by Star Trek
“In his last moments, he told me,” Jhamel said, moving very gently back inside his mind.
He looked down at her, aware that his antennae had been unconsciously mimicking the movements of hers. “Told you what?” he asked.
“You are a thaan. Your genetics are compatible with those of our shelthreth . He gave us his blessing.”
Shran felt the wind rush out of his lungs in one great whoosh, and he sat down quickly at the edge of the biobed.
“Are you…are you asking me to join with the three of you? To bond?”
He couldn’t believe he was allowing himself to think these words in Jhamel’s presence, much less say them out loud. In all his years, he had never entered a shelthreth quad, having devoted himself instead to his homeworld’s defense. His relationship with Talas, a similarly isolated soul, had been the most intimate one of his life, even though they both had known that without another pair of compatible bondmates, procreation—as well as social acceptance on Andoria—would forever be denied them.
“Yes. If you will have us,” Jhamel said, a hint of apprehension in her voice.
Shran bent over and nuzzled his forehead to hers, their antennae wrapping around each other.
He whispered in her ear.
“Yes. If the three of you can stand me.”
Forty-Two
Friday, February 21, 2155
Romulan space
“ALL FLOW REGULATORS are finally showing orange,” Ehrehin said, his breath slightly fogging up his faceplate as he pulled the hydrospanner out of the open relay-circuitry drawer located near his booted feet. “Try it again now.”
Orange is good, Trip thought, reminding himself yet again that the instrumentation on Romulan ships differed from that of Earth vessels in sometimes unsettling ways.
“It’s now or never,” Trip said, glancing nervously down at the console’s tactical display, which showed that what they’d both assumed was Valdore’s lead ship was almost right on top of them, with a trio of other pursuers—the first vessel had evidently summoned rein-forcements—trailing very close behind. The closest of these ships could drop out of warp at any moment, perhaps with Trip’s vessel already within range of its weapons.
Trip held his breath and engaged the throttle lever, pulling it slowly and deliberately toward him so as not to overload it.
The starfield ahead of the ship immediately smeared and turned slightly blue. The deck plates vibrated and shuddered violently before quickly settling down to a familiar subaural frequency that Trip supposed reassured warp engineers all across the galaxy.
Once the velocity gauge had finished climbing back to where it was before the engines had failed, Trip turned toward Ehrehin and said, “Think maybe you can spare a moment to help me with our subspace transmitter?”
The elderly scientist stared at him inscrutably, and Trip thought he saw the slightest of smiles flicker across his face. He hoped it wasn’t just a trick of the starlight he saw reflected in the man’s helmet.
Although the gap between pursuer and pursued remained too narrow for comfort, Trip was relieved to note that Valdore’s ships—there were still four in all—were no longer gaining on them. If we don’t have any more engine trouble between here and home, he thought with no small amount of trepidation, we both might actually get out of this alive.
Trip was also thankful for another uncanny stroke of luck: the damage the subspace transceiver had sustained hadn’t been nearly as serious as he had feared. Nevertheless, getting the thing back into operational condition—with audio only, at that—had involved more than a little jury-rigging and swearing, as well as the diversion of precious power reserves that he was loath to divert from the drive systems while Admiral Valdore’s forces were still nipping at their heels.
But there was no alternative. He had to send a warning about the specifics of the coming attack on Coridan Prime, even if doing so landed both him and Ehrehin right back in Valdore’s lap.
Trip patched an optical cable that led from his suit’s com system into the microphone/speaker jack he had just discovered on his pilot’s console. He then punched in a particular subspace audio frequency and boosted the gain as much as he dared. At that moment, he noticed Ehrehin watching him from the copilot’s station, his once rheumy eyes now brimming with undisguised, almost youthful curiosity.
“Whom are you contacting?” the old man asked, apparently almost succumbing to his old habit of addressing Trip as Cunaehr before catching himself and changing his next utterance to “Trip.”
Trip smiled at the scientist. “I’m calling the one man who’ll do whatever it takes to help us.”
Touching the control on his chest that opened his helmet microphone, he said, “Lazarus to Captain Archer of Enterprise, Priority One and Coded. This is Lazarus, calling Captain Jonathan Archer….”
Forty-Three
Friday, February 21, 2155
Enterprise NX-01
“CAPTAIN, I HAVE A PRIORITY audio communication for you,” Hoshi Sato said, swiveling in her chair and touching the com device she sometimes wore clipped to her ear.
Archer looked over to her, his attention diverted from the padd onto which he’d begun entering his speech. After the events of this week, he didn’t know if he’d even be allowed to present it at the Coalition Compact ceremony, but he wanted it to be ready nonetheless. “Who’s the message from, Hoshi?”
“Your ears only, sir.” She frowned slightly. “The only other word in the subspace burst is the name Lazarus.”
Archer immediately stood and moved toward his ready room. “I’ll take it in here,” he said.
Trip’s alive, he thought, trying hard to stifle a big grin as he breezed past several of the bridge crew. He hoped that the message would contain good news, perhaps with the engineer telling them he was ready to come in from the cold of his spy mission. He slid into his chair in the ready room and tapped the console on the desk in front of him.
“Lazarus to Captain Archer of Enterprise,” the voice said over the speakers. The sound was full of static, and distorted slightly, but it was undeniably Trip’s voice.
“Archer here. It’s good to hear your voice. You ready to come home?”
“Thanks, Captain, but not quite yet. There’s been a whole mess of complications.”
“Are you all right?” Archer asked, frowning with concern as he leaned forward. He wished there was a visual component to the message, so that he could see his old friend’s face again.
“I’m okay, but Coridan’s in trouble. The Romulans are definitely targeting the planet. But it doesn’t seem to be an invasion. It’s more of an annihilation.”
Archer was stunned. “You’re sure about this?”
“Absolutely. Some time in the next seventy-two hours, they’re striking Coridan. You’ve got to warn them.”
“Any idea how they’ll attack?”
“No, sir. What I—” the rest of Trip’s reply was cut off in static.
Archer hit the com button. “Hoshi, I’ve lost the signal. Boost our reception.”
“Aye, sir,” Hoshi said.
The wait for Trip’s signal to be regained was torture. Archer’s mind reeled with the news. The annihilation of Coridan in the next seventy-two hours. The thought was ghastly almost beyond imagination.
“I can’t reestablish the signal,” Hoshi said. “Whoever it was, they’ll have to start sending to us again.”
“Okay, thank you.” Archer couldn’t wait any longer. He knew that he had to warn the Coridanites, and inform his superiors on Earth. “Hoshi, raise the highest Coridan government official you can, and pipe them onto my screen.”
While he waited to speak to the Coridanite government, he tapped in the emergency code to contact Admiral Gardner on Earth. At the moment it was 4:50 A.M. Pacific time on Earth, but the news he’d just received certainly qualified as an emergency.
Archer’s desktop screen jumped to life as a weary Gardner appeared on it, yawning as he pulled on a robe. A
rcher saw the ready light that Hoshi had sent from the bridge, and his finger hovered over the appropriate button.
“This had better be damned important, Captain,” Gardner said grumpily. “I have some crucial meetings first thing in the morning.”
“It’s vitally important,” Archer said. He tapped the button, and the screen split in two. Half of the screen now showed the face of a Coridan official, someone in the diplomatic corps, Archer thought, judging from the Coridanite’s ceremonial mask. “Admiral Gardner, I’ve patched us in on a conference transmission with the Coridan official…” His voice trailed off.
“Legate Hanshev,” the Coridanite said. It sounded like a female voice, but Archer couldn’t be certain that the mask wasn’t electronically altering Hanshev’s speech.
Gardner composed himself quickly, his bearing changing almost instantly. “All right, Captain Archer. You have our attention.”
Time to put on my best game, Archer thought. “We have been given intelligence indicating that the Romulans are planning some kind of strike against Coridan in the next seventy-two hours. We’ve been told that this will not be an invasion, but rather an attempt to destroy as much of the planet and its resources as possible.”
The Coridanite’s face was completely hidden behind the inhuman-looking mask, but her body language clearly registered shock. “How did you come upon this information?”
“We had heard rumors of such an attack being planned,” Archer said. “I aided in arrangements to send…trustworthy people to investigate the rumors firsthand.” He leaned forward, trying to look as serious as he could. “Let me be plain. I trust the person who gathered this information implicitly. I would stake my life on the truthfulness of this person’s data.”
Gardner seemed to be gritting his teeth, and his eyebrows had both furrowed down into a deep scowl. “And what are you proposing to do about this, Captain Archer?”
“Well, my immediate step was to contact you both,” Archer said. “This will give Coridan Prime’s government as much time as possible to evacuate its people, or mount an attack, or erect defenses. I’d recommend all three. Secondly, I request permission to divert Enterprise to the Coridan system immediately. Perhaps we can help Coridan Prime stop this attack, or at least provide support for Coridan’s defense and evacuation efforts.”
Gardner’s eyes narrowed. “We need you back here at Earth, Captain. I thought I had made that crystal clear before.”
Archer pushed his temper down. “That was when all I had was rumors. We now know them to be facts.”
“You believe them to be facts,” Gardner said, his voice rising in volume.
Before Archer could argue his point further, the Coridanite legate spoke again. “Admiral, I believe your captain’s words. We, too, have our sources, and the threat from the Romulans has been an ongoing concern for some time. Now, it would appear that the threat is finally imminent.
“As to your offer of aid, Captain, while it is generous, I believe that there isn’t anything further you can do that our own ships cannot,” Hanshev said. “If your superior says you’re needed on your own homeworld, I will release you from your promise to assist us.”
Archer’s mouth dropped open. He knew that the Coridanites were an intensely private and proud people, but refusing aid during such a time of crisis seemed beyond the pale.
“Do you have any further information that might aid the Coridanites?” Gardner asked, a slight smile hidden underneath the edges of his salt-and-pepper mustache. “Or should we allow them to get on to the vitally important tasks ahead of them, while you fulfill your own mission?”
Inwardly, Archer was seething, but he swallowed his anger. “That’s all the information I have. Seventy-two hours.”
“I thank you for your warning and your offer,” Legate Hanshev said, bowing his head slightly. “We will make the best possible use of your warning.” The Coridanite’s image disappeared, allowing Gardner’s to take up the entirety of the screen’s frame once again.
“That would have been an excellent play, if it had worked, Captain,” Gardner said, his expression returning to its earlier fury.
“That was no ‘play,’ sir, it was—”
“It was an attempt to circumvent my direct orders!” Gardner shouted, interrupting him.
Archer, his tone dangerously close to insubordination, countered, “People’s lives will be lost. War is on its way.”
Gardner glared at him for a moment, then finally spoke. “The Coridanites don’t want your help. And you are due back on Earth.”
On the screen, the admiral lifted his hand, clearly ready to end the communication, but paused just before doing so. “Let me make one thing clear, Captain. This stunt you just pulled…if anything remotely similar ever happens again, I’ll have you cashiered out of the fleet.”
The screen went black for a moment before the Starfleet logo reappeared.
Well, that didn’t go all that well, Archer thought, his ire up and his ego bruised. He wished for a moment that Porthos were here beside him, instead of in his quarters. He could use some nonjudgmental canine company right about now.
Although his mind whirled with emotions and questions, he seemed to fixate on one thing: No matter how much Coridan Prime might not want Enterprise’s assistance, Archer felt that they could stop the oncoming devastation threatened by the Romulan attack.
But it all depends on exactly how I decide to spend the next seventy-two hours, Archer thought. Gardner’s orders notwithstanding.
The door chime sounded, startling Archer out of his unhappy reverie. He pressed the comm button on his desk.
“Come in.”
The door slid open with a quiet hiss. T’Pol stood in the threshold, her hands behind her back and head tipped inquisitively. The intensity of her gaze, however, far exceeded mere curiosity.
She knows I’ve been keeping her out of the loop, Archer thought as she stepped inside the ready room as the door closed behind her. A frisson of guilt clutched at his heart as Archer considered how much he had kept from her. The fact that circumstances justified his secrecy made him feel a little better about having misled a first officer who had served him so loyally for the past nearly four years.
She raised an eyebrow. “‘Lazarus,’ Captain?”
Archer rose from behind his desk. Deciding that she deserved to know as much of the truth as possible, he said, “It’s the code name of a covert intelligence source working inside Romulan space. One that I trust implicitly.”
“Indeed. And I presume from the raised voices I heard through the door that this source has just imparted some rather important information.”
Her remark rattled Archer, until he reminded himself of the uncanny acuteness of Vulcan hearing—and that her frankly inquisitive demeanor meant that she probably hadn’t actually heard any of the details of the exchanges he’d just shared with Legate Hanshev and Admiral Gardner.
Speaking in quiet, even tones, he brought her up to date about the doom that now hung suspended, like some cosmic sword of Damocles, over Cordian Prime.
T’Pol sat on the low sofa near his desk, her back ramrod-straight as she stared pensively through the ready room’s viewport at the warp-smeared stars beyond. Archer remained standing, watching her uneasily.
“Seventy-two hours,” she said finally, her gaze remaining light-years away as she continued to consider the ramifications.
He nodded. “More or less.”
“And neither Admiral Gardner nor Legate Hanshev will sanction our involvement in trying to prevent it.”
He chuckled, but without any real humor. “That’s a wonderfully understated Vulcan way of summing up the situation.”
Her only reaction to his good-natured jibe was to turn away from the stars and fix her gaze upon his.
“What are you planning to do, Captain?” she said.
He sighed. “That depends on what my exact options really are. How soon can we reach Cordian Prime at maximum warp?”
“Approximately forty-nine hours.” Her answer revealed that she, too, had been giving the subject of Coridan Prime a great deal of thought ever since it had first come up eleven days earlier.
“So I might actually be able to do something to stop this,” he said, cautiously allowing a small flame of hope to kindle itself in his breast. “Assuming that the Romulan attack arrives later rather than sooner, that is.”
“And also assuming that Enterprise can successfully locate and intercept the attacker. Of course, in order even to make the attempt you will have to violate Admiral Gardner’s direct orders. For the third time, I believe.”
“I wasn’t keeping score,” Archer said. He could see now that he really had no choice at all, or at least no good ones. Meekly following Gardner’s orders simply wasn’t an option. His career in Starfleet was important to him, but it couldn’t compare to the billions of lives that would be forfeited should the Romulan attack succeed.
Archer wished fervently that Trip was at his side right now. It was only after his chief engineer’s departure that he had begun to appreciate how reliant he’d become upon his old friend, particularly when truly difficult decisions loomed directly ahead.
Then he glanced at T’Pol’s Starfleet-blue collar, where three bright commander’s pips glinted beneath the ready room’s white overhead lighting.
He looked up into her eyes, which were set into an attentive yet inscrutable Vulcan mask.
“What do you think I should do, T’Pol?”
Her answer came after only a moment’s hesitation. “While there’s still any chance at all of success, I believe you should do what you’ve more than likely intended to do since before this conversation even began.”
Archer felt a grin begin to spread itself slowly across his face. “That’s the ‘logical’ decision you’d make if you were in my place?”
Something not quite identifiable disturbed the tranquil surface of her features, like a tiny pebble tossed into a still pond. “Captain, some things are…larger than logic.”
