“Guess I’m not as nice as you.” Tucker shook his head. “You don’t know her, John.”
Archer sank onto the couch next to his dog, without really relaxing. “No, I don’t know her. Not yet.” Then a surge of conviction struck him, and his eyes flicked up to meet Tucker’s. “But, Trip ... she doesn’t know me either.”
With a sigh, Tucker indulged in a grim, daring smile. “Not yet.”
CHAPTER 5
THE SPACEDOCK OBSERVATION DECK was awash with dignitaries, invited guests, officers, ambassadors, muckety-mucks, and would-bes. Starfleet brass rubbed elbows with Vulcan emissaries, clusters of pundits, power-grabbers, and publicity wonks, all here on a day’s notice. Some showed obvious signs of jet lag and more than a little confusion at the sudden acceleration of launch.
Admiral Forrest was speaking already, even though not everyone was seated yet. They were really hurrying this along.
Jonathan Archer was glad of it. At least they took his determination seriously. He hadn’t even called sickbay to make sure the transfer of the Klingon had gone well and the guy was still alive.
He glanced at his sides. Trip Tucker was beside him, and after him was Lieutenant Reed.
On Archer’s other side were the newly arrived helmsman, Mayweather, and Hoshi and the Vulcan, T’Pol. He’d feel comfortable but for her presence among people he trusted. Even Mayweather was an associate from two of Archer’s previous ships. The only stranger was the Vulcan woman, and she made them all uneasy.
Archer tried to bury his concerns, doubts, and the sniggering insult at having her here with these people who had embraced the faster-than-light program with far more devotion than the Vulcans could muster. He tried to suspend his thousand immediate concerns and do his ceremonial duty—pay attention to Admiral Forrest’s bountiful pontifications from the podium.
“When Zephram Cochrane made his legendary warp flight ninety years ago,” the admiral was saying, “and drew the attention of our new friends, the Vulcans, we realized that we weren’t alone in the galaxy.”
The crowd obliged with applause, stretching moments into minutes.
“Today,” continued Forrest, “we’re about to cross a new threshold. For nearly a century, we’ve waded ankle-deep in the ocean of space. Now it’s finally time to swim.
“The warp five engine,” the admiral went on, “wouldn’t be a reality without men like Dr. Cochrane and Henry Archer, who worked so hard to develop it. So it’s only fitting that Henry’s son, Jonathan Archer, will command the first starship powered by that engine.”
Forrest nodded to Archer. The crowd applauded again as Archer and his command staff stood up and moved away from their seats. Archer kept his eyes from meeting anyone’s. The applause should be for Dad and nobody else. Archer knew he was catching the glory by reflection only, and wondered how many other bits of fallout from his father’s work had bolstered him in his own climb to command. That couldn’t be ignored, and it would be unfair of him to claim otherwise. Bitterness set in again. He would happily have become a shuttle conductor if only Dad had received the honors he deserved and the right to see his ship launched while he was still alive. This was too little, too late.
Damn Vulcans.
He led his crew toward a set of doors while the admiral kept talking.
“Rather than quoting Dr. Cochrane, I think we should listen to his own words from the dedication ceremony for the Warp Five Complex, thirty-two years ago. ...”
A large screen took over the crowd’s attention as it came alive with archival footage of a very elderly Zephram Cochrane, the father of warp drive, giving a speech in front of a throng of scientists, including Henry Archer, a long time ago. Ironically, Archer remembered being present at that speech, before he was even seven years old. Even then he had realized the import of what he was hearing.
“On this site,” the crotchety Cochrane began, “a powerful engine will be built. An engine that will someday let us travel a hundred times faster than we can today. ...”
Archer led his crew through the breezeway to the airlock attached directly to the ship. As they moved, the speech was piped through to the bridge.
The bridge was a compact command center, austere and spartan, mostly steel-walled, with a source of light from hidden panels overhead. There were no carpets or amenities, just various stations with bucket seats, and a maze of gauges, dials, and little scanner screens. In the middle was the captain’s chair, to which Archer dutifully moved while the universe watched.
“Imagine it,” Cochrane’s voice thrummed. “Thousands of inhabited planets at our fingertips ... And we’ll be able to explore those strange new worlds, and seek out new life, new civilizations. ... This engine will let us go boldly where no man has gone before.”
Barely conscious of it, Archer noticed his own lips moving to the words. He stopped and cleared his throat. Everybody was waiting for him now.
“Detach mooring umbilicals and gravitational supports,” he ordered. “Retract the airlock and disengage us from the Spacedock. Confirm all break-offs. Internally metered pulse drive, stand by.”
“Impulse drive standing by, sir,” Mayweather responded. “All sublight motive power systems ready.”
At Archer’s side, T’Pol appeared. But she didn’t repeat any orders, as would a practiced Starfleet officer. She didn’t interfere at all. Perhaps she felt as out of place as they thought she was. She took the science station with reserved grace, but seemed out of place and unhappy.
Frozen vapor swarmed through the Spacedock, as if a dragon had breathed across dry ice. Archer leaned forward in the command chair. Around him, the crew was tense and expectant. On the engineering tie-in screen to his left, he saw Trip Tucker standing before the throbbing warp core, looking like an eaglet about to fledge.
In Archer’s mind, his father’s hand worked the control unit of a model ship, smiling warmly at a little boy who believed in him completely. Every man could do much worse in life than to have a little boy believe completely in him. The father’s hand came down, and passed the control unit to a boy’s tiny palm. The boy inserted the unit into the model ship.
“Take her out,” Archer said finally. “Straight and steady, Mr. Mayweather.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Admiral Forrest’s voice overlaid Archer’s words. “Starfleet proudly presents to the galaxy ... the faster-than-light long-range cruiser, Enterprise!”
Applause rang and rang in Archer’s ears. A shiver went down both arms.
The lean and masculine ship, rugged in construction and blatantly field-ready, undecorated and proud of it, began to move slowly forward, throbbing with power to her innermost bones. Spacedock peeled back from his view and disappeared behind him, like so many memories. Everyone else expected her to be back in eight days, but Archer had other ideas. If the ship stressed out well and he could play his cards right, she wouldn’t see a Spacedock for the next six months.
They’d made it. They were out, and with two hours to spare. Now all those dignitaries could go back to bed. Archer forgot them immediately. His eyes were on the forward screen. Open space.
He found his voice again and tapped the chair com. “How’re we doing, Trip?”
Behind Trip Tucker’s voice, the warp engines pulsed at full power. “Ready when you are,” he responded. Sounded both excited and nervous.
“Prepare for warp. Mayweather, lay in a course,” Archer said, and glanced at T’Pol. “Plot with the Vulcan starcharts ... direct course to the planet Qo’noS.”
Mayweather’s eyes flicked toward T’Pol, but he studiously managed not to look at her. He worked his navigational controls, which only now, as they cleared the solar system, received clearance from the access-classified starcharts brought by their new executive officer.
“Course laid in, sir.”
That was it. Never again would the Vulcans be able to hide the location of the Klingon planet from Earth. Sounded like a prime tourist destination, didn’t it? Yes, folks, spend your next
holiday spitting and howling in the galaxy’s newest vacation wonderland!
“Request permission to get underway?” Mayweather looked at Archer.
Archer snapped out of his thoughts. Warp speed ... high warp. This was it.
He looked at T’Pol and asked silently for confirmation of the course.
She sensed his eyes and looked up. “The coordinates are off by point two degrees.”
Mayweather glanced at her, embarrassed and angry. Something about the way she said that ...
But Archer wasn’t about to let her spoil the moment. “Thank you,” he said quickly, and waved casually to Mayweather. “Let’s go.”
“Warp power,” Mayweather uttered aloud, though he didn’t have to. “Warp factor one ...”
The ship surged physically. There was a snap of light, and the crescent of Earth was left behind as if by magical invocation. The whole solar system was suddenly no more than a whim.
“Warp one accomplished,” Mayweather confirmed.
Archer made eye contact with everyone around him ... first T’Pol, who had no more criticisms. Then Reed. He seemed weary, but British propriety kept his shoulders back and tension in check, and he gave Archer a nod of generous encouragement.
Archer smiled, then looked at the little screen with Trip Tucker shepherding his engines. “Trip? You okay?”
“Ready and willing,” Tucker responded, but never looked away from the glowing warp core.
“Go to warp factor two.” :.
“Warp two,” Mayweather choked.
Another flash, another surge, and the ship shouldered into a multiplicity of speed. Stars blurred. Space itself began to bend to the ship’s will.
“Warp two accomplished, sir.”
“I like the feeling,” Archer offered. “Everybody stable? No jumps in the readings?”
No one spoke up.
“Warp factor three.”
Though Mayweather didn’t respond, his hands worked on the helm. Another flash. The surge this time was smoother, and in a moment they had made warp three.
“Good,” Archer commented. “Everybody take a breath. Check your stations. Hoshi, do a ship wide sweep.”
“Shipwide, aye,” Hoshi responded, her voice tight. She was terrified. Giving her something to do was sound operational practice. He’d have to make sure she wasn’t idle at times like this.
“Let’s have warp four, helm.”
He barely felt his own voice. Pushing it, yes. He should’ve cruised at warp two for a day. He didn’t feel like waiting. He wanted the first log entry to read immediate high warp.
Somebody gasped, but he wasn’t sure who. Probably Hoshi. Couldn’t be T’Pol, right? Or Reed.
Not that it mattered. They were all gasping on the inside.
“Respond to me, Travis,” Archer steadily insisted.
“Oh ... yes, sir. Warp factor four, aye. Sorry.”
“No problem at all. Doing fine. Feels pretty good, actually. Hear that warp hum? I like that.”
His casual conversation seemed to help them all. The power systems whined some at this higher challenge. Lights flashed on several consoles, but nobody called an end to it. Anyone, at any station, could have stopped the progress with an alarm warning. Unless they were at battle stations, even Archer would have a hard time explaining pushing beyond stress once he got a stop warning from one of the crew, almost anywhere on the ship.
No one spoke up. In fact, they were eerily quiet. Hoshi’s communications board flickered with green lights from systems deep in the ship’s fibrous flanks.
“Warp factor four,” Mayweather uttered, “accomplished, Captain. All systems report stable. Helm is steady.”
“Trip?”
On the engineering monitor, Tucker finally turned to meet Archer’s expectant eyes. “We’re all-go down here, Captain. Flow over the dilithium crystals is even. No flux on the power ratios. She looks good.”
“Congratulations, Trip ... everybody. Let’s cruise at warp four for a while and see how she does. All hands, standard watch rotation for the next twenty-two hours. T’Pol, how would you like to try the con on for size?”
She looked up, startled. Yes, he’d managed to fluster her. Clearly she hadn’t expected to take command at all. She knew she was just some kind of figurehead here and had probably hoped to stay pretty much to what she knew at the science station.
But if the rest of the crew had to endure trials, then so did she. After all, she could’ve stayed on a nice Vulcan boat if she wanted passivity.
Archer stood up, offering the hot seat.
T’Pol’s eyes narrowed. She sensed a trap. Perhaps it was. Under the cloying eyes of the crew, she stood up and moved to the center of the bridge and took the command chair. What choice did she have?
“Good,” he said. “Why don’t you join me for dinner at change of watch? We can get to know each other. Put the crew at ease, if nothing else.”
She eyed him. Just who was suspicious of whom?
“Thank you,” she said, not giving anything away.
Choreographing his movements carefully, Archer stepped away from the center and moved to the exit hatchway. The tall, airtight swinging hatch was almost big enough to get through without ducking—almost. He paused before leaving the bridge, turned, and looked at the expanse of space spilling out before the newest Earth ship, named Enterprise, as she flashed along on her invisible racetrack.
“We made it, Dad,” he murmured. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
And in his mind, the model spaceship streaked for the clouds.
CHAPTER 6
VISCOUS PINK FLUID twisted in a jar. Tiny corkscrew organisms flitted through the pink like birds in an eternal microsunset. The jar turned, but the liquid and the flitters pretty much stayed the way they were, enjoying their brainless dance.
“Love what you’ve done with the place. ...”
Jonathan Archer turned the jar again, watching the little life-forms squiggle.
“Those are immunocytic gel worms,” Phlox explained happily. “Try not to shake them.”
The quirky alien was in a perfect fantasy here in the ship’s minimal sickbay. He had ultimate say over everything. Suddenly he was the senior medical officer on a ship. That didn’t happen every day.
Archer paused and watched as the funny fellow arranged, like an old-lady apothecary, dozens of jars, tools, and definitely non-Starfleet-issue medical paraphernalia onto the Plexiglas shelving behind the doctor’s computer center. As he handed Phlox the pink jar, Archer turned his attention to the unconscious Klingon lying on the biobed. He wanted to ask how this fellow was doing. Alive? Almost alive? Would he be able to stand up and walk out of here when they reached Qo’noS?
Or would Archer be forced to hand over a semicorpse to the Klingon reception committee? Not his first choice. He didn’t think they’d much like it, either.
He held back the questions. The Klingon was stable, wasn’t going anywhere, and he wanted Phlox to feel at ease enough to do a good job. He’d pulled the Doctor out of a secure position at Starfleet Medical, where he had plenty of others making decisions to support him and he had a support system to lean on. Here, even though he didn’t seem to know it yet, things would get a lot harder, and fast.
“So, what’d you think of Earth?” Archer asked pointlessly, just to get things rolling.
“Intriguing,” Phlox said. Already the word was trite. Aliens always said intriguing when they didn’t know what else to say. Archer suspected it was being taught at the Customs Center, kind of like bowing in Japan or a lei in Hawaii. “I especially liked the Chinese food. Have you ever tried it?”
Handing off articles from the packing box on top of the desk, Archer shrugged. “I’ve lived in San Francisco all my life.”
Of course, San Francisco had a Chinese restaurant on every third corner, just like any other American city, but he sensed Phlox wanted to have something on him.
“Anatomically, you humans are somewhat simplistic,
” Phlox said, probably not realizing he was being insulting. “But what you lack biologically, you make up for with your charming optimism. Not to mention your egg drop soup. Be very careful with the blue box.”
Gingerly, Archer passed him a funny-looking box with breathing holes punched in both lateral sides. Inside, something skittered that made him almost drop the container. “What’s in there?”
“An Altairian marsupial. Their droppings contain the greatest concentration of regenerative enzymes found anywhere.”
“Their droppings?”
“If you’re going to try to embrace new worlds, you must try to embrace new ideas.”
“Ah.”
Archer just nodded, annoyed that everybody seemed to be taking classes in etiquette from the Vulcan Institute of Creative Condescension.
“That’s why,” Phlox went ignorantly on, “the Vulcans initiated the Interspecies Medical Exchange. There’s a lot to be learned.”
But Archer had stopped paying much attention. Instead, he wandered to the ward and stood over the Klingon. Was he breathing?
“Sorry I had to take you away from your program, but our doctors haven’t even heard of a Klingon.”
“Please!” Phlox blurted. “No apologies! What better time to study human beings than when they’re under pressure? It’s a rare opportunity! And your Klingon friend ... I’ve never had a chance to examine a living one before!”
“Ensign Mayweather tells me we’ll be to Qo’noS in about eighty hours.” Archer turned to the intern. “Any chance he’ll be conscious by then?”
“There’s a chance he’ll be conscious within the next ten minutes,” Phlox said. “Just not a very good one.”
“Eighty hours, Doctor,” Archer told him. “If he doesn’t walk off this ship on his own two feet, he doesn’t stand much of a chance.”
“I’ll do the best I can.” The alien smiled infectiously—and his smile got bigger, bigger ... bigger ... weirder ... “Optimism, Captain!”
STAR TREK: Enterprise - Broken Bow Page 5
