security contingent to confirm what T’Vran already knew.

  “It appears that one of your hull-mounted shuttles is missing, Captain,” said the V’Shar spy. “It is therefore safe to assume that your ‘guest’ has already placed a great deal of distance between himself and this vessel. It is doubtful that a man of such evident resourcefulness will be easy to find.”

  T’Vran nodded, her gaze fixed upon Ych’a’s. “I require a word with you in private,” she said, prompting the spy to nod, pocket her comm device, and follow T’Vran into her small private office, located just off the bridge’s starboard side.

  “I am... uncomfortable participating in your V’Shar schemes,” T’Vran said once the hatch had closed behind them, assuring their privacy.

  “Your participation will be entirely deniable,” Ych’a said.

  T’Vran already knew this, of course. Nevertheless, she remained as uncomfortable as ever with the notion of using lies as weapons—even against liars. Crewman Sitok’s blood was on her hands, just as surely as it was on Ch’uivh’s and Ych’a’s.

  At length, she said, “Do you think your associate Ch’uivh may have considered it overly convenient that the vehicle he took was already completely powered up and provisioned for a long flight?”

  Ych’a dismissed T’Vran’s concerns with a slow shake of her head. “Ch’uivh has never been sufficiently logical regarding such matters,” the spy said. “Even when he was masquerading as the Vulcan Captain Sopek.”

  “Perhaps that accounts for the many difficulties he has encountered since he first began associating with the Ejhoi Ormiin dissidents, and some of the other adversaries of the Romulan Star Empire’s central government,” T’Vran said. “That man has always been far too easily manipulated for his own good. It will be fortuitous for us all if your ‘old friend Sodok’ proves not to be so blindly trusting.”

  “Agreed, Captain,” Ych’a said. “We shall see.”

  FIFTEEN

  Tuesday, July 29, 2155

  Sol 25 of Martian Month of Leo

  THE THING GANNET BROOKS LIKED BEST about Mars was the lightness of the place, a feeling she could only describe as a kind of buoyancy.

  That sensation of lightness returned to her gradually today as the transport vessel’s gravity plating finished making its slow adjustment from an Earth-normal one g to the thirty-eight percent that prevailed on the Red Planet’s surface, which still lay thousands of kilometers away. In the meantime Mars loomed ever larger, having grown before Brooks’s eyes from a ruddy, coin-sized disk until it had become the pockmarked sphere that now dominated the broad transparent aluminum ports of the transport’s “walking lounge.”

  The haze of atmosphere was clearly visible now along the periphery of the daylight crescent that Brooks could see from the vessel’s present angle of approach, apparently thickened somewhat since she had last visited this place three years earlier. Either the Martian terraforming project was making far faster progress than anyone had anticipated, or else she was letting her imagination run away with her again. That same imagination led her to almost feel an enormous rush of wind parting her shoulder-length brown hair as the transport skimmed uncomfortably close to the gray, rocky bulk of Phobos, which reminded Brooks of nothing so much as a gigantic, acne-scarred potato. The Stickney crater yawned wide across the body’s lumpen surface, like a hungry maw nearly nine klicks wide and capable of making a quick meal of the transport on its way into the sixty-seven-hundred-odd kilometer-deep gulf of cisphobian space that separated the larger and innermost of Mars’s two moons from the planet itself.

  Makes sense that something named after an ancient legend about fear would put images like that in my head, she thought as the planet transformed yet again before her eyes, this time changing from a globe suspended against an infinitely large velvet blanket of emptiness to a very real place that a human being could relate to, a place that was familiar despite its obvious alienness.

  Less than four hours later, Brooks made her second Martian landing approach of the day, this time on a local private skimmercraft she had boarded a little more than an hour after disembarking from the interplanetary transport at Bradbury. Because it was designed to fly only in the rarefied Martian atmosphere, the skimmer was configured quite differently than the vessel that had brought her here from Earth. It resembled one of the old-style airplanes that had ru
led Earth’s skies for much of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, although this craft’s wings possessed far more lift-generating surface area than those of any terrestrial plane or glider, a feature made necessary by the relative insubstantiality of the atmosphere. The thinness of the Martian air also placed a fairly low ceiling on the skimmer’s maximum altitude, which Brooks estimated to be perhaps two-thirds that of a twentieth-century commercial jet. But even though the skimmer had to stay well inside the bounds of suborbital flight, and was presently descending at a far shallower angle than the interplanetary transport had, the aerial view it presented of this cold, rusty desolationscape of a world looked even more spectacular to Brooks than the view she had had from space.

  “Glorious, isn’t it?” Representative Qaletaqu said from a seat on the opposite side of the skimmer’s modest passenger compartment, which was empty except for the two of them.