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

by Michael A. Martin

  Stiles nodded, getting at least partial control of herself with a visible effort. “Major systems are crippled all over the ship, including propulsion, but life support is functioning and the warp core is stable. When the Romulans tried to seize control of our systems remotely, the new countermeasure protocols prevented it, but at the cost of a cascade of memory-core failures. The Andorians and the Tellarites took a way worse beating than we did.”

  Reynard nodded. That’s what we get for having to beta test the Centauri brain trust’s new countermeasure protocols on the fly. He hoped the new remote-hijack-resistance protocols would prove more effective for the other attack groups.

  The Romulans had gained outright control of several Andorian warships, in addition to at least one of the Tellarite vessels, forcing the destruction of the ships and crews. Fortunately, sheer numbers had prevented the Romulan hijacking trick from turning the tide in their favor. But if they had brought more ships, today’s outcome might have been very different. Had the battle for Altair VI gone on significantly longer than it had...

  “Crew status?” Reynard said.

  “Sickbay’s overflowing.”

  Reynard knew that the captain was among the injured who had required emergency medical treatment; he’d been carried off the bridge less than halfway through the battle. The last message Reynard had received from sickbay indicated that the captain had finally regained consciousness.

  “Any new orders from Captain Shea?” Reynard asked. It was going to be a relief to return this chair to its rightful occupant.

  A look of shock shattered Stiles’s businesslike calm. “Oh my God. Nobody got the message to you.”

  “Message? What message?”

  “Captain Shea died a few minutes ago,” Stiles said quietly. “You’re in command now. The crew is waiting for your orders, Captain.”

  As the weight of the world settled unceremoniously upon Stephen B. Reynard’s narrow shoulders, it occurred to him that the crew was likely to expect a damned sight better from him than merely ‘prevailing’ in the many battles that must surely lie ahead.

  Sausalito, Earth

  Ambassador Gora bim Gral of Tellar hated to admit it, but he was beginning to grow rather fond of the tangy blue citrus drink that Andorian Foreign Minister Thoris’s people kept leaving on the refreshment tray during the informal war councils he and Thoris shared at the Andorian diplomatic compound.

  “Has your government come to a final decision about the war?” Gral asked. Tipping his hirsute head back, he drained his glass of the last of the sapphire-hued liquid as he waited for his blue-skinned counterpart to formulate one of the highly crafted, less-than-direct answers for which he was so justifiably famous.

  Very much to Gral’s surprise, Thoris did not hesitate. “Andoria has indeed reached a decision, Mister Ambassador. However, I have been instructed not to reveal it prior to the Coalition Council session.”

  Gral set his empty glass on the table with a sigh. “Come now, Thoris. You’re hurting my delicate feelings. This is me you’re talking to.”

  Thoris’s antennae flattened against his white-maned scalp, revealing his displeasure at being cajoled. “I have my instructions, Gral, just as you do.”

  “Thank you for recognizing that, Mister Foreign Minister,” Gral said. “Of course, my instructions include learning Andoria’s position sooner rather than later.”

  “I regret having to put you at odds with your superiors, Mister Ambassador. However, they should know better by now than to try to coax information from me prematurely.” Although Thoris’s facial expression remained stoic, his antennae resembled a pair of serpents preparing to strike.

  Gral spread his great, hairy hands in a gesture of peace. “Fair enough. Please allow me to speculate, then.”

  Thoris nodded. “I am certain I am powerless to prevent it.”

  “The war against the Romulans has been very costly to Andoria lately, both in lives and in treasure,” said the Tellarite. “Even the recent Coalition victories have been hugely expensive. This must necessarily be a significant component in your government’s decision-making process.”

  “Just as it surely must be in your world’s internal deliberations,” Thoris said.

  Although Gral tried to keep his countenance as free as possible of revelatory emotion—what the humans referred to as “tells”—he could not deny that a certain dour zeitgeist had come to dominate much of Tellarite officialdom lately regarding war-related matters. The downbeat mood had even permeated the news media of the generally upbeat humans. Keisha Naquase’s Earthbound coverage of most Earth-Romulan engagements this year, including even the victories at Berengaria and Altair VI, had taken on an increasingly gloomy “we should have stayed out of this” tone. And while Gannet Brooks’s most recent reporting and commentaries continued in the same “this war has to be won” vein they always had, even her broadcasts seemed curiously subdued. If humans started losing faith in Starfleet’s ability to win, then what was the rest of the Coalition supposed to think?

  “Tellar has lost many ships and crews as well,” Thoris continued. “Does your government favor continuing to fight alongside Earth?”

  Gral showed Thoris his teeth. “I asked you first, Mister Foreign Minister.”

  His antennae momentarily motionless, Thoris regarded his Tellarite counterpart with a cool, inscrutable expression.

  “Yes,” Thoris said. “Yes, you did, didn’t you?”

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  Enterprise, near Deneva

  T’POL HAD THOUGHT THAT the worst suffering she would ever witness lay two decades behind her, dead and buried alongside the bones of the failed Vulcan colony on Trilan. True, the wounded and terrorized humans she had encountered on the civilian refugee transport had not resorted to cannibalism as the Fri’slen had, but their despair at having been displaced by a foe that no one had ever even seen was every bit as profound.

  At least when the Fri’slen struck and dined on the flesh of sentients, their victims’ suffering came to an eventual end.

  Now, as she preceded Lieutenant Reed in climbing up through the dorsal airlock of the shuttlepod that Captain Archer had sent to ferry her from the refugee transport, she experienced a strange mixture of the most un-Vulcan of emotions: guilt at having abandoned the refugees on their long Earthward voyage, and gratitude at having returned at long last to the place she regarded as... home.

  Captain Archer stood alongside Ensign Hoshi Sato on the metalgrid catwalk that covered much of the upper level of the launch bay, looking down at the shuttlepod’s open top. Both wore grins that caused the Vulcan instinctively to rein in her emotions.

  T’Pol stepped onto the catwalk, set her small travel bag down beside her, and smoothed a wrinkle from her dark brown Vulcan robe. Standing smartly at attention, she said, “Permission to come aboard, Captain.”

  Archer’s grin broadened. “Permission granted, Commander. I would have brought somebody down here to pipe you aboard with a bosun’s whistle, but I know how you feel about those things.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, not sure whether to be grateful for his consideration, or to attempt to appreciate his attempt at droll humor. Her gratitude at not having to endure the whistle was quite real, however; because of her sensitive Vulcan hearing, she found the traditional naval instrument’s upper-partial overtones to be highly unpleasant, particularly at close quarters and in the reverberating acoustics of the launch bays.

  Malcolm Reed emerged from the shuttlepod next, stepping onto the catwalk beside her as the captain moved toward a nearby companel.

  “Archer to bridge.”

  “Leydon here, Captain. Go ahead.”

  “Shuttlepod One is docked, Ensign. Make best speed back to the Deneva-bound fleet, and return us to our point position at the head of it.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Signing off, Archer strode purposefully toward the nearest turbolift. T’Pol slung her bag over her shoulder and fell into step beside him, leav
ing Reed and Sato to follow.

  “It appears that I have chosen a propitious moment to return to Enterprise, Captain,” she said.

  “You might say that, Commander,” Archer said with a nod as the group exited the launch bay and moved quickly toward E deck’s core. “You’ve been missed around here, that’s for damned sure. I’m relieved that we won’t have to liberate Deneva without you. And D.O. told me she’ll be extremely relieved to go back to being just the gamma-shift watch officer.”

  It was only as they approached the central turboshaft, where the overhead light fixtures were closer to the deck than those in the launch bay, that she noticed how haggard the captain looked. He seemed to have aged a decade during her months-long absence. She experienced a pang of regret for having agreed to leave for such an extended period, especially with so little to show for it.

  “I look forward to resuming my post, Captain,” she said as Archer allowed Reed and Sato to enter the open turbolift ahead of him. Archer got in next, but stopped on the threshold and turned to face T’Pol.

  “I think you can find the time to visit your quarters first,” he said. “Drop off your luggage, get reacquainted with the ship—” He paused as he stepped all the way inside the lift, then pointed at her robe with a slight smirk. “And maybe think about putting on a regulation uniform, Commander.”

  The turbolift doors hissed shut, leaving her standing alone in the corridor. It was true that the stresses of the past year had etched themselves indelibly upon the captain’s face. But in a fundamental and strangely reassuring way, he hadn’t changed at all.

  Although Archer had expected T’Pol to waste no more time getting to the bridge than it took for her to don a uniform, his prodigal exec made it to her station even more quickly than he’d expected. Since the fleet was still hours away from the Kappa Fornacis system and Deneva, now seemed to be the ideal time to begin debriefing T’Pol about her mission on Vulcan. He asked her to join him in his ready room.

  Archer was disappointed to learn that Administrator T’Pau still hadn’t budged. He wasn’t surprised, however, given everything T’Pol was telling him about T’Pau’s commitment to pure Syrrannite principles and her recent intimate contact with the living katra of Surak.

  But T’Pol’s revelation that she had unearthed an apparent conspiracy within the Vulcan government—a plot to smuggle Vulcan arms technology into Romulan-controlled territory, no less—not only surprised him, it all but floored him.

  “And you say you’ve found evidence implicating Minister Kuvak in this thing?” he asked, incredulous.

  Standing in front of his desk, she reached across it to hand him a data module. “All the data and analysis are here.”

  “What about T’Pau?” he said, staring at the module as though it were some poisonous insect that had lit on his hand. “Is she involved with this thing somehow?”

  T’Pol shook her head. “If she is, she is probably the victim of a deception. I do not believe she would willingly work against the cause of peace.”

  Of course not, he thought, chiding himself for questioning T’Pau’s integrity. That integrity, that steadfast devotion to a principle, lay at the crux of her stubborn refusal to bring Vulcan into this war. The captain still hadn’t given up hoping to persuade her that choosing to fight was not the same as selling out her beliefs; he felt certain that the argument was far from finished.

  “Well, at least she’s consistent,” he said, tucking the module into one of the cubbies on his desk. “That’s better than being corrupt, as appears to be the case with Kuvak—not to mention whomever he’s conspiring with.”

  “My V’Shar contacts on Vulcan are continuing to try to determine who those co-conspirators may be,” she said. “With some help from Commander Tucker.”

  Archer leaned forward in his chair, grabbing his desk for balance. “Trip? You’ve seen him? How is he?”

  “He is well. He is working on Vulcan. And he wishes to return to Enterprise.”

  “That works for me. Why the hell didn’t he come back here with you now?”

  “He nearly did. But the commander decided that he needed to resolve certain... complexities to his satisfaction first.”

  Over the past year Archer had given a great deal of thought to the many complexities Trip would face once he finally did return from the dead. As far as his family knew, Trip was dead, a fact that had provided Section 31 with an operative who could leave no trail because he did not officially exist. Archer didn’t much like the way they used Starfleet officers, the charter be damned.

  “‘Complexities’?” Archer asked.

  “For the most part, those complexities involve a Romulan military officer who is presently operating on Vulcan,” she said.

  “A Romulan. Operating on Vulcan.” Just when I thought she’d run out of ways to surprise me, he thought.

  “This Romulan has been conditioned, however, to believe that he is a Vulcan operative in the employ of the V’Shar.”

  “Let me guess,” Archer said, holding up a hand. “This fake Vulcan agent could lapse into full Romulan mode at any moment.”

  With a nod, she said, “The commander has elected to remain on Vulcan for an indeterminate period in an effort to prevent exactly that.”

  Archer sighed. He was beginning to wonder if he would ever recover the best chief engineer he’d ever had, and his friend.

  The shrill whistle of the intercom cut off his next question. Pushing a button on his desk, he said, “Archer here. Go ahead.”

  “Lieutenant Reed, Captain,” Malcolm said unnecessarily. “The long-range sensors have just made contact with a ship.”

  “Type of vessel?”

  “It’s still on the edge of sensor resolution, sir. All we can tell so far is that it’s coming in at high warp—and it’s on an intercept course.”

  The rest of the debriefing would have to wait. “Tactical Alert,” he said as he rose from his chair. “I’m on my way.”

  Though the ship that appeared on the long-range sensors was not the one that Archer had hoped to see, he was nevertheless grateful for its arrival. The captain still held out the hope that Columbia would put in a miraculous eleventh-hour appearance as part of his attack group, but he was glad to have the I.G.S. Weytahn throw in with the Deneva fleet.

  “Have you heard the news from Altair VI, General?” he said to the man whose hard, azure visage stared at him intently from the view-screen.

  “I have, pinkskin,” said Shran. “The Coalition has achieved a proud victory over the Romulans today.”

  “Which wouldn’t have been possible without the support of the Imperial Guard,” Archer said. “Starfleet is in your debt for persuading your government to help us hold the line against the Romulans.”

  “You may be overestimating my influence, Captain. Especially once my government takes the cost in lives and starships into account.” He smiled. “But I have never minded having you in my debt.”

  Archer found he didn’t have it in him to return that smile. “Whatever it takes to drive the bastards back where they came from, General. Whatever it takes.”

  “Indeed. I see you’ve assembled quite an assault fleet. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen so many of your Daedalus-class ships gathered together before.”

  “You’d be surprised what we pinkskins can accomplish when we really put our minds to it.”

  “Endlessly surprised. Your fleet includes only one of Starfleet’s most advanced vessels.”

  “Unfortunately, the NX fleet is stretched pretty thin these days,” Archer said glumly.

  Columbia had been due to join the fleet six days ago, once her convoy duty in the Onias sector was finished. But no trace of the starship had turned up. The last time Archer had heard from Erika Hernandez had been exactly a month ago. His queries to Starfleet Command into Columbia’s status and whereabouts had revealed only that the mining convoy she’d been guarding had been destroyed, reduced to an expanding debris cloud several astronomical units in d
iameter. But analyses of the detailed sensor scans had revealed absolutely no trace of Columbia.

  “We’ll just have to make do with what we have, General,” Archer said.

  “I shall count on your leading us to victory,” Shran said. “We will split a bottle of Fesoan grainwine on Deneva, Archer, to toast our victory. Shran out.”

  “No pressure,” Archer said quietly to the warp-distorted starfield that replaced the general’s image.

  Ensign Leydon took Enterprise out of warp ten minutes before crossing the outer edge of the Kappa Fornacis system’s warp-field detection grid.

  Six and a half minutes later, nine large, horseshoe crab–shaped Romulan vessels screamed in at the Deneva-bound fleet while it was at the system’s periphery. Enterprise rocked and trembled as disruptor fire raked the polarized hull plating, melting sections of it, parts of which ablated away into space. Reed wasted no time returning fire, freeing Archer to coordinate the Daedalus fleet even as the Weytahn roared into the midst of the Romulan crossfire, every tube blazing.