by Star Trek
“I have my instructions, Cunaehr,” Ehrehin replied, keeping his reedy voice pitched only barely above the room’s background noises. “The admiralty is watching from orbit, and they have ordered me to be ready by now. And so we are. Please prepare to initiate the test on my signal.”
“Immediately, Doctor,” Cunaehr said. Ehrehin knew without turning that his assistant was hastening back to his own console.
Ehrehin considered the bird-of-prey that now circled this remote planet, and wondered whether or not the admiralty truly expected today’s test to succeed. Then he banished the thought, refusing to allow the military’s obvious reticence about posting any of their people on the surface to threaten his composure. In fact, the notion that a prototype field test could make the admiralty look unnecessarily fearful had quite the opposite effect on him, buoying his spirits and increasing his confidence.
Steadying himself against the neutronium-reinforced concrete wall into which the window was set, Ehrehin turned to face his associates, all of whom were busy either running or monitoring several semicircular rows of consoles. Despite his recurrent misgivings about the military-enforced pace of his team’s research, he realized that he was waging a losing battle against the triumphant grin that was already beginning to spread across his lined, weathered face.
Standing beside his console, Cunaehr ran his fingers through his perpetually tousled, jet-black hair in yet another vain attempt to tame it. He cleared his throat loudly, quickly capturing the attention of the science outpost’s thirteen other research personnel. All of the project’s staffers now stood alert at their stations, the staccato rhythm of their professional conversations momentarily halted, their usually busy hands now stilled above their consoles, their eyes turned toward Doctor Ehrehin in silent anticipation of his words.
“Thank you, my friends, for all the labor and sacrifice you have given this effort so far in order to realize our collective dream,” Ehrehin said, raising his thin voice slightly. “The time has arrived for us to make history. Now we shall light the torch that soon will bring near the farthest reaches of the heavens. At last we will achieve avaihh lli vastam.
“The warp-seven stardrive.” And there can be no margin for error this time, he added silently, wondering yet again whether the Romulan Star Empire’s military was right to worry that Coridan Prime—or perhaps even one of the other recently Terran-aligned worlds—had already equaled or even surpassed the painstaking work of Ehrehin’s team.
Cunaehr began slowly applauding, and the rest of the staff immediately joined in until the hand claps escalated into a torrent. Ehrehin’s smile broadened as he held up a single wizened hand to call for silence.
“Shall we?” he said once the room had quieted.
At Cunaehr’s deliberate gesture, the team members resumed their vigilant poses behind their respective consoles, leaving Ehrehin with little to do other than to watch and wait as orders were exchanged and relayed, and a countdown began, reinforced by an emotionless synthetic voice generated by one of the computers. No one appeared to be breathing for the duration. Ehrehin suppressed a tremor in his left hand as the machine crisply pronounced the numerals that represented the last five ewa in the countdown sequence.
“Rhi.
“Mne.
“Sei.
“Kre.
“Hwi.”
A low rumble came a moment after the computer reached “Lliu.” Ehrehin rather likened it to thunder, except that he felt it deep in his bones rather than hearing it directly, as he did the crisp, businesslike voices that were ringing out across the small control center.
“Power output rising along predicted curves,” Cunaehr said. “Holding steady.”
The man behind Cunaehr nodded, adding, “Power output consistent with a velocity of warp three.”
“Confirmed,” chimed a woman’s voice from a nearby console. Others made noises of agreement. Ehrehin heard several jubilant shouts as the first dilated moments passed and everyone in the room appeared to resume their regular breathing patterns. The monitors continued showing orange and amber as the subaural rumbling continued and intensified.
Cunaehr smiled elatedly in Ehrehin’s direction. “Warp three already from a standing start.”
But Ehrehin felt that a victory celebration might be a bit premature. “Gradually reduce the containment field diameter, Cunaehr, and reinforce it. Increase the power yield incrementally.”
“Warp four,” Cunaehr said after relaying Ehrehin’s orders, his eyes riveted to his monitor. “Five. Six.”
“Continue until we reach maximum yield,” Ehrehin said, grinning in spite of his caution. It was working. Warp seven really was within reach.
“Fluctuation,” said the technician seated immediately behind Cunaehr. The sharp note of alarm in the young woman’s voice was unmistakable.
“Compensate,” Ehrehin said automatically.
“Warp six point five,” Cunaehr said.
“Containment instability,” another tech reported.
“Reinforce!” Cunaehr barked before Ehrehin could interject.
The room was suddenly awash in green as the hue of the banks of monitors and gauges changed in unison, accompanied by numerous horrified gasps and pointed exclamations from across the length and breadth of the room. Ehrehin’s attention was drawn back to the window, through which he watched the preternatural orange light that was washing across the horizon. The distant rumbling gradually became audible, not quite drowned out by the rising clamor of alarm klaxons. But Ehrehin found this orange light anything but reassuring.
THOOM.
Chaos. A hard jolt made the floor jump. A bank of unanchored instruments leaned forward and tipped over with a resounding crash. Someone cried out in pain. A ceiling beam collapsed directly on top of a man and a woman, spraying emerald blood across the floor and showering the rear wall as several others struggled toward the now partially blocked exit. The overhead lighting flickered and failed. A frantic voice boomed over one of the room’s com speakers, saying something about beaming to the safety of an orbiting bird-of-prey before it was too late.
Cunaehr had somehow moved to Ehrehin’s immediate right, and was shouting into his ear. “Doctor! We have to evacuate immediately!”
No wonder the military didn’t want to post any of their people down here, Ehrehin thought bitterly as he watched a trio of bleeding, injured technicians vanish in a blaze of amber light as the bird-of-prey’s transporter seized them.
An earsplitting crack barely preceded the fall of another beam. This one narrowly missed Ehrehin, brushing just past his right arm as it neatly stove in Cunaehr’s skull. Outside the window, Ehrehin could see the fires of Erebus consuming the forest as they swept hungrily from the test apparatus toward the control complex. The control room shook, twisted, and began to tear itself apart. The air stank of coppery blood and ozone.
Ehrehin noticed that the room was already nearly empty, and hoped that whoever hadn’t died here already would make it to safety. Then his skin began to tingle; he knew that he was either being transported up to the orbiting bird-of-prey, or was about to discover what it felt like to be vaporized, along with the wreckage of the control complex.
Considering the way the admiralty sometimes dealt with failure, he wasn’t at all certain which fate was the preferable one.
Two
Friday, January 24, 2155
The Presidio, San Francisco
CAPTAIN JONATHAN ARCHER smiled broadly as he looked over his shoulder and up into the rapt faces of four of his most valued officers. Ensigns Hoshi Sato and Travis Mayweather, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, and Doctor Phlox, Enterprise’s chief medical officer, stood on the steps just behind and above Archer on the broad spiral staircase that overlooked the wide meeting room. Here representatives of Earth, Vulcan, Tellar, Andoria, and Coridan were beginning to take their seats around a series of large, curving tables arranged in a broad semicircle. They were in turn surrounded by assorted VIPs from Starfleet, Earth�
��s various governmental ministries, and numerous allied and neutral worlds, as well as a fair number of headset-wearing media people.
Among the ranks of the journalists, Archer spied a slender, youthful woman with straight brown hair whom he recognized immediately as Gannet Brooks, Ensign Mayweather’s former girlfriend. A quick backward glance confirmed that the young helmsman had also picked her out of the crowd. Mayweather didn’t appear exactly thrilled by the possibility of bumping into her again so soon after the revelation that her journalistic credentials were merely a cover for her Starfleet Intelligence work during the recent Terra Prime crisis. Archer was disappointed, though not surprised, to note that Starfleet Intelligence had apparently seen fit to place one of its agents in the midst of today’s proceedings. Fortunately, Hoshi’s most recent translator modifications had made the diplomats’ networked communications devices far more eavesdropping-proof than ever; Ms. Brooks would find that her work was cut out for her today.
Archer turned his attention back to the ring of observers, which suffused the air with a low gabble of anticipatory murmurs. Thanks to the broad circular skylight built into the chamber’s high, vaulted ceiling, the room was bathed in an early afternoon light that saturated the sections of the room not illuminated by ceiling-mounted fixtures.
An odd feeling of déjà vu seized Archer at the scene now unfolding below him and his crew. He turned to Phlox and spoke quietly. “Didn’t we just do this two days ago?”
Phlox smiled sagely and pitched his voice as low as Archer’s. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you, Captain, that the Terra Prime attacks have strained relations between many of the founding members of the Coalition of Planets.”
Archer returned the doctor’s good-humored smile with a rueful grin of his own. “You’re right, Phlox. Some things aren’t forgotten very easily.” Or forgiven, he added silently. Terra Prime, whose avowed purpose was to evict every alien from Earth and move into the galaxy pursuing a doctrine of humanocentric force rather than inter-species cooperation, certainly deserved to be forgotten, and belonged in the dustbin of history. But Archer knew in his heart that the misbegotten terror group had to be remembered, in order to avoid a repetition of its shortsightedness and violence.
It was forgiveness that Earth and her allies had to seek, rather than forgetfulness. Earth needed remembrance, not amnesia.
Archer had seen Terra Prime’s agenda up close, had lost a member of his crew to its fanatical “Earth first for Earth’s people” agenda, and had nearly asphyxiated on Mars while apprehending the radical movement’s founder, John Frederick Paxton. Staring such naked hatred and xenophobia directly in the face had been one of the most harrowing experiences of Archer’s Starfleet career. And he knew full well that his friend Phlox had been on the receiving end of xenophobia himself, during the crew’s shore leave on Earth immediately after the resolution of the Xindi crisis that had gripped the entire planet for almost a year.
“I imagine that each of the Coalition envoys feels an urgent need to reinforce everything they already agree on as they start negotiating some of the Coalition Compact’s stickier points,” Phlox continued. “It’s quite a testament to the goodwill of all the parties involved. Not to take anything away from the persuasive power of the speech you gave in front of the delegates the last time we stood in this room, of course.”
“I never claimed that public speaking was my strong suit,” Archer said. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that the Terra Prime incident frightened the Rigelian government into withdrawing from the Coalition, regardless of everything I said to try to stop it. And the Rigelians weren’t the only ones, Phlox.”
Phlox shrugged. “There would have been still more withdrawals had you not spoken, Captain. And the ones that did opt to leave will be back one day, you mark my words.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I just hope I didn’t make things worse by shooting my mouth off.”
Phlox offered a sniffing chuckle that was clearly meant to dismiss Archer’s doubts as absurd. “Far from it, Captain. From what I’ve observed, your words did indeed inspire the remaining delegates to work even harder to prevent this new Coalition from self-destructing before it can truly begin. In fact, you might be the main reason why these people are gathered here today instead of warping back homeward to explain their withdrawals to their respective governments.”
Archer was rapidly growing uncomfortable with the drift of this conversation, and his forehead and cheeks had begun to feel entirely too warm. He waved his hand as though expecting Phlox’s overly effusive praise to scatter like smoke. “Your job is safe, Phlox. You really don’t have to keep sucking up to me like this.”
But the Denobulan physician was undeterred. “You’ll recall that it was Ambassador Soval who began the rather resounding round of applause that followed your remarks. I’m certain you’ve noticed by now that he isn’t very easily impressed.”
Archer nodded, his gaze lighting briefly on silver-haired Admiral Sam Gardner, who was standing in the forefront of the crowd of onlookers beside the stern-faced Admiral Gregory Black and the ramrod-straight, crew-cut MACO commander, General George Casey. Archer recalled that nearly four years earlier, Soval hadn’t been bashful about recommending that Admiral Forrest pass him over for the assignment of commanding Enterprise in favor of Gardner, who then had yet to exchange his captain’s bars for an admiral’s desk. Until only about half a year ago, Soval had rarely missed an opportunity to remind Archer that he continually looked askance at both his captaincy and his judgment.
“I’ve got to admit,” Archer said, “Soval can be tough, even as Vulcans go.”
Phlox’s smile briefly widened to preternatural size before returning to typical human proportions. “Precisely, Captain.”
“So the delegates need to emphasize and reinforce all their points of agreement in the wake of the Terra Prime attack,” Archer said. “That makes sense. What doesn’t make sense to me is doing it in front of a live audience. They must have already had a closed-door meeting to nail down the substance of whatever they’re planning to announce today.”
“No doubt, Captain,” Phlox said. “But the general public suffered a great deal of psychological trauma at the hands of Terra Prime. And although the terrorists’ actual casualty count was thankfully low, the incident partially reopened some of the profound wounds inflicted by the Xindi nearly two years ago.”
“People don’t easily forget seven million deaths,” Archer said, his mood darkening with the onslaught of bitter memories. Archer suspected that forgiveness for what the Xindi did would probably come only after there was no one left alive on Earth capable of remembering firsthand the horror of March 22, 2153. That’s a wound for future generations to heal, he thought, pining momentarily for a utopian future he knew he’d never glimpse himself. All the more reason why the Coalition of Planets has to succeed.
Phlox continued, “Like any demagogue, Paxton played to your people’s basest fears by reminding them of their vulnerabilities. Therefore the public needs reassurance most of all. And what better way to reassure the public than with what Commander Tucker might refer to as a ‘dog and pony show’?”
Archer felt a wistful twinge at Phlox’s mention of his oldest friend. He wished Trip could be at his side for this historic occasion—and that the Terra Prime affair hadn’t made it necessary for both Trip and T’Pol to be away now on bereavement leave. He couldn’t think of anything worse than what the two of them were facing now. Fortunately, Earth’s Prime Minister Samuels was calling the day’s proceedings to order, forcing Archer to set aside the woes of his absent friends and colleagues.
The crowd of onlookers quickly quieted as Samuels made his way to the press podium set in the center of the open torus formed by the conference tables. Archer wondered how many people besides himself were aware that Samuels had once belonged to the Terra Prime organization. Archer wondered what would happen should that fact ever become common knowledge. Would it tear the delicate new Coalition apa
rt? Or would it be regarded as something positive, a sign that people can always change for the better?
Archer sincerely hoped for the latter.
Samuels, a ginger-haired, genial-looking man of middle age and medium height, flashed a broad smile at the audience as the journalists’ vid units zeroed in on him. A slender, palm-sized rectangular electronic translation device—one of the units that Hoshi had recently upgraded specifically for use by all of the Coalition delegates and their support staffs—was conspicuously visible on the lapel of the prime minister’s smartly tailored navy blue jacket.
“We’ve gathered here again, in the same chamber where we began our initial discussions months ago, to demonstrate that recent events have made the governments of five worlds more determined than ever to forge a peaceful interstellar community. Allow me to introduce Ambassador Anlenthoris ch’Vhendreni of Andoria; Ambassador Lekev of Coridan; Ambassador Gora bim Gral of Tellar; Ambassador Soval, Ambassador L’Nel, and Ambassador Solkar of Vulcan; and Interior Minister Haroun al-Rashid of Earth.”
Samuels paused briefly after each name, giving the diplomats sufficient time to rise from their seats and offer respectful nods or bows to the onlookers and journalists. Minister al-Rashid was a picture of quiet competence in a black suit that emphasized his dark, intelligent eyes. The Vulcans were resplendent in their dusky, bejeweled formal robes, each of them a study in dignity and poise, while the Andorian and Tellarite envoys, each flanked by a pair of junior functionaries, struck a much more martial impression in ornate formal dress based on the military attire of their respective worlds.
Coridanite Ambassador Lekev wore a much simpler, formfitting suit, dominated by his people’s traditional diplomatic mask. Lekev’s face was covered in a metallic material shaped into the stark features of a humanoid skull, while overlapping bands of chitinous, lobster-colored fabric wrapped his cranium, giving him a faintly crustacean appearance. Unmasked, Coridanites were visually distinguishable from humans only by their prominent nasal ridges and raised forehead striations. When masked, however, they appeared even more alien than either the dour, blue-skinned Andorians or the hirsute, porcine, and often obstreperous Tellarites.
