by Dave Stern
The captain found Doctor Phlox and introduced the two physicians, and then found Lieutenant Covay, who had commanded the convoy on its way from Rava, and apologized for the treatment he’d given him. He found D.O. and thanked her for watching over the crew. Chief Lee, Carstairs, O’Bannon—he shook hands, it seemed, with every member of his crew.
“Sir?”
Ensign Dwight stood before him, looking much improved from the last time the captain had laid eyes on him. Archer told him so.
“Feeling better too, sir. Except—” Dwight held up a bowl in front of him at arm’s length, an expression of profound disgust on his face. “What is this stuff?”
It was the food Trant had supplied for them—some sort of tasteless mush that was, nonetheless, safe for them to eat. Archer felt the same way about it as Dwight obviously did. One taste, and he’d added another item to his list of reasons to find Enterprise as quickly as possible: the mess—or more specifically, the food in it.
“Think of it as medicine, Ensign. Or a bowl full of vitamins.”
Dwight grimaced again. “I’d rather not think about it at all.”
“You don’t have a choice, I’m afraid.”
The ensign sighed. “Yes, sir.”
Dwight took his bowl and went to sit along the far wall of the bay, where Makandros’s soldiers had set up tables and benches for the new arrivals. Archer looked for T’Pol, hoping to discuss his idea for requesting a single ship with her, but she was nowhere to be found. He scanned the bay, looking for Covay or Briatt, hopeful that one of them might be able to get him in to see Makandros—
And his eyes fell on Phlox and Trant, standing in front of a table piled high with the masks Eclipse’s physician had been giving out. The two of them were in the middle of what looked to be an argument.
Archer heard a little of it as he strode across the bay toward them.
“—a precaution, more than a necessity,” Trant was saying.
“Such precautions, I believe, would be unnecessary if optimum sanitary conditions were maintained aboard your ship, Doctor. Such practices are the building blocks—the foundation, if you will—of any modern medical treatment,” Phlox said.
“I understand that, Doctor.”
“But—” Phlox looked genuinely puzzled. “By your own admission, your ship is contaminated with the very substances that our crew is allergic to. What is your explanation for that, Doctor?”
“My explanation, Doctor,” Trant said, visibly trying to keep control of her temper, “is that Eclipse, a ship originally built for a crew of sixty miners, hastily refitted as a warship to carry approximately two hundred soldiers, now carries almost four hundred passengers. It is simply not possible to maintain a pristine—”
“Ah.” Phlox smiled. “Not pristine, Doctor. Sanitary.”
Trant looked angry enough to spit nails.
Archer cleared his throat. “Doctors, is there a problem?”
“No,” Phlox said. “We were simply discussing hygienic practices aboard Eclipse.”
Trant reared back, ready to respond in a way that Archer sensed would be counterproductive…at the very least.
“Let’s all take a deep breath,” the captain said. “Every one of us has been operating under very, very stressful conditions these last few weeks.”
Trant nodded. “You’re right, Captain. That’s worth keeping in mind.”
“Most certainly,” Phlox said, smiling at Trant. “In which regard, I must congratulate you, Doctor, on your successful diagnosis of the problem: the discovery that we were dealing with a problem at the molecular level. Most resourceful. Intuitive. I would have been hard-pressed to perform a similar analysis under the same conditions.”
Trant nodded grudgingly. “I’m sure you would have done just fine.”
“Perhaps. Irrelevant. What is relevant, however, is the fact that now that I am aware of the problem, I may have a solution.”
Trant frowned. “A solution? What do you mean?”
“A way to facilitate digestion of the particular protein we’re discussing. Some study will be required, of course—perhaps even a degree of experimentation—”
“Hold it.” This time it was Archer’s turn to interrupt. “Are you saying you can find a way to keep us from getting sick while we’re here?”
“Yes, sir. As long as we maintain a sufficiently hygienic environment.”
Trant looked utterly dumbfounded—too surprised, Archer noticed, to realize that Phlox had brought the conversation around full circle to sanitary practices again.
“How?” she asked. “How in the world can you do that?”
“The Negattan aquaflyer,” Phlox said. “It secretes stereoisomeric protein compounds through a rather unique digestive process.”
“The what?” Trant looked at Archer. He just shook his head.
“The Negattan aquaflyer. A study of the enzymes it uses to facilitate digestion should—to borrow Commander Tucker’s terminology—enable us to reverse-engineer the process.”
Archer could only smile.
“Get on it then, Doctor.”
“Of course. As soon as we can obtain a Negattan aquaflyer.”
Trant frowned. “Where’s Negatta?”
Before Archer could respond, someone tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned and saw Colonel Briatt, flanked by two soldiers.
“General Makandros would like to see you,” she said.
“Good. I’d like to see him too,” Archer said.
Leaving the two doctors to deal with the question of Negatta’s whereabouts—if it even existed in this universe, he thought wryly—Archer followed Briatt and the guards to the general’s cabin. Makandros was alone, seated behind a desk.
“Captain, please.” Makandros indicated a chair.
Archer sat.
“I’m afraid I don’t have much time to spare at the moment, so forgive me for speaking bluntly. Those ships you asked for—”
“You can’t spare them.”
Makandros nodded.
“That’s right. I’m sorry, Captain. I’m afraid you and your people are going to have to be with us awhile longer.”
“I’ll remind you,” Archer said. “We had a deal.”
“Our deal was I would help you find your starship, which I fully intend to do, once this crisis is past.”
“And we’re just supposed to sit around here in the meantime, and wait?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“You understand that we don’t belong here? That my entire crew is sick, on their way to dying if we don’t—”
“I understand,” Makandros said sympathetically. “Believe me, I do. Try to understand my position, Captain. I am preparing for a war that may decide the future of millions of people. I ask you to be patient. Please.”
Archer nodded.
And then asked the question he’d been intending to ask all along.
“What about one ship, General? A single vessel, to search for Enterprise.”
Makandros frowned.
Archer pressed his point. “The absence of a single vessel, from a fleet this size, General. Could it make that much of a difference?”
The door com sounded again.
Makandros shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Captain. I do not have time for this conversation now. Enter!” Makandros called out.
Briatt stepped in, followed by Marshal Kairn and an older man whom Archer hadn’t seen before.
“Gentlemen,” Makandros said, stepping out from behind his desk. “Thank you for coming. Time is short. We should pick up immediately where we left off.”
“I agree,” Kairn said. Nodding to Archer, he took the seat the captain had just vacated. “I have discussed the reconnaissance issue with several of our outlying patrols. As you know, since our ships lack warp drive, our capabilities are limited. I suggest—”
Kairn had stopped talking because the older man had put a hand on his shoulder.
“Who is this?
” he said, gesturing to Archer.
“Forgive me for not making introductions,” Makandros said. “Guildsman Lind, this is Captain Jonathan Archer, of the Enterprise. He was just leaving.”
“I thought I recognized the uniform, Captain.” Lind extended his hand. The two shook. “Your crew does you honor.”
“He means Tucker,” Kairn said.
“They all do, Guildsman.” Archer nodded. “I’d like to continue our conversation, General.”
“When time permits, Captain.”
Meaning when hell freezes over. Frustrated, angry, Archer turned to leave the room.
“You were saying, Marshal,” Makandros continued smoothly. “About your scout ships.”
“Ours and yours,” Kairn replied. “Elson’s ships appear to be transmitting on frequencies we can no longer intercept. We must obtain intelligence of his movements.”
The door was halfway shut behind him when Archer suddenly realized what he was hearing.
“Wait,” he said, stopping in his tracks and stopping the door from closing.
Briatt put a hand on his arm. “Captain, please come with me.”
“A moment, Colonel.” Archer turned and stepped back through the door.
Makandros was staring at him, clearly unhappy.
“Captain?”
“Forgive the interruption,” Archer began, “but—”
“Come with me, Captain. Now.” Briatt had followed him through the door and taken firm hold of one elbow.
“I said we would speak later,” Makandros said.
“I heard you. Then and just now.” He looked from the general to Kairn. “Am I wrong, or are you looking for a reconnaissance vessel?”
“You heard correctly,” Kairn said. “Why?”
Archer looked at Makandros. “General?”
For a split second, Makandros didn’t realize what the captain was asking.
Then his frown turned into a grudging smile.
“Perhaps,” Makandros said. “Why don’t you close the door, and we’ll discuss it?”
Fifteen
TRAVIS CAUGHT a few hours of sleep and went to relieve Westerberg at the helm. It was ship’s night—normally, a quiet time on the bridge. A time when stations were manned by a minimal crew complement—helm, sensors, auxiliary control…. Even with the ship under Denari command, there were usually only a few additional soldiers on duty.
Tonight was different, though.
He entered the bridge to the sounds of an argument in progress between Cooney and several Denari crowded around the auxiliary engineering station. Peranda was in the captain’s chair, still on duty—a shock to Travis, who had never seen the man on this late before—looking every bit as angry as he had down in the crew’s mess. All stations—communications, sensors, weapons—were occupied, and the tension on the bridge was so thick that he could have cut it with a knife.
“—not sure what waiting around is going to gain us, Chief Cooney,” one of the Denari was saying. “It seems to me we should begin a thorough check—”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Cooney interrupted. “Do you know what an intermittent problem is?”
“I know what an intermittent problem is, yes.”
“It doesn’t happen on a schedule,” Cooney continued, as if the man hadn’t spoken. “You can’t plan for it, you just have to be ready to diagnose it when it happens. And we’ve just spent the last few hours getting ready.” He spread his arms wide to indicate the increased crew presence on the bridge. “The next time the power fluctuates, we’ll know what’s happening. And why.”
“We’ve waited five hours for that next time to occur, Chief. How much longer are we supposed to wait?”
Cooney laughed. “You’re an idiot. Do you know what intermittent means?”
“Enough.” Peranda leaned forward in his chair. “We’ll wait. One more hour, Chief Cooney. If the problem does not manifest itself again, however, we will begin a full systems check.”
“It’s your time,” Cooney said. “Waste it if you want to.”
Travis walked past, as unobstrusively as he could, and stopped next to the helm.
Westerberg looked up at him and rolled his eyes.
“Good luck,” he said, standing. “I’ll see you in eight hours.”
“Anything I need to know?” Travis asked, taking his station.
“Stay alert,” the older man said. “That power fluctuation they’re talking about? When it happens—bam!” The man slapped his hands together. “Engine speed drops like that. You have to be on it, or the ship starts wobbling like a top.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“Oh,” Westerberg smiled, “believe me, it’s all fun.”
Travis knew he was referring to more than the engine cut-out.
He settled himself at the helm and ran a quick systems check. They were halfway between Kota and Denari, he saw. That meant that sometime tomorrow, they’d be hitting the Belt. He and Westerberg had talked about it this morning, on the previous shift change. The course Peranda had laid in called for them to go through the asteroid field, rather than around it. That was not going to be fun at all.
In the same way, Travis suspected, that the rest of this shift was not going to be fun either.
“Colonel.” Travis turned and saw it was the Denari soldier at the communications console who’d spoken. “General Elson.”
Peranda stood up. “In there,” he said, nodding to Archer’s ready room. He strode quickly across the deck, then paused at its entrance and turned back to the group of engineers.
“Notify me if the fluctuations start again.”
Cooney looked up from his console. “Believe me, if they start happening, you’ll know.”
“Notify me,” Peranda snapped, and entered the ready room.
Cooney shook his head and turned back to work. Travis spun around in his chair and did the same.
Time passed. Peranda strode out of the ready room. Travis looked up quickly and, just as quickly, back down.
Peranda was ashen-faced and angry. Whatever this General Elson had said had clearly upset him, and Travis knew Peranda well enough to know that when the colonel was upset, the best thing to do was stay out of his way.
Peranda went to the communications console.
“The general wishes to speak to our passengers,” he said.
“I’ll set that up, sir,” the com officer said.
“Yes. You do that.” The colonel spoke slowly, as if afraid that speaking more than one word at a time would cause him to explode.
Travis wondered what “passengers” he was talking about.
He heard Peranda take the center seat—Captain Archer’s seat—again. “Nothing on those power fluctuations?”
“Not yet.” Even Cooney sounded subdued—seemed like he knew Peranda’s moods as well.
“Link is established, sir,” the com officer said.
“Good.”
All at once, the lights dimmed.
The ship lurched. Travis was on the controls in an instant. He boosted power to the aft thrusters, stabilizing the ship, and at the same instant cut their forward motion in half, to match the reduction in speed.
“There it is!” Cooney shouted triumphantly. “What did I tell you, there it is!”
Travis was too busy to turn around, but he heard the frenzy of activity the fluctuation had started. Every one of the Denari who had been, up until that instant, standing around waiting sounded like they were now in motion.
“Reactor output is at nominal,” one called out.
“Power grid stable.”
“Conduit integrity verified.”
“Got it,” Cooney said. “You tricky little bastard.”
“What?” Peranda snapped. “What is it?”
“Plasma flow,” Cooney said. “We’re losing energy through the exhaust manifold.” Travis could hear the note of puzzlement in his voice. “Sensors show the manifold is clear, though. I don’t—”
The lights ca
me on, full intensity.
“Flow is back to normal,” Cooney said. “Huh.”
Travis had full power at the helm again. He pushed their speed up to full impulse.
A problem with the plasma exhaust. That sounded familiar to him, for some reason.
“Now that we know what the difficulty is, what do we do about it?” Peranda asked.
“We still have to figure out why it’s happening,” Cooney said. “Give us a minute to correlate all the data.”
“Colonel.” It was the communications officer again.
“Yes?”
“General Elson again.”
“Very well.” Peranda started back toward the ready room.
“Sir,” the com officer said, “he says now. Sir.”
Peranda sighed. “Very well.”
The star field on the main viewscreen cleared. A man took its place.
An older man—early sixties, Travis guessed—dressed in a simple black tunic, with a wave of silver-white hair that fell across his forehead. He looked exactly the way a general was supposed to look, and yet, there was a light in his eyes that struck Travis the wrong way. Calculation? Cruelty?
He couldn’t say what, but it filled him with an instant, instinctive dislike for the man.
Peranda moved to the center of the bridge and spoke.
“General Elson.”
“Colonel Peranda. Tell me you’ve solved the problem.”
“No, sir, not yet. But as you can see”—Peranda gestured toward the knot of engineers at the back of the bridge—“we’re working on it.”
“Work toward being here tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ll check back in four hours. If it’s necessary to send another ship to fetch them”—Elson smiled—“we’ll have time to do that then.”
“Yes, sir. I don’t think it will be.”
“We’ll see, won’t we?”
The screen went dark.
Peranda sighed again and sat back down in his chair.
Travis tried to make sense of what he’d just heard.
Elson was pushing to have “them” there by tomorrow morning. Clearly, it was the reason why Peranda had been so worked up about first the warp engines, and now this problem they were having with the power fluctuating. The “them” the general had referred to was just as clearly—at least as Travis saw it—these passengers Elson had asked to speak with before. Passengers whose identity Travis had no idea of.
