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

by Michael A. Martin

  Katowa seemed unperturbed by the interruption. “And if the Romulans should make it all the way to the inner solar system, as is believed likely by so many heads that are wiser than mine?”

  The notion ignited an intense, slow-smoldering anger deep in Qaletaqu’s belly. “Let the damned Romulans come. We can stay, and we can fight, the way our ancestors rose up against the Spaniards nearly five centuries ago. If we have survived this planet’s constant attempts to kill us, then we can survive anything.”

  That provoked some laughter, and sparked further debate. They argued, and argued, and argued some more, until everyone in the room seemed to have tired of hearing about the subject. And although the vote the gathering took afterward went decidedly in Qaletaqu’s favor, he had to wonder in the private depths of his heart what might have happened had the vote gone the other way.

  And whether any gulf of cosmic distance could be wide enough to protect the tribe from a people as implacably aggressive as these mysterious Romulans.

  Grangeburg, Alabama, Earth

  “Holy crap!” Charles Anthony Tucker II said a few seconds after he’d picked up the hardcopy newspaper from the living-room printer.

  Now I remember why we stopped watching the news, he thought as he digested the headline and the gist of the copy beneath it.

  “What is it?” Elaine Tucker said, cinching her robe about herself as she emerged from the bathroom, her wet hair bound up in a large terry-cloth towel. “What’s wrong?”

  “Do you remember a couple of weeks ago, when Bert and Miguel were telling us about that Tau Ceti IV vacation they were arranging for later on this summer?”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “They may need to come up with an alternate plan.” Then he held up the paper, whose terse headline was printed at billboard size:

  ROMULANS TAKE KAFERIA

  San Francisco, Earth

  After concluding his brief announcement of the changes he was mandating in Earth’s military posture, United Earth Prime Minister Nathan Samuels stood in silence at the podium. He looked out across the spacious assembly room where representatives of Earth’s Coalition partners, Starfleet, and the Military Assault Command Organization had gathered, and had listened attentively.

  Admirals Gardner and Black and MACO General Casey were all present along with their small army of functionaries. The UE’s Interior Minister Haroun al-Rashid, Ambassador Jie Cong Li of Centauri III, and Draylax’s observer Grethe Zhor were all seated nearby, along with a handful of their respective staffers.

  It was only the Coalition’s nonhuman members who appeared to be underrepresented. Despite the presence of a number of their junior functionaries, the Vulcan contingent was conspicuously incomplete. Ambassadors Solkar and L’Nel had assumed Minister Soval’s duties. Even Thoris, Andoria’s foreign minister, and Ambassador Gral of Tellar were absent, their respective staff members filling in for them.

  It seemed strange indeed for Andoria and Tellar to maintain a low profile during an emergency session of the Coalition Security Council. Especially in view of the significant changes Samuels’s executive order would bring to the military landscape: In response to the fall of the Tau Ceti system, the bulk of Starfleet and MACO resources were henceforth to be concentrated overwhelmingly upon the defense of the Sol system.

  As the room began to fill with a low buzz of muttered crosstalk, Samuels opened the floor to questions. General Hayes appeared satisfied with the prime minister’s executive order, although neither Admirals Black nor Gardner looked pleased. But since both admirals were disinclined to question their civilian leadership’s orders in front of the allies, Samuels passed them over and recognized the raised hand of Grethe Zhor of Draylax.

  “Thank you for taking my question, Mister Prime Minister,” the Draylaxian woman said, her gray diplomat’s attire doing little to conceal the fact that the females of her species had three breasts. “It seems to me that Earth’s new tactical stance might work against the prospect of turning the tide against the Romulans.”

  Samuels had anticipated this objection. Forcing a smile, he said, “Starfleet is building an unprecedented number of new starships. It isn’t as though we’ll be withdrawing our presence from deep space, Madam Observer.”

  “But you will nevertheless devote the vast majority of your resources to the creation of a ‘Fortress Earth,’ will you not?”

  “We have to harden our soft targets.”

  She shrugged. “You still must concede the possibility that your decision might serve to undermine your world’s interstellar military reach, and therefore its offensive capabilities.”

  “I respectfully disagree,” Samuels said, eager to move on. “Next question?”

  A loud crash reverberated from the rear of the chamber. Before he could call security, a pair of familiar figures approached quickly from the back entrance, one tall and almost regal in bearing, the other lumpen and porcine.

  Thoris and Gral, Samuels thought. Well, better tardy than absent.

  Rather than sitting with their respective delegations, the Andorian and the Tellarite strode toward the central dais, coming to a stop together directly before the podium Samuels occupied. Anticipating that their staffers had sent them word of the contents of his executive order, Samuels allowed them both to take the floor, anticipating immediate objections similar to the point raised by Grethe Zhor, only delivered with a good deal more passion.

  Instead, the two alien diplomats merely regarded one another in uneasy silence for a moment before turning their surprisingly mild-mannered attention back upon Samuels.

  The prime minister scowled. “Well?”

  Thoris hemmed, then said, “There is no easy way to say what we must say.”

  “Why not just come right out with it, then?” Samuels said. “Or if you prefer, we can speak in private later—”

  “No!” Gral rumbled, interrupting. He turned and looked at the assemblage of dignitaries for a moment before returning his gaze to Samuels. “Everyone here will learn of this soon enough. So on behalf of the government of Tellar, I will speak now.”

  “All right,” Samuels said as a sinkhole of foreboding opened in his guts.

  His tone adopting the formal cadences of rehearsed diplomatic boilerplate, Ambassador Gral of Tellar said, “Owing to prohibitive losses incurred in defending Earth against Romulan aggression, Tellar must formally withdraw its fleets from the active defense of both Earth and Alpha Centauri—effective immediately.”

  “And Andoria,” said Andorian Foreign Minister Thoris, “has just reached a substantially similar decision.”

  Samuels watched, stunned into silence along with everyone else present, as the senior diplomats of two founding Coalition worlds turned on their heels and exited the auditorium chamber.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  Northern ShiKahr, Vulcan

  NOT LEAVING VULCAN with T’Pol was a mistake, Trip thought as he stood in the entryway and regarded the two hulking Vulcan men who had come calling. Just who the hell are these gorillas anyway?

  “May I help you?” he said aloud as he pulled his bathrobe more tightly about his body, which was still wet from the shower. The hard stares of his two visitors screamed “cop.” But if he judged them by their size alone, he’d have them pegged as barroom bouncers—if this planet had any market for that particular skill set.

  Tucker assumed that this unannounced visit had something to do with the explosion at Mount Seleya. So far the government seemed to be keeping the details tightly under wraps, and when he had tried to contact Ych’a about it, he had succeeded only in reaching her messaging system. However, he was also unable to reach Denak, and that made him fear that something truly ominous might be going on.

  “Are you Sodok the trader?” the man on the right said.

  “That’s what it says on my identification documents,” Trip said, unable to resist needling these guys despite the obvious danger inherent in doing so. But he’d never succumbed easily to bullying by authority f
igures, if that’s what these two sides of beef really were.

  “Get them,” said the man on the left.

  Trip used a corner of his towel to force a few stubborn drops of water out of his ear. “Get what?”

  “Your identification documents,” said the first guy. “So we can verify your identity on the way to our destination.”

  Crap.

  “Are we going somewhere?” Trip asked.

  “You’re coming with us,” the second side of beef said unhelpfully.

  Trip took a moment to study the huge figure on the left, then the one on the right. He decided not to test the efficacy of the sulfatriptan drug—the chemical compound that maintained the artificial green coloration of his normally red human blood—by challenging these gentlemen any further.

  “May I get dressed first?” he said.

  Government district, ShiKahr, Vulcan

  To Trip’s surprise, the hovercar whisked him from the periphery of ShiKahr toward one of the city’s central districts. He had envisioned the two huge thugs who now shared the front compartment driving him straight out to the driest, most godforsaken stretch of Vulcan’s Forge, where they would execute him, Las Vegas mob–style, before leaving him in a shallow grave, or as food for some passing le-matya or sehlat or some other Vulcan nightmare with huge, pointy teeth.

  He wondered if anyone on Vulcan would bother to inform his Section 31 handlers, Agent Harris and Captain Stillwell, of his fate. He’d had scant contact with either of them over the past several months, just enough to ascertain that his present sojourn on Vulcan suited their purposes, at least for the time being. He drew some grim amusement from the thought that they might have been left to wonder what had become of him, two control freaks being driven to distraction by circumstances that they couldn’t manipulate.

  The hovercar didn’t slow down appreciably until it had penetrated deep into the ring of ancient stone towers that comprised central ShiKahr’s government district. Trip was mildly surprised when it came to a stop atop a building he recognized—the one in which Administrator T’Pau maintained her offices. But as his escorts conducted him out of the hovercar and down into the building, something felt... off about the place. The building seemed entirely too quiet, even for a Vulcan institution. Hell, the entire city had seemed emptier than it should have been by now, a good two hours into the workday.

  Tucker put all of that aside, concentrating instead on the question of why he’d been brought here. Kuvak must have figured out what Terix and I have been up to over the past couple of months, he thought as his minders guided him into a suite of majestic yet spartan stone-floored offices.

  Moments later, Trip was nonplussed to find himself in the presence not of Minister Kuvak, but of Administrator T’Pau herself, as well a Vulcan male whom he recognized immediately.

  “Soval,” he whispered before he realized that the foreign minister had never been formally “read in” to Trip’s whole “secret identity” business. From Soval’s standpoint, Commander Charles Tucker had died last year aboard Enterprise, and Sodok was just one of the billions of his fellow Vulcans.

  Let’s just hope he doesn’t take too close a look at Sodok’s face, Trip thought, knowing that Soval had seen that face before, on a dead man.

  Fortunately, Soval appeared to have taken no notice either of Trip or the gargantuan bookends who had brought him into T’Pau’s office. The foreign minister’s attention was focused completely on the administrator, who had turned away from them. She was gazing out the broad window at ShiKahr’s exotic skyline of variegated stone towers.

  “I regret that I cannot do more, Administrator,” Soval said.

  “Your presence here is appreciated, Soval,” T’Pau said. “However, I should delay your return to Earth no longer. I have all the assistance I need already.”

  With a nod, Soval made his exit, walking past Trip without paying him any heed.

  “Leave us,” T’Pau said, her face still turned toward the window. Apparently sensing instinctively that she was addressing them, Trip’s chaperones departed.

  All at once, he was alone with Vulcan’s supreme leader. “Um, what can I do for you, Administrator?”

  T’Pau turned toward him.

  Tears were streaming down her cheeks. The living face of all of Vulcan was weeping.

  “Administrator?” What the hell is going on here?

  “Commander T’Pol has assured me that you are a trustworthy man, Mister Sodok,” she said as new tears rolled out of her eyes and down both cheeks. She had utterly cast aside the haughty pride that he had come to expect from Vulcans, heedless of what that might have cost her.

  She’s calling me by my fake name, he thought. How trustworthy am I supposed to feel, when I’m fooling her with this secret identity stuff?

  “What has happened, Administrator?” he asked.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t heard already,” she said. “I imagined that Commander T’Pol’s... associates would have told you by now.”

  She means Denak and Ych’a.

  “I haven’t been able to reach them this morning,” he said.

  She nodded knowingly. “I see. Being Syrrannites like myself, they are both no doubt deep in meditation. Even Kuvak has sequestered himself.”

  Although whatever crisis had just erupted remained an utter mystery to Trip, this didn’t seem like an occasion for meditation. Mourning would have been more accurately descriptive of what he had seen so far, but for the fact that this was Vulcan.

  “What’s happened?” he repeated. And if Ych’a and Denak are off somewhere in a meditational funk, then who the hell is keeping an eye on Terix?

  “I need your help,” T’Pau said, still explaining nothing. “All of Vulcan needs your help.”

  He could hardly refuse a plea from the head of Vulcan’s government while he remained a guest on her world. But it wasn’t Trip’s preference. All he wanted, still, was to go home.

  Tucker looked at T’Pau and realized that his prospects of going home had just vanished.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  Enterprise, near Deneva

  ARCHER LEANED AGAINST his command chair, feeling numb. The news of Andoria and Tellar’s intended withdrawal from the war effort had just arrived, via both the civilian media and a Starfleet dispatch.

  “They can’t just pull out like this,” Ensign Leydon said from the helm console. “Can they?”

  “The Coalition Compact says they can’t,” Reed said. “But Vulcan has already set a precedent.” When T’Pol fixed him with a sour stare, he amended his small gaffe by adding, “Present company excepted, of course.”

  “So what happens now?” Hoshi Sato wanted to know.

  “Admiral Gardner has promised to explain all the logistics and other details about the pullout,” Archer said. He didn’t want to further wound the morale of an already frightened crew, but he knew he couldn’t afford to sugarcoat reality for them either. “I’m afraid it already adds up to just one thing: We’re going to have to face the Romulans alone.”

  With the Coalition essentially coming apart at the seams, the human species—essentially Earth, Alpha Centauri III, and a handful of remote, mostly dependent colony worlds that would likely prove to be liabilities rather than assets—was now on its own against an aggressive, conquest-driven empire.

  Unless somebody else joins us, or intervenes on our behalf, Archer thought. He wondered idly whether the Klingons might be persuaded to help, given their ongoing enmity with the Romulans. Teaming up with the Klingons has got to be one of the worst ideas in the entire sad, sorry history of bad ideas.

  Hoshi’s console began beeping insistently.

  “Who is it?” Archer said, moving to the comm station.

  “The signal is coming from Vulcan, Captain,” Hoshi said. After she paused to study the console display, her eyes widened and became fixed on Archer. “It’s Foreign Minister Soval.”

  “Do you suppose Vulcan might have had a change of heart about throwing
us to the wolves?” Reed said.

  T’Pol said nothing.

  “From your mouth to the Great Bird’s ears, Malcolm,” Archer said. “Pipe it to my ready room, Hoshi. T’Pol, you’re with me.”

  Soval didn’t need to say a word. The veteran diplomat usually excelled at hiding his emotions, but his despair was apparent.

  “I have met with Administrator T’Pau on multiple occasions, Captain,” Soval’s image said from the terminal on Archer’s ready room desk. “I attempted again to persuade her to join in your fight against the Romulans before both the fall of Kaferia yesterday and today’s announcement from Andoria and Tellar. And I repeated my efforts yet again after those events. She still will not listen.”