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

by Michael A. Martin

  T’Pol pulled a communicator from one of the pockets of her civilian traveler’s robe and flipped the small device’s antenna grid open.

  “T’Pol to Enterprise. I have arrived safely.”

  “Acknowledged,” came Archer’s subdued reply. “Good hunting, Commander. Everyone here hopes we’ll see you again soon. Enterprise out.”

  I am home, she thought, tucking away the communicator. As she began walking toward Vulcan’s capital, she wished that her homecoming could have occurred under more tranquil circumstances. The residue of the emotional turmoil stirred by leaving Enterprise, however temporarily, made it difficult to derive any satisfaction from her arrival.

  Continuing to punish herself for her weakness, however, was a far more easily achievable goal.

  Before she had debarked from the Earth starship, she had demonstrated weakness, first by trying to convince Jonathan Archer to release her from her promise to return to Vulcan. And she had followed that up with an act of emotional profligacy, when she had caught herself staring longingly down at the world of her birth as it slowly turned beneath Enterprise, taking in the entire daylit hemisphere from a lofty vantage point only a few hundred kilometers from T’Rukh, the world with which Vulcan shared its orbit about bright Nevasa.

  Her gaze had been held by Vulcan’s variegated surface. She allowed herself to be drawn irresistibly by the pristine white of the northern polar cap and the mists that shrouded the peaks of Mount Tar’Hana and Mount Seleya, the sapphire blue of Lake Yuron and the Voroth Sea, all of which were set against the contrasting flame-and-rust-colored backdrop of lowland, coastal Raal, the sun-baked highlands of the Plain of Blood, and the sweltering expanse of volcano-ringed Vulcan’s Forge. Just beyond the nightward terminator, the lights of the cities of Gol, Kir, and Vulcana Regar beckoned in dignified silence.

  After she had torn her gaze away from the vista on the main viewscreen and entered the turbolift, T’Pol had still found herself wondering: Did the captain really expect her to succeed? Or was he actually attempting to keep her out of harm’s way as the Romulan conflict escalated?

  Striding purposefully toward ShiKahr, T’Pol considered that the mission ahead of her needed to be undertaken, for a number of eminently logical reasons. First, the warp-field detection grid had so far failed to live up to Vulcan’s promises. Second, T’Pol had harbored quiet doubts about the longevity of T’Pau’s Syrrannite government from its inception, particularly if its aggressively reformist agenda were to precipitate a political backlash that could empower a new reactionary demagogue. For lives to be spared, time was of the essence.

  Government district, Shikahr, Vulcan

  If T’Pol had to place a label on the vague trace of emotion that had filtered to the surface of the older man’s stony visage, it would have read “mild annoyance.”

  For any Vulcan—especially one who occupied the high-profile position of Administrator T’Pau’s first deputy and senior surrogate—this was the equivalent of a human’s shouted curses. Minister Kuvak’s demeanor might have signaled that he was not generally well disposed toward unscheduled visits to his office so late in his workday. Or it might have meant that he was not generally well disposed toward her, an intuition supported by the ruthless efficiency his office functionaries had applied to terminating her initial call, which she had made from a public comm unit on ShiKahr’s quiet outskirts.

  “As I already told you, Administrator T’Pau is off-planet today,” the minister said with exaggerated patience as he walked around the austere desk that dominated his surprisingly small inner office.

  T’Pol nodded. “So you said earlier. But you did not indicate then, however, when you expected her to return.”

  Kuvak walked to his office door and gazed out into the wide outer foyer, where several clerical workers busied themselves at their computer terminals.

  “How did you get past my staff?” Kuvak said, fixing his narrowing gaze back upon T’Pol.

  She briefly considered asking him if he’d expected to find his staff unconscious and restrained, then thought better of it. Instead, she said, “My V’Shar security credentials.”

  “Thank you for apprising me of that,” Kuvak said in clipped tones. “I will see to it that that particular lapse is remedied. After my security contingent escorts you out of this building.”

  “That is, of course, your decision,” T’Pol said, determined not to allow Kuvak to provoke her, as she had evidently already provoked him. “At least until Administrator T’Pau returns to Vulcan. Must I invoke the kash-to’es-khau to learn the approximate date you expect that to occur? Or must you arrest me instead, thereby complicating your schedule with court proceedings and diplomatic protests from Earth, Starfleet Command, and Captain Jonathan Archer?”

  Kuvak remained silent, but his eyes blazed with the ancient flames. T’Pol knew him well enough to understand that he did not enjoy being manipulated by a troublesome former intelligence agent quoting V’Shar security directives. But she also knew there was nothing to be gained by being overly gentle with him.

  “Administrator T’Pau will return to Vulcan in approximately twentyeight point six four Vulcan standard days,” he said at length. “I will remain in charge until that time.”

  The lengthy duration of T’Pau’s absence surprised her, though she harbored no illusions that the interval would suffice to allow Kuvak to craft any substantive change in Vulcan’s policy regarding the Romulans. And the fact that Kuvak had barely even deigned to speak with T’Pol initially made any such initiative from him unlikely in the extreme.

  And where was T’Pau? Given the speed capabilities of Vulcan starships, the amount of time she was spending offworld could have put her in any number of places. T’Pol realized she could infer this to be good news, a sign that she was working in person and behind the scenes against the Romulan threat, perhaps partnering quietly with Coalition worlds or other nonaligned planets. But this was entirely conjecture. Kuvak was clearly not about to volunteer any specific information regarding the administrator’s whereabouts or itinerary, and T’Pol knew it would be less than prudent to press him on the matter; neither the V’Shar kash-to’es-khau directive nor the numerous other laws governing executive privilege and government transparency strictly required him to be forthcoming with details.

  Tipping her head forward in a gesture of respect, T’Pol said, “I am content to wait until then, Minister. And I hope to cause you as little trouble as possible in the meantime.”

  The glare Kuvak cast at her as she turned to leave gave her the satisfaction of knowing that he was expecting precisely the opposite outcome.

  Mighty T’Rukh gazed down from an indigo-and-black sky that it half covered, a gigantic eye maintaining its unending vigil over the sleeping city. The night was already several hours old by the time T’Pol had finally finished her meal at one of the local restaurants. Resolved to delay no longer, she had taken a hovercar to the quiet residential neighborhood near ShiKahr’s northernmost boundary.

  T’Pol entered the darkened house quietly, unwilling to do anything that might disturb the tomblike silence. Her last visit had been more than a year ago, when her mother had died in her arms following a raid by the reactionary V’Las government on a nearby Syrrannite hideout. T’Les had been one of the casualties of the transition from the corruption of the V’Las regime to the current reformist Syrrannite government led by T’Pau.

  The realization came to T’Pol that T’Les’s dark and silent dwelling now belonged to her. I have little to do but wait until T’Pau returns, she thought as she felt along one of the entryway walls for the illumination controls. Perhaps I should take some time to tend to this place.

  She was surprised to note that the lights came on immediately once she had found the control padd and entered the appropriate command. Vacant houses were usually disconnected from the central power generation and distribution infrastructure as a matter of course, if only to reduce the possibility of accidental fires. She made
a mental note to check out the household utility circuitry herself as soon as possible.

  The illumination did little to encourage her; instead, it only accentuated the yawning emptiness of the house. That emptiness mirrored the bereft sensation in her gut, the sense of utter isolation that she usually refused to acknowledge. But she was separated from the solace of her work now, cut off from the comfort of her deepening friendship with Jonathan Archer.

  Just as she was cut off from Trip.

  Again she cursed herself for her weakness. I am a Vulcan. I must master this.

  A knock at the front door broke the silence. Reflexes and training took over, and the phase pistol she carried beneath her robe sprang into her hands.

  “Enter,” she said.

  The front door opened, and a familiar figure strode into the brightly lit entry foyer.

  “I thought I might find you here,” he said, an eyebrow raised.

  T’Pol lowered her weapon, frowning. “Denak?”

  T’Pol’s old V’Shar colleague gestured with his maimed right hand toward her weapon. “I am gratified that you recognized me, T’Pol.”

  Tucking the weapon away, she said, “Come in. Please accept my hospitality.”

  The gray-haired Vulcan man followed T’Pol into the wide central living area and took a seat on a low sofa there, facing the antique chair that T’Pol had taken.

  “How did you know I was on Vulcan?” T’Pol asked.

  Denak scowled. “I see you have lived among humans long enough to have acquired their sense of humor. You couldn’t have forgotten that I have maintained my connections to the V’Shar, if only peripherally. However, your visit to Minister Kuvak’s office this afternoon stirred up enough talk to get my attention even without recourse to my intelligence sources.”

  T’Pol silently cursed herself. Had she alienated a potential ally unnecessarily, jeopardizing her mission in the process?

  “I was merely trying to establish a rapport as efficiently as possible.”

  Denak leaned forward. “I assume the urgency with which you are pursuing this rapport involves an attempt to change Vulcan’s policy with regard to the Rihannsu.”

  The Romulans.

  “Unless you are in a position to aid me, I should not discuss this matter with you any further.”

  He nodded. “Logical. But do you mind if I continue to speculate?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Then I shall further assume that the rapport you seek to establish will have to be with Administrator T’Pau rather than Minister Kuvak.”

  “There is no practical alternative,” T’Pol said. “However, although Kuvak is nominally in charge of the government during T’Pau’s absence, his authority to affect policy in a meaningful way would seem to be constrained both by time and his own intentions.”

  “So you have essentially a zero chance of making any progress toward your goal,” he said. “At least for the next twenty-eight days.”

  “Unless you can assist me in some manner, yes.”

  His brow furrowed. “I have been assisting you for more than a year now.”

  “I have not forgotten the role you played in the mission I conducted in Romulan space last year.”

  “I was not referring to that,” Denak said, using his good left hand to make an expansive gesture. “I am speaking of this house.”

  T’Pol blinked, lost. “I do not understand.”

  His frown deepened. “I am disappointed in your powers of observation, T’Pol. Or perhaps it is your eyesight. Did you fail to notice the distinct lack of dust on every level surface in this dwelling?”

  She was ashamed to admit it, but she had indeed failed to notice any such thing. My emotional preoccupations again, she thought, upbraiding herself.

  “The household utilities,” she said, putting the pieces together. “That was your doing as well.”

  He nodded. “I have seen to the maintenance of this place, including the landscaping, since shortly after T’Les died. I recommend that you inspect the plomeek patch in the morning light. You may even find new fruitings on the g’teth berry bushes.”

  Once again, T’Pol felt her emotions threatening to overwhelm her. Empowered only by her training, she held them at bay, if only barely.

  “Thank you.”

  The frown that had crumpled her old friend’s scarred forehead gradually smoothed and softened as he appeared to consider his next words carefully. Then, his gaze fixed upon hers intently, he said, “Now I must ask you for help.”

  “I will assist in any way I can,” she said.

  “It is about my wife, Ych’a. She is missing.”

  T’Pol chided herself. Two of her oldest friends, colleagues from her days as an intel operative, had married and she had never suspected.

  “Your wife?” she said, somehow managing not to stammer. “I did not know you were presently married. Let alone to Ych’a.”

  His frown returned momentarily. “You worked in intelligence long enough to understand the logic of concealing certain personal information, even from close friends.”

  “Of course,” she said with a nod. “Just as I am sure you understand that intelligence agents sometimes must burrow very deeply into their cover identities—often under circumstances that preclude their communicating their status to family members.”

  Images of Trip, in the Romulan guise he had worn when she had last seen him, sprang painfully to mind.

  “Something more than that may have transpired in this instance,” Denak said.

  “Why do you think so?” she said, mirroring his frown. “Isn’t it also possible that she is dead?” After all, being discovered and killed while in the field was an ever-present hazard of the intelligence profession.

  Denak was unfazed by her blunt observation, but T’Pol had expected nothing less. Instead, he surprised her by adopting an uncharacteristically confessional tone. “Ych’a and I have shared a... telepathic bond for many years. Establishing psi-links between spouses is a Syrrannite practice that is still not considered entirely acceptable.”

  It occurred to her that this lack of social acceptance had given Denak and Ych’a a reason to keep their marriage concealed. T’Pol still had misgivings about the practice of mind-melding.

  “I will not judge you,” T’Pol said. “Or Ych’a.” How could she, when she shared a similar bond with Trip? The implications of that bond now seemed far more profound than ever before. The connection that she and Trip had shared—that they continued to share—was no mere casual dalliance. It was all but identical to the link that united two of her oldest friends in the bonds of Syrrannite marriage.

  And that makes Charles Tucker my mate, she thought. In a much truer sense than Koss ever was.

  Denak’s eyes seemed to brim with both gratitude and pleading. “It was my link to Ych’a that gave me confidence that she would assist you in your foray into Rihannsu space last year—just as it tells me now that she isn’t dead. And that she has been concealing something important from me, in spite of our link, and continues to do so even now.”

  T’Pol sat back in her chair, trying to process everything Denak was revealing. It was hard to fully embrace it. “Your assertions seem to contain a great deal of supposition. Do you have any empirical proof?”

  “Only the evidence of my years of experience with our telepathic bond. For instance, I have always been able to feel the link attenuate with distance, though it has never broken. I sense a similar attenuation now, greater than ever before, as though Ych’a is now physically farther away from Vulcan than she has ever been...” He trailed off into a troubled silence, staring into the middle distance of the westfacing wall.

  T’Pol wanted nothing more than to assuage her old friend’s distress. “What do wish me to do?”

  Turning to face her again, Denak said, “I want you to help me find Ych’a. Even if that means venturing offworld, or perhaps even into Rihannsu space.”

  “You are being overly emotional, Denak,” she said.
“And illogical.”

  The determination in his eyes told her that he couldn’t care less about that. “Perhaps. But you know as well as I do that logic alone is seldom the sole determining factor in such decisions. Help me, T’Pol.”

  Loyalty and friendship warred with practicality and logic. She had a vitally important task to perform on Vulcan, one that could alter the outcome of the war. But she also couldn’t pursue it effectively for another twenty-eight days—and he knew it.

  On the other hand, his conclusions were based almost entirely upon subjective information. It was likely that he couldn’t even determine in which direction to head when he began his search.