by Dave Stern
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “She’s just completing an analysis of that interference.”
Reed assumed O’Neil was talking about the trouble they were having with sensors. He wondered why T’Pol was worrying about that now.
“All right. We can get started without her. Most of this she already knows, anyway.” Archer looked around the table. “Sorry to get everyone up so early. But as you’ll see, I think the situation warrants it. D.O.?”
“Thank you, sir,” O’Neil said. “Approximately forty-five minutes ago, we detected small-arms fire at the Sarkassian outpost. Roughly comparable in energy output to a series of bursts from our phase pistols. We believe a battle of some sort was taking place. Again, our sensor readings are not entirely reliable, but we feel almost certain there were several fatalities associated with this battle.”
“Goridian had friends,” Reed said. “They attacked the Sarkassians.”
“That was my first thought too,” Archer said. “Then we saw this.”
While he spoke, O’Neil had gotten out of her seat and gone to the computer station at the far end of the room. She turned the monitor now so it was visible to everyone.
“During the battle, we intercepted the following transmission,” she said. “We’ve cleaned up the signal as much as possible, but it’s still ... well, you’ll see.”
She pressed a series of buttons. Static filled the air, punctuated by louder bursts of distorted speech. The screen went from black to a snowy, distorted gray. Then suddenly an image came into focus.
Commodore Roan was looking anxiously into the lens of whatever was transmitting his signal. Smoke filled the air behind him. Reed heard the sound of crying.
The commodore’s robe—the same one he’d been wearing yesterday evening, during his visit to Enterprise, Reed noticed—was covered in blood.
“... to Central Council. Roan to Central Council, do you read? I do not know why you have failed to respond to my previous message, but—”
The sound faded away into static again. The picture blurred, and then disappeared altogether. Reed looked at Archer.
The captain held up a finger. “Wait,” he said.
Roan’s image reappeared on the screen.
“—two are dead and the rest of us have approximately an hour’s worth of breathable atmosphere in our—” The sound drifted into nothingness, then suddenly returned. “—ambassador refused to acknowledge our surrender or your—”
Static again. The screen faded to black.
O’Neil pressed the keypad again, and the room fell silent.
“That’s it,” Archer said.
Reed looked around the table. The others wore the same expression of surprise—bordering on shock, in some cases—he was sure he had on his face.
“How I read that,” Reed said slowly, “is that the fight we detected was between Roan and Valay, and forces loyal to each of them.”
“That’s the only way to read it,” the captain said.
“That’s messed up,” Trip said. “What is going on down there? Some kind of civil war?”
“Possibly. Or just more of what was going on while they were here. The tension between those two wasn’t hard to miss.”
“Tension is one thing. That down there ...” Trip shook his head. “That’s something else altogether.”
“The question is, what do we do about it?” The captain looked around the table. “I’d like to hear your thoughts.”
“You heard the commodore, sir,” Reed said. “In his message, Roan said they had an hour’s worth of breathable air. That was forty-five minutes ago.”
“Approximately an hour’s worth, he said,” Trip pointed out.
“That leaves him with less than a quarter of an hour.” Reed looked around the table. “Sir, we have to rescue him.”
“That’s one option,” Archer said.
The turbolift hissed open, and T’Pol walked in. Archer waved her over.
“You’re just in time, Sub-Commander. We were discussing Roan’s message, and what to do about it.”
“Rescue, sir,” Reed said again. “We can’t let the commodore die down there.”
“My heart’s with you on that, Lieutenant, but ...” Trip frowned. “My head tells me we don’t want to get involved in any sort of civil war here.”
“Perhaps we could contact the Sarkassian government directly,” Hoshi suggested. “Find out who’s telling the truth.”
“I know who I’d place my money on,” Reed said.
“Contacting the Sarkassian government is an intrusive act in and of itself,” T’Pol said. “We place ourselves squarely in the middle of the conflict by doing that.”
“I have to disagree, Sub-Commander,” Reed shot back. “We wouldn’t be committing ourselves to any course of action. We’d just be trying to find out the truth.”
T’Pol regarded him curiously. “Lieutenant. I suggest you consider the issue more thoroughly.”
Reed hated it when she patronized him like that. “I am considering the issue. And I suggest to you there’s a difference between physically interfering and simply asking questions.”
“Lieutenant, by posing those questions to the government we alter the situation whose objective truth we are trying to ascertain.”
“You’re getting a little too theoretical for me now,” Reed said.
“This entire discussion is theoretical. We cannot contact the Sarkassian government.”
“Why not?”
“Because of the jamming beam.”
“What?” Hoshi looked even more surprised to hear that than she had after watching Roan’s transmission. “We didn’t pick up any kind of jamming beam before.”
“It was not active until very recently. Some point within the last five-point-six hours, according to a log of our sensor readings.”
“Back up a second,” Archer said. “We can’t contact the Sarkassians at all?” For the first time, he looked surprised.
So did O’Neil.
“I thought the jamming was specific to the frequency Roan was using,” she said.
“As did I initially,” T’Pol said. “But in completing my analysis of the beam, I discovered that the jamming appears to be transmission sensitive—that is, the Sarkassians have developed a device which actively scans the EM spectrum, searching for the presence of energy which has an artificially repetitive character to it. Such patterns do not, as a rule, occur in nature, and can thus be assumed to be indicative of artificially modulated energy. When it finds such a transmission, the device generates a mirror image of the wave it detects and sums it with the original, resulting in a null signal.”
“Did you find out where the beam is originating from?”
“There is a small Sarkassian ship in geosynchronous orbit with the outpost. I believe that to be the source.”
“We’ve got to take that beam out,” Reed said.
“And how would you suggest we do that, Lieutenant?” T’Pol said.
Reed smiled. “We have a variety of options at our fingertips. Photon torpedoes, phase cannon, plasma charges.” He smiled. “A good old-fashioned threat might do the trick.”
T’Pol raised an eyebrow. “Lieutenant. Even you must admit that using our weapons on a Sarkassian ship would be an intrusive act.”
“Of course it’s an intrusive act,” Reed replied. “How would you characterize what they’re doing?”
“Securing their space.”
“Excuse me?”
“We are in their territory.” T’Pol said. “Furthermore—”
“That doesn’t give them the right to jam our transmissions!”
“Furthermore,” T’Pol continued. “Let us take stock of our situation at this instant in time. Deep in virtually unknown space, unable to communicate with the rest of Starfleet, and surrounded by hostile ships.”
Reed sighed. He knew T’Pol was right, but ...
“I understand your frustration, Lieutenant,” Archer said. “But we can’t ju
st shoot them.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So what do we do about Roan, Captain?” Trip asked. “Because if we wait much longer, we won’t have a decision to make there. His air will be gone.”
“I’m well aware of our time frame, Commander,” Archer said. He turned to O’Neil. “Do we know where the commodore was transmitting from?”
O’Neil nodded. “We can pinpoint his location fairly closely.”
“Well, we can’t exactly send down a shuttle to rescue him,” Trip said. “I don’t think the ambassador and her people would take too kindly to that.”
Reed had to agree with that assessment. Which left only one thing they could do.
“We’d have to use the transporter,” Trip continued, echoing his own thoughts. “That’s the only option we have, really.”
“What about the interference from that power source?” Archer asked.
“We should be able to compensate.”
“And what if the Sarkassians detect it?” Archer asked. “We end up square in the middle of another planet’s internal power struggles. And it’s just not our business.”
Reed got the feeling the captain was talking to himself as much as anyone else.
“We have to ask ourselves, what is our business here?” O’Neil said quietly.
“Good point,” Trip said. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s real simple. I want to know what the Sarkassians were up to down at that outpost, and if it had anything to do with what happened to Ensign Hart.”
“Exactly,” Reed said. “I think we have a better chance of getting answers to those questions from Roan than from Ambassador Valay.”
“There is another aspect to the situation we must consider,” T’Pol said.
Archer nodded. “Go on.”
“I believe we can safely infer that the jamming beam was initiated at Ambassador Valay’s request.”
“That seems obvious enough,” Archer said.
“So we must ask ourselves—why?”
Reed thought the answer to that seemed obvious as well. “As Commander Tucker suggested, it may be a civil war. She wanted to prevent Roan from calling in help.”
“But the jamming beam is designed to affect all message traffic—outgoing and incoming.”
Reed suddenly realized what T’Pol was getting at. “It’s not just Roan that Valay wants to stop from talking to the government. It’s, everyone.”
“Yes. And by far the most likely reason for preventing such contact is because it would undermine her position.”
“So the commodore was telling the truth,” Archer said. “She’s acting against the express wishes of her government.”
“The possibility must be considered,” T’Pol said.
Everyone at the table was silent a moment.
“Actually,” she added, “I would consider it a probability.”
“Well would you look at this,” Trip said. “The worm has turned.”
T’Pol turned in his direction, and raised an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“Figure of speech,” Trip said. “Just means that you’re not usually the one who argues for getting involved in things like this.”
“I am not arguing for any particular course of action at the moment,” she replied. “I am merely making an observation.”
“One which suggests we should regard Roan as the legitimate representative of the Sarkassian people, and enter the conflict on his side,” Archer said.
“I do not favor entering the conflict, sir,” T’Pol said. “Not at the present time.”
“All due respect, sir,” Reed said, “I do believe you’re looking at the situation in the wrong way. Saving Roan’s life is not a strategic move. It’s a humanitarian gesture.”
“The road to hell, and all that,” Trip said.
Reed shot him an angry glance.
“Another figure of speech, Commander?” T’Pol asked.
Trip nodded. “One of my favorites. Meaning the best intentions sometimes have a way of backfiring on you.”
“Backfiring?”
Trip waved a hand at her. “Never mind.”
“Something’s not right here. I feel it.” Archer frowned.
“Sir?” Trip asked.
“Never mind, Commander. All right, everyone. Thank you. Thank you all.” Archer looked around the table, weighing his options. Reed could almost see the wheels turning in his head.
“Damn it,” he said finally. “I’m going to get a reputation.”
Reed smiled. “So we’re going to rescue the commodore?”
The captain nodded. “I’d like to. If—T’Pol? Can we rig up a little jamming beam of our own? Something that would prevent the Sarkassians from discovering what we’re up to.”
“I am not convinced their sensors have the capability to detect a transporter beam under optimum circumstances. Nonetheless, modifying one of our low-energy sensor beams to obtain the desired result should be possible.”
“Good. Get on it.”
“Wait a second,” Trip said. “They can construct a jamming beam that can automatically detect and smother any transmission on the spectrum, and you don’t think they can pick out a matter-transfer beam? Doesn’t make much sense to me.”
“I based my conclusions on extensive sensor logs. However ...” T’Pol nodded. “Your point has merit. There are inconsistencies in their technological development.”
“People,” the captain interrupted. “I’m sure this is an important point, but right now we have a rescue operation to attend to.”
“One last thing, sir,” Reed said. “Commodore Roan looks like he could be in need of medical assistance.”
“Of course. Hoshi, have Dr. Phlox meet us at the transporter.” The captain looked around then, and nodded. “All right, everyone. Dismissed. Trip, Malcolm, you’re with me.”
“Aye, sir,” Reed said. As they headed toward the turbolift, he checked the time. By his reckoning. Roan had about five minutes left of breathable air.
Approximately. The word worried him.
Reed had had his molecules successfully scrambled and unscrambled by the transporter before, so he wasn’t quite as paranoid as some of the crew about using it. Still, he had to admit he was relieved when the beam in front of him coalesced into the complete, recognizable form of Commodore Roan.
His relief was short-lived, though—he’d been right about the blood. The commodore’s robe was soaked with it.
Roan looked around the transporter room in surprise. Disorientation showed in his eyes.
“Matter transmission,” the commodore said. His voice was weak. “We are familiar with the theory, but—”
Roan tried to step forward, and wobbled. His legs folded beneath him, and he sat down hard right at the edge of the transporter platform.
Phlox was there instantly, his tricorder out in front of him.
“Extensive burns on the right half of his body—severe dehydration, oxygen deprivation, exhaustion.”
“I’m quite all right, Doctor, I assure you.” The commodore put his hands on the platform and started to stand. “I must—”
“What you must do is rest, sir,” Phlox said forcefully. He gripped Roan’s shoulder and kept him from rising. “You are far from all right.”
“The blood on his robe?” Archer asked.
“Not mine,” Roan said. “My aide’s. We were ambushed.”
“Ambassador Valay,” the captain said.
“Yes. She—” Roan sighed heavily, and shook his head. “I did not expect this from her. Or those she represents. Things are worse than I feared.”
“We need to get you to sickbay,” Phlox said, shutting the tricorder. “And conduct a thorough examination.”
“We don’t have time for a thorough examination, Doctor,” Roan said. “Ambassador Valay’s actions are part of a larger schism within my government. Unless I can move fast to contain the damage, a civil war is imminent.”
“Valay’s acting on her own,” Archer said.
Roan shook his head. “No. I’ve known her for years. She is not capable of such—”
“She’s jamming all frequencies in and out of the system.” Archer went on to explain what they’d discovered.
“But this is—” He shook his head. “Totally unlike her. I cannot understand it, Captain.”
“There’s a lot I don’t understand, Commodore. Starting with the purpose of your outpost. The history of the war between you and the Ta’alaat Among other things.”
Roan fell silent.
“Don’t you think it’s time you told us what was happening here?”
“I am not sure what is happening here,” Roan said. At that moment, he looked exhausted, and old, and confused. Seeing that expression on his face, Reed was suddenly catapulted back in time, back to the moment outside Goridian’s cell, when Valay emerged, her robe splattered with blood.
There was a connection there—Reed knew it. But for the life of him, he couldn’t see what it was.
“Help me up, please,” Roan said, extending his hand.
The captain took it, and pulled Roan to his feet. The commodore straightened his robe.
“Someone once said to me that relationships have to be built on trust.” The commodore’s eyes sought out Reed then, and he smiled. “It is time for me to trust someone, Captain. Let us find someplace to talk, and I will tell you everything.”
“Excuse me,” Phlox interrupted. “You can begin by telling me what your species likes to eat and drink. You are badly in need of nourishment, sir.”
Roan nodded. “I will gladly do that.”
“Why don’t we use my dining room?” Archer said. “We can talk and get something to eat.”
“Let’s use this as well, Commodore,” Phlox said, wheeling forward the gurney he’d brought with him to the transporter room. “You are still very weak.”
Roan shook his head. “No.”
“Commodore ...”
“I can walk, Doctor. Thank you.”
They all filed out of the transporter room then, Archer in the lead, Roan a step behind, moving gingerly.
Reed brought up the rear. At the door, he stopped.
There was sand from the outpost on the transporter-room floor. Roan must have had it on his shoes when he’d beamed aboard.
