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

by Michael A. Martin

  After the deed had been done, Valdore felt stunned to the very depths of his soul. The admiral had been uncertain of his ability to do this thing. To be sure, he felt a strong sense of relief at the departure from the world of a madman who had done untold damage to the Empire and its military, and doubtless would have done far worse had he gone on living.

  Nevertheless, he also felt devastated in a manner that went far beyond even his reaction to learning that a billion or more civilians had succumbed to his attack on Coridan Prime. Despite the favorable outcome, both for himself and for the entire Empire, he found the knowledge that he was actually capable of such an act of naked treason almost too much to bear. Although such base betrayal was contrary to his every military instinct, he now understood that it was preferable by far to the possibility of losing his family to the whims of a mad praetor. There were limits, apparently, even to military discipline and obedience, and he hoped never again to encounter those limits.

  Even as he grappled with his conscience, Valdore knew that First Consul T’Leikha had called an emergency meeting of the Continuing Committee of the Romulan Senate. D’deridex’s sudden passing from the Praetorate had left behind a dangerous power vacuum, creating the possibility of a perilous shift within the civilian government that could have made a bad situation even worse. Valdore and T’Leikha had agreed going in that such a scenario was intolerable, particularly at a time when the Empire was fighting wars on two fronts.

  Valdore was relieved to learn that the succession deliberations had concluded a scant four dierha after they had begun, showcasing a degree of administrative efficiency that must have owed much to T’Leikha’s no-nonsense, iron-gauntleted guidance.

  Valdore made it a point to be among the first to enter the cavernous audience chamber to congratulate the former proconsul Karzan on his ascension from the Continuing Committee’s topmost echelons to his present august position as the Romulan Star Empire’s newest praetor. The admiral was therefore gratified, though not entirely surprised, when Praetor Karzan had not dismissed him along with the host of assorted courtiers, supplicants, and other high-level well-wishers following the conclusion of his lengthy official installation ceremony.

  “I need to be briefed in detail about the wars, Admiral,” Karzan said. “D’deridex’s follies now belong to me—at least until I can bring the worst of them to an honorable conclusion.”

  It pleased Valdore immensely to hear that, though it didn’t surprise him in the least. During his time in the Romulan Senate, Karzan had always advocated a far more focused military policy than D’deridex had favored. He had even recently taken the risk of advancing a plan to redeploy all Haakonan-front military resources to the conflict with the expansionist Coalition; most in both the civilian government and in the military—including Valdore himself—believed the Coalition represented a far more genuine threat to the Empire than did Haakona.

  “My operational commanders are already assembling the necessary briefing materials, Praetor,” Valdore said, bowing his head deferentially. “We will be ready within the dierha.”

  “Excellent, Admiral. The imperial military must be advised of the change in the praetorate in a way that does not harm morale.”

  “I will see to it, Praetor.”

  “Very good, Admiral. Within one ch’Rihanturn of your briefing, you will receive revised orders regarding the disposition of fleet resources. I promise you that. Now I release you to your duties until you are ready to conduct that briefing.”

  “Thank you, Praetor. But may I make a request first?”

  The new praetor raised an eyebrow inquisitively. Although Karzan was Valdore’s junior by at least several decades, his prematurely gray hair gave him air of authority beyond his years.

  “You have earned the privilege of asking this praetor anything, Admiral,” he said, making Valdore wonder just how much he knew about the actual circumstances surrounding his ascension to the Praetorate—and how long it would take T’Leikha to begin eliminating anyone besides herself who possessed any knowledge of her true role in those apparently fortuitous events.

  “Thank you, Praetor,” Valdore repeated. “My request deals with certain people who were... detained by your predecessor.”

  “Your family,” Karzan said with a nod. “I understand. You may consider them released.”

  “Thank you, Praetor,” he said yet again, relief flooding him as he contemplated the safe return of Darule and the children; despite the sudden upwelling of emotion, he maintained a rigidly military bearing, and managed to keep his thoughts in order. “And if I may trouble you further, there is another prisoner on whose behalf I would seek your intervention as well.”

  Karzan appeared intrigued. “Another family member?”

  “Merely a friend. But he is someone to whom I owe a great debt.”

  As well as one who might prove to be an insurance policy of sorts, Valdore thought, should my relationship with the first consul begin to become... difficult.

  SIXTY-TWO

  Day Forty-Four, Month of K’ri’lior

  Tuesday, March 16, 2156

  Bird-of-Prey Terrh’Dhael, deep in Romulan space, near the Haakonan front

  AFTER THE DEVASTATING REPRISALS they had suffered during the Haakonan assault, it had taken an entire Romulan dayturn for Commander T’Met’s crew to restore the ship to a marginally operational condition. It took still another complete eisae for the Terrh’Dhael to limp far enough away from Haakona proper to begin undertaking more permanent repairs.

  T’Met was surprised to have awakened after the Haakonan counterattack had driven her, along with her crew, into abrupt unconsciousness. More than a few, like her hapless XO, Subcommander D’ridthau, hadn’t been quite so fortunate, despite the tireless ministrations of Doctor T’Tpalok.

  “Sit-rep,” T’Met demanded, addressing Decurion Genorex at ops. In her peripheral vision, she saw the bridge hatchway slide open to admit Centurion Belak. Unfortunately, the Tal Shiar political officer had been part of the ship’s complement that had survived.

  “Repairs remain under way on all major systems,” came Genorex’s crisp report. “Stardrive is functioning, but unreliable except at low warp. Only half the weapons tubes are back on line.”

  That was better than nothing, but still far from sufficient for a renewed engagement with the Haakonans. “How long until our propulsion and tactical capabilities are fully restored?”

  “It is difficult to estimate that precisely, Commander. It will likely take at least three eisae, and that is provided the engineers discover no unforeseen problems.”

  T’Met sighed in frustration. “All right, Decurion. Carry on. And inform me as soon as the repairs are completed.” Addressing the entire command deck, she said, “It appears we won’t be going anywhere for at least three eisae. In the meantime—”

  “Wrong,” Centurion Belak said, interrupting.

  Silence engulfed the busy command deck as T’Met fixed the political officer with a narrow gaze. “Remember your place, Centurion. You do not give orders on my vessel.”

  Belak strolled directly to the center of the command deck, not looking chastened in the least. “As a general rule, that is true, Commander. But not when I observe you violating the duly issued orders of Admiral Valdore and Praetor D’deridex.”

  “What in the name of Erebus are you talking about, Belak?”

  “The Bird-of-Prey Terrh’Dhael was to lead the Haakona invasion force, Commander. The Haakonans have scattered that force.”

  T’Met folded her arms across her chest. “I’m glad to see you’ve been paying attention so far.”

  The centurion did not react to her snide tone. “Your original orders stand, Commander. Now that this ship is operational again, you are obliged to regroup the invasion force and return to Haakona with it.”

  “The Haakonans swatted us like an oallea bug, and we were in optimal condition when it happened,” T’Met said. “We would stand no chance against them whatsoever in the
shape we’re in now.”

  “Your orders give no dispensation for excuses, Commander,” Belak said, sorely tempting T’Met to strike him. Uhlan Makar, glaring at Belak from behind the helm, seemed to be thinking similar thoughts.

  Belak’s provocative demeanor had to be calculated, of course. He wanted to goad her into taking some precipitous and foolish action against him, thereby giving him a tidy excuse to seize command immediately, as was permitted by regulations and enabled by the crew’s prudent fear of the Tal Shiar.

  Belak smiled. “You will reassemble the attack fleet, and make best speed to Haakona. I will expect to see the target world before us in one siure. You have that long to come into compliance with your orders.”

  And with that, he stalked off the command deck, leaving T’Met fuming and her command staff studiously avoiding eye contact with her.

  Except for Uhlan Tomal at the communications console. “We’ve just received a priority communiqué from Romulus,” he said.

  Wonderful, she thought. More good news, no doubt.

  “Send it to my quarters, Tomal,” she said, and exited the command deck.

  The dispatch she saw on the terminal in her small cabin was indeed a surprise, but not the kind for which she had girded herself. Owing to a highly improbable cascade of political circumstances back home, she was no longer consanguineous with an influential member of the Continuing Committee of the Romulan Senate.

  However, she did share an ancestor with the newest praetor, a man with a new vision for the Romulan military. The most promising augury of that new vision was new orders to the Haakona-deployed forces, orders cut by Admiral Valdore himself.

  T’Met activated the intercom unit on her desk. “Commander T’Met to helm.”

  “Uhlan Makar here, Commander.”

  “We’ve just received new orders, Uhlan. Plot a course for the Coalition front.”

  The helmsman’s reply was tinged with relief. “Immediately, Commander.”

  T’Met leaned back in her chair. Now, the fleet would be run in a rational fashion.

  Still, she knew it was unwise to rejoice prematurely. The normally placid and standoffish Haakonans, after all, might not forget the ill-starred Romulan assault. They could decide to mount punitive attacks of their own, a development that could greatly complicate or even abort Valdore’s new effort. Even if everything went smoothly, a mass redeployment away from Haakona and toward Earth and her allies could take several turns of Remus to complete. During those interminable khaidoa, a great deal could happen, both inside and outside the Empire.

  Over such a protracted span of time, the continued presence of Centurion Belak would become insufferable. But it came to her then that while she could do little to affect the future of Romulan-Haakonan relations, Centurion Belak’s destiny aboard the Terrh’Dhael now lay entirely within her power. D’deridex, Belak’s principal patron outside the Tal Shiar hierarchy, was dead.

  Activating the intercom again, she said, “Centurion Belak, this is Commander T’Met. Please meet me in my quarters at your earliest convenience. I wish to discuss your desire to approach Haakona again.”

  She rose from behind her small, tidy desk, drew her Honor Blade, and awaited the arrival of her guest.

  The commander wondered which would be the first to drift across the billions of mat’drih that now separated the Terrh’Dhael from Haakona: Belak’s head, or the rest of his body.

  SIXTY-THREE

  Middle of the month of Z’at, YS 8765

  Tuesday, March 16, 2156

  Vulcan’s Forge, Vulcan

  “YOU ARGUE PERSUASIVELY,“ Administrator T’Pau said, raising T’Pol’s hopes yet again in spite of herself.

  Unsurprisingly, T’Pau dashed those hopes once more, just as she had done several times already during the six days since their desert colloquy had begun. “We remain, however, unpersuaded.”

  Their dialogue had become an endurance contest as they descended from Mount Seleya to the desert canyon that marked its boundary. But it was a contest that the petite administrator seemed to be in no danger of losing. T’Pol was impressed by the smaller woman’s strength and stamina as she walked beside her along the Forge’s broiling sands, scarcely sweating despite the heaviness of her robes and Nevasa’s merciless brightness overhead. T’Pau showed little sign of the fatigue she must have felt, other than a slight puffiness around her dark eyes, which remained as sharp as ever.

  Only twice before had T’Pol herself gone this long with neither food nor drink, on or off the Forge. The first time was the ten-day kahs-wan survival ritual she had undertaken in this very desert at the tender age of seven. The second occasion had come two decades later, during the basic Vulcan military training exercises she had endured on the volcanic slopes of Mount Tar’Hana.

  During the past six days, T’Pol had used all the Vulcan discipline at her disposal—a fund that she knew had been depleted by the lingering aftereffects of her former trellium-D addiction, as well as by the vestigial synaptic scars left behind by Pa’nar Syndrome—to pursue a single purpose: convincing T’Pau that she was wrong to keep Vulcan out of the fight against Romulan aggression.

  But for all that effort, T’Pol had made no measurable progress, although she counted the fact that T’Pau had consented to continue the dialogue as a moral victory of sorts. It was as though the administrator had something to prove, to herself if not to T’Pol or the rest of Vulcan and the Coalition, and that apparent need had kept her talking right through a prolonged interval of what should have consisted of meditation and contemplation, in addition to the fasting and deprivation that both women were enduring.

  The dialogue would have to come to an end sooner or later. Even Vulcan endurance had its limits, and T’Pol knew that every day T’Pau spent here in the desert was another day during which Minister Kuvak’s hands would wield the Vulcan government’s levers of power and influence—including those that quietly moved illicit arms shipments from Vulcan to destinations located on the wrong side of the Romulan border. But since pursuing that topic had proved useless so far—T’Pau simply wouldn’t hear it—T’Pol decided instead to pursue a different tack.

  “Vulcan’s relations with the rest of the Coalition have been strained greatly by your decision,” she said, continuing to match T’Pau’s vigorous walking pace.

  “That is true,” the administrator said. “It is regrettable.”

  Weary though she was, T’Pol still wasn’t prepared to give up. “The damage still might not be irreparable, Administrator. However, that could change quickly should certain information become generally known within the Coalition.”

  “Explain,” T’Pau said as she overcame a slight hesitation in her step. That hesitation might have marked a shred of self-doubt, or it might have merely been the consequence of a rock in the sand.

  “Have you considered how much damage it would cause to Vulcan-Coalition relations should our allies discover our... unique relationship to the Romulans?”

  T’Pau came to an abrupt halt and turned to face T’Pol, who planted her feet firmly as she awaited the administrator’s response.

  “T’Pol, the prospect of that eventuality never ceases to haunt those few of us who are aware of it.”

  T’Pol nodded. “Then you must also have considered the natural corollary of that eventuality: the assumption many would make that we have been acting in collusion with the Romulans in their aggression against the allies.”

  “Believing that would require a formidable leap of illogic,” T’Pau said with a slight shake of her head.

  “Perhaps not. In fact, it would not be an altogether implausible chain of reasoning, given that our collective inaction has arguably already cost many thousands of Coalition lives so far.”

  “Nevertheless, it would be a most unfair conclusion.”

  “Fair or not, such a reaction would be both understandable and widespread,” T’Pol said, standing her ground. “Especially given the emotional proclivities of such species a
s humans, Tellarites, and, particularly, Andorians. Do you not agree?”

  An almost pensive expression crossed T’Pau’s pinched, sun-seared features. She seemed to be giving T’Pol’s latest argument serious consideration, or at least to be letting her guard down enough to allow herself to exhibit some doubt about her chosen course.

  The moment reminded T’Pol of a passage she had read in a copy of the King James Bible that Doctor Phlox had once lent her, when she had been making a concerted effort to understand human myths. A passage in the Book of Luke had recounted a forty-day ordeal of fasting in the desert endured by one Jesus of Nazareth, who was almost a sort of Surak figure for many humans. On the eve of Jesus’ gruesome, state-sponsored murder—a perplexing episode from humanity’s Iron Age that might have appalled even her own pre-Surakian ancestors for its sheer brutality—an antagonist named Satan had tried several times to tempt Jesus, at one point offering him all the world’s wealth and power if he would only agree to apply his divine powers to decidedly nonecclesiastical purposes.