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

by Christopher L. Bennett

  T’Rama straightened. “My lady.”

  “What is Skon’s condition?”

  “Serious, my lady. They are readying him for transport to the hospital now. It is too early to say more.”

  “And yourself?” Archer asked. “The baby?”

  “I was meditating by the rear fountain when the missile struck, Admiral. I sustained some minor lacerations and surface burns . . .” She broke off, coughing a few times. “And perhaps some smoke inhalation in the effort to bring Skon outside to safety. Fortunately, our house guests were away at a poetry recital.”

  T’Pol surveyed the scene warily, as if expecting a further strike. “Director T’Syra. Have the perpetrators been identified?”

  “Not as yet, Captain,” the tall woman replied. “This district is open and sparsely populated. There were no witnesses nearby.”

  “But it would be logical to surmise,” said T’Pau, “that this is another strike by V’Las’s partisans.”

  “But why?” Archer asked. “Why strike them now? They’re not involved in trying to reconstruct the data from the raid.”

  “The attackers may not have known that,” T’Pol suggested.

  “Or,” said T’Pau, “this may have been retaliation for their previous efforts. We are dealing with irrational minds.”

  “This may be the first in a series of planned terrorist strikes,” T’Syra advised. “My forces are deploying citywide, and we have alerted the reasoning force. Perhaps, First Minister, it would be advisable for you to withdraw to a secure location. And you, Admiral, Captain, should consider returning to your vessel.”

  The paramedics were lifting Skon into an ambulance skimmer now. “I shall stay with my husband,” T’Rama told them, “and notify you of any change in his condition.”

  “I’m not going to run and hide from terrorists,” Archer said. “That’s what they want.”

  “Director!” One of T’Syra’s subalterns approached the group as the ambulance hovered away.

  T’Syra turned toward the older male. “Yes, Somnel?”

  “We have found a glove outside the wall. It may have been left by one of the assailants.”

  Trading a look, Archer and T’Pol hurried after T’Syra as Somnel led them out the gate and around the curve of the courtyard wall. But as they came into view of the ornate archway over the adjacent road, Archer dimly glimpsed a moving shape through its thick stained glass. “Over there!” he called.

  But it was too late. Particle fire blazed from the archway’s edge, and only T’Pol’s quick reflexes saved Archer as she bowled him to the ground. The admiral looked to T’Syra for support—only to see Somnel calmly driving a knife into her side, where he knew the Vulcan heart was located. “No!” Archer cried as the interim director fell to the ground with an offended expression on her face.

  T’Pol and Archer scrambled for cover; having come directly from the High Council chamber, neither officer was armed. But T’Pol was struck and fell limp. Desperately, Archer clambered over to her and felt her wrist. Vulcan blood pressure was so low that he couldn’t tell whether she had a pulse or not—until he felt the faintest exhalation of warm breath against his cheek as he leaned over her face. They’re shooting to stun, he realized. So why kill T’Syra?

  Return fire finally erupted from around the courtyard wall, but more raiders were arriving, pinning the Council forces in a crossfire. Just as Archer realized the answer to his question—that someone wanted to take him and T’Pol alive—a skimmer rocketed into view and jerked to a stop between Archer and the Council forces. A middle-aged, tough-looking Vulcan male opened the door and held him at gunpoint. “Get in. Bring the female.”

  Archer pretended to comply—but if these thugs wanted him, they’d have to work for it. He whirled on the gunman and grabbed at his particle rifle—

  And then there was pain, and he knew no more.

  ShiKahr Central Hospital

  “Have they been tracked?” Thanien ch’Revash demanded.

  Though T’Pau was far smaller and younger than the Andorian commander, the former First Minister stared him down effortlessly, her stern poise humbling him for his rudeness. “The vehicle was found abandoned in the park ring,” she told him once he had calmed down. “Unfortunately, our pursuit was delayed by the need to attend to Director T’Syra’s injuries.” The director was in heart surgery now; it seemed likely that her attacker had calibrated her injury to leave her alive but critical, so as to achieve just such a delay. “They were transferred to a faster craft, which was tracked as far as the Forge. Unfortunately, the electromagnetic storms in that region interfered with further tracking, no doubt as the abductors intended.”

  “These extremists become more emboldened by the day,” Thanien observed.

  “No doubt the reemergence of V’Las has inspired them to greater aggression.”

  “That comes as no surprise,” the veteran officer answered. “The Andorians owe much spilled blood to V’Las’s policies.”

  “The Syrannites as well,” T’Pau reminded him. “And very nearly my kinfolk this night.”

  Thanien met her gaze, acknowledging silently that they shared grief and an incentive for action. “How do they fare?”

  “Let us see.”

  T’Pau led him to the observation window of the recovery ward, where Tobin Dax stood vigil along with an alien of an unfamiliar species, whom Tobin introduced as Iloja of Prim. “Looks like Skon’s gonna be okay,” Dax told them. “And the baby’s fine.”

  “I would like to keep it that way,” Thanien said. He noted that T’Rama had spotted their arrival; she heaved her gravid frame upward with surprising grace and moved toward the door. Thanien waited until she arrived to continue. “I am gratified you are well, Lady T’Rama. But as I was about to say, I am concerned for your continued safety. As we’ve seen, V’Las’s loyalists have infiltrated even the Council security force. They may well have agents within this hospital as well. For your safety, and that of your child, I recommend you accompany me to Endeavour. Our doctor will be more than capable of caring for Skon.”

  Dax nodded. “Phlox is a good man. I agree, you’ll be in good hands with him.” He shrugged. “Quite a conversationalist, too.”

  “Lady T’Pau,” Thanien went on, “you may be a target as well. I recommend you also return to the ship with me, at least for the time being.”

  “I am still needed to address the Council. With Archer and T’Pol gone, Soval and I must carry the burden of the argument.”

  “I have already insisted on Soval’s return to Endeavour, for he is a key Federation official. If you accompany us, you may consult with him aboard the ship. We will then provide transportation and escort for further testimony, once it’s scheduled.”

  T’Pau looked impressed. “We were once taught that Andorians were incapable of logic. One more of V’Las’s lies.”

  Thanien bowed. “You are most gracious.”

  “Um, I’d like to come with you too, if it’s okay,” Dax said. He scoffed. “I thought I’d be safer on a planet than a starship, but right now, well . . .”

  “As my human colleagues say, the more, the merrier, Doctor.” Thanien turned to the poet, Iloja. “And you, sir?”

  “Thank you, but no,” the wide-necked alien said. “I’ve grown rather tired of running.”

  Thanien found the man’s comment somewhat rude. After years of dealing with humans and Vulcans, it was refreshing.

  June 3, 2165

  Kel Province, Vulcan

  After some minutes of silence, Jonathan Archer spoke up. “Seems like old times, doesn’t it?”

  T’Pol reviewed their situation. She had awoken some seventy-eight minutes ago to find herself and the admiral in an unfamiliar facility, stripped to their Starfleet-issue black undershirts and shorts and held in quite secure restraints on hard platforms angled at some thirty
-five degrees off the vertical. Said platforms were equipped with what appeared to be medical sensors and monitors, and tubes suitable for intravenous injection were connected to their wrist restraints. Whoever had secured her restraints had taken the slenderness of her wrists and hands into account. When she had attempted to force a hand free, she had felt something sharp pressing against her wrist: the intravenous injectors, no doubt, but angled and reinforced so as to tear into her flesh should she persist in the attempt. Archer, upon finally awakening some twenty-four minutes ago, had been no more able to free himself than she had been; his strength was only human, after all, and his hands bulkier. All told, it was not an agreeable situation.

  But over the years, she had learned to appreciate the human practice of “whistling in the dark,” as they called it. “Indeed,” she affirmed. “I do seem to spend significantly more time in bondage when in your company.”

  There was a long pause. “I’m . . . not gonna go near that one.”

  “That would probably be wise.”

  Archer’s wrists jerked against his restraints—a token expression of frustration, for he had already tested them thoroughly. “You know,” he said, “maybe getting promoted to Gardner’s job wouldn’t be so bad. A nice quiet desk job back home sounds pretty good right about now.”

  “A desk job would not have precluded the Council from bringing you here to testify,” T’Pol replied. “Besides . . . it was not that many years ago that a fanatically xenophobic faction in your home system abducted me. Your world has no intrinsic edge in security over mine.”

  The admiral met her eyes, looking apologetic. “Point taken, T’Pol. I want you to know . . . I haven’t forgotten that this is your home we’re fighting to protect.”

  She returned his gaze absolvingly. “I never imagined that you had.”

  “ ‘Protect’?”

  The harsh, scornful voice was unmistakable. T’Pol and Archer turned to see V’Las striding into the chamber, Commander Zadok close behind on his flank. The presence of Professor T’Nol further to the rear was unexpected, but—upon reflection—not at all anomalous. It was logical that the Anti-revisionists had remained a part of the traditionalist coalition despite their purported dissolution.

  V’Las shook his head as his gaze shifted between them. “Admiral Jonathan Archer. The man who discovered the true word of Surak and brought down Vulcan’s only means of defense.” He moved closer to T’Pol’s pallet. “And Captain T’Pol, in your Federation livery. You have betrayed Vulcan time and time again, from P’Jem to today. And you dare to pretend the two of you are protecting Vulcan from those of us who wish to make it strong once more?”

  “There is no strength in lies,” T’Pol shot back. “I never understood the true strength within me until I studied the Kir’Shara’s wisdom. Now you would take that wisdom from the Vulcan people once again. To serve whom, V’Las?”

  “I serve Vulcan. The true Vulcan, as it was in our days of glory.”

  “Then how is it that your operatives concealed their theft using Romulan holographic technology? Perhaps the rumors of your defection during the war were true. Or perhaps you were their agent all along, deliberately starting a war to weaken the fleet and permit their conquest.”

  The hesitation in the traitor’s blue eyes all but confirmed her accusation. But a moment later, he pulled himself up with pride and conviction. “Everything I have done, then and now, has been with the intention of turning the Vulcans back into the warriors we were meant to be. Whatever . . . errors in judgment I may have made in the past, my commitment to Vulcan is stronger than ever.”

  Archer peered at V’Las in bewilderment. “It’s insane . . . but I think I believe you. You’ve convinced yourself of this jingoistic bullshit along with your followers.”

  “We follow V’Las because we see the logic in his words,” Commander Zadok countered. “Vulcan was strong under the High Command, a power that sheltered and regulated dozens of worlds. We were leaders—not passive followers in a Federation run by erratic primitives.”

  “True leadership comes from ideas,” T’Pol told him, “not the barrel of a gun. There is more lasting power in convincing others to follow you by choice than in forcing them to submit against their will.”

  “When the masses are given a choice,” V’Las told her bitterly, “they often make the wrong one. The past eleven years have proven that.”

  “Wrong for you,” Archer said, “and your corrupt elite. Drop the rhetoric, V’Las—you just want to seize power again.”

  T’Nol finally spoke. “We want to restore things to the way they were. Before the influence of offworlders like you. Before all these . . . changes.”

  “You think guerrilla warfare will let you put things back nice and neat the way they were, Professor? You should study more Earth history. Nothing ever goes back to the way it was after something like that. It leaves permanent scars.”

  Zadok scoffed. “Your facts are in error. We are no mere guerrilla force. We are an army, ready to strike en masse and take back our planet from your occupation. And within hours, it will be too late for your Starfleet to prevent it.”

  “You are mad,” T’Pol told him. “A violent coup will not only provoke Starfleet retaliation, but will invalidate your cause in the eyes of the Vulcan people. There may be disputes over the correct interpretation of Surak’s teachings, but few would dispute that he opposed Vulcans killing other Vulcans.”

  V’Las was gloating again. “Our cause, my dear captain, will seem entirely valid to the Vulcan people—once you and your human master publicly invalidate yours.”

  She met his eyes evenly. “I fail to see how our martyrdom could achieve anything of the sort.”

  “Had I meant to kill you, I would have done so already.” He furrowed his brow. “Did you think I had you brought here for some sort of retributive torture, or merely to boast of my victory?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past you,” Archer spat. “You’re one of the most clichéd, melodramatic bad guys I’ve ever met.”

  “You humans have the strangest habit of conflating reality with fiction, Admiral. But perhaps that will serve my purposes here . . . for I seek to convince you that a fiction is reality.”

  “Speaking in riddles doesn’t exactly disprove my point.”

  “Then I will speak plainly,” V’Las declared. “Once the coup is under way, the two of you will make a public statement confessing that you forged the Kir’Shara in order to discredit the High Command and install the Syrannites as a puppet government for Earth and Andoria. This will legitimize our seizure of power in the public’s eyes. Even if Starfleet does come to retake the planet, they will have lost the people.”

  “And what in the hell makes you think we would ever do a thing like that?”

  “Because,” V’Las told him, “you will both believe it to be absolutely true.”

  Archer remained puzzled, but a wave of dread rushed through T’Pol as she realized what V’Las intended. “No,” she gasped. “You of all people . . . you would not use a mind-melder against us.”

  “Why not?” he countered, looking amused. “I’m a practical man, Captain. I can change with the times.”

  “You mean you’re a hypocrite,” Archer grated. “You persecuted melders when it served your agenda, and now you’ll use one to violate our minds just to get what you want. You’ve got no loyalty to anything but your own power.”

  V’Las’s voice grew cooler, softer, yet that made him seem even more dangerous. “You’re very wrong, Admiral. I have more loyalty to Vulcan now than I ever had before. And that is why I will do anything—anything—to ensure its strength.”

  With that, he led the others out of the room. “V’Las!” Archer cried. “I won’t let you do this! I’ll find a way to stop you!”

  T’Pol was touched by the intensity in her friend’s voice. She remembered the first time he ha
d spoken in such tones on her behalf—thirteen and a half years ago in Enterprise’s sickbay, once she had told him how Tolaris, a dissident Vulcan who had renounced logic and the stigma against melders, had abused his own telepathic skills in order to force a meld on her. She had initially consented to the meld out of curiosity, but he had pressured her to go farther than she was comfortable with, continuing to force the meld even after she had explicitly demanded that he stop. The violence of the coercive meld had triggered the progressive neurological damage known as Pa’nar Syndrome, which she had believed to be terminal for two years until T’Pau had revealed and administered the cure.

  At the time, her relationship with Archer had still been uneasy, sometimes hostile; and although she had not approved of emotionalism on general principles, his protective outrage upon learning of Tolaris’s assault had affected her deeply, for it had shown that he had come to see her as a member of his crew. In retrospect, she saw it as one of the key formative events in their friendship. But that did nothing to ameliorate the trauma of the experience itself, or the distress she still felt when she recalled the assault. The prospect of being put through such an ordeal a second time was unconscionable.

  But this time, she feared, neither Archer nor she would be in any position to prevent it.

  * * *

  “A melder?” T’Nol demanded once the door to V’Las’s office sealed behind her, leaving them alone as she’d requested. “You would employ such corruptions in service to our cause?”

  V’Las seemed untroubled by her concerns as he circled behind his desk, resting a hand on the back of his chair. “Why should you care? T’Pol is a melder herself. Archer is a human. This is the most efficient way of reconditioning their minds.”

  “I am not concerned for them, Administrator, but for ourselves. How can we restore Vulcan to its proper values if we compromise those very values in pursuit of our goals? You yourself were one of the staunchest defenders against melder corruption.”

  “Because it served my goals at the time. Now, using a melder serves my goals.”