by Dave Stern
Which suddenly seemed to be improving.
“Doctor,” Reed said, drawing Phlox’s attention.
“Ah. The diaphragen seems to be taking effect. Good.”
Reed let go of Alana’s arm. It flopped on the gurney, then lay still.
“I need to get her to sickbay. Right away.” Phlox began securing the restraints on the gurney. Reed helped him.
“What about him?” Archer asked, nodding over his shoulder to the alien.
“He doesn’t show any of the same symptoms, if that’s what you’re asking,” Phlox said. “I haven’t had time to study his readings in depth, but from what I can tell—”
The com sounded.
“Bridge to Captain Archer. Bridge to the captain.”
That was Mayweather. There was an urgent tone to his voice.
“Archer here.”
“Picking up two ships closing fast on our position.”
“On my way.” Archer turned to Phlox. “Keep me posted on her condition. Everyone else, to your stations.”
Trip, Hoshi, and T’Pol followed the captain out the door.
Reed hesitated.
“There’s nothing you can do, Lieutenant.”
He turned and saw Phlox staring at him.
“Go,” the doctor said. “I’ll call you the second I know something.”
Reed nodded. “All right.”
He jogged after Archer and the others.
Emerging from the turbolift, Reed saw that the main viewscreen was filled with the image of a man—humanoid, at any rate—sitting in what looked to be the equivalent of their bridge. He looked to be of the same race as the alien they’d found at the outpost—the same pale, almost translucent skin and snow white hair—although the man on the viewscreen, and for that matter, all the others on the ship that Reed could see, were elongated versions of the survivor they’d found, tall and thin, to the point of what in humans would have been emaciated.
Reed was no expert on body language, but it seemed to him that although the man was speaking in a calm, even tone, and sat still and composed in his chair, he was holding his true feelings in check. And one of those true feelings was definitely anger.
“He doesn’t look happy,” Reed said out loud.
“It might be it’s his outpost down there.” Archer assumed his chair. “Kill that audio until we have the translator up.”
“Aye, sir.” Ensign Carstairs, at Hoshi’s station, punched a switch on the console in front of him, and the alien’s voice fell silent.
Reed’s station had been offline. He brought up a tactical display, and started scanning the two ships for weapons. As he worked, he caught snippets of the conversations taking place around him, from Mayweather—
“—arriving from heading zero-zero-six-mark-four. They hailed us immediately, we responded with standard friendship greetings, and a burst transmission of ...”
—and Hoshi—
“... frequency analysis reveals usage is consistent. I’m running the transmission through the Donaldson matrix. That should give us something to start ...”
—and T’Pol.
“—two ships, combined tonnage roughly equivalent to half of our mass,” T’Pol said. “Warp capability.”
“Malcolm?”
He looked up to see the captain in his chair, turned to face Reed’s station.
“What can you tell me?”
“Let me show you, sir—on the viewscreen.”
“All right.”
“Travis,” Reed said, “can you switch to an exterior view of the ships?”
“Aye, sir,” Mayweather said, and a second later, the image of the man who had been talking disappeared from the main screen, and was replaced by a shot of space outside the Enterprise.
One of the alien ships occupied a significant portion of the screen.
It looked dangerous—a ship built for warfare. Shaped like nothing so much as an arrowhead, to the naked eye it looked to be made of a single piece of metal, silvery black in color, that would barely have been visible save for a light green glow that outlined it against the blackness of space.
“Nasty,” Travis said.
“Designed to look that way.” Reed scanned his display, then began reading off the pertinent information.
“Sensors say it has six weapons ports, spaced equidistantly around the hull. Consistent with similar designs for pulsed energy beams. No indication of fusion weapons. The light green glow you see is the shielding—which I think we could punch through with our cannons.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Archer said. “Where’s the other ship?”
“Moving to position one hundred eighty degrees apart,” T’Pol replied from her station. “Matching orbit.”
“Right behind us,” Archer said.
“That’s optimum attack position. I’d recommend polarizing the hull plating, sir,” Reed said.
“Not just yet, Malcolm. Let’s try talking.”
“Captain.” That was Hoshi. Archer swiveled in his chair to face her.
“We’ve got the translation. We’re dealing with an alien race called the Sarkassians, and their commander, a Commodore Roan.”
“Good work. Put him back on.”
The alien commander’s image filled the view-screen—and at the exact same instant, his voice sounded again. This time, in English.
“... explain your presence here. We are—”
“Excuse me,” the captain said.
The alien commander—Roan—looked up. Surprise crossed his face for an instant, then was replaced by a small smile.
“Your translators are faster than ours,” he said.
Archer returned his smile. “We had more to work with. I’m Captain Jonathan Archer, of the Starship Enterprise.”
“Commodore Roan S’acree, of the Defender Talbot. Representing the Sarkassian Empire. You are in our territory, Enterprise.” The smile was still on Roan’s face, but it wasn’t matched by the expression in his eyes.
He was suspicious of them, Reed saw. Very much so.
“I’m sorry.” Archer said. “We did not mean to trespass. We were responding to what we thought was a distress signal from the outpost below.”
“The outpost has been destroyed,” Roan said. “What do you know about that?”
“I can tell you what we saw.”
“You trespassed?” Roan’s eyes went wide. He no longer tried to hide his anger.
“I told you, we were answering a distress signal.” Archer briefly summarized what they’d seen at the outpost, then told him about the survivor they’d found, whom they’d brought back to the Enterprise.
“You will transport this man to us immediately.”
“He’s comatose—my chief medical officer is treating him right now.”
“Our medical staff is far more experienced than yours, Captain. Please let us take care of our own.”
Archer hesitated. “I’ll have our doctor transmit his findings to your staff. They can consult.”
“Very well.”
Archer nodded to one of the ensigns on duty, who walked hurriedly toward the nearest com.
“I’d also like to invite you and some of your crew to come aboard Enterprise,” the captain said. “As I think you’ll be able to tell from the transmission we sent you, Starfleet is an organization built on the firm foundation of respect for its neighbors—and dedicated to the principles of peace.”
“In addition to your principles, you have phased energy weapons and fusion torpedoes,” Roan said. “Either of which could have caused the damage to our outpost below.”
“We didn’t attack your outpost.”
Roan nodded. “We shall see.”
One of the other Sarkassians suddenly moved into the picture, and whispered something into Roan’s ear. His face remained impassive as he listened.
“Captain, I must break off our transmission at this time,” Roan said. “I will contact you again in a moment.”
The scr
een went dark.
“They are receiving a signal over subspace frequencies,” Hoshi said. “Coded, but I’m sure we could—”
“No,” Archer responded quickly. “Not our concern.”
They waited. Reed thought to take the opportunity to check up on Alana. But as he reached for the com at his station, he stopped himself.
Phlox said he would contact him when he knew something. Or if her condition changed. So Alana was fine.
But he couldn’t shake the image of her lying on the gurney from his mind.
“The Talbot is hailing us again, sir.”
“Put them through.”
Roan’s face appeared onscreen.
“Captain Archer,” Roan said without preamble. “I have been instructed to read you the following statement. Enterprise, your presence in Sarkassian territory is an act of aggression, which we take as indication that hostilities exist between our two peoples. Should you wish to provide an explanation for your presence, it must be given according to the protocols of Contact between the Empire and outside races. Only ministerial-level officials may preside over such contact. Do you wish to provide such an explanation?”
“I’ve already told you—”
“Captain, do you wish to provide such an explanation to the appropriate government official?”
Reed saw the captain visibly holding his temper. At that second, his display beeped, and he looked down and saw something else.
The two Sarkassian ships had charged their weapons systems.
He raised his head, about to speak, and caught T’Pol’s eye. She held up a finger.
Wait.
Archer took a deep breath. “I do wish to provide such an explanation. To the appropriate government official.”
Roan gave a curt nod of acknowledgment.
The two ships powered down their weapons.
“Then you are to maintain your present position and await the arrival of an official government delegation.”
“About how long until this ambassadorial delegation arrives?” Archer asked.
“Approximately one and a half rotations of the planetoid below us.”
“About twenty-six hours, sir,” T’Pol added.
“All right,” Archer said. “In the meantime ... in addition to the survivor we found, I have a crewman who was injured while searching the outpost. We’re puzzled over what might have caused—”
“I’m sorry, Captain. According to the protocols of Contact, I cannot speak with you further.”
“We can go off the record, Commodore.”
“I cannot go off the record. I’m sorry.”
The screen went dark.
“Seems like this Commodore Roan is on a short leash,” Reed said.
Archer turned to T’Pol. “Do we know anything about the Sarkassian Empire? What kind of government they have, where their homeworld is—”
“To the best of my recollection, no. I will, however, conduct a thorough search of the Vulcan database,” T’Pol said.
The com at his station sounded.
“Sickbay to Captain Archer.”
That was Phlox. Reed forced himself to stay calm.
“Archer here. Go ahead, Doctor.”
“There’s been a change in Ensign Hart’s condition,” Phlox said.
“How is she?” Reed blurted out. Something was wrong—he could hear it in the doctor’s voice.
“I think,” Phlox said hesitantly, “you should come down here.”
Seventeen
ENTERPRISE
1/17/2151 0949 HOURS
REED STOPPED AT THE ENTRANCE to sickbay, momentarily confused.
Why was he here? Phlox had summoned him from the bridge. To see what had happened to Alana. Except ...
He frowned. No. That was wrong. Because Alana was dead. And Phlox calling him to sickbay was all in the past, had already happened, days ago, when they’d first returned from the outpost’s surface.
He shook his head. This sort of thing had been happening to him all day—memories being triggered randomly, his being forced to relive the painful events of the last few days all over again. Lack of sleep, he supposed, though it had never affected him in quite this way. All he could do was stay focused. And speaking of focused ...
He remembered why he was here now—to pick up Commodore Roan.
Reed took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, and walked into sickbay.
“Your timing is perfect, Lieutenant,” Phlox said. “We’re just finishing up here.”
“Everything’s all right?” Reed asked.
“Everything is fine,” Roan said, pushing himself off the diagnostic bed.
“Not exactly fine,” Phlox said. “The commodores burns are quite extensive. I have given him a numbing agent for the pain. He should return here within the next three hours for another dosage.”
“Not necessary,” Roan said. “Thank you.”
“Lieutenant,” Phlox said, clasping his hands behind his back and smiling what Trip referred to as his annoyingly cheerful smile. “Please convey my medical recommendations to the captain.”
“I will,” Reed said. “But the commodore may not be here in three hours.”
Phlox frowned. Roan smiled.
“Your captain’s decided to help,” the commodore said.
“To help,” Reed said. “And to ask for help in return.”
Reed had orders to take Roan to the science lab on E-deck. On the way, he told the commodore Archer’s plan.
“It seems to me I get the better of this bargain, Lieutenant.”
“We value different things, Commodore.”
“When will we do this?” Roan asked.
“As soon as T’Pol gives the word. If, of course, you’re up to it.”
“My burns?” Roan shook his head. “As I said—I am accustomed to such injuries. I’ll be fine.”
Reed’s gaze went to the mottled patch of skin on his neck and face.
“These were much more severe,” Roan said, seeing where Reed was looking. “Extensive grafts were required.”
“It must have been very painful.”
“At that moment—I honestly didn’t notice. Later, during recovery—I was in a great deal of pain, yes.”
“Not to be overly forward, sir, but—Phlox could do something about the discoloration there.”
“As could our doctors. I prefer to leave the burns as they are. They’re a reminder.”
“Of Dar Shalaan?”
Roan nodded. “Yes.” His eyes glazed over then, and Reed could tell he was seeing something other than the corridor they were walking down. “Please, Lieutenant—it is something I prefer not to speak about.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to press.”
But twenty feet down the corridor, Roan suddenly started talking again.
“Imagine the most important religious shrine on your world. Imagine a city grown up around it over thousands of years, a city devoted to and dependent on it. That was Dar Shalaan—not the Ta’alaat capital, not their largest city, not their economic center, but their most important city, nonetheless. Until I destroyed it.”
The words spilled out in a rush, as if the commodore had kept them bottled up for so long they were desperate for escape.
“It was war,” Reed offered. “Terrible things happen in war.”
“Yes.” Roan stopped walking. “It was war. A tactical counterstrike. An accident that no one could have foreseen. A massacre—it was all of those, and one other. My fault. My responsibility.”
“When we were talking about Earth history earlier,” Reed said, “the captain mentioned our three world wars? Things happened in each of those wars that seemed at the time too horrific for the combatants to ever forget, or forgive. Yet here we are—Starfleet. Representing one world, one people—the past put behind us.”
“You are one people,” Roan said. “That is the point. The Ta’alaat and we are different species.”
“But the situation is the same. Our
wars were over common resources—things we never dreamed of sharing. The way your war is over the sites the Anu’anshee left behind.”
“We tried sharing with the Ta’alaat, Lieutenant. Dar Shalaan was the result.”
Roan turned and began walking again.
This time, he really had said his piece on the topic. He didn’t speak again until they reached the lab.
“This is Ensign Hoshi,” Reed said. “Our linguistics expert. Hoshi, Commodore Roan.”
“Ensign,” Roan said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
Hoshi sat at one end of a long stainless-steel table, in front of a portable workstation. A handful of the fragments she’d brought back from the outpost lay stacked in a pile next to it. Other fragments were scattered haphazardly across the table.
“Any luck with the translation?” Reed asked.
Hoshi shook her head. “I don’t have enough here to work with. There are only fourteen symbols, and I have no way of knowing what they’re supposed to represent. They could be hieroglyphs, letters from an alphabet, musical notes. ...”
“This translation is what your captain wanted my help with?” Roan asked.
“That’s right.”
Roan picked up one of the fragments and studied it a moment.
“These are phondrikaar.”
“Excuse me,” Hoshi said. “What was that word?”
“Phondrikaar.”
“And what does it mean?”
“It’s our name for the alloy these fragments are composed of.” He looked over at Reed. “These came from the outpost.”
“That’s right,” the lieutenant said.
“A handful of our Striker-ships utilize this material to avoid sensor detection. They have proven quite effective in battle.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Reed said.
Roan was silent a long moment before replying. “I must admit to mixed emotions here, Lieutenant. Seeing you in possession of a critical piece of our technology ... it reminds me that although we are allies at the moment, our interests are not necessarily identical.”
“And may I remind you of your own words, sir—it’s not your technology.”
