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

by Christopher L. Bennett

  “But you have encountered humans before. The Horizon crew.”

  Mod’hira gave a small, sad smile. “Yes, our travelers told us of their susceptibility. But they had believed it was a consequence of the humans’ long isolation aboard their freighter. And it was such a brief encounter that most of us had little knowledge of it.”

  Shumar crossed his arms. “According to my science officer, your people assured mine that their medical staff had found humans ‘compatible’ with Deltans.”

  The mayor sighed. “I fear that is the problem: that your people are perhaps too compatible with ours. You have the necessary empathic potential to experience the unitive effect of Dhei-ten lovemaking—the merger not only of bodies but of minds and identities, the subsumption of the self within another. But you have not yet evolved the necessary sexual or emotional maturity to be able to cope with the experience.”

  “So this is our fault?”

  “No, Captain,” she went on, her tone as soothing as ever. “It is a tragic mishap arising from mutual misunderstanding.”

  “Well, I call it a sexual assault upon my crew. Their judgment was compromised and they had no ability to give proper consent.”

  “With respect, Captain . . . your science officer was able to decline the invitation. I understand your anger. It is an honest and meaningful emotion and I do not dismiss it. But you should not allow it to lead you astray from understanding.”

  “What I understand is that my people were taken advantage of and damaged, and those who did this to them need to be held to account. I demand the arrest of the mayor and his aides.”

  The sadness in those eyes deepened as she shook her head. His heart leaped in his chest and he wanted to reach out and comfort her. He ruthlessly quashed the insidious urge. “I cannot allow you access to them,” the prime minister said. “After what happened, they are devastated with grief. Since they were joined in love with your crewpersons when the latter . . . succumbed, they experienced much of the effect for themselves. This has been traumatic for them as well as for your people. Yours have endured worse, I freely grant, but Serima and his colleagues must bear the pain of knowing they caused that, and they are in intensive counseling to help them manage it.”

  “How very noble of them. And how very convenient.”

  “This is our way, Captain. To heal rather than punish. Our finest medical minds are at your disposal to help you treat your crew.”

  “The last thing they need is more exposure to Deltans.”

  Those bottomless eyes held his. “And the last thing you would do now is trust any Dhei-ten with their safety. I understand. But I must caution you, Captain Shumar. Though we are a peaceful people, we are not untrained in defense. Aggression is as necessary an emotion as any other, when properly managed and directed. And our encounters with the Carreon in recent years have . . . encouraged us to refresh our memory of our ancient combat skills. So if you have any thoughts of apprehending Serima and the others by force, or otherwise exacting retaliation upon us, I fear you would provoke further regrettable interactions.”

  Shumar bristled at her words . . . but only briefly, for despite his outrage, he knew he lacked adequate cause for a military response. Maybe this was Paris and Ahn’s own fault for being unable to keep their pants on in an alien port. He didn’t want to believe that, but he couldn’t prove malice on the Deltans’ part either, not sufficiently to justify risking lives.

  Noting his resignation, Mod’hira rose gracefully from behind her desk. “I believe the best option for us both at this point is to bring this contact to an end. I suggest you return to your Federation and advise others of your people not to come here. Perhaps, in time, we can devise protocols and guidelines that will let us prevent tragedies like this in the future. But for now, I think it best if Dhei defers further contact with the Federation until your people have further matured . . . and we both have learned greater caution.”

  Shumar didn’t appreciate her dismissive words, but he couldn’t refute her premise. “Perhaps mutual avoidance is the best option, Prime Minister,” he said, giving her a stiffly courteous nod of farewell. “I will take my leave of you now—and I will hope this is the last time our two species meet.”

  7

  May 6, 2165

  Vulcan Science Academy Museum, ShiKahr

  SKON WAITED PATIENTLY for the security officer at the Kir’Shara study vault to complete his identity verification. There was no logic in irritation at a necessary and expected delay; one simply adapted to it. Skon used the time for a mental review of his research goal for today: a close, microscopic study of several ambiguous characters in the text, in hope that a determination of the precise calligraphic strokes used to etch them would clarify which phonemes had been intended. To that end, he was accompanied by Professor Semet, an aged philologist specializing in the texts of the Surakian era. Semet was an agreeably quiet and aloof man, disinclined to speak unless he had something of significance to impart. This was somewhat refreshing after several weeks with Tobin Dax as a houseguest. Dax was an intelligent individual, helpful at providing insights into the principal language of his Trill homeworld (though intensely reticent about certain aspects of his culture and biology, a reserve a Vulcan could respect), and generally introverted and quiet; but when he did choose to engage in conversation, his insecurities inclined him to speak more than was needed, and often with limited substance and coherence.

  Finally Skon and Semet were cleared to enter the study vault and its heavy doors swung open. Inside was only a wide, rounded worktable supported on a thick central pillar, with control consoles and inset displays around its perimeter and a full suite of sensor apparatus mounted on the ceiling above it. The Kir’Shara had not yet arrived, nor would it begin its approach until after the doors had been sealed. A vault guard accompanied the two researchers into the chamber and took up a post beside the closing doors, watching them dispassionately but unwaveringly.

  While irritation might be illogical, Skon still allowed himself a twinge of regret that these precautions were necessary. The security systems, installed following the Romulan terrorist strike on Mount Seleya early in the war, had been retained subsequently due to the regrettable attitudes of fringe factions such as the Anti-revisionists and certain loyalists of the defunct High Command—factions which, as Professor T’Nol’s recent actions had demonstrated, were capable of excessive measures in their denial of the truths that Surak’s true word had revealed. Thus, the Kir’Shara remained the most closely guarded historical artifact on all Vulcan, however much Skon might wish all Vulcans could observe it firsthand.

  Skon dealt with this wish by reminding himself that what mattered was the philosophy and wisdom contained in the Kir’Shara’s words, not the physical vessel that conveyed them. His own efforts to translate the text were part of the process of making its content universally accessible. Still, on these occasions when he was granted access to the artifact that Surak himself had crafted and handled, it seemed to bring him inspiration that was slow to come in other contexts.

  Was this logical? Perhaps not. But the Kir’Shara itself acknowledged certain fundamental instincts that could not be separated from the thought process. Surak had written that the goal was not to despise or ignore these inner drives and reflexes, but to master and direct them insofar as they could be used constructively. This recognition of the power of atavism within the Vulcan psyche was why his people still practiced the traditional rituals surrounding pon farr and marriage, why they still undertook maturity ordeals such as the kahs-wan, and why they still utilized shrines to ancient deities such as the one his family maintained in Dycoon. These drives were bred into the Vulcan animal, and thus they could not be escaped, only harnessed as tools and analogies for focusing the mind. Skon’s periodic visits to the study vault—however he rationalized their utility to his work—were his own form of pilgrimage.

  At last Skon heard t
he hum of the lift machinery ascending from the storage vault deep beneath the floor. The narrow shaft rising through the base of the examination table was the only access to the transporter-shielded underground vault where the Kir’Shara reposed in controlled environmental conditions, mimicking those of the T’Karath Sanctuary catacombs where the artifact had been discovered. The conditions here in the study vault had been set to match as well, to minimize the stress placed on the 1800-year-old artifact when it was raised for examination.

  Finally, the centimeters-thick shaft cover at the center of the worktable slid open and the Kir’Shara rose into view. The ark of Surak was a tetrahedral prism with a beveled base, approximately 457 millimeters in height and 220 millimeters at its widest point. (Skon had trained himself to think in human measurement units as part of his English translation efforts.) Its worn, gray metal surface was adorned with Old High Vulcan calligraphy on all three of its large isosceles faces, one of which also contained a pattern of three interlocking triangles with a small circular depression in the central, inverted one. Four similar depressions were found on another side, five on the third. These were the control keys for activating the artifact’s functions. The primary activation sequence would trigger the holographic circuitry within, projecting a ring of blood-green text in the air above the artifact, with translations into other leading Vulcan languages of the time appearing in overlapping rings of other colors. There was a distasteful air of showmanship to this projection method, Skon thought, but it was believed that Surak had chosen it as a means of capturing the attention of the emotional, erratic, materialistic Vulcan populace of the era.

  But the sequence Skon now carefully pressed into the artifact’s controls activated its second major function, unlocking the base so that he could retrieve the actual printed texts protected within the ark. The seam between the large faces and the beveled base was so fine that they appeared to be a single piece, with only close examination revealing the hidden contents. Lifting off the upper frame with great delicacy exposed the arrayed and numbered racks holding the thirty-six thin, trapezoidal titanium sheets that bore the actual text of the Kir’Shara finely etched upon their erosion-resistant surfaces. The holograms had been for the masses, but these hand-sized plaques had been for posterity, ensuring that the texts would remain accessible even if the artifact’s projection capability failed—since Surak had been very much aware of the risk that the wars then ravaging Vulcan might revert any survivors to a more primitive technological level.

  Skon considered the plaques to be the true text of the Kir’Shara, the originals that the holographic projection merely replicated. This was why he sought out the original plaques themselves whenever he encountered a difficulty or uncertainty in his translation. A careful examination of the writing in its author’s own hand could sometimes bring unexpected insights.

  But today’s unexpected discovery was far from what Skon had hoped for. After an hour of microscopic examination, Semet finally spoke. “Odd.”

  “Please clarify,” Skon asked.

  “Certain etchings on this plate appear to have unusually rectilinear edges at micrometer resolution. I have not noted this pattern in the texts before.”

  Skon examined the philologist’s readings. Semet’s observation appeared sound. “What could account for this pattern?” he asked the older Vulcan.

  “Were it a modern text, the pattern could easily be explained as the result of computer fabrication.”

  The amateur linguist furrowed his brow. “Computerized fabrication technologies did exist in Surak’s time.”

  “Few remained available in the wake of the Conflagration. And all prior examinations of the Kir’Shara plaques have produced results consistent with hand-etching.”

  “Is it possible the observed pattern could be illusory? The result of some intrinsic grain in the metal?”

  “You could assess the probabilities better than I, Professor,” Semet observed. “It seems unlikely, but we can examine the metal for such grain.”

  This was promptly done, but no intrinsic pattern was found. However, the metallurgical analysis gave an unexpected reading. “These radioisotope decay levels are inconsistent with metal fabricated during the nuclear wars,” Skon observed. “They are more consistent with a modern origin.”

  Semet frowned, contemplating the result. “This is not possible. Previous analyses have given isotope readings consistent with a Conflagration-era origin. The equipment must be mis-calibrated.”

  This required bringing in a sensor specialist to check and calibrate the equipment, but the second reading two hours later gave the same result. Afterward, as the specialist reviewed the findings of the scan to confirm the result, Semet led Skon aside and spoke softly. “I have noted another anomaly. I almost overlooked it because we were so focused on the microscopic that I was not considering the large-scale.” He showed Skon an enlargement of a certain word in the text. “Note the shape of the halovaya,” he said, using the traditional term for the “journey” the calligrapher’s pen made from start to end of a word, one in which the ideal was to lift the pen as few times as possible. “Note the diminished size of the zh symbol following the dahr-trashan, the way it connects with the r beneath it.”

  “I do not see an anomaly.”

  “Few today would,” Semet replied. “For this has been a standard calligraphic stroke for some twelve hundred years. Yet it is a simplification of the form in use in Surak’s time. The combination of characters is so rare in Old High Vulcan that I did not recognize the anomaly until I checked my notes.”

  Skon shared a disquieted look with Semet. “The preponderance of evidence is pointing toward an impossible conclusion: that this Kir’Shara is of modern provenance.”

  “That is certainly impossible,” Semet agreed. “This museum’s tests verified its authenticity years ago.”

  Skon gazed at the artifact, attempting to think as his wife would have done during her time as a security officer. “Which would appear to suggest that the artifact before us now is a forgery substituted for the original.”

  Semet, who usually absorbed all information stoically and brooded over it in silence until he was ready to offer a useful observation, now stared at the younger man in overt disbelief. “That is equally impossible! You know the security in this vault as well as I do. There is no way such a substitution could have been made.”

  “Yet it has,” Skon said grimly. “Either all our prior tests and observations were somehow in error and the true Kir’Shara was never found . . . or the true Kir’Shara has somehow been stolen.”

  May 15, 2165

  Federation Executive Building, Paris, European Alliance

  Jonathan Archer shook his head vigorously. “There’s no way, sir. The Kir’Shara I found could not have been a fake.”

  “You’d swear to that?” President Haroun ibn Ahmad ibn Suleiman Abdurrahman al-Rashid leaned across his desk, holding Archer’s gaze with his dark, piercing eyes. The president of the Federation was a tall, imposingly built Sudanese man of predominantly Nubian heritage, his black hair and beard shaved close against his bronze skin and showing only a trace of gray at his temples—though from the look on the president’s face now, Archer wouldn’t be surprised if he sprouted a few more gray hairs in the weeks ahead. “Because you’ll probably have to.”

  “I’m absolutely positive, Mister President. I was guided to it by . . . a very reliable source,” he finished sheepishly.

  Al-Rashid held his gaze. “You mean the disembodied soul of Surak.”

  Archer considered his words. “Call it . . . a telepathic record of his memories. It may sound strange to us, but the Vulcans understand these things.”

  “The Syrannites do, you mean,” the president responded in his English-accented basso. “The accusation making the rounds on Vulcan since the news got out is that the whole thing was a fraud perpetrated to place them in power.” />
  “And someone’s accusing me of being part of that fraud, sir?”

  “Hell, yes, they are, Jon. As part of a Starfleet plot to discredit the High Command and bring Vulcan down from its place as the dominant regional power.” He gestured around him at the center of power in which the two humans sat comfortably in the gravity of their home planet. “You can see how that might appear a credible charge to some.”

  “Only to fringe groups and fanatics like the Anti-revisionists. This is obviously some new trick by them or the Malurians.”

  “Jon, your own people exposed the Anti-revisionists and their links to the Malurians. Professor T’Nol has effectively disappeared. Her followers have scattered or abandoned her. And Vulcan Security has been watching closely for any signs of Malurian infiltration. Garos and his people would be fools to try it again.” Archer had to concede his point. Dular Garos would not be reckless or obvious enough to try to repeat a gambit so soon after its exposure and failure.

  “These charges are coming from other groups,” the president continued, rising from his seat to pace behind his desk with slow, leonine strides. Archer tried not to be intimidated by his imposing height. “Loyalists of the old High Command, Vulcans who still distrust mind-melders. . . . The Vulcans are a conservative people, Jon, long-lived and fond of their traditions. It’s impressive that so many of them changed so quickly when the Kir’Shara was found, but that’s because it was the original word of their great prophet himself, the ultimate font of tradition. Call the authenticity of that text into question and it jeopardizes all that hard-fought progress.”

  “Believe me, Mister President, I understand what’s at stake.” He shook his head. “But the charge is absurd—surely most Vulcans can see that. Their archaeologists and historians studied the Kir’Shara in detail years ago and verified its authenticity.”

  “The charge is that they were partisans of the Syrannites. The demands are for new tests by independent parties.”