“The communications countermeasure is active, Captain,” Hoshi reported, her consoles and readouts all aglow with flashing alarm indicators. “We’ve intercepted a subspace transmission. It’s a communication between ships in the Romulan fleet.”
“Does this transmission carry anything else besides the message?” Archer said. The latest work of the Cochrane Institute’s countermeasure team was built around the idea that the Romulan remote-hijack weapon worked by slipping malicious software code into its victims’ vital systems through their communications grids.
“According to the new protocols, yes,” Hoshi said. “Some sort of malware is embedded in the Romulan message. But it’s been completely contained in the new protected memory buffers.
T’Pol examined Hoshi’s readouts over her shoulder. “Copy the code onto external media for analysis, Ensign,” she said. “Then purge the buffers.”
“Aye, Commander,” Hoshi said as she got to work.
“A Trojan horse,” Archer said. The Romulans have been turning our own ships into their weapons against us with a damned Trojan horse.
Had Columbia run afoul of this same maneuver out in the far reaches of the Onias sector, the way Enterprise very nearly had out at Gamma Hydra? But if Columbia really had met with such a fate, then why had no trace of her turned up along with the remains of the convoy?
Praying that the Romulans hadn’t captured Columbia, Archer tried to put the matter out of his mind and savor today’s victory. But he knew it wouldn’t do to let that apparent triumph make him overconfident. After all, the fleet still had to fight its way down Kappa Fornacis’s gravity well close enough to set the MACO landing craft down on Deneva. And a hell of a lot could happen in the meantime.
The ship-to-ship clash had concluded quickly and decisively—and in the Coalition fleet’s favor. The Romulan troops on the ground had ultimately succumbed to the MACO landing force’s superior numbers, and they had to have been demoralized by the amount of orbital force that was bearing down on them.
Captain Archer studied the image of the blue world that turned slowly on his ready-room terminal, its skies and ground including the scorched earth of the once-idyllic Summer Islands, now free of any detectable Romulan presence. He could only describe the half-day running battle that had just concluded as a rout. The Romulans had fought tenaciously to hold on to Deneva, perhaps driven by desperation once they realized that their starship-hijacking protocols had been nullified. Regardless, the Deneva colony was once again under Coalition control and protection.
At least the Romulans have lost another beachhead smack inside Coalition space.
His door chime sounded. “Come,” Archer said.
The hatchway opened, admitting T’Pol. Once the aperture had sealed behind her, she said, “I have compiled a detailed after-action report, including the initial reports of the MACO officers on the ground.” She walked to his desk, and he accepted the datapadd she handed him.
Archer tossed it onto the desk, procrastinating. Although he had yet to compute the cost of today’s victory, he knew the figure would be high. A total of thirty-three Coalition vessels had undertaken the liberation of Deneva, with the Starfleet contingent comprising eleven ships, including Enterprise. Of that total, Starfleet’s losses had amounted to a total of three Daedalus-class vessels—Adirondack, Kearsarge, and Shepard—all three destroyed with all hands. The MACO forces had sustained fatalities in the hundreds, with dozens more gravely wounded.
But the Andorian and Tellarite ships had taken the worst beating, with half of their combined forces either crippled or destroyed. Shran and much of his crew had survived, though the Weytahn wouldn’t be going anywhere under her own power for at least a week. Archer wasn’t certain whether his debt to the general had just diminished or increased.
And what the MACOs had discovered about the fate of the thousands of human settlers who’d found themselves trapped on Deneva after the initial Romulan invasion last October was too terrible to contemplate. It seemed that while the Romulans did indeed place some value in the taking of captives, they also believed in keeping them no longer than it took to torture them either into useful submission or to death.
“I’ll read all the details in the morning,” Archer said at length. The last thing he needed right now was a microscopic recap of the pageant of woe that had enabled today’s victory. “But there’s one detail I’d like now: Did the Romulans pick up after themselves at Deneva as thoroughly as they did at Berengaria and Altair?”
The Vulcan nodded. “Apparently. They left behind no significant Romulan technology, nor bodies. And no Denevan colonists were left alive.”
“I see,” he said, sickened, although he already knew about the Denevan massacre. “Thank you, Commander, you’re dismissed.”
Archer closed his eyes, nearly succumbing to his weariness, wondereding how many more “victories” Starfleet could afford. Without the enormous payment in blood made by Andoria and Tellar, the math of today’s battle would have worked out far less favorably.
Opening his eyes, he saw that T’Pol was still standing near the ready room entrance.
“Is there anything else in your report you’d like to call to my attention, Commander?” he said.
T’Pol looked uncharacteristically anxious. “No, sir. Yes. One thing.”
“Some new consequence of the battle that we’re going to have to deal with sooner rather than later?”
She paused thoughtfully before answering. “In a way, yes. But it has nothing to do with my analysis of the after-action reports.”
“What is it, then?” he asked, frowning.
“As your executive officer, it is part of my job to stay current on issues of crew morale.”
Archer had to wonder if anyone on Vulcan was content just to put in the required eight daily hours of work and then go home afterward. “You just got back from Vulcan after spending months there, T’Pol. Then you went straight into a combat situation. I don’t expect you to be on top of every last crew evaluation just yet.”
“And I’m not, I assure you. However, I did take the liberty of glancing at the crew files while we were still approaching Kappa Fornacis. And I noticed something of which you may not be aware. A pattern.”
Great, he thought. Another festering crew morale problem that I’ve been too preoccupied to even notice. All at once he was both glad and sorry to have T’Pol back.
“What sort of pattern did you notice?” Would he have to brace himself for another mass exodus of discontented junior officers?
“Simply that no Enterprise personnel have applied for transfers since you led the successful invasion of Berengaria. Good evening, Captain.”
She made her exit, leaving him to wonder if the ghosts of the Kobayashi Maru had been laid to rest.
SEVENTY-EIGHT
Early in the month of ta’Krat, YS 8765
Sunday, June 20, 2156
ShiKahr, Vulcan
TUCKER WATCHED from a discreet distance as the orange fireball lit up the night, sending flame, smoke, and shadows across the low skyline of ShiKahr’s spartan industrial district.
This was a really bad idea, he thought. And it gave him ample justification for never allowing Terix—Tevik—to go it alone, even on what should have been a simple information-gathering mission. Trip was now more determined than ever not to let the Romulan out of his sight, regardless of how “tame” Ych’a believed him to be.
“I thought we were only going to do a reconnaissance of the warehouse tonight,” Trip said, wondering precisely when and how the wily Romulan had managed to plant the explosives in the illicit arms shipment they had just discovered.
Ironically, this evening’s recon-turned-sabotage operation was their first unofficial action together as partners in the licensed, entirely legitimate Vulcan import-export business known as Ych’a, Sodok, and Tevik—or, as Trip preferred to think of it, Dewey, Cheatham, and Howe. The business entity was intended to provide all the necessary legal protect
ive coloring for the corruption investigation that T’Pol had begun, and that Ych’a was now continuing with the assistance of both Trip and Tevik.
“There could be no surer way to keep an arms consignment from reaching its destination, Sodok,” Tevik said as the initial explosion began to die down. The sirens of the emergency responders had begun to wail in the distance.
Trip turned toward Tevik and affected the most Vulcan expression in his repertoire before he spoke. “We’re fortunate that the consignment contained nothing volatile enough to cause more extensive damage. Your explosive charges alone destroyed more than enough of the warehouse, including many things besides weapons contraband.”
“It couldn’t be helped,” Tevik said. “It was difficult enough making sure no one would be around tonight to be caught in the blast.”
“No one but the emergency responders,” said Trip. How many members of the local fire brigade had this maniac’s impatience endangered? The pair ducked out of sight into the alley’s shadows as the approaching sirens intensified further.
“Instead of destroying it,” Trip pressed, “we should have allowed the cargo to reach the ship that was to carry it. We could have tried again to follow it to its destination.”
“How many times have we done that already, only to fail?” Tevik said, matching Trip’s quick pace as they continued to recede from the scene of the crime, staying in the shadows as they walked. “They have been finding our tracer transmitters somehow, or at least blocking them, no matter what we do. It is long past time that we did something to curtail the traffic.”
“It’s a given now that they’ll have to change warehouses.”
“We have built an extensive intelligence network, Sodok. Such maneuvering will not confound us for long.”
“Ych’a wouldn’t have approved what you’ve done,” Trip said. “You know that as well as I do. I assume you didn’t consult with her first.”
“There is an old Terran proverb, Sodok,” Tevik said, beginning to sound exasperated. “ ‘Sometimes it is better to ask for forgiveness than for permission.’”
But Trip wasn’t buying it. “I know another old Terran proverb, Tevik: ‘Never pick a plomeek before it’s ripe.’ Tonight you took a step that none of us are ready to follow up on.”
Instead of answering, Tevik came to an abrupt halt. In T’Rukh’s pale glow, Trip could see that the other man had closed his eyes, and that a pained expression creased his normally calm, faux-Vulcan features.
Uh-oh, Trip thought, suddenly visualizing a huge crumbling wall. “Tevik? Are you all right?”
Trip let his right hand wander a little closer to the phase pistol he had tucked inside his robe. With his left hand, he pulled out his personal comm device and sent a priority signal to Ych’a.
SEVENTY-NINE
Atlantis NX-05, near Tau Ceti IV
LIKE THE CITY from the ancient legends from his parents’ homeworld, Atlantis seemed about to succumb to a lethal deluge. The bridge was in flames, scorched conduits sagged overhead, and the structural beams that held the deck together groaned ominously.
And the crew of the fifth starship in Earth’s small NX-class fleet was powerless to do anything to halt the Romulans, whose landing craft were even now disgorging their shock troops less than two hundred kilometers below Atlantis’s disruptor-scarred belly.
Lieutenant Travis Mayweather remained behind the helm, where he struggled to halt the starship’s bucking, rattling approach to the green world that had already grown disconcertingly large in the main view-screen before him. Behind him, Captain Weiss barked a steady stream of orders aimed at preventing a fiery atmospheric entry. All around the battered bridge, the other members of the command crew ran, hopped, or limped to carry those instructions out.
“Main propulsion is still not responding, Captain,” Mayweather said, shouting to be heard over the wail of the emergency klaxons. “Warp and impulse power are both dead, and I can’t get enough out of the maneuvering thrusters to make much difference in our descent.”
“Understood. Keep trying anyway.”
While the captain harangued Chief Engineer Mirsky for more power, Mayweather dutifully continued carrying out his captain’s orders as best he could, though he didn’t try to kid himself that he was accomplishing anything other than staying focused on something besides the cosmic unfairness of the universe.
I finally find a ship where I feel at home, and look what happens, Mayweather thought. This is the first crew since I left Enterprise that didn’t treat me like some kind of albatross. He felt confident that nobody here regarded his “Kobayashi curse”—a phrase he’d heard colleagues on other vessels whisper when they thought he couldn’t hear them—as the cause of Atlantis’s woes.
Even though it looks like this will be the second time an NX-class starship goes down with me at the helm.
Finally Mayweather had received a promotion to lieutenant, only to discover that it had arrived just before an urgent summons from the Reaper. And death seemed very near indeed now, despite the merciful stroke of luck that had led the Romulans to ignore Atlantis, at least for the moment.
The Romulan fleet that had engaged the combined Starfleet-Andorian-Tellarite Tau Ceti task force had turned out to be much larger than the enemy battle groups at Berengaria, Altair, and Deneva. And while the latest countermeasures had neutralized the Romulans’ remote-hijack weapon, their plentiful complement of birds-of-prey and the smaller, nuclear-armed fighter craft had proved overwhelming to the Coalition battle group. In fact, the Romulans seemed to have overcompensated so much that the entire Andorian and Tellarite complements had already withdrawn to the system’s periphery. Starfleet was battered and bloodied. And the Romulans now had a beachhead less than twelve light-years from Earth.
Mayweather turned from his console to face Captain Weiss. “I’m still fighting too much atmospheric drag, Captain,” he said. “And engineering can’t give me enough thrust to cancel it out.”
“Get to the escape pods,” Weiss said, effectively pronouncing Atlantis’s epitaph. “We’re going to abandon ship and autodestruct.” Lieutenant Brenner, the comm officer, dutifully relayed the captain’s order throughout the ship.
Locking the helm console per standard emergency evacuation procedures, Mayweather rose and took a final parting glance at the central viewer. The lights of the planet’s largest city, punctuated by the fires and explosions the Romulans had provided, illuminated the night that lay beyond the terminator.
He recalled that the besieged city, Amber, had been the home port of the S.S. Kobayashi Maru.
EIGHTY
Day Forty-Three, Month of T’ke’Tas
Sunday, June 20, 2156
The Hall of State, Dartha, Romulus
KHAZARA’S MINIATURE, GHOSTLIKE HOLOIMAGE materialized about a hand’s width above the massive desk, giving Valdore the momentary impression that the heavy sherawood beneath the figure had suddenly developed antigravity properties.
“You have proved my objections to be groundless, Admiral,” the newly minted vice admiral said. “Your decision to divert most of the D’Neva and Hlai’vna attack groups to K’Feria has proved to be a wise one.”
Though he knew others had seen it as a risky gamble—a gamble that had cost the Empire dearly in both lives and resources—Valdore continued to believe that he had merely made a pragmatic trade: the worlds that the hevam knew as Deneva and Altair VI in exchange for K’Feria, better known to the enemy as Kaferia, or Tau Ceti IV.
That planet was a beachhead superior to any other the fleet had yet seized, for it was closer to Earth than even Thhaei, ancestral Vulcan. And as such it was worth at least twice the price of any of the other planets that Romulan forces had seized and occupied elsewhere in Coalition space.
Valdore allowed his lips to curl into an ironic half-smile as he regarded his newest junior flag officer. “Your promotion is safe, Khazara. You needn’t continue to kiss my aehf any more than duty absolutely requires.”
&
nbsp; Khazara chuckled. “My apologies, Admiral. But I haven’t finished kissing your aehf yet. Please allow me to finish, so that I can move on to kicking it.”
“Continue, please,” Valdore said, folding his large hands across his desktop. Khazara had always been plainspoken to a fault, even as a lowly centurion; it was a quality that Valdore prized—at least up to a certain hard-to-define point that most of his subordinates seemed loath to approach too closely.
Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War: Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Star Trek : Enterprise) Page 55
