by Star Trek
“Sorry to have startled you, Commander,” Harris said.
Trip shook his head. “Nothing much really startles me these days.”
“I suppose not.” Harris chuckled again. “I’m eager to read your report. Coridan notwithstanding, I trust congratulations are in order for a job well done?”
“You tell me, Harris,” Trip said as he handed Harris a small cylindrical object. “For starters, here’s the data rod Phuong was carrying.”
Trip’s eyes had adjusted well enough to the darkness to see the wariness taking shape on Harris’s face. “Was carrying?” the spymaster said.
“When the Romulans killed him,” Trip said, nodding. “I’m sorry to have to bring you such bad news.”
“I trust you also have some better news, Commander. Please tell me you made Phuong’s sacrifice mean something.” The wariness in Harris’s expression had given way to unmistakable grief, making Trip regret having broken the news of Phuong’s death so bluntly.
Trip felt that grief quite keenly as well, having come to regard Phuong as a comrade-in-arms—and now one that had fallen in a battle that he, Trip, had survived, at no small cost in terms of self-recrimination. Trip supposed he would never stop asking himself if he could have done more to save Phuong.
“I owe him at least that much,” Trip said at length. “I have good reason to believe that the Romulans won’t succeed in perfecting Doctor Ehrehin’s warp-seven drive anytime soon. Here are the details.” He handed Harris a second data rod.
“Were you able to bring Ehrehin to Earth?” Harris wanted to know. “Or did you have to kill him?”
Trip shook his head. “Neither.”
Harris’s scowl pierced the darkness. “Then how can you have ‘good reason’ to believe anything, Commander?”
Trip responded with a wry smile. “I guess you had to have been there, Harris. You see, we discovered a huge gap in our intelligence about the Romulans. Starting with this.” He lowered the hood of his robe, turning his head so that Harris could get a good look at his elegantly pointed ears and gracefully upswept eyebrows.
Harris gasped, though he was clearly trying to contain his astonishment. “My God. The Adigeon surgeons made you look like a Vulcan.”
Trip nodded. “But only because Romulans and Vulcans are ‘kissing cousins,’ so to speak. I know, it surprised hell out of me and Phuong, too. Of course, we’re going to have to keep this under our hats.”
“Of course, Commander. This will have to become one of the bureau’s most closely guarded secrets. If this were to become public knowledge, it would probably shred the Coalition Compact.” Harris paused, sighing, evidently still reeling from what he’d just learned. Then he fixed Trip with a hard gaze, like a pair of searchlights lancing through the gloom. “We are both going to have to work harder than ever to manage the Romulan problem now.”
“We,” Trip thought. As if my staying on this Romulan thing has already been decided.
Trip found it impossible to avoid making an accusation. “You never expected my ‘death’ to be temporary, did you, Harris?”
The spymaster paused, sighed again, then answered with surprising candor. “No, Commander, you’re wrong. I expected your demise to be entirely temporary—unless, of course, you had gotten yourself killed by the Romulans, which you have to admit wasn’t all that unlikely a prospect, especially on one’s first covert assignment. What I didn’t expect was that, of the two of you, Tinh Hoc Phuong would be the one to die.”
To hell with this, Trip thought, and very nearly began walking away. “Thanks for that ringing vote of confidence in my abilities, Harris.”
“You’ve just proven your abilities, Commander—by surviving, just the way you always did when you kept Enterprise up and running out on the galactic frontier. And if you’ve really managed to short-circuit the Romulans’ warp-seven drive the way you say you have, then you’ve accomplished in just a couple of weeks what would probably have taken Phuong’s covert ops at least as many months to pull off. On top of that, the Coalition wouldn’t even have known about the suicide attack against Coridan Prime if not for your warnings, which we received as well. With Phuong dead, the bureau—and Earth—will need your abilities more than ever if we’re to keep the Romulans from pulling ahead of us technologically.”
“I agree,” Trip said. “But I think I ought to start by getting my ears bobbed and heading out to Coridan Prime to see about getting one of their warp-seven ships to Earth. Beat the Romulans to the punch, just in case I turn out to be wrong about Ehrehin.”
Harris shook his head. “We already have a number of disguised covert operatives working on just that, Commander, all of them well versed in the intricacies of Coridanite culture, politics, and technology. To be frank, in spite of all their expertise, I’m not all that hopeful for their chances of success, given the very thorough job the Romulans did when they wrecked Coridan’s shipyards.”
Trip didn’t particularly like the drift of the conversation. “You’re saying you want to send me back to where I just came from—where I damned near died—because I’m the only one who’s already dressed for the part?”
Harris seemed not to notice Trip’s unhappy tone. “There’s no better candidate, now that Phuong is dead. We need you back inside the Romulan sphere of influence, Commander, cultivating more permanent sources of humanoid intel for us there. However successful you might have been in monkey-wrenching Doctor Ehrehin’s warp-seven program—and regardless of the outcome of our Coridan ops—the Romulan Star Empire isn’t going to stop trying to outdo us in the race for better tactical technology or faster engines. And whether the Coalition members want to believe it or not, the Coridan disaster was the first step toward war.”
He paused, letting the words sink in a bit before continuing. “So can we count on you for just one more mission among the Romulans, Commander? And more importantly: Can Earth and the rest of the Coalition count on you?”
“You need me to stay dead,” Trip stated. The idea was very nearly unbearable.
“Only for a while, Commander. A year or two, perhaps. Our most pessimistic experts foresee perhaps five years of Romulan conflict at the very outside.”
Five years of my life, if my life lasts that long, Trip thought grimly. Against the safety of my planet, and everyone I love.
Trip wanted nothing more than to go back to his family. To T’Pol. To his old life aboard Enterprise. To reassure everyone he cared about that he was all right. And to remain for the rest of his days out of the shadows where he now dwelled.
But he also knew that he couldn’t escape his duty to his home planet. His duty to his dead sister, and to the millions of others who had been summarily slain because nobody had seen an alien threat coming out of the clear blue sky until after it was too late.
His duty to all the teeming billions of innocents on Vulcan, on Tellar, on Andoria—and on Earth—who could die just as those slain by the Xindi had died. Just as innumerable Coridanites had been murdered by the Romulans.
If he were to fail to act.
“All right,” Trip said at length.
The spymaster smiled and shook his hand, then placed another data rod squarely in Trip’s palm. “Outstanding, Commander. Here are the mission details, biometrically coded so that only you can read the data. You will, of course, have access to all of the bureau’s resources while you are in our sphere of influence. But you will also, of course, be entirely on your own if you should be captured while operating within Romulan space.”
Trip nodded, feeling as though he had just signed a pact with the devil himself. Maybe he had. But what was his alternative?
“I know the drill, Harris.”
“You’ll be leaving on a civilian transport bound for Vulcan on Thursday morning. Once on Vulcan, you’ll catch a Rigelian freighter for the next leg of your voyage. The details, along with the documents and background you’ll need to support your new undercover identities, are all provided on the data rod.”
&n
bsp; Before melting back into the shadows, Harris added, “Make the most of the time between now and your departure date, Commander.”
As he exited the alley and began retracing his steps along Grant Avenue’s fog-slicked sidewalks back toward his hotel, Trip decided that he would do precisely what Harris had suggested. Though maybe not quite in the way he anticipated.
Forty-Nine
Wednesday, March 5, 2155
Candlestick Park, San Francisco
ARCHER DIDN’T MUCH LIKE the small dressing room that Nathan Samuels’ people had issued him. Located near the open-air center of the ancient public auditorium, the little chamber had walls constructed of what appeared to be old cinder blocks that had been repainted countless times over the centuries, and the room felt paradoxically cold and drafty in spite of the alleged presence of one of the finest environmental control systems currently available. According to local legend, the entire stadium had always been cold and drafty, even in the dog days of summer nearly two centuries ago when one of the facility’s main uses had been for the exhibition of the now sadly defunct sport of baseball.
The cursor on the padd he’d set down on the dressing room table blinked at him mockingly, as though the device were aware that he was having an extraordinarily difficult time making the final revisions to his speech. He knew, of course, that he should have ceased tinkering with it at least a day or two ago, but he felt insecure enough as a public speaker—in spite of Malcolm’s having sung the praises of his extemporaneous speechifying—to feel a continuous need to edit and revise the words he’d already written and rewritten.
Those words were, after all, going to be delivered live before an audience of nearly one hundred thousand humans and assorted other sentients from across the sector and beyond, to say nothing of the billions who would view the day’s ceremonies remotely from their various homeworlds. All of them expected to see history made when the Coalition Compact was finally signed later this afternoon by the assembled representatives of four diverse worlds.
Archer started when he heard a sharp knock against the dressing room door, then forced his jangled nerves back under control. Rising from his seat once he felt reasonably composed, he turned to face the door.
“Come.”
The old-fashioned door, doubtless centuries old, swung open on its steel hinges and admitted a characteristically stoic T’Pol. Archer glanced down at her right hand, from which dangled a small suitcase; he knew it contained a small cache of personal effects that was bound for Trip’s parents. Like T’Pol, they had been given no alternative to believing the lie to which Archer had been a party. Once again, guilt clutched at his heart, though he knew he had no choice other than to endure it in silence. He noted that T’Pol was holding the case’s handle gingerly rather than squeezing it in a death grip that might have shattered it. Not for the first time, he envied her Vulcan composure, though he couldn’t help but wonder how much the effort was costing her.
T’Pol quickly looked him up and down, then raised a critical eyebrow. “I’m gratified to see that you are already wearing your dress uniform, Captain. However, I would have recommended that you don it while the room’s lights were activated.”
Archer sighed and tugged at the buttons that fastened the uniform’s somewhat constricting white collar. “Very funny, T’Pol.” He turned toward the mirror, from which a very tired and nervous-looking man stared back. “It’s not like I wear one of these every day, you know.”
“Indeed.”
“Does it really look that bad?” He turned back toward her.
She set the suitcase down and approached him. “Stand still,” she said as he silently endured the indignity of allowing her to finish straightening his slightly skewed collar. Just as she finished, her communicator beeped, and she backed up a few paces to take the incoming message.
Archer retrieved his padd and returned his attention to its display while fervently wishing that he’d stayed in his quarters aboard Enterprise to finish preparing his speech. The comforting presence of Porthos, as well as the absence of a multitude of hero-worshipers just outside his door, would have gone a long way toward calming his frayed nerves. And the ever-loyal beagle wouldn’t have even considered offering him any unsolicited sartorial critiques.
He doubly regretted having left the ship after he heard T’Pol’s next utterance: “Captain, Commander Tucker’s parents have just arrived.”
Charles Anthony Tucker, Jr., had always been tall and broad in the shoulders, not at all given to putting on excess weight. But after Lizzie’s unexpected death nearly two years earlier, his frame had become much sparer, almost gaunt. Since he hadn’t wanted to look as though his apparel had come from a tent and awning company, he’d had to buy all new clothes a few months after the Xindi attack.
Today he felt certain that he’d soon have to replace his entire wardrobe yet again.
During their nearly four decades of marriage, Charles’s wife, Elaine, frequently told him that he had the face of a man who loved to laugh. He wished he could still be that man, if only for her. If he could, then perhaps he might be able to do something about the deep lines of pain and stress that stood out in sharp relief across Elaine’s once smooth and porcelain-like features.
But Charles had never felt less like laughing than he did today. He and Elaine had come to Candlestick Auditorium, after all, essentially to bury the younger of their two sons—even though there was, of course, no actual body to bury, thanks to the “burial in space” clause Trip had written into his will.
Just as there had been nothing to bury after Trip’s sister Lizzie had been at the wrong place at the wrong time when those damned Xindi had come calling, dealing death from a calm blue springtime sky….
Charles vainly forced himself to consider that much younger version of himself who so loved to laugh. But instead, all he could really focus on was how much that man had lost during the past couple of years. Thank goodness we still have Albert, he told himself, though the thought did little to assuage his grief. Albert had declined Archer’s invitation to meet with him today, explaining that he preferred to stay away from the day’s ceremonies. He’d said he preferred to grieve in his own way, with his husband, Miguel, and their own small nucleus of friends and loved ones. Charles looked forward to seeing their only surviving child again soon, but wished with all his heart that the circumstances could have been different.
He entered the narrow but brightly illuminated conference room alongside Elaine, who gripped her small handbag so hard that her knuckles whitened until they made a perfect contrast with her somber black dress. They both continued standing as they faced the man who had guided them through the auditorium’s vast backstage labyrinth, the sympathetic-looking male Denobulan who had identified himself as Phlox, the chief medical officer on Enterprise—and as one of Trip’s closest friends. The Denobulan’s startlingly blue eyes gleamed with unshed tears, making him appear so distraught that Charles’s heart went out to him.
“I’m sure you did everything you could to save him, Doctor,” Elaine said, just as Charles was about to say something very similar. He hoped that the doctor would at least take whatever comfort he could from their absolution.
“Thank you, Mrs. Tucker,” said Phlox, though he suddenly looked even more distraught than he had before. “But when you’ve treated, saved, and lost as many patients as I have…” He interrupted himself briefly, as though trying to gather his thoughts, or perhaps reining himself in for fear of saying too much. After taking a deep breath that he let out almost as a sigh, he resumed: “Well, let’s just say that no physician can ever be completely above second-guessing himself—particularly if the patient is someone to whom the doctor feels close.”
The room’s single door opened again, admitting a man and a woman, both of them displaying somber expressions. The latter was a tall, attractive Vulcan dressed unexpectedly in a Starfleet uniform; a neatly aligned trio of rectangular rank bars on her collar identified her as a commander. T
he Vulcan woman clutched a small suitcase at her side.
Commander T’Pol, Charles thought, recalling her image from numerous news vids, as well as the many times Trip had mentioned her during his correspondences home. Although there were many things, of course, that his son had left unsaid, Charles always had the impression that Trip had been rather sweet on T’Pol, or perhaps vice versa. When the news services reported that the terrorist John Frederick Paxton had created a human-Vulcan hybrid infant using DNA from both Trip and T’Pol, Charles had found his dashed dreams of grandfatherhood suddenly rekindled, which surprised him after the terrible blow Lizzie’s death had dealt the whole family. Of course, fate had quashed those hopes with finality when it decided to take Trip from them as well as Lizzie.
Charles immediately recognized the grim-faced, somewhat taller human standing beside T’Pol as Jonny Archer, to whom Trip had first introduced both him and Elaine some twenty years earlier, though neither Charles nor Elaine had seen him very much at all during most of the last decade or so. Though he was smartly turned out in a formal blue-and-white Starfleet dress uniform, the captain seemed to have aged quite a bit since he’d last seen his face on the compic, about two weeks ago. Charles supposed that between the Xindi crisis he had already endured, the recent Coridan tragedy, and the large role the media had credited him with in the formation of the Coalition of Planets, this man must almost literally be carrying the weight of entire worlds upon his wide shoulders.
Archer extended his right hand, and Charles shook it numbly as Phlox began making introductions all around. Then Charles tried to make the Vulcan hand sign for T’Pol in lieu of a handshake—he was proud that he understood at least that much about Vulcan culture—but gave up when he realized that the gesture was slightly beyond his ability.
