T’Pol could feel her anger on the rise again. “It’s not merely a matter of faith, Administrator.”
“Isn’t it? The Terrans have proven equal to every adversity they have faced so far. Humanity is more than capable of continuing to win its own battles, whatever temporary reversals of fortune might beset them at the moment.”
“There is no guarantee of that, especially now that the Romulans almost certainly know that their once-secret sublight attack strategy has been exposed,” T’Pol said. “They will adjust their tactics, and humanity may not be able to cope once they do. This adversity may prove to be the last one the Terrans and the Centauri face. And if that turns out to be the case, their blood will be on our hands as well as on those of the Romulans.”
T’Pau stopped again, apparently considering T’Pol’s words carefully. “The universe issues no guarantees.”
“That’s true enough, Administrator,” T’Pol said. Noting that the administrator’s equanimity now seemed not to be what it once was, T’Pol seized the opportunity to renew her attack. “But humanity’s battles are also Vulcan’s battles. That is not simply my opinion; it is written into the mutual protection provisions of the Coalition Compact, to which Vulcan is a lawful signatory.”
T’Pol fell silent, though she continued watching the other woman, whose wall of calm seemed to grow more compromised from moment to moment. Considering the crushing weight of responsibility that she carried—not only for the fate of her own race, but also for that of every Terran in two solar systems and beyond—it was no wonder that she had secretly cloistered herself in this place of seclusion and devotion to the principles of pure logic and total peace.
But whatever was motivating T’Pau on a personal level seemed to bear very little resemblance to pure logic, and appeared anything but peaceful. The administrator’s best efforts to conceal that motivation kept it well hidden, though not perfectly contained; it was possible to gain glimpses of it, in momentary flashes. What T’Pol glimpsed now was something most unseemly for a Vulcan, particularly for a committed Syrrannite.
It was fear, though precisely what it was that T’Pau feared was not immediately apparent.
T’Pol thought she glimpsed something else as well, but that, too, withdrew behind the other woman’s stern visage as her iron wall of control reasserted itself.
T’Pau turned away again so that she faced the baking expanse of desert below the sacred mountain. She might have been pondering the eroded nuclear crater that Kuvak had pointed out earlier. Was a repetition of that what T’Pau feared?
“Your colleague Denak once told us that you are rare among Vulcans,” T’Pau said.
“Us,” T’Pol thought. Not “me.” The administrator’s peculiar usage of plural first-person pronouns was becoming distracting.
“Rare in what way?” T’Pol asked.
“In that you are aware of the blood we share with our Rihannsu cousins.” T’Pau said.
T’Pol couldn’t stop herself from blinking in surprise. “I have visited a Romulan world,” she said. “So I know of the... relationship between our people and the Romulans.”
T’Pau nodded again. “Then perhaps you can appreciate the logic behind the decision we have made regarding the humans. And why we must resist the urge to turn away from that decision, no matter how vociferously either you or Foreign Minister Soval might argue to the contrary.”
T’Pol could see the logic inherent in concealing the genetic and cultural kinship between the Vulcan and Romulan peoples. But that logic assumed that T’Pau’s intent was to preserve the Coalition of Planets rather than to fracture it; the administrator’s decision to keep Vulcan out of the war would seem to put the lie to her own logic.
“Perhaps,” T’Pol said, skeptical. “Though I doubt the same could be said of Jonathan Archer.”
A recollection of Archer’s visit to the Forge—during which Surak himself chose him as a temporary vessel for his katra—sprang to mind. The errant memory, coupled with the strange tics that had crept into the administrator’s speech, sent a chill down T’Pol’s spine.
She realized all at once that while she was speaking with T’Pau, she was not speaking only with T’Pau.
FORTY-FOUR
Thursday, March 11, 2156
San Francisco, Earth
“EGG DROP SOUP,“ SAID THE DOCTOR after downing yet another gulp from his bowl. “The only thing that compares from here to Denobula is your own Greek soupa avgolemono. We have nothing even remotely like either dish on Denobula.”
Seated across one of the Lotus Blossom restaurant’s small tables from his chief medical officer, Jonathan Archer fidgeted in his chair. “You know, Phlox, Chef can whip up egg drop soup for you any time you like back on the ship. Or even soupa avgolemono.”
Phlox shrugged, then tossed down another mouthful with a loud, enthusiastic slurp. Then he paused to dab at the corners of his mouth with a linen napkin. The dainty gesture made for a stark contrast to the consumption component of his table manners.
“Undoubtedly,” he said. Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, he added, “But why be stuck aboard Enterprise on the eve of battle when your entire world beckons?” The whisper seemed calculated for comic effect, since Tommy, the Lotus Blossom’s always solicitous maître d’, had seated them in one of the otherwise empty private-party dining rooms in order to assure their privacy.
My entire world, Archer thought grimly as he contemplated the wreckage of his General Tso’s chicken and Mongolian beef. Of all the eateries in all the Chinatowns in all the world, Phlox has to choose this one. It has to be a conspiracy.
Archer nodded as he assayed a small, guarded smile. “‘Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may all die at Berengaria.’” He supposed it might be prudent to compose prayers to the Coalition’s various deities—maybe including even the pointy-eared ones—in the hope that the Romulans wouldn’t launch a major offensive elsewhere when so much of Starfleet’s attention was focused on Berengaria.
Phlox looked surprised. “I wouldn’t have described our situation in such fatalistic terms, Captain. I have complete confidence in your ability to lead us through whatever might be in store for us.”
That makes one of us, Archer thought as he tried to draw strength from the doctor’s attempt to encourage him. Unfortunately, his recollections of the last desperate pleas of the master of the Kobayashi Maru kept getting in the way.
“Regardless,” Phlox continued, “a life-affirming social activity is far preferable to leaving you to brood alone in your quarters.”
“I never brood alone, Phlox. I would have had Porthos with me.”
“Who would almost certainly be contemplating suicide by now. No, Captain, medical ethics demanded that I intervene on the canine’s behalf. And as I said, the best prescription for you right now—not to mention for poor Porthos—is a life-affirming activity. And what better time is there than the night before the commencement of a major military operation to undertake a life-affirming activity?”
Archer’s lips curled into a wry smile. “Are you referring to the egg drop soup, or the fact that Rebecca was working here tonight?”
Phlox’s smile grew disconcertingly broad and wide, a reminder of his nonhuman facial musculature. This cultivated humanlike mannerism must once have been a Denobulan threat display, a physiological relic from some bygone epoch. “Take your pick,” he said.
“I suppose it was good to get the chance to tell her good-bye,” Archer said. “Even if I can’t tell her why this time.” Starfleet’s upcoming mass assault on Berengaria VII—whose twin goals were the elimination of an uncomfortably close Romulan beachhead and the reestablishment of Starbase 1—was still a highly classified matter. Still, he wished he could have been more forthright with Rebecca about the very real chance that he might never see her again—even as he hoped he hadn’t led her to think he wanted to reignite their past relationship....
“I prefer to think in terms of ‘until we meet again’ rather th
an ‘goodbye,’” Phlox said as he set aside his empty bowl.
A familiar voice spoke up behind Archer. “Captain. Your communications officer indicated I might find you here.”
Archer turned to see the tall, dour figure of Soval, Vulcan’s foreign minister, standing on the private room’s threshold.
“Minister Soval,” Archer said, rising to his feet, as did Phlox. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Vulcans are not sanguine about pleasure, Captain,” the Vulcan said with characteristic stoicism. “Nonetheless, I wish that pleasure had been the reason for my visit.”
Archer pondered that for a moment, even as he wondered why Soval hadn’t simply had Hoshi or one of her relief comm officers contact him. Then it hit him: Soval had extremely sensitive news to report, something he didn’t want to risk broadcasting, even over a secure Starfleet channel.
“You have news from Vulcan,” he said. “About Commander T’Pol. And Administrator T’Pau.” Although it was hard to tell with Vulcans, it already seemed that whatever tidings Soval was bringing wouldn’t be happy ones.
Soval raised an eyebrow. “Most perspicacious, Captain.” He paused. “Is this room secure?”
“I swept the place for listening devices myself,” Archer said. As much as he trusted Tommy and Rebecca and the other members of the Lotus Blossom’s staff that he knew well, he also knew there was no percentage in taking unnecessary chances.
Nodding, Soval said, “Very well. I have been advised that Commander T’Pol has just concluded a face-to-face meeting with Administrator T’Pau—a meeting that the commander apparently requested at your behest.”
It’s about damned time, Archer thought, frowning. He couldn’t believe that T’Pol had been goldbricking ever since Enterprise dropped her off at Vulcan; T’Pau had obviously been dodging her. But why? Where the hell has T’Pau been keeping herself?
“I regret to inform you,” Soval continued, “that Administrator T’Pau has just reiterated to me her earlier decision to keep Vulcan out of the war.”
Vulcans. This was so goddamned typical of them. Archer’s eyes narrowed as all the resentment he had built up toward Vulcan over the years—a span of decades during which the Vulcan government had systematically tried to hold back Earth’s interstellar ventures, such as his father’s warp-five engine—threatened to return in one great torrential rush.
“So that’s it,” Archer said. “No dialogue. No negotiation. Just another flat refusal.”
Although Soval looked no happier about delivering the news than Archer did to receive it, he continued, guided by duty. “Vulcan will provide no more assistance to Earth and the rest of the Coalition than it has already provided. If I may speak off the record for a moment, Captain...”
“Go right ahead, Minister,” Archer said tightly. He suddenly realized that both his hands had bunched into fists.
“I... regret this decision,” Soval said. “However, it is not within my power to change it.” He took a single backward step toward the room’s narrow entrance. “Live long and prosper, Captain.”
If any of us get to do either of those things, Archer thought, disgusted, it’ll be no thanks to your fearless leader.
Apparently sensing the depth and intensity of Archer’s anger, Phlox stepped between them, allowing Soval to make a dignified exit rather than beat a hasty retreat.
“Maybe we should go for a walk, Captain,” the doctor said.
The cool night air quickly helped Archer center himself as he and Phlox wended their way along Kearny Street, one of the broader avenues in what was otherwise the rabbit warren of ancient roads comprising San Francisco’s venerated Chinatown district. Despite the lights from a thousand shops and restaurants, the stars overhead were bright and clear on this moonless evening, unusually so in the midst of so much scattered urban lighting.
Phlox had apparently noticed the same thing, since he had stopped, his gaze riveted to something in the sky over the East Bay, in the direction of what Archer immediately recognized as the constellation Boötes.
With no vehicular traffic crossing that particular patch of sky at the moment, it became immediately obvious what Phlox’s keen eyes had lit upon: a double star located some ninety-seven light-years from Earth: Iota Boötis, also known as 21 Boötis, HR 5350, Asellus Secundus, and several other more or less arcane designations, including Denobula Triaxa.
Whatever astronomers and stellar cartographers had chosen to call it over the centuries, it was the place that Phlox called home—a home that lay on the opposite side of the sky from those sectors that were now under Romulan attack.
“Thinking about jumping ship, too?” Archer said, only half serious about the question.
The pained look he saw when the doctor’s deep blue eyes met his made the captain regret the jab instantly. “It has crossed my mind from time to time over the past few months. Even though I’m quite sure there’s not a drop of either Chinese egg drop soup or Greek soupa avgolemono anywhere in the Denobula Triaxa system.”
“You never told me that,” Archer said, placing his hands in his jacket pockets even though the chill in his bones had little to do with the weather.
“That’s funny,” the doctor said with a chuckle. “I thought I had said as much when I finally confessed to having encouraged Commander T’Pol’s attempt to rescue Commander Tucker from Romulan space last year.”
“That’s water over the dam, Phlox,” Archer said softly. “What goes for T’Pol and Malcolm goes for you, too. I can’t afford to lose any of you. Not now. So tell me... is something wrong back home?”
“Wrong? No, nothing to speak of, though I must confess to feeling rather wistful lately about home, and my three wives. To say nothing of all the battlefield surgery that surely lies ahead.”
Archer finally thought he was beginning to understand Phlox’s misgivings. “You’re still thinking about Tarod IX.”
“Denobulans are no more attracted to war than are the Vulcans,” Phlox said. “We don’t like being enablers of war, and I am no exception.”
“You haven’t been... ‘enabling’ war, Phlox. The Romulans attacked, and you’ve been trying to stanch the bleeding.”
“And yet it goes on and on and on. There are times when I wonder if I can do the same.” The unearthly blue eyes shone with unshed tears. “I can’t help but wonder how many of those I saved at Tarod IX will lose their lives later on in this conflict. How many have done so already?”
“That’s not your responsibility, Phlox. You’re a doctor. The Romulans have made the wrong moral choice here. Not you.”
Phlox nodded. “I keep telling myself that. And that by becoming a battlefield medic I have not endorsed or enabled war: I have merely made the best of a bad situation. I believe you humans call that ‘choosing the lesser of two evils.’”
“That’s exactly what we call it,” Archer said, nodding. But although he was glad that Phlox had decided to put a philosophical face on the horrors of war, he felt anything but encouraged himself.
“So you’re saying that you agree that there are times when one evil or another is unavoidable,” Phlox said, interrupting Archer’s reverie.
“That’s what they teach us at the Academy.”
“So by staying on as Enterprise’s CMO—by trying to save the lives the Romulans would take—I have chosen the lesser of those unavoidable evils.”
Archer frowned. “I understand the concept, Phlox. What’s your point?”
“All right,” Phlox said, holding up a placating hand. “The Kobayashi Maru.”
Archer stiffened. What, is he about to reveal he’s telepathic on top of everything else?
“What about the Maru?”
“It’s omnipresent, Captain. It’s behind your fear that I might leave Enterprise the way Ensign Mayweather did—or any of the others who have made no secret of the fact that the incident was their reason for leaving, or at least the trigger for the decision.”
Archer could tell that his funk was onl
y deepening; if Phlox had intended to bolster his morale with this little homily, he was achieving exactly the opposite effect.
“Where is this going, Doctor?”
“Back to the choice between two evils, Captain,” Phlox said, speaking with surprising vehemence, apparently cowed not at all by the steely edge in Archer’s voice. “You made that choice, just as I have. You chose to preserve your ship and everything you had learned about the Romulans in order to save more lives than could have been saved if Enterprise had shared the Kobayashi Maru’s fate—or worse, had been captured.”
Archer opened his mouth to respond, but found he had nothing to say. He knew that Phlox was right. At least, his head knew it. His heart, however, was another matter entirely.
Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War: Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Star Trek : Enterprise) Page 40
