Rise of the Federation: Live by the Code

by Christopher L. Bennett

  “How did you find us, then, if you had no help?”

  “I am a medical officer aboard a Federation starship,” he extemporized. “I have access to the most advanced biosensors in the quadrant. You don’t think I wouldn’t be able to track my own son’s DNA, do you?” Given how xenophobic Bokal and his men were, Phlox doubted they knew enough about Starfleet technology to see through his lie.

  After a moment’s contemplation, Bokal laughed. “And naturally the Denobulans would not help you find your son. It is well known that Denobulans do not value their families the way Antarans do. You do not commit yourselves to a single mate, a single set of children. You spread your seed promiscuously, even within your own sex. You live your lives with no ties or commitments.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” Phlox snapped. “I’ve crossed dozens of light-years and trudged through a desert to find my son. If not to rescue him . . .” He held Mettus’s eyes. “Then at least to be with him one last time. To say the things I should’ve said long ago.”

  Bokal paced around him. “You want to speak, Doctor? Very well—speak! Address this tribunal. Confess your crimes as a Denobulan—so that all will know the reason for your impending execution.”

  Any time now, Director Ruehn! Phlox thought. But there was still no movement from the rocks. He hoped he hadn’t complicated matters by providing the True Sons with a hostage whose life actually meant something to the Antaran government. Not that he’d had much choice.

  But his years working with Starfleet had been nothing if not an education in adaptability. “All right,” he said. “You want a confession? Very well. I can certainly do that.

  “My people are not blameless in the dark history between our worlds. When your people came to Denobula, when you arranged for mining rights and drew on our resources, we came to believe you were despoiling our world. Rather than work with you to develop more sustainable practices, we violated our agreements and provoked you to retaliate. We came to see your very presence on our world as a source of pollution and expelled you by force. Matters escalated on both sides until we became convinced you were a threat that had to be contained at the source—leading to tragedies like the bombardment that destroyed these ruins and the famine that killed so many of your people. We have lived with the guilt of those crimes for centuries, as your people have lived with the guilt for the massacre at Zenubex and the burning of the Gintoril rainforest.”

  “Do not taint your confession with lies.”

  Phlox ignored him, fixing his gaze upon Mettus. “All of us, Denobulan and Antaran alike, bear some share of guilt for the centuries of enmity between our peoples and the mutual damage it has done. Our alienation . . . our refusal to communicate, to bend, to listen to each other for so long . . . all it has done is to create a rift that festered and made the divide even worse.

  “Yes, I am guilty of that,” he went on, holding his son’s eyes. “I confess that guilt freely. I must. We all must. Because it is only by admitting our own mistakes, our own failings . . . that we can begin to forgive others.” Mettus’s expression hardened and he turned away. “I don’t suggest that those wrongs should be forgotten,” Phlox insisted to him. “Nor should they be excused. The pain, the harm they caused was very real, and nothing can change that. But that’s not what forgiveness is about. Forgiveness is about healing. It doesn’t erase the damage of the past, but it lets us begin to move beyond it. Clinging to resentment and blame and bitterness only perpetuates the pain . . . and creates a cycle of new wrongs and ever-worsening pain. Forgiveness is the only way to break that cycle.”

  Bokal sneered and opened his mouth to speak, but Mettus beat him to it. “Just get this torture over with already! I can’t listen to any more!”

  “Very well,” Bokal intoned, signaling his men to drag Phlox over near Mettus and force them both to their knees.

  It was to Phlox’s very great relief when the sounds of stun pistols and fisticuffs descended from all around the rim of the crater. The CIB forces finally erupted into view and poured over the edges, descending toward the group below. The True Sons hunkered down behind pieces of rubble and began firing on the security forces, who fired back.

  But Bokal was bent on his own goals. Leaving his men to handle the attack, he raised his weapon and aimed it at Mettus.

  Phlox gave no thought to the ironic symmetry as he flung himself bodily in the path of the plasma bolt fired toward his son.

  • • •

  Phlox awoke to find himself under both a medical tent and the care of Doctor Turim, one of the Tiburonian physicians in the IME party. “You’ll be all right,” she told him, relating the specifics of his injury in terms intended to reassure him—but it simply drove home how much worse off he would have been had Bokal’s aim been just a few centimeters to the left.

  Turim waved someone over, and Phlox soon saw it was Director Ruehn. “That was the most foolish and suicidal move I’ve ever seen, Doctor, but you somehow made it work. We have the entire cell in custody. A few injuries on both sides, but no fatalities.” She flushed a bit. “And our techs discovered that their cameras have an open link to the True Sons’ headquarters. We’ve tracked it to its source and we’re launching a raid on their leaders even now. Your way worked after all.”

  Phlox had higher priorities than saying he’d told them so. “Mettus?”

  Ruehn glanced over at a subordinate and nodded. The man left the tent . . . and returned a moment later with Mettus in tow, dirty and scraped from his fall and shackled with CIB manacles, but otherwise safe and well. Phlox almost fainted from relief.

  Mettus looked down at him in dull bewilderment. “I don’t understand. Why did you come? Why did you”—he gestured weakly at Phlox’s wound—“do this for someone you’ve hated for so long?”

  Phlox’s heart fell at the boy’s words. “Oh, Mettus. I have never hated you. I have been furious at you. Bitter. Gravely disappointed. And deeply sad. But hate . . .” He shook his head. “Hate is a disease, Mettus. A virulent plague that infects its victims in order to propagate itself at their expense—to make them do harm to others and create more hate in return. It causes destruction to both the hater and the hated. And so it runs counter to the natural impulse of life to preserve life, to promote survival.

  “That includes the natural impulse of a father to love his son,” he went on, his eyes tearing up. “That is what drove my anger, my disappointment, my bitterness for all these years. But it is also what drove me to cross parsecs for you, to fight for you. That is life fighting to preserve life . . . and that is more powerful than the hollowness of hate can ever be.” He lowered his head. “I only pray that someday you will understand that.”

  Mettus gave no sign that he did. But he offered no resistance as the rightful Antaran authorities took him away . . . for he was lost in silent thought.

  October 16, 2165

  Partnership planet Cotesc

  At last, Reshthenar sh’Prenni stood before the representatives of the Partnership of Civilizations—their Senior Partners and their judicial council in an extraordinary joint session to hear her plea. Ambassador Jahlet stood by her side in the open, white-floored space before the curved council benches, present to demonstrate that her petition had the backing of the Federation. But the Rigelian ambassador let sh’Prenni speak, as she had wished to do for so long.

  “We came to you because we believed we had a common enemy,” the captain said. “We assumed you were victims of the Ware and would welcome our liberation. In our arrogance, we underestimated you. In our ignorance, we did you great harm. We should have waited. We should have listened and learned, let you tell us what you needed, so that we could come to a solution together.

  “But now we see who you are, and what you have achieved. You have contended with a power that has destroyed or enslaved worlds and have tamed it, used it to build something astonishing. Something that needs to be preser
ved.”

  She stepped closer, pacing slowly before the benches to focus on the Partners one by one. “Now we truly do have a common enemy. The Klingons invade your worlds even as they begin to invade ours. And it is largely due to our own actions—mine and my crew’s—that this has happened. The Klingons would probably have come for us both in time, but we set a chain of events in motion that provoked the war facing us now.

  “And I speak for all my crew when I say that none of us are willing to sit idly by, to do nothing to fight that invasion. Locking us in cells will not make amends for our mistake. Let us do what we sought to do from the beginning. Let us defend your way of life, together, as a crew.”

  “Your ship is wrecked,” Partner var Skos said.

  “And the Ware could repair it in a day,” sh’Prenni replied.

  “Your fellow captains have already committed their fleet to our defense,” Partner Chouerd said, its tendrils swaying within the frigid atmosphere of its life pod. “What can one more ship add?”

  She sharpened her voice. “What did our one ship achieve before?” It was a risk to remind them of that, but it made her point. “It is not the amount of force that makes the difference, but the precision of its use. Even in striking recklessly, we alone created ripples that affected the quadrant. What could we make happen if we directed our force more wisely?”

  “Your attempts to help us have met with little success so far,” pointed out Tribune Tchoneth of the judicial council. “They have led to one mistake after another.”

  It was her fellow Hurraait, Partner Rinheith, who countered her words. “And have we made no mistakes in this affair? In our fear of Starfleet, our own misunderstanding of who they were, we sold Ware drones to the Klingon renegades. We played our part in provoking this invasion. Let us not make another mistake out of bitterness.”

  Next to Tchoneth, a male Monsof named Tribune Ronled leaned over and muttered a few words in the Hurraait’s ear, supplementing them with gestures and expressions. Tchoneth interpreted his question. “Do you expect that fighting in our defense will exonerate you for your crimes? Do you propose this as an alternative to implantation in the Ware?”

  Sh’Prenni held Ronled’s gaze firmly, for it was his question. “Tribune, I do not expect to come back alive from this mission.” The Partners murmured in shock. “I hope to, certainly. I intend, and my crew intends, to make every possible effort to achieve victory against the invaders. But it is virtually certain that not all of us will live. And it is very possible that none of us will. We all understand that.” She swept her gaze across them all, her antennae cocked in determination. “So do not imagine that we ask this for ourselves.”

  She pivoted on her heel and returned to her seat beside Jahlet, aware of the eyes of the guards upon her every move. She had said what she needed. The rest was in the Partners’ hands—as it always should have been.

  October 17, 2165

  U.S.S. Vol’Rala

  The bridge looked as good as new, if not better, now that the Ware’s repair robots had finished their work and allowed the crew to enter. Still, Giered Charas felt there was something missing as he moved to stand by the starboard tactical station. “Banerji should be here,” he grumbled, tossing a glance at the science station behind him. “How can I keep sharp without someone to insult?”

  “You can insult me,” Zoanra zh’Vethris said idly as she sank into her seat, stroking the navigation controls with almost sensual satisfaction and trading an excited smile with Ramnaf Breg beside her at the helm. “It would be a refreshing change from being admired all the time.”

  “Oh, but there’s so much to admire,” Breg remarked.

  “There. You see what I have to deal with?”

  Charas frowned. “No—I can’t bring myself to beat up on children.”

  The navigator smirked. “Now there’s an insult without even trying. Good start.”

  “Hari’s needed on the Ware project,” Captain sh’Prenni reminded them. “Of all of us, he probably has the best chance of redeeming our mistake. Would any of us take that from him?”

  Charas lowered his head, taking her point. “He’d better not foul it up,” he insisted, and the others assented solemnly, understanding his real meaning.

  Sh’Prenni looked around at Charas, zh’Vethris, and Breg; at Lieutenant th’Cheen, who stood proudly by port tactical; at Commander ch’Gesrit, who was already fiddling with his engineering console and complaining quietly about the imagined inadequacies in the Ware’s repair job; at the relief science officer, Ensign sh’Thyfon, who gazed back at the captain with confidence despite her evident anxiety; and at Chirurgeon th’Lesinas, who stood with them on the bridge as he always did at the beginning of a mission. “My friends,” she said, “Vol’Rala lives again. And she yearns to reclaim the honor of her name. Let us give all we have to aid her in that worthy enterprise.”

  “Vol’Rala!” Charas cried, echoed by the others. “Vol’Rala!”

  Sh’Prenni lowered her strong, lanky frame into her command chair. “Are we clear to navigate?”

  Ensign sh’Thyfon worked her console and reported, “The station has accepted the Partners’ payment and released the mooring clamps.” Charas sighed at the reminder that the Ware still blindly pursued its programming despite the Partnership’s best efforts to work around it. It would be a miracle if Banerji and his colleagues could break it free of those limits. But Banerji could if anyone could, Charas knew; it was his own job now to ensure the human had that chance.

  “Very good, Antocadra,” said sh’Prenni. She gave Charas a tight nod, which he returned. Then she faced forward. “Ensign Breg—we have an appointment with the Klingons.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Sh’Prenni took a deep breath and smiled. “Take us out.”

  Sausalito Harbor, San Francisco

  Jonathan Archer stood numbly under the shower and let the hot water pummel him for an unknown amount of time. Normally it relaxed him, but tonight, the weight of worlds was not so easily sluiced from his shoulders.

  It helped when the shower door opened and he felt a pair of soft, long-fingered hands stroke his back. The door closed behind Dani Erickson, and Archer finally let himself relax as her arms encircled him, as her warm bare body pressed against him from behind. She held on to him for some time, doing nothing more, just waiting.

  “I’m not ready for what comes next,” he finally said. “I’ve faced war before. I’ve stood against the annihilation of my civilization.”

  “More than once,” Dani added.

  “But I was only responsible for one ship. One crew. I didn’t have to think about the fate of hundreds of ships, tens of thousands of personnel, billions of lives.”

  Pulling back from the embrace, Dani grabbed his shoulder and pulled him around somewhat forcefully. “Are you kidding, Jon? Most of the time, you and your crew were the ones whose actions made the difference between life and death for all those billions. In the Romulan War, the Xindi conflict—hell, even the Temporal Cold War, which was so big I can’t even understand it.”

  He chuckled. “Join the club.”

  “If you ask me,” she went on, “the problem is that you’re not out on the front lines anymore. It’s not that you feel you have too much responsibility now, but too little. You think if you were out there, facing the Klingons or the Ware or whatever comes next, you could take direct action. Say the right thing, do the right thing at the right moment to save the day.”

  He gave her a sidelong look at her melodramatic choice of words. Dani did like to tease him about the space-hero stuff. “But that’s the thing,” he replied. “I should be able to do even more from where I am now. I’ve tried reaching out to the ­Klingon High Council, tried to arrange for high-level talks to prevent this thing. But they’re so divided now that no one has the authority to rein them all in.”

  Taking a deep
breath, Archer shut off the water. “I trust my captains in the field. T’Pol and Reed, sh’Prenni, O’Neill, Shumar, Groll, La Forge . . . I know they can handle whatever the galaxy throws at them as well as I ever could. But sometimes . . . sometimes things just spiral out of anyone’s control. There was nothing any of us could’ve done to prevent the Rom­ulans from invading. And now it’s happening all over again with the Klingons.”

  “We’re stronger now, though. It’s not just Earth—it’s the Federation. And we know the Klingons. We’ve handled them before.”

  “Not like this. Don’t underestimate them just because they aren’t some faceless threat like the Romulans. Their weapons and ships are probably even better than what the Romulans used. And if anything, the fact that they’re not afraid to face us openly might make them even more dangerous.”

  Archer sighed heavily. “And their fleet might be moving in to attack Federation worlds as we speak. And I have to go in there and—”

  “Hey.” She took his hands. “You don’t have to do anything until tomorrow. For now . . .” She moved in against him and pulled him into a deep kiss. Nothing more needed to be said.

  It took a while for Archer to notice when the comm signal sounded a few minutes later. “Oh, hell . . .”

  “Mmm, can’t you ignore it?”

  “You know I can’t. Sorry.”

  Her eyes smoldered. “Don’t be long.”

  Resisting the double entendre that suggested itself, he left the shower, wrapped a towel around himself, and moved out into the living room. Down by the foot of the desk, Porthos looked up from the cushion where he had been letting the gentle swaying of the houseboat lull him to sleep. But the beagle did not jump up and run over to beg for cheese as he would have in the past. It was a sobering reminder that Porthos was beyond the typical lifespan for a beagle, and that even with all of Phlox’s best mad medical science, Archer would have to say good-bye to his old friend before much longer. He feared that the coming war would leave him too few opportunities to spend time with Porthos while he still had the chance.