by Dave Stern
He finished his message to the Harts by telling them to expect other communiqués from the crew to follow—Malcolm, he knew, was planning on passing on their daughter’s effects with a note of his own. There would be something else in there as well for the Harts to hold on to.
As if that could ever replace what they’d lost.
The door chime sounded.
“Come.”
Trip walked in. “You get that message done?”
“Yes, I did. In fact—” Archer punched a button on the workstation, and smiled. “I just sent it.”
“Good.” Trip nodded. “Thought I’d come by and pick you up for the funeral. Everybody’s heading down there already.”
“Malcolm too?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Holding up pretty good, I’d say—all things considered. I think you did the right thing, Captain. Letting him give the eulogy.”
“I’m glad.” Archer thought again about asking Trip how much truth there was to the rumors regarding Reed and Hart’s relationship. The ship’s grapevine reached up to the ready room just as well as anywhere else on the ship, but Archer never put much trust in the rumors he heard that way. He depended on people that he trusted to verify that information. But in this instance, he doubted that Trip would tell him much—even if he did know more than Archer.
Not that any of it mattered now, not at this point.
Unfortunate.
It was a stupid regulation anyway. He added it to the growing list of things he looked forward to discussing with Admiral Forrest.
The com sounded.
“Captain.” It was Hoshi. “Transmission coming in—from the Sarkassians.”
He and Trip glanced at each other.
“On my way,” Archer said, and hurried onto the bridge.
They’d had no word from the Sarkassians since Reed had returned from the planet’s surface yesterday. They’d tracked a flurry of com traffic between the Sarkassian ships—and a few hours afterward, the jamming beam had gone down, and there was even more subspace traffic, between the ships and the Sarkassian Council, no doubt.
“Put it up,” he said, nodding to the screen.
The monitor filled with the image of another Sarkassian, one Archer didn’t recognize at all. Significantly younger than either Roan or Valay had been.
“Enterprise, this is Lieutenant Col of the Striker Amileus.”
“Lieutenant.”
“We have found the records from our outpost. The story your lieutenant put forth—regarding Commodore Roan and the ambassador—it appears to be possible.”
“Well.” Archer smiled. “I’m glad to hear you say that.”
“Even so,” Col’s face remained grim, “I am authorized to inform you that your actions in interfering with our affairs—and in removing Sarkassian property from the outpost—are cause for great concern.”
“Seems to me we helped you set your affairs in order,” Archer said. “And saved a lot of lives in the process.”
It seemed to him as well that a little “thank you” might be in order, but he suspected that was not on the list of items Col wanted to discuss with him.
“As for your property,” Archer continued, “we returned that. As I think you know.”
“We retrieved the sample containers from the outpost’s surface. However, I have been instructed to inform you that your possession of any artifacts or records of such artifacts would be considered tantamount to an act of war. Which would be responded to in kind.”
“We understand,” Archer said. “And as our lieutenant told you—we’ve returned everything that we took from the outpost.”
“And the records?”
Archer sighed. “If you insist—we will destroy them.”
“We insist,” Col said.
“Very well.” He’d expected this—had already asked Hoshi and Malcolm to gather together their data in a single node on the network, so it would be easier to wipe clean. He’d already talked himself out of keeping a second copy of the data hidden elsewhere in the system.
When the Sarkassians were ready to deal with the rest of the galaxy in a more open manner, that information would be available again. He wasn’t going to lecture them on the importance of being good neighbors, though.
That, he was saving for T’Pol.
“We’ll have every record from the outpost wiped from the system in a matter of minutes.”
“Good. I will take your word for this.”
Archer nodded. “Good.”
“Then I believe our business here is finished, Enterprise. You are free to leave our space.”
“And don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Trip added quietly, from behind the captain.
“One last thing, Col. We answered the distress call because we wanted to help. Remember that. And if you want help in the future—we’ll be around.”
Col seemed momentarily taken aback by Archer’s statement.
And at that moment, T’Pol stepped forward.
Archer glanced sideways at his science officer, and suppressed a small smile.
In the long-distant past, the Vulcans had been a volatile, destructive people. Having served with T’Pol for over a year now, he knew that those emotions, suppressed though they were by the discipline of logic she practiced, were still present, buried deep beneath her calm exterior.
Once in a while, though, he caught a hint of them. Most recently, in the ready room, when T’Pol had told him the gist of what she was going to say to the Sarkassians.
Archer settled back in his chair.
This ought to be good, he thought.
“Lieutenant Col, I stand here as both a member of Star-fleet, and a representative of the planet Vulcan. It is in that latter capacity that I speak now.
“I must be blunt, Lieutenant. You and your scientists have behaved irresponsibly. You are like children given a box of dangerous weapons. You take them out and play with them, one by one, not knowing or caring what damage you do to others or yourself. Your dangerous activities threaten to harm not only yourselves, but others. On behalf of my government, I urge you to cease your careless exploitation of the resources left by the Anu’anshee.”
Archer watched Col throughout the speech by T’Pol. The lieutenant’s expressionless mask gradually gave way to an expression of anger.
“Who are you to lecture us?”
“That was not a lecture, merely a statement of fact,” T’Pol said. “In two days we rendezvous with the Vulcan research vessel Shi’ar. She will carry information back to Vulcan regarding the nature and kind of your activities.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning the matter is now out of our hands, I suppose,” Archer said. “How you eventually decide to relate to the rest of the galaxy is up to you.”
He looked at Col. The man still stood, ramrod straight, on the bridge of his ship. He hadn’t moved an inch.
In his eyes, though, Archer thought he saw some give. Or maybe it was only wishful thinking on his part.
Someday, he hoped to find out for sure.
“Goodbye, Lieutenant,” Archer said. “And good luck.”
At his nod, Hoshi closed the circuit.
“Excuse me—if we could get started.” From the back of the armory—jammed in among the rest of the crew, who filled the small room to overflowing, crowding in on the ladders, on the second-floor gantry, along the two torpedo bays—Archer craned his neck and watched Lieutenant Reed, at the firing console, as he waved his hands for attention.
The room quickly fell silent.
“Thank you,” Reed said. “I have a certain reputation to uphold here—as a man of few words—and I promise not to disappoint.”
Archer smiled.
Reed cleared his throat, and clasped his hands behind his back.
“We’re gathered here today to pay our respects to our fallen comrade. Ensign Alana Hart—who, I think I speak for all of us in saying, we never got to
know quite as well as we should have.” Reed cut the last word short, and stood quite still for a moment.
Archer suddenly realized how hard this was for Malcolm—and suspected that there was more than a little truth to the rumors he’d heard.
He swallowed hard himself then, and exhaled deeply.
“We honor her and remember her by being here,” Reed continued, “and I think Alana would also agree that we honor her by continuing to look forward, toward the future, and not to focus too hard on the past.”
He nodded then, and the members of the armory crew—Bishop, Diaz, Santini, and Perkins, who’d just rotated in, stepped forward and saluted him crisply. Reed returned the salute.
Archer’s eyes, and the eyes of all those around him, of everyone crowded into the armory, turned then toward the starboard torpedo bay, where Alana’s body lay inside an empty tube—a makeshift coffin.
At the firing console, Reed was mouthing something quietly to himself. Good-bye? A prayer? Archer didn’t know.
The lieutenant reached down and pressed a button on the console.
The torpedo tube slid along the bay, and into the firing chamber. The airlock sealed shut behind it. A second later, Archer heard the sound of the tube being shot off into space.
“Godspeed, Ensign,” the captain whispered.
He turned back and saw Reed, still at the console, facing away from the crew, his shoulders shaking ever so slightly.
Reed did not turn around for a long time.
The crew dispersed. Archer made his way to the firing console, where Reed was talking to the rest of the armory crew.
“Nicely done, Malcolm,” the captain said. “I feel sure that she’s watching us and smiling from somewhere.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope so.”
Archer joined in their discussion—a gentle razzing of Perkins, the newcomer. A gentle razzing of Reed’s leadership style. A few memories of Ensign Hart.
The com sounded.
“T’Pol to Captain Archer.”
“Go ahead, Sub-Commander.”
“We are approaching another star system.”
“Already?”
“I had put us at warp four to make our scheduled appointment with the Shi’ar.”
“Right. So what about this star?”
“Data coming in now ... two Minshara-class planets, in synchronous orbit about the star.”
“Synchronous orbit?” Archer frowned. “What’s that mean?”
“One hundred eighty degrees opposite each other sir, along the orbital plane. The planets also appear to be ... mirror images of one another.”
She sounded puzzled. Archer was too.
“I’ll be right there. Out.”
He turned to Reed, who was frowning as well.
“Mirror images, a hundred and eighty degrees apart along the orbital path—how is that possible?”
Reed shook his head. “It’s not, sir. At least, not in my experience.”
“Well. Come on, then, Malcolm.” Archer walked over to the armory door, which hissed open at his approach. “Let’s go broaden your experience.”
Reed smiled then—the first genuine smile the captain had seen from him in days—and moved toward the open door.
Acknowledgments
A lot of people helped make this book happen in a timely fashion, though I must single out in particular:
Margaret Clark, who has a calm demeanor ...
Paula Block, who has good questions ...
The Pocket Rocket, the real D.O., the one and only managing editor who can take a licking (or at least, an airplane-spinning) and keep on ticking ...
And of course, the family—Caleb, Cleo, Jill, Madeleine, and Toni.
Thanks are also due to:
The Pocket Books production staff.
Vonda McIntyre, for a most opportune shot of inspiration.
Mike Okuda, who provided valuable technical info and once, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, let me sit in the captain’s chair.
Rick Berman and Brannon Braga, who created Enterprise, and thus brought forth manna from heaven.
And Gene Roddenberry, without whom ...
About the e-Book
(DEC, 2003)—Scanned, proofed, and formatted by Bibliophile.
