Star Trek: Enterprise - 017 - Rise of the Federation: Uncertain Logic

by Christopher L. Bennett

  Thus, he was uneasy with the anger and determination that Reed and Williams showed now. “I agree this is a threat we need to assess. But we also need to weigh our response against other concerns. The last thing we want is to provoke a war by mistake.”

  “Sir, I understand,” the captain replied. “But . . . loath though I am to admit it . . . Pioneer can’t handle the Ware alone. Even a Columbia-class ship wouldn’t be powerful enough. We need a task force.”

  “And if you go in expecting a fight, that’s usually what you get.”

  “A fight against machines, sir,” Williams countered. “Just equipment that’s gotten out of hand.”

  “Val, you said yourself that we don’t know who’s behind these things and why. The one thing we do know is that they’re very protective of what they consider their property.”

  Williams lowered her head. “Yes, sir.”

  Archer leaned back and sighed. “I’m not saying no. Like I said, we do need to find out more. We just need to figure out the best way to go about it. And Pioneer’s repairs give us time to consider our options. Okay?”

  Reed gave a curt nod, his ingrained discipline kicking in. “Understood, sir.” Next to him, Williams looked more frustrated. Archer had no doubt Reed felt the same inside.

  * * *

  “I agree with Shran, Jon. It’s our first priority to keep the Federation safe.”

  Admiral Samuel Gardner, chief of staff of Starfleet’s UESPA division, looked tired. The round-faced older man had been gray-haired since they had competed for command of Enterprise all those years ago, but now the rest of him seemed to be catching up, worn down by the years of tough decision-making during the Romulan War and after. Was this Archer’s future if he accepted Gardner’s post?

  He tried not to let those thoughts show. “We all feel that way, sir. But when you’re probing a hornet’s nest, it’s not particularly safe to poke it with a stick.”

  Gardner scowled, but with faint amusement. “Hm. I remember a few years back when you were the one pushing for a more active investigation of the Romulans. And you were right. If we’d taken action sooner . . .”

  “Sir, that was the last war.” He didn’t need to say more; they both understood the expression. “And anyway, I wasn’t proposing we send a squadron of warships into Romulan space.”

  “But you know a strong response is what the people will want when they learn about this new threat. And it’s what the president will want—to deliver on the voters’ mandate, show the value of a strong central state to keep the peace.”

  Archer grimaced. More politics. “There’s more at stake here than popular opinion. If we should happen to trigger a war in Ware space, we don’t know how many other worlds might suffer as a result. And not just in that sector. Look at what’s happening on Sauria.”

  The admiral looked annoyed. “I know how you feel about Maltuvis, Jon. And I don’t disagree. He’s a tin-pot dictator and he’s taking advantage of our trade deal to make himself more powerful at his people’s expense.” M’Tezir, the Saurian nation-state ruled by the warlord Maltuvis, had been a minor power before Federation contact, but its mountains held vast reserves of minerals vital to advanced technology, so the Federation’s trade deal with Sauria had instantly made M’Tezir wealthy and powerful. Maltuvis had spent the past two years spreading his influence across Sauria, to the detriment of the civil rights of those who fell under his sway.

  “But we don’t have to like another government’s policies to do business with them,” Gardner went on. “At least the trade deal keeps lines of communications open, gives us options.”

  “You mean it gives us dilithium and rare earths and makes Maltuvis stronger by the day. He’s already effectively conquered half the planet. If we got dragged into another war, if we needed to double or triple our shipbuilding rate, then Maltuvis could change the terms to his own advantage and we’d be helpless to refuse. And he could end up conquering his whole planet—bankrolled by us.”

  Gardner chuckled, making the junior admiral frown. “What?” Archer asked.

  “You say you don’t want my job because of the politics, Jon, but you’re as political a creature as I’ve ever met. Now, that’s not an insult,” he said, holding up his hands. “We like to use it that way, but the fact is, politics is just the art of persuading people to devote their attention and resources to a common goal. Sure, sometimes that goal is just getting elected or making your in-group richer or more powerful. But convincing people to go along with a worthy goal, to do what has to be done for the greater good—that’s politics too. It’s not a dirty word. It’s just a tool. And Jon, it’s a tool you wield as well as anyone I’ve ever met. You have the passion and commitment it takes to persuade whole nations to your cause—even to turn enemies into allies.”

  Archer demurred. “I just tried to do what was best for everyone.”

  “And you used politics to do it. It’s a means to an end, that’s all. It’s one thing to see a solution—the important part is convincing others to see it too.” Gardner leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “So give me a solution, Jon. We need to poke a hornet’s nest without bringing out the swarm. What’s our best option?”

  April 1, 2165

  “You’ll get your task force, Malcolm,” Archer told Pioneer’s captain, who once again sat before the desk in Archer’s office with Val Williams at his side. “But in reserve.”

  Reed frowned. “Reserve, sir?”

  “You’re right—Pioneer will need help if it takes on too big a threat. But what we need out there is an explorer. A ship that can go in, make contact with the locals, learn all we can about the Ware and its origins. Find a way to avoid a confrontation if possible, but gain enough intel that we’re ready if a confrontation happens. More importantly, try to make friends in the region, allies you can turn to if you have to. Basically what we did on Enterprise in the Delphic Expanse, but with the benefit of the lessons we learned there.”

  “You mean, don’t assume there will be a fight. Look for peaceful options.”

  “Yes—but also, don’t go in without backup. The Andorian task force will stand by at the edge of the sector while you probe into it. They’ll be ready to assist Pioneer if there’s an imminent threat. Shran’s sending a pair of fast courier ships to provide replacement parts, medical relief and transport, or other services as necessary, and to serve as subspace relays to the task force if you travel out of range or meet with comm interference.”

  “Sir,” Williams asked, “that’s all well and good, but what if we face a sudden attack?”

  “I’ve approved your requested upgrades to Pioneer’s weapons and shields, Val. And now that you know what happens when you rescue Ware abductees, you’ll be ready if it happens again. The courier ships could ferry any rescuees to the task force, or to their homeworlds, where they could be defended. Maybe if they get far enough fast enough, or even just transferred to a different ship, the Ware won’t be able to track them down.”

  Williams relaxed her shoulders a bit, accepting his reasoning. “Understood, sir. I guarantee, my people will be ready.”

  “I know they will, Val.”

  Reed turned to her, a thoughtful look on his face. “Thank you, Lieutenant. Admiral, if there’s nothing else you need from Val, there’s one more matter I’d like to discuss in private.”

  Archer furrowed his brow. “Certainly. Val, you’re dismissed.” He smiled. “Go tell your dad he’s free to take you to lunch.”

  The young lieutenant looked puzzled, but not displeased at the opportunity to spend more time with her father, Archer’s aide Marcus Williams. “Aye, sir. Thank you.”

  “Sir,” Malcolm said once they were alone, “there’s one more thing we’ll need. With Doctor Dax staying behind on Vulcan, Pioneer needs a new chief engineer. And it’ll have to be the best person available if we’re to take on a technolog
ical threat like the Ware. Someone who can decipher advanced alien technology by instinct and who can rebuild a crippled warp drive from spare parts if need be. Ideally, someone who’s dealt with Ware technology before.”

  “But there’s nobody else who—” Archer broke off, realizing who it was that Reed was talking about. Seeing the realization on his face, the captain nodded. “You’re right,” Archer went on. “He could be just the man you need.”

  “I trust you can arrange a meeting?”

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to see you.” He fidgeted. “But the rest . . . it isn’t up to me. And it’s been quite a while since he’s done this kind of work. I’m not sure he’d be allowed to.”

  “You let me worry about that, sir. If necessary, I have some history of my own with his employers. I know how to make deals with them.”

  “I know,” Archer said. “But it’s the price I’m worried about.”

  April 2, 2165

  ShiKahr, Vulcan

  Tobin Dax had not expected Skon’s home to be so beautiful.

  From a distance, ShiKahr looked as orderly as one would expect a Vulcan city to be: a construct of perfect circles, its metropolitan area tightly corralled within the confines of a broad disk, with perfectly straight pneumatic-tube highways extending radially to the outer park ring, a dense wall of vegetation insulating the city from the vast Sas-a-shar desert beyond. But up close, it was an aesthetic feast. The streets were lined with abstract sculptures and weirdly shaped, scintillating vegetation. Great filigreed buttresses arched overhead, supporting the pneumatic tram tubes. Even many of the buildings were experiments in abstract geometry. Walking through the city was like walking through a vast art gallery—and its denizens were as orderly and soft-spoken as a gallery’s patrons, allowing the tinkling of wind chimes and the ubiquitous babble of fountains to dominate the soundscape. Even the engines of the few private skimmers that hovered unhurriedly above the roadways made soft chiming sounds so as not to disrupt the serenity of the city. Skon had insisted to Tobin in the past that his people’s devotion to logic and scientific precision did not impede their appreciation for aesthetics, but the Trill had never truly believed it until now.

  The home that Skon shared with his wife, T’Rama, was dominated by a spacious courtyard separated from the street by a high sandstone wall. A winding path led from the front gate and around the house proper to a rear plaza dominated by a luxurious, multilimbed fountain surrounded by golden sculptures like angular trees. The glass-walled house itself was also richly appointed with sculptures, paintings, and carvings. Moreover, Skon maintained a library of antique books and calligraphic tapestries—partly for his linguistic studies, but also for sheer aesthetics, as Vulcan calligraphy was an art form in itself, inscribed in intricate geometric curves and swirls. Tobin wondered if that was why his mathematician friend had initially become interested in linguistics.

  In any case, Tobin was confident that the house would be a stimulating environment for Skon and T’Rama’s son. Tobin had never met T’Rama before, but he could see in her frame the taut grace and discipline of the security officer she had once been, even though that frame was now enlarged by a pregnancy in its late stages—more than ten months along, meaning the birth was less than three months away. Naturally, logically, they had already converted their guest room into a nursery well ahead of the boy’s arrival, but the room was spacious enough that they could nonetheless accommodate Tobin there for a few weeks, until he could arrange lodgings of his own—or leave Vulcan, if that was what he chose. At the moment, though, he had no idea what destination he might choose once Pioneer’s repairs and upgrades were completed. He had given Starfleet his best effort, but it simply wasn’t a job Tobin Dax was cut out for. But he was not sure what might take its place.

  He had plenty to occupy him in the meantime, though. Tonight, Skon was hosting a reception in honor of another offworld visitor, a poet with whom Skon had been working on a translation project. Tobin wasn’t generally comfortable with receptions or parties, but Vulcan social affairs were more sedate than most; a people who valued quiet contemplation would not look askance on a wallflower. Besides, he had absorbed enough of the Pioneer crew’s inquisitive spirit to feel a certain curiosity about this poet, apparently the only one of his kind in the Federation. Though basically hostform (or “humanoid,” as his former crewmates called it) with mammalian attributes like hair on the scalp, the lanky, aging poet had a faintly scaly quality to his greenish-gray skin—most prominently along the raised orbital and temporal ridges, which resembled those of a Denobulan but were more pronounced, bracketing a frontal ridge that widened into a spoonlike concavity at the center of the forehead. Broad, scaled ridges stretched from his ears to his shoulders, giving his neck an almost triangular shape. It was all Tobin could do not to stare as Skon introduced them. “Doctor Tobin Dax of the planet Trill, this is Master Iloja of Prim, honored guest of this home.”

  Skon was a tall, broad-shouldered Vulcan in his early one hundreds, just showing the barest hints of gray around his temples and in excellent physical condition despite his sedentary profession. Tobin had always found his build intimidating, tempered only by Skon’s relaxed manner and the dry, subtle amusement with which he tended to observe the universe. But though Iloja was some ten centimeters shorter (though still towering over Tobin) and proportionately far more aged, the alien poet projected a bulldog toughness that made Tobin extremely nervous to get close to him.

  “Uh, uh, Prim,” Tobin managed to stammer out. “Is, is that your home planet?”

  Iloja glowered deeply, and Tobin wondered if he had given offense somehow. “My home, yes, but only a district on my planet. Or what was once my planet. The Cardassia I knew has surely been trampled into dust by now.”

  Tobin cleared his throat, striving for comfortable banality. “Car—Cardassia. I can’t say I’ve ever heard of it.”

  “Nor will your Starfleet likely encounter it for many years yet,” the poet replied. “I was exiled from my home . . . oh, what feels like lifetimes ago. I’ve lived on so many worlds, with so many different ways of measuring time, that I’ve lost track of the years. I stay on one until the reminders that it isn’t Cardassia grow too intolerable, and then I travel still farther from Cardassia, hoping to forget. I’m a living warp engine, propelled by a paradox.”

  “Um, well, actually, the principle behind a warp engine is mathematically very straightforward—um.” He broke off under the large Cardassian’s impatient glare.

  But after a moment, Iloja barked a sharp laugh and slapped Tobin on the shoulder, making him drop the pla-berry pastry he was lifting from his plate. “I like this one, Skon. Not a hint of guile in him. A refreshingly rare quality in this universe.”

  “You must excuse Master Iloja’s cynicism,” T’Rama interposed, handing Tobin back his pastry, which she had deftly caught well before it reached the floor. “His exile is the result of political dissidence against a regime that, according to him, is not known for its openness.” She retrieved a napkin from a fold in her elegant robe and meticulously wiped her fingers clean as she spoke.

  “A deeply illogical response on their part,” Skon observed. “Iloja’s poetry was meant to create awareness and inspire contemplation of the issues facing his people—a legitimate function for a creative work to fulfill. It also possesses considerable aesthetic merit.”

  “High praise coming from such an aesthetically minded culture as the Vulcans,” Iloja said. “Plus it saves me the effort of saying it myself,” he added with a gruff chuckle.

  “Unfortunately,” T’Rama said, “Skon is one of the few on Vulcan currently able to understand Master Iloja’s work in the original Cardassian. But he is working with the master on a Vulcan translation.”

  “Really?” Tobin asked, turning to his old friend. “I thought you were working on an English translation of Surak’s writings. The Kir, Kir . . .”

&nbs
p; “Kir’Shara,” Skon supplied. “Indeed, I have been undertaking that effort for some time, my duties at the Science Academy permitting. However, I have encountered certain difficulties interpreting Surak’s concepts and expressions into as emotive a language as English. This was an issue I faced in my earlier translation of the Analects, but since the Kir’Shara represents Surak’s own words rather than secondary accounts thereof, it calls for exceptional care.” Tobin was familiar with Skon’s earlier translation of the Analects, published as The Teachings of Surak. It would be interesting to see how different the Kir’Shara truly was. “It occurred to me that undertaking an unrelated task for a time might bring fresh perspectives, and Iloja’s poetry presented itself.”

  The conversation had drawn the attention of another guest, a lanky, strong male in his youthful prime. Tobin recalled T’Rama introducing him as Surel, her successor in the post of security director to the First Minister. “Even with the most committed effort,” he said, “I fear any such translation of the Kir’Shara will be a rough approximation at best. Useful for introducing the general population—of various worlds—to the ideas expressed in the work, perhaps. But the full power and magnificence of Surak’s wisdom can only be experienced in the original Old High Vulcan.”

  “An overly romantic interpretation,” Skon said. “It is merely a matter of understanding the historical context. The Kir’Shara is a product of its time and place, as is any piece of our history.”