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

by Christopher L. Bennett

  “It is, again, reckless to rely so heavily on an untested contingency,” she hectored. “You are aware that the specialists I employed have not yet determined a means to achieve your desired results.”

  V’Las kept his smile constrained so as not to offend her too badly. “But that, my dear professor, is the beauty of the long game. It will be years before the time comes to put that particular piece into play—abundant time to determine how to perfect it.”

  “Perhaps. But in the meantime, the risk of its discovery remains considerable. I still say it would be wiser to—”

  Zadok interrupted, his patience lost. “All your ‘wisdom’ is timidity. Nothing but excuses to defer action, to make only safe moves, to protect yourself. No wonder all your movement ever achieved was subordination to others.”

  T’Nol’s gaze in return was scathing. “Administrator V’Las could not have begun to orchestrate his return to power without the foundations my organization laid.”

  “Indeed not,” V’Las assured her. “Let us not fall into conflict among ourselves, Professor, Commander. We must be unified, and work to divide our enemies.”

  That succeeded in quashing their dispute for now. But privately, V’Las agreed with Zadok. T’Nol’s cowardice was disgusting. If he did not need the resources and personnel she provided, he would gladly strangle her with his own hands.

  But in time, he would no longer need her. And then she could be sacrificed . . . along with the many Vulcans who must fall in the years ahead so that Vulcan itself could thrive once more.

  Now, though, V’Las turned his thoughts to more immediate priorities. There were other, specific Vulcans who needed to be dealt with in the short term . . . and one particular human as well. Killing Jonathan Archer was another pleasure he would have to defer . . . but the fate he had in store for Archer before then might be even crueler.

  19

  May 30, 2165

  Orion transport Rimula-Bero, orbiting Delta V

  FOR DAYS NOW, Devna had been reeling under the impact of what Pelia and her friends had shown her. But it was nothing like the marathon sexual training she had expected, not rooted in technique or physical stamina. Those aspects of it had been extraordinary, yes, but mainly in their honesty, their purity. All her life, Devna had known sex only as a power stratagem, a means to manipulate or be manipulated. Now she understood that she had always had it wrong. Not just sex, but life. There was more to existence than jockeying for power or control. People could give without expecting something in return. They could be allies—friends—without the need to defend against common foes. And there was so much more she had no words for.

  Which was a problem, since she had to find the words to convince Parrec-Sut to leave the Deltans alone. “They’re no threat,” she assured her master. “They have no desire to use their seductive arts to gain power over other worlds. Otherwise they would have mastered the Carreon and the humans long ago.”

  “Then they’re weak,” Sut interpreted. “They should be easy to enslave.”

  “No,” she gasped, and only her soft voice kept it from sounding like a challenge and bringing down instant punishment. Still, her master glared, and she strove for the right way to continue. “They . . . they are too unaccustomed to authority. They would take orders poorly.”

  “We’ll beat that out of them quickly enough.”

  “They’re too delicate, Master. They would not survive.”

  His massive hand seized her chin, reminding her how easily he could crush her jaw. “I have some experience with delicate slaves,” he reminded her. “If I have to sacrifice a few to calibrate my technique, that’s fine; there are plenty on the station. We have room aboard for most of them.”

  Devna wanted to argue further, question whether the life support could sustain that many, but she knew it would only bring punishment—and perhaps betray her wavering allegiances. She reminded herself that susceptibility to alien kindness had led to her previous mistake and the punishment that had followed. And she couldn’t let Maras down. Maras was kind to her. Or was she truly? Devna had learned a whole new meaning for kindness these past few days, something very different from Maras’s indulgences.

  Still, that did not matter. Maras and her sisters held Devna’s life in their hands, even as Parrec-Sut did. They were entitled to command her, and she was obligated to obey them without question, regardless of her personal wishes or remorse.

  She reminded herself of that as she obeyed Sut’s instructions to take advantage of the Deltans’ trust in order to access Iatu Vista’s communications array and radiation shielding, sabotaging both so that Sut could beam a full load of Deltan tourists aboard the slave transport. She reminded herself as she watched Sut snap the neck of the elderly, kindly Tanla to make a point to the others, as the guards ruthlessly shot down the few Deltans who tried to fight back. She reminded herself as she saw the look of betrayal and bewilderment in Pelia’s beautiful eyes as the elegant Deltan woman was thrown into the slave hold along with her surviving friends—most in various states of undress, and not always from having been beamed aboard that way. She kept on reminding herself as Rimula-Bero fled the system, easily eluding or shooting down what limited system defenses the Deltans had.

  But the more she reminded herself, the less she believed it. The idea that any thinking, feeling mind could be owned was irreconcilable with the lessons she had learned from Pelia and her friends—with her new understanding of herself as a part of something transcendent, united with all other beings. What hurt them hurt her; what demeaned her demeaned them.

  Pelia had spoken to her of the differences among the non-Deltan races they had encountered—how humans’ capacity for empathy and unity had been close enough to the Deltans’ own that it had overwhelmed their minds and identities, but how other, more ruthless peoples like the Carreon had been less susceptible, at least by cultural conditioning if not by genetics. Pelia told Devna that her own capacity for empathy was strong for her kind, which was why the Deltans had been drawn to her; yet while she had felt a tantalizing sense of unity in her lovemaking with Pelia and the others, she had still been able to recover her sense of self afterward. Did that mean she had less empathy than a human?

  She remembered Tucker, the human spy she had met two years ago, and his compassion, his belief in freedom. He had told her that, even though he was as imprisoned by his agency as she was by her master and mistresses, he still considered himself free because of the bond he shared with the one he loved. And that had given him the empathy to offer her freedom as well. The temptation of that dream had swayed her enough to help him, earning her punishment. But she hadn’t truly understood it until now. Maybe that love he shared was the same kind of oneness she had known with the Deltans. Maybe that was why the human had found it so impossible to accept that another sapient being could be a mere piece of property.

  And maybe that was why it was so hard for Devna, now, to accept that Pelia and the others were property. She struggled to remind herself that she had to accept it, that it would be their lot for however long they lived, and she was powerless to change that. Just as powerless as she had been to refuse Parrec-Sut’s orders to trap them in the first place.

  Why, then, was she so convinced that the Deltans’ fate was entirely her fault?

  May 31, 2165

  Starbase 8

  Caroline Paris had just about convinced Captain Shumar that she was ready to return to duty. Doctor Mazril’s course of neuroleptics, antidepressants, and parietal stimulation had pulled her back from the brink, and two weeks of intensive counseling at the starbase had helped her come the rest of the way. It had been fifteen days since her last fugue state, five days since her last uncontrollable crying jag, eight days since her last inappropriate sexual advance toward a fellow officer. If anything, she now doubted that sex with a mere human would ever satisfy her again—hence a couple of the crying jags. And she
still dealt with some survivor’s guilt over the fact that she’d recovered fully (or nearly so) while Ahn Chung-hee had been shipped back home to Vega Colony with little hope that he would ever emerge from his total dissociative state. But she insisted to Shumar that her screwed-up personal life would have no effect on her performance as a Starfleet officer.

  Shumar had been very sweet and solicitous about the whole thing, but she was starting to find him a little overprotective, and did not hesitate to tell him as much. No, she did not need an extended vacation. No, he did not have to accept Admiral Narsu’s invitation to transfer Essex to his fleet operating out of Starbase 12, on the opposite side of the Federation from Delta—at least, not on her account. She wasn’t going to run away from a sector of space just because of one experience on one planet. Given how events on Delta IV had played out, the odds were that she’d never need to deal with the Deltans again.

  At least the Deltans waited two days after she told him that before they sent their distress call.

  When the call came in, Shumar and Paris were in Commodore Chang’s office at the heart of the carved-out asteroid that was Starbase 8, conducting a performance review for Ahn’s replacement as armory officer, Lieutenant Morgan Kelly. On learning of the distress signal’s origin, Shumar glanced at Paris. “Commander, perhaps you should—”

  “I’m not going anywhere, sir,” she replied, steeling herself. Then, to Ensign Avila on the office monitor: “Put it through, Miguel.”

  Paris’s heart skipped a beat as the regal face of Prime Minister Mod’hira appeared on the screen. “To the Federation Starfleet, this is an urgent plea for assistance. I understand that you have little reason to think well of us after our recent mistakes, but we are in desperate need.” In her warm, lilting voice, Mod’hira went on to describe how thirty-three of her people had been abducted by Orion slavers who had come to them offering friendship. “While we have the means to defend our home system, the Rimula-Bero’s crew took us by surprise and eluded capture, killing six of our defense personnel in their escape. Now they are gaining distance from Lta more swiftly than we can pursue. We can only imagine the fate they have in store for our loved ones. Since we have no conflict with their government and they have made no demands, the abducted ones are unlikely to be hostages for some concession or payment. So we must conclude they intend to keep our people, or kill them. Either fate would be intolerable.”

  Mod’hira sighed. “We have no right to the protection of Starfleet, no relationship by which you owe us anything. But only you have the vessels capable of locating and rescuing our loved ones in time. And despite the negative outcome of our prior meeting, I believe you of Starfleet to be of benevolent intentions. I know your species possesses empathy in considerable measure. I pray to the Infinite Oneness that you will heed that empathy and choose to aid those we have lost. If you do this, then you will have the deepest gratitude of the people of Dhei.”

  “The nerve of these people!” Shumar cried moments after the screen went dark. “After what they did to us, now they expect us to do their policing for them?”

  Paris saw the concern for her in his eyes and would have none of it. Rising to intercept him as he paced, she held his gaze firmly. “So what are you saying, we should let the Orions get away with enslaving a bunch of innocent people?”

  He stared. “Innocent? Caroline, that you of all people could say that! Why—” He broke off, realizing the delicate ground he was treading on, and stammered. “I, I mean . . . I see the way you react when the Deltans are even mentioned. The thought of what they did to you . . .”

  “Bryce.” She didn’t use his given name often, even off duty. It got his attention. She took a deep breath and finally dared to voice the thoughts she’d been afraid to admit. “The reason I don’t want to think about them isn’t because the memories are painful. It’s . . . it’s because they’re too wonderful, too amazing. What they showed me . . . the feelings, the connection . . . it made the most devoted love I’ve ever shared with anyone feel like a passing infatuation. It was a, a unity with another person like I’ve never known. It was the most profound joy I’ve ever felt.” She sighed. “The unbearable part is having to live without it.”

  “An addiction.”

  “Maybe—but only because we’re not strong enough to handle it.” She laughed. “Doc Mazril tells me love is neurochemically similar to addiction anyway. Yet we encourage it in our own species. We want to get swept away by it, to feel like we’re part of another person. This is just that, but more intense. More . . . highly evolved.” She felt tears in her eyes. “It’s not evil. It’s just . . . not something we’re ready for.”

  Paris clasped her captain’s arm. “And it was our own fault, Ahn’s and mine, for not being careful enough. For not knowing our limit.”

  “The Deltans could’ve stood to be more careful themselves,” Shumar answered stiffly.

  “Maybe. But it was an honest mistake. They don’t deserve to be sold into slavery for it.”

  He studied her for a moment. “Do you think Ahn would feel the same way?”

  His subdued anger rolled off of her. “Captain . . . wherever Chung-hee is right now . . . he’s probably too happy to want to come back. He probably feels like he’s one with all things. All people.”

  Taking her point, Shumar gave an uneasy nod. He stepped away and paced before the window, beyond which Paris could see the endearingly clunky sphere-and-cylinders shape of Essex as it orbited the station. “I’m still not entirely convinced of their benevolence,” the captain said. “But just imagine if the Orions managed to persuade or coerce the Deltans to use their . . . wiles on the Syndicate’s behalf.”

  “They wouldn’t do that willingly, Captain.”

  “If they’re so empathic, they might find themselves empathizing with their captors. That’s a chance I don’t want to take.”

  She saw he was firm in his position. “Well. Just as long as you rescue them, I guess the reasons don’t matter.”

  After a moment, he softened fractionally. “Well, of course the reasons matter. Both reasons. After all . . .” He adjusted the hem of his tunic. “No one deserves to be sold into slavery, do they?”

  Paris smiled. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.” She hesitated. “Could you . . . use a first officer?”

  He examined her. “As long as you don’t intend to go to their rescue personally . . .”

  She thought about it—very briefly. “No . . . No, I don’t suppose that would be a great idea.” She smirked. “I mean, Lieutenant Kelly deserves a chance to show what she can do, right?”

  Shumar smiled. “That’s the spirit. Well, come on, then, Commander. We’ve got a slave ship to hunt down.”

  She waited until he’d turned away before she pumped her fist in the air and gave a very soft “Yes!” Then she gathered herself and followed him out into the corridor that had been roughly carved through the asteroidal rock. “But how?” she asked once she caught up. “We don’t know their course, and if we went all the way back to Delta to try to pick up their trail, it’d give them a huge headstart.”

  “That’s right. Our best bet is to intercept them from ahead.”

  “But that’s a hell of a lot of space to search. And Orion ships are pretty good at stealth.”

  Shumar stiffened his upper lip. “Then we’ll just have to be better at looking.”

  20

  June 2, 2165

  ShiKahr

  WHATEVER RESPECTFUL HUSH might have fallen over the High Council following the death of Surel and so many others had quickly passed. Archer and T’Pol had spent the past two days facing renewed grilling from Councillors Stom, T’Sess, and their fellow partisans about the rationale for, and the legality of, the Endeavour team’s inclusion on the raid, with many infuriating insinuations about how human recklessness might have provoked avoidable violence. Archer had struggled mightily to keep
his temper in check, but then T’Pol had delivered a coolly scathing dissertation on how it had been the remorseless Vulcan logic of Commander Zadok that had led him not only to lure his adversaries into a death trap, but to murder nearly a dozen of his own personnel and allies, individuals that Commander Kimura’s team had taken pains to incapacitate without lethal force.

  Once the session was finally over, Archer was eager to shuttle back to Endeavour. The broadcast of tonight’s water polo quarterfinals should surely have come in from Earth by now, and he hoped that watching the recording would help cleanse his mental palate of the foul taste the hearings had left. Before he and T’Pol could even get outside the Council building, though, the latter received a transmission from Commander Thanien. “There’s been an explosion in the residential district, Captain,” Endeavour’s first officer reported. “The location is the home of Professor Skon and the Lady T’Rama.”

  Archer and T’Pol exchanged a horrified look, one thought foremost in both their minds: The baby!

  T’Pau insisted on postponing her own testimony to accompany Archer and T’Pol to the site. The intensity in her eyes reminded Archer that T’Rama was not only her former security director, but a member of her clan through marriage.

  They arrived to find the front gate in the red sandstone wall blown inward, the mathematically precise arcs of its ironwork twisted and torn. Within, Archer could see that the glass front wall of the house was shattered, the room within a smoldering, blackened wreck. Once T’Syra, the interim security director, showed him and the two Vulcan women through the gateway, Archer was relieved to see T’Rama alive and well outside the house—though his relief faded when he realized she was leaning over her husband, who lay on the ground with paramedics tending to him.

  T’Pau strode through the rubble and chaos as if it weren’t there, and Archer and T’Pol hastened to follow in her wake. “T’Rama,” T’Pau said firmly, aware that she would be competing for the woman’s attention.