by Star Trek
Archer turned toward his armory officer. “Malcolm, can we target their weapons systems? Keep them from firing on us for a while to buy us a little more time?”
Reed frowned, studying a newly mounted tactical viewer that now stood above his other control console screens. “I don’t believe so, Captain. Any serious attempt to disable their weapons tubes will more than likely destroy the ship outright.”
“Do it, pinkskin,” Shran shouted from his seat at the back of the bridge. “They’re trying to destroy us!”
“Only because we started it,” Archer shouted back. He looked over at Reed. “If we destroy their ship, the Romulans could use that fact as justification for mounting an attack against Earth, or even the rest of the Coalition.”
“But the Romulans have already committed acts of war against us,” Reed said.
“Technically and legally, they have not,” T’Pol said. “At least not yet. The Orions abducted the Aenar, which makes them responsible for those crimes. And the Romulans are legally entitled to regard us as invaders in their territory, and therefore as the aggressors.”
“Preposterous!”
Archer turned around in his chair. “Shran, shut up!” The azure-hued warrior did just that, though he glowered angrily at Archer with eyes like blue-white suns.
“Hold on to your chairs,” Mayweather said. “Incoming!” He pushed hard at several of the helm controls, and Archer felt Enterprise turning hard to port as the inertial dampers and the artificial gravity running through the deck plates struggled to cope with the sudden velocity change. Archer held his breath and braced for impact, but none came.
“Good flying, Travis,” he said a moment later.
“Sir, we can’t evade their weapons forever,” Malcolm said, his tone plaintive. “And sooner or later reinforcements will arrive. We have got to withdraw.”
“Any luck on getting the Aenar, Moulton?” Archer asked, directing his voice toward the open-channeled com unit.
“No, sir.” Moulton’s tone sounded stressed. “We still can’t break through their shroud. I thought I had a pattern lock on one of them, but it broke apart during transport. I…lost him.”
“I’m sure you did your best,” Archer said, feeling queasy at the idea that they had just killed one of the Aenar in the midst of what had begun as a fairly straightforward rescue mission.
He had to face the fact that they had run out of options. “Prepare to withdraw. We can’t stay here any longer.”
“No!” Shran unbuckled himself from the chair he had occupied and moved swiftly toward Archer.
“We don’t have much of a choice, Shran.”
“Yes, you do,” the Andorian said, his antennae ramrod stiff with anger. “You destroy both of the warships, we retrieve the Aenar, and then you destroy the transport as well. Leave no trace that we were ever here.”
“Do you really think they haven’t transmitted information about us back to their base already?” Archer asked. “If we destroy them, that will be an act of war.”
“Captain?” Reed looked uncomfortable. “There is another factor we have to consider. If we can’t rescue the Aenar, and they remain in the hands of the Romulans, we know they will be used as weapons. Weapons against Earth, or another Coalition planet, or even some nonaligned world. We can’t let the Romulans keep them.”
“What are you suggesting?” Archer asked, though he was certain he already knew the answer.
“We can’t let the Romulans keep them,” Reed repeated, more emphatically this time. “We can’t destroy the transport ship for political reasons. But we can use the transporter to stop the Aenar from being used against us.”
“You can’t be serious!” Shran snarled at the tactical officer.
Theras approached them, his hand on the shoulder of the MACO trooper who had drawn near to Shran. “Captain, as much as it pains me to say this, your companion may be correct,” Theras said, his voice quavering. “I know that my people would rather be…sacrificed than used as weapons to destroy others.”
“You know nothing, you coward!” Shran snarled, his fists clenching in rage. McCammon reached for him, but in that second, Shran drove the palm of his hand up and under the MACO’s chin, driving him back off his feet.
Before Archer could get to his feet, T’Pol had come between him and Shran. The Andorian swung at her, but she caught his hand, forcing it backward despite the powerful momentum of the blow.
Sometimes I forget how strong Vulcans are, Archer thought in a flash.
“Stop,” T’Pol said, speaking in a low growl. “I believe I have an alternative.”
Thirty-Four
Friday, February 21, 2155
Rator II
TRIP THOUGHT CH’UIHV was finally about to pick up the disruptor pistol that lay on the table before him and end Ehrehin’s lengthy presentation with the finality of the grave.
Then the ground shook and the lights overhead dimmed, and a distant rumbling roar reverberated through the entire Ejhoi Ormiin complex.
Ch’uihv leaped to his feet and began barking orders into an intercom unit built into the desktop—to no evident effect—then began ordering the guards in the room to find some answers, immediately. As Ch’uihv’s men scattered, Trip’s first thought was that one of the island’s volcanoes had conveniently decided to get frisky.
Then the floor beneath Trip’s chair shook again, with a hard, sharp impact that reminded Trip more of a phase-cannon strike than any natural phenomenon he’d ever encountered.
Admiral Valdore, he thought, shoving himself out of his chair and rising awkwardly to his feet, his hands still bound tightly behind him. As unlikely as it was that the Romulan military had suddenly found this obscure world and mounted a rescue raid to recover Ehrehin in the proverbial nick, it was certainly a more believable scenario than that of an eons-dormant volcano suddenly rising up in wrath at precisely the appropriate moment.
Trip moved toward the old man, concerned that the current situation might be too much for him. Despite the dim lighting, he could see that Ehrehin appeared to be only a little shaken. But he also knew that circumstances could very easily take a turn for the worse, and in no time flat. If Valdore doesn’t get his hands on Ehrehin, he’s going to make damned sure that nobody else gets their hands on him either.
He could hear the sharp reports of weapons fire echoing through some distant part of the complex, growing steadily louder as they approached. All at once, getting out of his manacles became a priority very nearly as urgent as breathing.
“Get back into your chair,” ordered a harsh male voice. A moment later, once of Ch’uihv’s guards, his dark paramilitary uniform making him nearly invisible in the low lighting, resolved himself from the surrounding shadows.
Trip could only hope that the other guards in the room, not to mention Ch’uihv himself, were too distracted by what was going on elsewhere in the complex to notice what he had just decided to do. I’m going to get killed anyway, he thought. Either by this guy or by Ch’uihv or by Valdore. So I guess this is the perfect time for a completely stupid and futile gesture.
“Sorry,” Trip said, taking a single backward step away from the approaching guard and the fragile scientist, moving toward the chair he’d just left behind. The guard continued moving in Trip’s direction.
Trip suddenly leaped forward, twisting his legs toward the guard, kicking him hard in the abdomen before both men went down hard. The guard’s head made a sickening thump against the unyielding floor, his body mostly breaking Trip’s fall, which could have injured him severely since his hands were still manacled behind him.
Looks like he wasn’t quite expecting a completely stupid and futile gesture, Trip thought, relieved that the guard wasn’t moving, at least for the moment. He immediately turned around and began fumbling with the fallen man’s belt, awkwardly seeking anything behind him that might be a set of manacle keys.
Damn. Damn. DAMN! At least a full minute ticked by with no results. On the plus side,
he was reasonably certain now that neither Ch’uihv nor any other guards had remained in the room. Buoyed by that small boon, he continued fumbling with the guard’s belt while the sounds of the approaching firefight steadily intensified.
“Allow me,” said a familiar voice directly behind him.
“Ehrehin?” Trip said, trying to turn so that he could face the voice.
“Hold still, Cunaehr. If you move right now, this could turn out extremely unpleasant for both of us.”
The old man, still behind him, was evidently shoving something hard and metallic against Trip’s wrists. “Hold on, Doctor,” Trip said, suddenly realizing what Ehrehin was about to attempt. But despite his protestations, he knew better than to try to move.
An instant later, a blast of intense heat singed Trip’s wrists, the searing pain accompanied by a brief flash of ruddy light. Trip’s hands fell away from each other, and he brought them both toward his face to survey the damage, which seemed to be minimal, at least so far as he could tell in the dim light, although the skin on both wrists hurt like hell. The manacles remained on each wrist, but they were now separated, burned completely through the middle.
Trip turned toward Ehrehin, who immediately pressed a still-warm disruptor pistol into his right hand.
“I took this off the guard while you were doing whatever it was you were doing just now. It was the most efficient solution I could find, under the circumstances.”
Trip felt the solid heft of the weapon in his hand, and realized that he would very likely have to put it to use, and probably very soon. “I’m just relieved that you know how to handle one of these things so well, Doctor.”
Ehrehin chuckled. “Me, too, Cunaehr. Because I’ve never so much as held a weapon like this before in my life.”
Trip was glad he hadn’t known that fact before the old men blew apart his manacles. “Well, then let’s hope I know how to handle one of these things.” The sound of the running battle outside the conference room was growing louder still.
“I am counting on that, Cunaehr. You know that Admiral Valdore will try his best to kill me if his forces fail to rescue me.”
Trip shook his head. “That’s not going to happen, Doctor.”
The elderly scientist’s tone became grave. “Listen to me, Cunaehr. If it appears that these Ejhoi Ormiin are about to succeed in preventing either my rescue or my honorable death, then you must intervene.” Ehrehin paused to place a hand on top of the weapon Trip held. “Using this.”
“I can’t do that, Doctor,” Trip finally said at length. Ehrehin’s hand fell limply away from Trip’s, and the darkness did little to conceal the crestfallen look on the old man’s deeply lined face.
“Then you have broken an old man’s heart, Cunaehr. You must understand that I will not be forced to assist these people in their war against the Praetor’s government. Too many innocent lives would be forfeit if these terrorists actually get what they want from me.”
Trip held the disruptor close to his face in order to check its displays. Though he couldn’t read the text, he was relieved to note that the graphics showed it to be almost fully charged.
Lowering the weapon, Trip said, “I’m not about to let that happen, either, Doctor.” He took the old man’s arm in order to lead him to the exit, but Ehrehin pushed Trip’s hand away.
“I have to get you to safety, Doctor,” Trip said, trying to rein in his mounting impatience by sounding reasonable.
“So does Valdore. I believe I shall wait right here for his arrival.”
Trip could feel the floor shake yet again. Coupled with the noise from out in the corridor, the sensation strained his patience that much closer to its breaking point. “Valdore’s men could easily kill you accidentally with a stray disruptor blast, Doctor. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let that happen.” He took the old man’s arm again, grasping it more authoritatively this time.
Ehrehin’s tone mellowed as he weighed Trip’s words. “That makes a great deal of sense.”
“Come on,” Trip said, holding his weapon at the ready as he led the old man out into the corridor, which reverberated with the sounds of combat. Trip was thankful that none of the fighting was in sight as yet. The dim emergency lighting challenged his memory of the facility’s layout, which looked oddly different to him, like a familiar city landmark seen at night for the first time.
He belatedly realized just how much he had become dependent upon Phuong’s talents during this mission. You’d better figure out where you’re going, Charles, and right now, he told himself silently. Or else you and the good doctor both are going to end up just like Phuong.
After spending another few moments coaxing his memory, he guided the old man down the left branch of the corridor.
As they turned at a T intersection, a hulking shape stepped directly into their path. Trip saw the golden gleam of the man’s polished metal helmet a split second before he raised his weapon and shouted “Halt!”
Trip fired, and his disruptor burned a ragged hole in the other man’s torso. He crumpled to the floor in flames, just as Phuong had.
As he hustled Ehrehin past the charred and stinking corpse, he hoped that the old man hadn’t noticed that the dead man was not attired in quite the same manner as Ch’uihv’s men.
He had been wearing what Trip guessed was a regular Romulan military uniform.
Looks like I’m fighting on Ch’uihv’s side after all, whether I like it or not, Trip thought grimly as he and Ehrehin made haste back toward the Ejhoi Ormiin’s hangar area—with what sounded like all the hordes of hell drawing near them, front and rear.
Thirty-Five
Friday, February 21, 2155
RomulanTransport Vessel T’Lluadh
THE ROMULAN SHROUD had evidently been established to prevent Enterprise from removing anyone from the transport ship. As Malcolm Reed materialized in a darkened chamber, he rejoiced that the shroud apparently hadn’t been devised to keep anyone from beaming in. He turned to check on the rest of the boarding party.
Since the lights that flanked his faceplate were turned off, Malcolm activated the night-vision capabilities built into his helmet’s visor. Although he couldn’t see their expressions, or even facial details, he could tell from body language that the other members of the team—Commander T’Pol, MACO Corporals Hideaki Chang and Meredith Peruzzi, as well as Shran and Theras—had arrived safely. On Enterprise, they’d hurriedly donned environmental suits against the possibility of hull breaches or other dangers, and to facilitate scrambled communications that with a little luck wouldn’t be overheard by the Romulans. Like Malcolm, they had kept their suit’s lamps dark, operating in stealth mode.
Each team member carried a set of twenty transponders, devices designed to enhance the transporter’s ability to establish a positive lock, even in the presence of signal jamming, or countermeasures such as the Romulan shroud. They’d brought three times as many of the small devices as they knew they needed, just in case the team got separated—or worse. Everyone but Theras also carried a phase pistol, set for heavy stun. As on Rigel X, Malcolm had double-checked that Shran’s pistol was locked on that setting just before the team had beamed over.
All that was missing was an open channel back to Enterprise, which the Romulans’ shroud appeared to have made impossible at the moment; fortunately, the signals sent by the transponders appeared to be strong enough to breach the Romulans’ security barrier and to permit everyone, rescuers and rescuees alike, to be beamed safely back to Enterprise once the devices were distributed.
“I can hear them,” Theras said over the com unit in his helmet. “They’re so very frightened.”
“I can feel Jhamel,” Shran said. “She’s alive.”
Chang moved to the door, his weapon raised. Seen through the night-vision feature in Malcolm’s helmet, the MACO appeared as a dark green silhouette set against a backdrop of slightly lighter green. Chang pried the door open slowly with one gloved hand, then pushed it into its wall r
ecess with his foot. Peruzzi crouched to the side by the door, her weapon’s barrel tilted upward.
Malcolm saw people stumbling through the hallways, but couldn’t quite tell who or what they were. Their silhouettes were completely humanoid, but lacked antennae, so he was certain they weren’t Aenar. Romulans, then, he thought as he tried to take a scanner reading of the crew, only to discover that the Romulan shroud was obscuring his scan.
As he signaled the team to move out into the corridor, a large figure stepped into the room, his hands groping along the wall for purchase. Before either of the MACOs could respond, Shran had savagely smashed his pistol into the side of the figure’s head. As it crumpled to the ground, Shran muttered some phrase that Reed imagined to be a pungent Andorian curse.
They edged into the corridor, carefully dodging the shadowy figures, half a dozen of whom were moving along the walls. Reed found the situation almost surreal, as if he were caught in a dream in which no one had faces except for him.
“They’re in the chamber down there,” Theras said, pointing down a second corridor. “I’ve just made telepathic contact with Lissan. She’s been drugged to keep her telepathy in check, as have all the others.”
“Just as you anticipated,” Reed said. “But it’s a lucky turn for us that the Romulans aren’t keeping them so comatose that you can’t reach them at all.”
“Still, none of the Aenar minds I’m sensing are entirely lucid. I will do my best to explain to Lissan that we’re coming to rescue them. Perhaps she can keep the others calm, and prepare them for us.”
“Thank Uzaveh you’re finally good for something,” Shran said acidly.
Instinctively, Reed looked over at the Andorian, then realized that even if Shran could see his glare of disapproval, he wouldn’t have cared anyway. Still, Shran’s unfairness rankled him. After all, Theras had asked to come along on this mission, insisting—perhaps because he had something to prove to Shran—that his telepathy could prove indispensable to the rescue effort. Although Reed himself had wanted to leave Theras behind, he now felt that Captain Archer had been correct in deciding to include him on the boarding team.
