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

by Christopher L. Bennett

  The horror in Travis’s eyes was heartbreaking. He had told Zeheri of his ordeal, but she hadn’t realized how much it haunted him until now, as he reacted to the prospect of being returned to that existence. “No,” he breathed. “Vabion, even you wouldn’t do that.”

  “My apologies, Mister Mayweather, but as I have told you before, I am a pragmatist. This is simply a means to an end.”

  “We have no shortage of processor candidates,” the second voice came, “thanks largely to the donations you have provided us.” Vabion bowed as if accepting thanks. “Why should this particular processor be of value to us now?”

  “Because, as you said, his fellows are attacking and destroying your facilities.” He tilted his cadaverous, shaven head. “Do you suppose they would be so quick to destroy a Ware vessel . . . if they knew it had one of their own people hooked into its data core?”

  Travis stood in stunned silence, while Rey’s eyes raced as if in desperate search of a solution to this plight. Zeheri found her hand brushing against Travis’s, closing around it.

  “Very well,” came the first voice. “We will reinstall the processor.”

  “The processor is in my possession and I am prepared to exchange him.”

  “What is your price?”

  “Merely that you allow me to accompany him so that I can personally supervise his reinstallation. I’ve developed some refinements of my own for your control interface, and I would welcome the opportunity to demonstrate them to you.”

  The voice was skeptical. “You may supervise. Stand beside the processor.”

  Vabion complied, holding up his bracelet as a wordless command to Zeheri to release Travis’s hand. The look of desperation and fear in the human’s eyes as they were beamed away stayed with Zeheri for some time thereafter. Despite his strange features, she realized, Travis was not so alien after all.

  June 10, 2165

  U.S.S. Pioneer

  “This is the biggest one yet,” Valeria Williams reported as she scanned the incoming Ware fleet. “Six standard battleship drones . . . and one larger vessel, type unknown.”

  “Mister Collier,” Reed asked over the communications channel, “I don’t suppose you’re getting any closer to deciphering the Ware control systems?”

  “If we were, I would’ve told you,” Tucker’s voice replied, though the time was past when Reed would automatically trust that statement from him. “We’ve learned plenty about how the software works, but it was designed to resist reprogramming.”

  “I’m not convinced it is entirely design,” came Olivia Akomo’s voice. “I’m tempted to say it’s more of a defense mechanism—like the Ware has evolved to resist threats to its survival.”

  “More likely that someone programmed it with an evolutionary model in mind,” Tucker added. “Either way, it’s putting up a good fight.”

  “Which means we’ll have to deal with these drones the old-fashioned way,” Reed said.

  On the viewscreen, Captain sh’Prenni smiled as she leaned back in Vol’Rala’s command chair. “Good. It’s been days since we’ve gotten any further target practice. Now that Thelasa-vei’s rejoined us, we should be in for some good sport.”

  “Sirs,” Williams interposed from tactical, “you may want to hold off on that. I’m reading life signs on the drone ships.”

  Reed stared at her, then looked to sh’Prenni. “Is it possible we’ve finally attracted the attention of the builders?”

  “No, sir,” Williams went on. “I’m reading Andorian life signs . . . human . . . and two readings consistent with the Vanotli on the larger ship.” She paused. “But there are two unidentified biosigns on that ship as well.”

  The mix of species was disturbing, considering that they hadn’t received a report from Zabathu or Mayweather’s team on Vanot in days. Reed turned to Grev. “Try hailing the largest vessel.”

  The face that appeared on the viewscreen was unexpected: a tall, thin man with a dark complexion, a shaved head, light spots across his brow and temples, yellow-orange eyes, and small fanlike fins behind his ears. “Attention Federation task force. My name is Daskel Vabion, founder and chairman of Worldwide Automatics on the planet Vanot. I speak to you on behalf of the owners of the facility you have illegally occupied and sabotaged. Evacuate the station and withdraw or we will reclaim it by force.”

  Reed was nonplussed. How did this man from one of the Ware’s tributary worlds, a planet whose technology was more than two centuries behind Earth’s, come to represent the Ware’s builders? “This is Captain Malcolm Reed of Pioneer,” he replied. “Mister Vabion, I’m not certain you entirely appreciate the situation you’ve found yourself in. The technology these . . . owners have brought to your world is predatory and destructive, whatever promise it offers.”

  “I beg you not to condescend to me, Captain Reed. I appreciate the situation well enough to have captured your Mister Mayweather and his party, to compel the ship Zabathu to bring us into contact with the Ware’s owners, and to arrange for Starfleet personnel to be placed aboard the ships now closing on your position. Not only do we outnumber you by one,” Vabion went on, “but we have a tactical advantage. We have nothing to lose by destroying your ships—but you will kill your own people if you destroy ours. So if you now appreciate the whole situation, Captain Reed, I again recommend that you withdraw your personnel and vessels from the station immediately.”

  “Starfleet doesn’t submit to the demands of hostage-takers, Mister Vabion. Release our personnel or we will recover them by force. You should be warned that we have plenty of experience liberating captives from Ware control.”

  “From stations, perhaps. From battleships? I doubt it. Our ships will be in firing range in moments; I advise you to reconsider while you still can.”

  Vabion’s face vanished from the screen, replaced by the image of the seven ships closing in. The largest one—easily distinguishable by the control sphere embedded in its main body—seemed to be holding back now while the others spread out into an attack formation. Reed ordered Grev to signal the Andorian fleet. “Attention all vessels. Assume defensive formation around the hub facility. Be aware that there are Starfleet hostages aboard all attacking ships. We will engage to disable, not destroy.”

  A moment later, Captain sh’Prenni’s face came on the viewer. “That’s what they want of us, Malcolm. To make us hold back.”

  “Then their mistake is to confuse precision for weakness,” he told her. “Surely your armory officers are skilled enough to take out their weapons, defenses, and propulsion without endangering the hostages aboard. I know mine is.”

  Sh’Prenni grinned. “So it’s a challenge to our pride, is it? You’re on. We’ll get them back safely and defend the complex.”

  “I know you will. Good luck, Captain.”

  Once the viewer reverted to the shot of the battle formation—now with several of the Andorian cruisers moving into view as they took up positions around the hub complex—Williams reported, “Forty seconds to firing range, sir.”

  He held her gaze. “I trust you won’t make a liar of me with regard to your targeting skills, Val.”

  Determination burned in her eyes. “I won’t let our people down, sir.”

  22

  June 3, 2165

  Kel Province, Vulcan

  T’POL STRAINED AGAINST HER BONDS once more, accepting the pain as the needles jabbed into her wrist. She only subsided when she heard the warning hiss of the mechanism preparing to inject sedative into her veins. She considered whether she might be able to rip her arm free rapidly enough to avoid the injection, and whether the resultant blood loss could be stanched before she lost consciousness through that means instead. The injectors were, naturally enough, positioned directly over the major veins in her wrist, and venous bleeding was slow. However, as she strained, she felt additional barbs digging into her skin above the ra
dial and ulnar arteries. The bleeding from them would most likely be severe.

  “We’re not going to get out that way,” Archer observed grimly.

  “No.” She considered the options for a time, taking a deep breath before speaking. “Admiral . . . when V’Las’s melder arrives, we must persuade V’Las to let him meld with me first.”

  Archer stared in shock. “What? T’Pol, there’s no way.”

  “It is logical,” she said, drawing strength from the words. “I have . . . more experience with invasive melds. I have mental disciplines that would enable me to fight back. I may be able to overpower the melder.”

  “No, T’Pol. I’m not going to let you go through that again.” He gave a brave smile. “Besides, I’m the one who taught you how to meld, remember? I got a lot from Surak’s katra. Tell me your techniques and I’ll fight him off.”

  “They would be difficult to convey with words. And with respect, Admiral, it is my mind and my decision.”

  Archer held her gaze. “I respect that, T’Pol. But I’m still your commanding officer. We both want to sacrifice for each other, but I have the extra stripe, so I win.” He sighed. “Besides, I’m the one V’Las really wants to punish. I’m the one who found the Kir’Shara and set all this in motion.”

  “With the guidance of the Syrannites, and of Surak himself. You are not solely responsible. Nor can you be blamed for how V’Las and his followers have responded to that event.”

  “Being in command means I am responsible. For my actions and for their impact on other people. There’s an old saying among Earth’s mariners . . . that a captain is responsible for his own ship’s wake.”

  “V’Las is responsible for his crimes.”

  “But I’m responsible for trying to stop him! This is on me, T’Pol.”

  “You are being illogical, Jonathan. If you fail to overpower him, he will still meld with me.”

  “Then at least I can soften him up so you can finish him off.”

  “The effort will likely damage you.”

  He gave her a solemn look. “T’Pol . . . would you rather damage yourself for a member of your crew, or let them damage themselves for you?”

  She looked away. Logically, it was a subordinate’s duty to put one’s physical or mental well-being at stake for one’s superior. But it was also a captain’s duty to take care of her crew above all else. It was a difficult equation to balance. “I understand your wishes, Admiral. But I still protest.”

  “Duly noted.” He smirked. “If it makes you feel better, you can take the hit for me next time.”

  She threw him a look of skeptical amusement. “You realize that we may not be able to influence V’Las’s choice one way or the other.”

  “Like I said, I’m the one he’s really after. I just have to irritate his ego enough to make sure he picks me first.”

  “Then it is fortunate,” T’Pol replied with a raised brow, “that you have such abundant experience at irritating Vulcans.”

  U.S.S. Endeavour

  Tobin Dax had nowhere he wanted to go.

  Sickbay was too depressing. Skon was still in a coma, or what the Vulcan doctors called a “healing trance;” according to them and even to Phlox, they’d done all they could for him medically and the rest was a matter of his own physical and mental resiliency. That was not encouraging, for athleticism was more T’Rama’s purview. And Dax was hesitant to face her as well, since it was too depressing to ponder the prospect that the baby might have to grow up without his father. Let alone grow up on a Vulcan ruled by V’Las, or under Starfleet occupation.

  That concern kept Dax away from the public areas of Endeavour, for the off-duty personnel—those who weren’t working overtime in the search for their abducted captain and admiral—were all monitoring the news and discussion feeds from the surface. Tobin had tried that for a while, but it had grown too distasteful as the voices speaking in favor of peace, tolerance, and loyalty to the Federation were increasingly drowned out by the fervor of the voices backing V’Las and Zadok. He knew that most ordinary Vulcans did not share those radicals’ intensity of belief, but he was afraid that if the loudest few argued long enough and persuasively enough, if they were able to obscure the truth enough with their onslaught of propaganda, then the rank and file might simply accede to their control. That was the handicap of populism; it depended on the investment and participation of the masses, while oligarchy and authoritarianism thrived on their passivity.

  Then why don’t you get more active? he asked himself. Hypocrite. He would have once imagined that it was the voice of Lela, the Dax symbiont’s original host. But over the years, that illusion had faded as the memories and thought patterns of Lela Dax had grown more integrated into his own personality. Or had they? Lela had been brave, ambitious, iconoclastic—one of the first women in the Trill legislature, one of the pioneers of diplomatic relations with Vulcan, one of the first Trill to leave her homeworld. Tobin had inherited her wanderlust, at least, so what had become of her courage, her outspokenness?

  Courage led you to Pioneer, he told himself, and look where that got you. Lela’s legacy may have been within him, but the Tobin half was dominant, providing his volition. She could offer advice and goad him forward, but how he acted on those drives was his own choice, and that was the problem. He couldn’t wield ambition or courage with the same deftness and good judgment that Lela had possessed, so it just got him—and more importantly, Dax—into trouble when he tried. The memory of his brush with death on Pioneer was still so strong that he couldn’t bring himself to volunteer in Endeavour’s engine room, couldn’t face the memories it would evoke. And so he was left with nothing to do but languish in his guest quarters and hope that others with more competence and fortitude could save the day.

  So he was surprised when his door chime signaled and he found T’Rama standing in the corridor. Once he’d invited her in and shown her to a seat, he said, “I thought you’d be with Skon.”

  “My physical presence or absence can have little impact on his recovery at this stage,” T’Rama replied. “The telepathic bond we share will notify me should my . . . presence be required.” Her hands unconsciously folded over her womb. “In any case, even though we have been temporarily expelled from our home, you are still a guest of our family, and my duties as host remain.”

  Dax shook his head. “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “We all owe one another something. That is what V’Las would have us forget. And a host’s obligation to her guests is something she owes to herself as well.” She rose and moved to the console. “To that end, there is something I wished to show you. Our other guest is making an address over the public network. I thought you might find it worth hearing. He began several minutes ago, but I shall replay it from near the beginning.”

  Tobin moved alongside her to view the console screen. Once T’Rama had Iloja’s address cued to what she deemed a suitable moment, she let it replay. “My world is not known to you,” the poet-in-exile told them, “and may not be for generations. I am an outsider—someone that many of you are saying should not be heeded, should not even be permitted on your world. Well, the regime that rules my own world said the same thing about me, even though I was a native and once a citizen in good standing. I was an astronomer and theoretical physicist. I studied planets in distant star systems, seeking other civilizations that Cardassia might one day trade with and learn from. But I found my work co-opted by those who used it to assess potential threats and targets for plunder. And when I protested, when I spoke to the people of how my work should more rightly be used, I was branded a dissident, stripped of my position and good standing. When that only made me more vocal . . . well, I was eventually driven from Cardassia, forced to seek out the worlds I had once charted, no longer as scientific curiosities, but as refuge and shelter.

  “Ultimately that quest brought me to Vulcan, where I found m
yself welcomed by a people who valued science and philosophy as highly as I did. A people who embraced diversity of thought and the new insights it could bring—into the universe and into the self. Here, I thought, might be a place where I could finally rest.”

  Iloja’s gaze grew harder, more hooded. “Yet recently I have seen a familiar pattern emerging here on this world so far from my home. Politicians tell the people they must be strong. They must be pure. They must fear and expel those who come from outside, who think differently, who believe differently.

  “True, on Cardassia, the causes were different. Our people were impoverished, our resources depleted and our ecosystem damaged by the excesses of our ancestors. Disease preyed upon millions, forcing the survivors to adopt lives of discipline, austerity, and caution to avoid infection. Powerful families hoarded and squandered our scant resources, bringing Cardassia near to ruin, until the military seized power and redistributed what little remained.

  “In time, we found a new balance: a joint government of the military, the elite families, and a council to represent the masses. It kept our world alive, fed and protected our people. But in time, after generations of struggle, sacrifice, and courage, the great threats to our existence subsided—but the three branches of the state had grown too accustomed to the taste of power to wean themselves from it. Politics obeys its own physics, and power abhors a vacuum. So when the state lost the dangers it existed to fight, it sought new dangers within—and made certain that it found them. The danger of those who questioned the continued need for austerity and military rule. The danger of those who still found meaning in the religion of our Hebitian forebears. The danger of those who did not think in the approved way. Most of all, the danger of those who questioned whether the powerful few currently in charge should remain in charge. Those people threatened only the state—but the state was Cardassia, or so it always told us. What threatened them threatened us all . . . or so it suited them to make us believe.”