But Commander T’Met did her best to conceal her persistent, gnawing misgivings about the fight that lay ahead, and relayed the initiate order to her command-deck crew scant moments after having received it over the vastam comm bands. She knew that the order, as well as the complex attack plan it was intended to start, had come directly from Admiral Valdore, so she had scant cause to question either its reason for being or its prospects for success.
Except for the fact that T’Met also knew, thanks to her fortuitous consanguinity with Senator Karzan, a key member of the Continuing Committee of the Romulan Senate, that the only reason Valdore had formulated and instigated the Haakona campaign was because of the obstinate insistence of an increasingly irrational Praetor D’deridex.
“We will be within standard orbital distance of Haakona Prime in three siuren, Commander,” Centurion R’Tal reported crisply from his science station, his silver helmet blending in with the dull chromium finish of his hooded scanning/monitoring device.
Subcommander D’ridthau, who had been standing beside T’Met’s chair, turned to face the young science officer. “Have the Haakonans detected our presence yet?”
“I see no evidence of that,” R’Tal said.
“No hails or challenges yet, either from space or from the planet’s surface,” reported Uhlan Tomal, who was manning the communications post.
“I don’t like this,” D’ridthau said, turning his sharp gaze upon T’Met.
“Meaning that you do not enjoy achieving your victories too easily?” said Centurion Belak before T’Met could respond. “Or that you are still calling the wisdom of this campaign into question?”
A tense silence fell across the command deck. It was all but unheard-of for a mere centurion to address a subcommander in such a disrespectful fashion, let alone to interrupt a conversation between a subcommander and a commander. But as the Terrh’Dhael’s security-chief-cum-political-officer, Belak had extraordinary wide latitude when it came to matters of deportment and protocol. Every time the man tempted her to shoot him through the nearest airlock, T’Met had to pause and remind herself that he reported directly to the Praetorate, which effectively made him the Terrh’Dhael’s ranking officer in every way that counted.
Not for the first time, T’Met contemplated how the Praetorate might react to a report that Belak had suffered a sudden tragic “accident.” The deep scowl on D’ridthau’s face, as well as his clenched fists, revealed that he had to be thinking much the same thing.
“We are all soldiers of the Empire, Belak,” T’Met said in forcedly mild tones. “We all understand that.” Belak appeared mollified, at least somewhat.
But D’ridthau was not so easily disarmed. His hard gaze now locked upon that of the much smaller political officer, he said, “It may be a fatal mistake not to question the coming battle.” He gestured toward the planet on the viewer, which had expanded so that it now filled more than half the screen. “We know too little about these Haakonans to be assured of success today.”
“What more do you need to know than what you know already?” Belak countered coolly. “Long-range probes have revealed the locations of their highest-concentration population centers. Terrh’Dhael will vaporize the largest of those,” he said, pausing to glance down at his wrist chronometer, “beginning in about five siuren, and the rest of the attack force that trails us will appear immediately thereafter to extract maximum advantage of the resulting confusion as we blow the rest of their population centers to Vorta Vor.”
“The plan seems sound enough,” D’ridthau said, “provided we have not badly underestimated the Haakonans.”
Belak looked annoyed. “Why would you presume that?”
“Other than a healthy tactical conservatism?” D’ridthau gestured again at the approaching planet, one of whose dual primary stars was emerging from behind Haakona’s western limb. “Consider the nature of the twin Haakonan suns. Both are extremely variable in their output, oscillating by nearly an order of magnitude between their dim and bright phases. Yellow to blue and back again in the span of only a few ch’Rihanturns, and with little real predictability. This always caused grave difficulties for the occupation forces we once deployed here. Yet the Haakonans now seem to take it entirely in stride. It’s as if they have developed technology that can absorb their suns’ excesses.”
Belak shrugged, unimpressed. “Then this technology will number among the many spoils of this war.”
“All right,” T’Met said, raising a hand in an appeal for quiet. “Let us lay this matter aside for consideration later.” Assuming, she thought, that there is a later.
She was uncomfortably aware that the exchange she’d just witnessed begged a deeply unsettling question: If the Haakonans could absorb the outbursts of a variable binary star with little difficulty, then how much of a threat would even an armada from the Romulan Star Empire pose?
“Any change in Haakona’s status?” T’Met asked, striding away from the two glaring combatants and toward the forward ops station, her hands clasped contemplatively behind her.
“None, Commander,” Decurion Denorex said a moment before Centurion R’Tal and Uhlan Tomal confirmed his observation.
T’Met nodded. “Lock all weapons tubes on primary target city.”
“Weapons lock confirmed.”
After pausing to take a deep breath, T’Met said, “Open fire.”
An instant later, the command deck was engulfed in a blinding, incendiary whiteness. Perhaps because this was the last thing T’Met saw or felt before awareness fled her, her last thoughts were of Vorta Vor.
FIFTY-TWO
Enterprise, Neptune orbit
JONATHAN ARCHER STOOD at the center of his bridge, the apparent eye of calm in the midst of a highly disciplined storm. Surrounded by the bustle of his crew, he watched the main viewer with no small amount of awe. The screen displayed a magnified view of what lay immediately astern.
It would be an image for the history books and the news reports, once operational security was no longer a concern: an armada of no less than one dozen Daedalus-class starships, some newly constructed, some very recently refitted, their hulls glinting dully in the light of dim, distant Sol. Had this large assemblage of armed and armored Starfleet vessels gathered any nearer to Earth than it had, the civilian comnets would already be abuzz with news of the bold assault that Earth was about to undertake. Though Archer understood the necessity to a free society of a free press, he also appreciated the truth of the early-twentieth-century adage that loose lips may sink ships.
He was not about to allow any of these ships to sink, not if he had anything to say about it. Starfleet Command had entrusted all of them to his overall command in what he acknowledged—not without some trepidation—was the largest single naval action the United Earth government had ever undertaken using only its own resources. Of course, the plan hadn’t been conceived with the assumption that Earth would be standing entirely on her own; Starfleet Command had hoped initially that the Andorians and the Tellarites would shoulder at least a portion of the burden. Archer still presumed that they would have, if their own respective vulnerabilities to Romulan sneak attacks had not drawn their attention inward of late.
But now was not the time to mull over might-have-beens. He had a fleet to command, and a job to do.
“Fleet status report, Hoshi,” Archer said.
Ensign Hoshi Sato turned her chair away from her communications console on the bridge’s port side and faced Archer. “All vessels report ready, Commodore.”
Archer winced slightly at the archaic-sounding naval title. He had tried to get accustomed to hearing it ever since Starfleet had cut his current mission orders, and during the whole period Enterprise had been in spacedock receiving its most recent round of repairs and upgrades during the four days prior to today’s deployment. He didn’t like it any better now than he had the first time Admiral Gardner had lobbed it at him.
“Enterprise stands ready with the fleet, Commodore,”
Lieutenant Reed reported, standing at crisp attention behind the tactical station to starboard.
“Helm ready as well, Commodore,” Ensign Leydon said, her hands moving at a blur as she ran and reran last-minute systems checks.
“The fleet awaits your orders, Commodore,” said Lieutenant O’Neill from the science station at Archer’s immediate left, ably filling her current role as acting XO.
Archer was suddenly hyperaware that every eye on the bridge was now simultaneously upon him. In an absurd flash of free-associational recollection, his mind’s eye dredged up an image from a more-than-century-old video he had seen during one of the crew movie nights a few years back. The film was set in medieval Scotland, and depicted the bloody fight of the Scottish people for independence against their English oppressors. On the eve of the climactic battle against Edward Longshanks, the Scottish hero William Wallace had ridden his horse along the front of his army’s lines while delivering a stirring speech about fighting, and quite possibly dying, in the cause of freedom under the banner of the legendary Robert Bruce.
He suppressed a grin as he imagined Malcolm contemptuously waving his bare buttocks at the Romulans, a tactic Wallace’s kilt-clad warriors had used to infuriate the English. Banishing the absurd image from his mind, he directed Hoshi to open the interfleet comm channel.
“This is... Commodore Archer,” he said, addressing the entire attack force. “Today we will all take a bold step into history on behalf of Starfleet, Earth, and the entire human species. Until now, we have only waded on the cosmic beach, ankle-deep in the ocean. Today we’re heading into deeper waters.
“The Romulans might have succeeded in taking Berengaria away from us,” he said. “But with all of you at my back, I have every confidence that they’ll soon discover they can’t hold on to it. So consider the word given. Let’s get out there, hit ’em hard, and hit ’em fast. Commodore Archer out.”
Feeling a palpable sense of relief now that he’d formally thrown down the gauntlet, he met the anxious gaze of Ensign Leydon at the helm.
“Take us out, Mister Leydon,” he said. “Best fleet speed for Berengaria.”
FIFTY-THREE
Day Forty-Two, Month of K’ri’lior
Sunday, March 14, 2156
Government Quarter, Dartha, Romulus
“LESS THAN HALF of my attack fleet even made it back from Haakonan space,” Valdore growled, taking care to be quiet despite the almost complete emptiness of the concourse. “I cannot accept losses on such a scale if they serve no larger purpose.”
“Are you questioning the wisdom of your infallible praetor, Admiral?” said the woman who was strolling beside him alongside the wide rectangular reflecting pool that fronted an assemblage of ancient stone administrative buildings. Like Valdore, she wore a simple, unadorned cloak; First Consul T’Leikha clearly had no more desire to attract undue attention to herself, or their conversation, than he did. “Or am I hearing nothing more than soldierly gripes?”
“All you’ll ever hear from me is the truth, First Consul,” Valdore said, his soul laden with the weight of worlds. “The Haakonans have become considerably more formidable during the decades since our original occupation ended there. We could not stand against them. At least not while we are already occupied fighting the Coalition worlds.”
“It should come as no surprise that Haakona would have developed new weapons in order to deter a second occupation,” T’Leikha said.
He nodded. “Of course not. But there are limits even to what the Empire’s intelligence service can anticipate.”
“Have you fully assessed the Haakonans’ new capabilities yet?”
Valdore shook his head glumly, and waited to speak until after an elderly gentleman finished walking past. “The chief technologist’s office is still coming to grips with it. Nijil’s preliminary reports indicate that the Haakonans may have weaponized a capacity they already possessed—their ability to absorb and redirect much of the excess energy released by the two variable Haakonan stars during their violently active phases. But we are still far from certain about anything, since none of this technology was in use during the previous occupation.”
“Praetor D’deridex is aware of that much already. Whatever this Haakonan innovation turns out to be, he is now determined to possess it.”
Valdore swallowed a curse. “Wonderful. Now he can believe he has a good reason to persist in a bad course of action.”
She favored him with a wry smile. “He is his father’s son.”
“Is the praetor aware that our abortive attack on Haakona has cost us access to all Haakonan sources of the akhoii that powers our ships?”
“He is confident that you will get Haakona’s dilithium exports flowing again,” she said with a nod. “After you regroup your forces to begin the second occupation, of course.”
Valdore stopped beside the reflecting pool, admiring its mirrorlike surface, envying its tranquility.
This is intolerable, he thought. He will bring my fleet to ruin. And the Empire with it.
He turned to face her. “D’deridex cannot be allowed to do this.”
“It is true that another would be far preferable in D’deridex’s place, given the perils that now beset the Empire,” she said with a shrug. “Senator Karzan, for instance. But D’deridex is the praetor, Admiral. At least until a natural death contravenes that fact.”
Valdore knew there could be no turning back from what he was about to say. “First Consul, the life and health of the Empire no longer permit me the luxury of waiting patiently upon the whims of death.”
FIFTY-FOUR
Aeihk’aeleir Shipyard
“THIS COULD HAVE BEEN a hell of a lot simpler,” Trip muttered, grunting as he continued to squeeze forward through the dark and narrow access passage. “We could have just beamed from the shuttle straight into that prototype ship, destroyed its engine room, and then beamed away before the Romulans even knew what hit them.”
“Without doubt that would have been simpler,” said the man who went by the name of Tevik; he was bringing up the rear directly behind Trip, quietly rolling the wide toolbox forward through the cramped passage. “But our intelligence about this facility’s interior did not allow for such fine-tuned planning. Nor did it include either the precise positions of the ships moored here or a detailed layout of the prototype vessel’s interior. Besides, our current plan enables us to disable or destroy the entire facility, rather than just one ship.”
Assuming, Trip thought, that we miraculously keep avoiding encounters with the skeleton crew that seems to be running this place.
“I have reached the end of the crawlway,” Ych’a said from up ahead. For a Vulcan, her tone sounded downright irritated. “I would appreciate a minimum of chatter when I open the access hatch.”
“Sorry,” Trip said, holding his breath and clutching his phase pistol as Ych’a gingerly opened the small hatch and wriggled out into the dim illumination that now leaked into the tunnel. He pushed forward, following after her as the clattering sounds of a struggle resounded from just outside the barely passable exit.
Trip half climbed and half fell out of the aperture, spilling awkwardly onto a deck composed of a hard metal gridwork. As he rolled to his feet, his eyes were already adjusting to the dim light of the chamber, which was a good deal brighter than the illumination levels he’d grown used to during the passage through the access tunnel.
Ych’a stood in the wide corridor beside him, smoothing a wrinkle from her cloak. A pair of Romulan soldiers lay at her feet, their necks bent at unnatural angles, expressions of surprise and dismay etched onto their features. Trip looked away from the corpses, momentarily sickened, before helping Tevik drag them into the recesses of another access hatch.
Once the dirty work was done, Trip turned to see Ych’a consulting a map on the small padd she carried. “We read the schematics correctly,” she said as she gestured toward the right end of the corridor. “The facility’s main reactor core should b
e only twenty-two meters in that direction.”
Precisely twenty-two meters, one decidedly permeable hatchway, and three more guards later, the trio stood in the shadows of a four-meter-tall cylinder whose tightly controlled energies reminded Trip of the warp core aboard Enterprise.
“I believe I can identify the best places to set the thermal charges for maximum effect,” Tevik said. Trip nodded, then opened up the toolbox and began arming each of the lightweight, palm-sized charges one by one.
“How long until detonation?” Trip asked Ych’a as they worked.
“Detonation will occur precisely twelve siuren after the final charge is deployed.”
Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War: Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Star Trek : Enterprise) Page 43
