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

by Christopher L. Bennett

  Dax threw him a brief, appreciative look, but then turned his focus to the monitors. “We’ll see.”

  Kel Province, Vulcan

  “My apologies, Administrator,” Zadok reported. “It was necessary to terminate Professor T’Nol before she revealed our location.”

  “Not a problem, Commander,” V’Las assured him as he watched Sokanis make his final preparations for his meld with Archer, adjusting the admiral’s medications to promote a receptive state of mind. He had been amused by Archer’s attempts to goad him into choosing him first, no doubt in the belief that he would be able to fight back in some way. V’Las had been happy to indulge the admiral’s invitation, since Archer had not anticipated the use of psychoactive drugs in concert with telepathy. Left fully conscious, Archer would surely resist the meld and the implanted suggestions, and that could damage his brain and negate his usefulness. “Her part was effectively over anyway. Her followers will support me. And her inflexibility was starting to become an obstacle.”

  “Typical,” T’Pol spat, her disgust unconcealed. “This is why people such as you will never triumph in the long run. You are so intolerant of even the slightest divergence from your views that you inevitably turn upon one another.”

  “Unless, my dear captain,” V’Las answered, “I simply ensure that everyone agrees with me. Allow me to demonstrate on your precious human keeper.”

  “No!” T’Pol cried as Sokanis placed his hands on Archer’s temples. “You will never succeed, V’Las. Other melding savants will be able to determine that our confessions have been coerced.”

  “By which point the government they support will have been soundly discredited. The people will believe me, not them.”

  “You cannot hide the truth forever!”

  V’Las chuckled. “Where is your logic, T’Pol? Obviously I am convinced my plan will work, or I would not have reached this point. You cannot hope to change my mind with mere words, so why waste energy in the attempt?”

  Her large eyes flashed at him. “Because sometimes the words themselves need to be said.”

  “What a very human sentiment.”

  “Yes,” T’Pol told him, her conviction unwavering. “It is indeed.”

  25

  June 5, 2165

  Orion transport Rimula-Bero

  DEVNA HAD SPENT most of the past few days in the company of Ronem-Kob, the engine tender. With her intelligence rank now restored, particularly in the wake of her success with the Deltans, it was her privilege to avail herself sexually of any male of her own slave tier or below, so long as Parrec-Sut did not demand her services for himself. Ronem-Kob was young and pretty, and spending time with him in the engine bay let Devna keep her distance from the cargo hold and the unwavering stares of its hairless occupants. She encouraged him to talk about his work, telling him that the sound of his voice aroused her; but she could tell he simply enjoyed being listened to (as most people did—indeed, her work depended on it), and so he went on chattering in considerable detail about the workings of ship systems that he assured her she could not and did not need to understand.

  Thus, she was present when Parrec-Sut called from the command deck to alert Kob that a Starfleet vessel was closing on Rimula-Bero’s course from ahead. Convinced it must be a chance convergence, Sut had ordered the ship to slow and change course—but then the Starfleet ship had altered course to match, confirming that they had been spotted despite all their stealth measures. By this time, Devna had made her way to the command deck, where she was allowed so long as she did not distract the men from their duties. So she was present when the ship was identified as a Daedalus-class vessel, an older Earth model. Sut had been pleased and ordered maximum warp, hoping to outrun it. But the starship easily overtook their transport; as Devna could have told Sut if he’d asked, this class had undergone a major refit and engine upgrade in recent years. “Orion vessel. This is Captain Bryce Shumar of the U.S.S. Essex,” came a commanding voice over the comm. “You have been identified as the vessel responsible for the abduction of thirty-three citizens of the Delta system and the murder of six others. On behalf of Delta Four, I demand that you stand down and release your captives at once.”

  “It’s a bluff, Master,” said the pilot, Anoben-Lot. “We’re in open space. Starfleet has no jurisdiction.”

  “We’re in open space, so we’re as open to raiding as anyone else,” Sut countered.

  “But they’re Starfleet. They wouldn’t dare.”

  “Do you want to take that chance? Look for a gas giant, a micronebula, anywhere we can hide.”

  Anoben-Lot checked the charts. “Nothing in range, Master. Essex still closing.”

  “Disperse warp, then,” Sut ordered. “At impulse, we can outmaneuver them. Ready weapons!”

  Indeed, Devna knew, past encounters had shown that an Orion slave ship’s speed and maneuverability at sublight could be decisive advantages over Starfleet’s capital ships. Sut should have been able to weave in and out, hurling potshots at the sphere-prowed human vessel to wear down its shields while handily eluding the arcs of its return fire. But somehow, less than a minute into the engagement, the vector Sut commanded Lot to follow took the transport straight into the path of a phase cannon blast, knocking Devna to the mercifully cushion-strewn deck. The damage hobbled the ship’s further evasions and it soon took still more damage. Either Essex’s tactics were the work of a master, Devna thought . . . or Sut’s left much to be desired.

  By now, Ziraine had reached the command deck. As the senior female slave, she served as Parrec-Sut’s chief adviser, and now she advised him: “Beam the cargo into space, Master. The humans will hasten to their rescue, allowing us time to slip away.”

  “And drop shields? Are you mad?” Sut roared at her.

  “They will not destroy us while we have the cargo aboard!”

  The ship rumbled from another blow. “All aft weapons now disabled,” Anoben-Lot reported. “Shall we attack head-on?”

  “And bring down more of their wrath?” Sut roared. “No . . . we have to . . . we have to survive this. Hail them. Give our surrender.”

  “Surrender?” Ziraine questioned. “Oh. I see—lure them in, then fire when their shields fall.”

  “No, they wouldn’t fall for that. We have no choice.”

  The harem-mistress was aghast. “True surrender? While we can still fight?”

  “Don’t question me, Ziraine!” Sut backhanded her across the face. “Remember your place.” Ziraine looked more surprised than hurt, but she subsided.

  Devna, for her part, watched in silence as Sut allowed Essex to dock with Rimula-Bero, then meekly escorted its security team to the hold so they could retrieve the Deltans. The team was led by a tall, striking human woman with short hair and brown skin a shade darker than Pelia’s. Introducing herself to the Deltans as Lieutenant Morgan Kelly, she looked dismayed to see their various states of undress and bruising, as well as the lack of four of the thirty-three she had come to find. “Technically,” she told them with compassion, “we don’t have the authority to arrest these people under Federation law. But if you want to make an arrest on behalf of the Deltans, we’ll escort them back to your system for trial.”

  The Deltans exchanged many looks and touches, and fewer words, before Pelia stepped forward and spoke for the group. “Let them go,” she said. “Give them—and their people—the chance to learn from their mistakes. We wish only to return to our own.”

  “Are you sure?” Kelly asked. “Because there’s nothing to stop them from trying this again.”

  “We can improve our own defenses. And punishing these few will not change their civilization.” Pelia’s eyes locked with Devna’s, and there was understanding and gratitude in their depths. “Perhaps some among them will bring greater enlightenment to their kind.”

  Kelly clearly resented having to release Parrec-Sut, but she did
her duty. Pelia and the other Deltans vanished through the lock, and Essex decoupled and vanished into warp. Only the fragrance of the Deltans lingered in the ship.

  Along with the stink of Parrec-Sut’s humiliation and rage. When he demanded an investigation and discovered the undetected engine misalignment that had caused the stray emission Essex had homed in on, he punished Ronem-Kob viciously for his incompetence. Devna found herself surprisingly uncomfortable with the engine tender’s fate. True, the poor young slave was totally blameless—except in the sense that he had told Devna exactly what she had needed to know in order to create the malfunction. But he could not be blamed for that, because she was an expert at extracting information from her lovers; he’d never had a chance. So he certainly didn’t deserve to suffer under Parrec-Sut’s lash. But why should Devna feel bad about that? She should be grateful that she wasn’t the one being punished. She had been conditioned to enjoy physical pain and humiliation, but there were always more creative tortures, and punishments that would permanently disfigure her and make her useless as a spy. Would she really have preferred to bring that suffering down on herself, just for the liberty of a few aliens? Madness.

  But the feeling didn’t go away. Devna gradually realized that the empathy the Deltans had awakened in her, the empathy that had driven her to set them free, was not limited to them. Seeing anyone suffer, even for the sake of her own goals, was now difficult to bear. And enduring punishment herself in order to spare others, as mad as it seemed, felt like it could have actually been the right thing to do.

  How can I live like this now? she asked herself. Such tender sentiments might work on Delta, but they were no way to survive as a slave and spy in the Orion Syndicate. If she wished to endure under the Three Sisters, then she had to stay ruthless.

  But the alternative was forming in her mind despite her fear of even considering it:

  Maybe I don’t have to remain their slave.

  June 10, 2165

  Ware hub complex

  Tucker had to admit that Daskel Vabion knew what he was doing. For all the backwardness of the Vanotli’s culture, he had a remarkable insight into computer science. It was a sobering reminder that genius existed in every era—that societies accustomed to letting technology do their heavy lifting complacently assumed they were smarter than their forebears when, if anything, they no longer needed to be. Vabion’s intellect was clearly ahead of his time, even if the same could not be said for his ethics.

  But then, ethics were a luxury in Tucker’s line of work. His bosses in Section 31 would expect him to pursue much the same goal as Vabion—namely, to gain insight into the Ware and bring its technological secrets home for the Federation. The possibilities were immense: a solution to the transporter problem; instant cures for all manner of disease and injury; advanced matter replication; drone ships for defense so that lives would no longer have to be lost defending Federation worlds. With this kind of technology, the Federation would be securely protected, wealthy beyond measure, and able to attract countless new members with the benefits it offered.

  “This is the key,” Olivia Akomo told him. “We’ve been trying to access the root programming through just the data core, but the hardware’s too deeply integrated with the organic processors. It’s the living brains that give the system its dynamism, its adaptability.” She shook her head. “I should’ve seen it—it’s the same principle we’re working on with the neural processors back home. If we want to reprogram the system, we need that kind of labile interface. We need the system to be aware of itself so it can redirect itself. We should’ve been directing our efforts toward tapping into the interface through the living processors, rather than simply removing them from the circuit!”

  “Will you listen to yourself?” That was Zeheri, the Vanotli woman. “They’re not ‘processors,’ they’re people! I thought you wanted to get them out, to stop the Ware from taking more of them. Now you sound just like Vabion, wanting to use them to give yourselves control!”

  “I’m just being practical,” Akomo countered. “I was brought here for my expertise with neural circuitry, and that’s my conclusion. I’m not insensitive to the humanitarian concerns here, but we have to think about the benefits to the greater number.”

  “At the expense of the individual? I’ve seen where that leads.”

  “Need I remind you,” Vabion interposed, “that Mister Mayweather is about to be fired upon by his own people? We need to gain control of the system quickly, before the opportunity is taken from us. We do not have time for an ethical debate.”

  “He’s right,” said Akomo. “Vabion’s way is our best option.”

  “And if you choose convenience over ethics now, what happens the next time? And the next?” Zeheri shifted her gaze to Tucker. “Please. I don’t understand all this scientific business, but I understand that Travis is one of your own people. He’s your friend, your crewmate. And . . .” She lowered her eyes briefly. “He’s someone very special. I’ve never known anyone so full of life, and the thought of him lying there helpless, wasting away . . . If you’re really his friends, you can’t just reduce him to that. Not when it’s his own life on the line. Give him a chance to fight for it.”

  Tucker’s training told him to argue—or, better yet, to play along and then do the sensible thing anyway, knowing she couldn’t tell the difference until it was too late. If he did what she suggested, there was no telling if it would work at all, let alone in time to prevent Vol’Rala and the others from destroying the command ship.

  But he found he could not so easily deny her words. Seeing Olivia Akomo side with the likes of Vabion was startling. Commander ch’Gesrit had been right: The enticements the Ware offered were compelling. All this power and luxury could be yours, and all you had to do was value it above the occasional sapient life. It was only a few unimportant people, after all, surely outweighed by the good the Ware did for the majority of others. That had probably been the thinking of the Ware’s creators, the reason they’d instituted this system in the first place. And it was so easy, he realized as he watched Akomo standing comfortably by Vabion’s side, to succumb to the same temptation.

  But those few individuals were not unimportant—certainly not to their friends and families. Travis Mayweather had been his friend once. They’d served together for four years, had each other’s backs through the worst ordeals and most astonishing wonders that any human had ever experienced before. Their trust in each other had never wavered—until Tucker had renounced his crew and lied to his friends. He had used Travis, betrayed his trust, in the name of what he had believed was the greater good. But if it had been so good, if it had been the right thing to do, wouldn’t Travis have agreed with it if he’d simply been consulted?

  When it came right down to it, Charles Tucker realized, the people who had the most right to decide what to do about the Ware—and the ones in the best position to do something about it—were the ones who were not being given a say in the decision. But he also realized that Vabion’s tap into Mayweather’s mind was the key to changing that. Yes, it would give them access to the root levels of the Ware. But it could also give him access to Travis. To send his friend a wake-up call . . .

  And put the power in his hands.

  Pebru command ship

  Is there such a thing as consciousness without awareness of the self?

  No; he was aware of himself—just not in the way he was used to. Travis Mayweather had always perceived himself on a very somatic level, dedicating himself to physical development and achievement: weightlifting, wrestling, mountaineering, caving. His hobby of seeking out the gravitational sweet spot of every ship had been in pursuit of the physical sensation of free fall and the physical challenge of locating that one precise spot amid all the conduits and corridors of a vessel. Not to mention his more intimate physical endeavors over the years, from the early experiments with Stefania and Juan among Horizon’s car
go containers to the connection he’d shared with Urwen Zeheri. There had been more to them all than the purely physical, but his body was central to his engagement with the world around him. To be without awareness of that body was strange and disquieting. He should be panicking—but panic was a thing of the body, a rush of hormones and adrenaline. A mind in isolation could only panic in the abstract.

  Which left him free to focus his attention on what he was feeling in lieu of physical sensation. For there was more here than just his mind. He was part of a larger pattern of activity. Strange, confusing sensory input, somehow unsophisticated and below a conscious level, even though it was on his level now, the whole of the input his conscious mind could sense. The pattern was unclear, but it was cold, repetitive, formulaic, like . . .

  Like a machine.

  He was back in the Ware.

  Mayweather remembered now, the memory so physically linked that it had been hard to access: fighting against Vabion’s effort to put him back into the data core, fighting the pear-shaped, armored creatures who were the root of all his problems, then failing as their drugs took hold. He had never thought to regain consciousness again. Certainly not like this. How could he be awake inside the Ware? He had no memory of such a thing from his first ordeal. Could he have simply forgotten once he was rescued?

  But even as he examined his state of consciousness, he realized there was information there, awaiting his access. It was more an intuitive understanding than anything in words, like the internal senses that informed him whether he was hungry or cold or told him where his feet were when he wasn’t looking. He realized he was aware of the command ship’s status, and his own, on the same innate level. Yes—he was on a command ship, controlling a set of drones. Other beings, the armored aliens, were being sustained by its life support systems. So were several adjunct processors—live captives, including himself. And he, and only he, had been . . . activated. His mind had been restored to consciousness by an outside command, sent through a modification in his neural interface. Vabion’s modification—he remembered that much. But why would Vabion want him awake?