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

by Christopher L. Bennett

  “Maybe the Federation could help. Show your people that we aren’t all like that.”

  She shook her head. “We thought the Ware was benevolent. We wouldn’t trust that promise again.” She sighed. “We’re a proud people, Travis. We need to solve our own problems.”

  He lowered his head. “I understand.”

  She glanced back into the next room, where Rey Sangupta was regaling Ganler with some of his adventures, which Ganler had dreams of turning into movie serials. Now that the reality of people from space was known, the young apprentice wanted to get in on the inevitable boom of space adventure stories, and maybe sneak in some subversive messages of tolerance for the alien to balance out the paranoid fantasies that would surely dominate the screen. It was quite a challenge to take on, but Ganler was confident that the verisimilitude he could get from Rey would give his scripts the edge they needed to succeed. Although Zeheri suspected that the human was embellishing his tales for the boy’s benefit. Sky whales swimming in the atmosphere of a gas planet? Who would ever believe that?

  Still, it was a relief that Ganler was even alive. She had feared for the boy when they had returned without Vabion to deactivate his explosive collar, but the release code Vabion had provided had worked. The man was ruthless in pursuing his goals, but it seemed he wasn’t vindictive or gratuitously dishonest. Not much of a virtue, but at least it meant Ganler was safe. And with his ambition, he might end up as wealthy as Vabion one day—though Zeheri had far more faith in Ganler to use it wisely and with compassion. Especially with the example of Starfleet to aspire to.

  “Maybe in a generation or two,” she told Travis, “we’ll be ready for you to return. At least some of us have learned that there are good people out there.” She stroked his cheek.

  The gesture made him fidget. “Urwen . . . I don’t deserve that. You were right—keeping you in the dark only got you and Ganler into trouble.”

  “No, I was wrong. You only wanted to keep us safe, and you did. If you’d told us the truth, we wouldn’t have believed you, and then we wouldn’t have let you help us.” She kissed him. “Don’t ever doubt your good intentions, Travis. You saved our world—and many more.”

  He returned the kiss, making it last much longer. “I wish I could stay. Or that you could come with me.”

  She shook her head. “I’m one of the only people who knows what really happened. They need me here. There’s even talk of installing me in the new government. Hopefully not too close to the top. I couldn’t handle that much paperwork.” Stroking his cheek, she went on. “And you need to find the source of the Ware and stop it for good.”

  “I know.” He took her hands. “Still . . . Pioneer’s repairs won’t be finished for another couple of days. I don’t have to leave just yet.”

  Grinning, she pulled him toward the bedroom. “Tell them to take as much time as they need.”

  June 15, 2165

  U.S.S. Pioneer

  Mayweather found Charles Tucker in engineering, supervising one last set of calibrations to the warp core before Pioneer set out on its mission once more. “Right where you belong,” he said by way of greeting.

  Tucker studied him cautiously before replying. “Not for a while now,” he said, making his way down from the reactor control platform so they could speak more privately. “But it’s nice to be reminded.”

  “There could still be a life for you here, you know.”

  “There are a lot of reason why there couldn’t,” the older man replied. “But I’m kinda surprised you want me here.”

  “Are you kidding, Trip?” He remembered to whisper the last word. “You saved me.”

  “You saved yourself.”

  “Only after you woke me up.”

  Tucker looked away uneasily. “I almost didn’t. We could’ve learned a lot more about the technology if we’d left you in there. Kept it running, taken control.”

  “But in the end, you trusted me. And you proved I could trust you.” He clasped Tucker’s shoulder. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure that out. I understand now that there can be good reasons for keeping a secret.”

  “Maybe not good enough—not with the people who really matter.”

  Mayweather studied him. “Does that mean you’re finally going to tell Hoshi you’re alive?”

  “I don’t know, Travis,” Tucker replied. “I’m not sure I could face Hoshi’s wrath. You’re a pussycat next to her, you know.” They shared a laugh. “But seriously . . . if I can find a way to do it safely, I’ll read her in. There’s more than one kind of need to know.”

  Mayweather studied him. Read her in? He even talked like a spy now. “We’ll never really get the band back together, will we?”

  Tucker thought it over for a while, pausing to take in the soothing rumble and dancing lights of the warp core. “Nothing lasts forever, Travis. But that doesn’t mean it stops being a part of us.”

  “No,” Mayweather said, recalling those last two days with Urwen Zeheri. “I guess it doesn’t.”

  28

  June 10, 2165

  U.S.S. Essex

  BRYCE SHUMAR WAS GRATEFUL that the Deltans had been able to send a ship to rendezvous with Essex and take the liberated captives aboard. The intervening five days had been something of a strain on the crew, and particularly on Caroline Paris. The Deltans had done their best to respect the humans’ psychological fragility and keep their sensuality to themselves; but it hadn’t helped that the ex-prisoners had been mostly nude, and blithely unconcerned about that fact, when they were brought aboard Essex. Lieutenant Kelly, showing remarkable self-discipline as one would expect from such an accomplished Romulan War veteran, had ordered her security team ahead to clear the corridors, as much to distract her own people from the Deltans’ allure as to minimize the crew’s exposure. Still, glimpses had been caught, pheromones had been sniffed, and it had been a challenge to keep the crew’s minds on their duties ever since. Of course Shumar had restricted the rescued Deltans to their guest quarters for the safety of the crew—but in the wake of their ordeal, the lot of them had been engaged in frequent and vigorous, well, stress relief, and the air filtration system had only been able to do so much with the resultant surge of pheromones.

  Shumar had been ready to confine Paris to sickbay under constant watch for the duration, but his exec had shown a degree of restraint that surpassed even Kelly’s. She’d admitted to him in private how deeply aroused she had been since the Deltans’ arrival, but she had nonetheless managed to stay focused on her duties. He’d always considered Paris somewhat . . . relaxed in the discipline department, so this was something of a revelation, and Shumar felt he had done her an injustice. “Don’t worry about it,” she assured him. “I never was that disciplined before. Never needed it this much.” Still, she said, her yearning for the Deltans wasn’t as intense as she had feared. “I think it’s because I don’t . . . know any of them from before. I think the bond is something very personal. If I were reunited with Serima . . . I might lose myself again. But this—this is just physical. I can handle that.”

  As a result, Shumar decided to let Paris join him in greeting the crew of the Deltan vessel that finally arrived to pick up the rescuees. He was surprised to see that Prime Minister Mod’hira had personally come to recover them—and to extend her formal thanks to Shumar. “You have done us a great service, Captain,” Mod’hira told him. “The people of Dhei are now twice in your debt. Three times, in fact, for our first meeting came when your people rescued our own.” She lowered her head, then looked toward Shumar through her long eyelashes. “It would be a shame, I feel, if we were unable to be friends after such acts of kindness.”

  Shumar stammered and tugged at his collar until Paris nudged him in the side. “If our peoples couldn’t be friends, she means.”

  “Ah. Yes, of course. Understood.” He cleared his throat. “I agree, Prime Minist
er, yes.” Finally he was able to remember what he’d been meaning to say. “In light of recent events, I think some sort of relationship—err, alliance between the Federation and Delta is worth pursuing, as a matter of security. That is, your security, as news of your, err, distinctive appeal becomes more widely known in the galaxy.”

  Mod’hira nodded. “And the security of others,” she conceded, “if anyone should succeed in corrupting our gifts as the Orions intended to.”

  “Yes. Indeed. I’m glad you understand.”

  She gave him an indulgent smile. “Still—there are clearly obstacles that must be surmounted. Perhaps that burden lies on us; we will need to learn to restrain our behavior and attire in our interactions with younger races, to ensure that relations remain safely celibate.”

  “It’s not all on you,” Paris told her, not easily. “We could stand to refine our own regulations. Make sure we learn more about other species before we . . . fraternize.”

  “A shame that such restraint should be necessary,” Mod’hira lilted, “but since it is, we show wisdom in accepting it. With care and delicacy, Captain—Commander—I believe our peoples can build toward a true friendship.” She tilted her head, pursing her luxuriant lips. “Indeed, the concept behind your Federation is a compelling one. Perhaps, in time, when we are both ready, we will join you.”

  Trusting in his British reserve as an anchor, Shumar dared to shake her hand, refusing to be distracted by how soft and delicate it was. “When that day comes,” he managed to say, “you will be welcomed.”

  Once Mod’hira and her retinue had left and Essex was free of Deltans once more, Shumar sagged—then glared at Paris when she laughed at him. “Don’t worry about it,” she told him. “We’ve all been there. I recommend a long, cold shower.”

  Shumar tugged down on his tunic hem. “Yes, well. You have the conn, Commander. I’ll be . . . in my quarters.”

  June 11, 2165

  ShiKahr

  Soreth wandered the streets of the residential district, uncertain where to go. He’d been reluctant to return to the debate house, for V’Las’s actions and those of the Vulcans he’d duped had forced Soreth to struggle with an unwelcome emotion: embarrassment. V’Las had said so many of the right things that Soreth and many other reasonable Vulcans had allowed themselves to be tricked into supporting a cause whose true agenda had been far more selfish and destructive. The self-styled champion of Vulcan logic and purity had proven himself as erratic, dishonest, and aggressive as any Andorian or human.

  Worse, the Kir’Shara had been proven genuine after all, calling Soreth’s convictions about melders into question. Could it be that he had been wrong to see their practices as a harmful aberration? Had the medical studies been as fraudulent as was now claimed? He could not believe that. Melding was so emotional, so inimical to proper Vulcan restraint and propriety. How could it be in keeping with Surak’s teachings?

  As he wandered into a public square, Soreth heard a familiar voice emanating from a large news screen: the voice of Admiral Jonathan Archer. Soreth had little wish to listen to a human gloating about the Federation’s victory. Particularly this human, who did not have a reputation as a great orator. But soon he heard Archer refer to a familiar notion, and despite his preferences, he found himself listening to the admiral’s words:

  “My friend Doctor Phlox recently passed along an idea he heard a young Vulcan woman put forth: that the origins of wise words don’t matter as much as their content. It doesn’t matter where wisdom comes from, or who said it first—because true wisdom comes from within. It isn’t something carved in stone that we follow blindly; it’s something we think about and arrive at through our own judgment. And that means that wisdom evolves as we evolve—as our circumstances change, as our needs change. The lessons of the past inform the present, but they can’t be allowed to constrain our choices about the future.

  “Yes, the Kir’Shara is real. Its words were written by Surak himself. But that doesn’t mean there’s no room for debate. Surak’s words were the beginning of the conversation—not the end. For eighteen hundred years, Vulcans have been discussing and debating Surak’s lessons, deciding how to apply them to their own lives, their own needs. And so they’ve interpreted those lessons in their own ways, sometimes disagreeing with each other about exactly how to apply them.

  “But most of those disagreements were sincere and honest—not deliberate corruptions like V’Las attempted. Vulcans are different from one another, so the wisdom they discover in Surak’s words—and in their own insights—will be different too. But you’re all starting from the same place, with the same goals as Surak: a peaceful, logical, united Vulcan. So instead of dwelling on the differences between your views, I think the people of Vulcan should focus on the common roots of your beliefs, and on your common hope for peace.

  “Maybe that’s what Surak meant by ‘infinite diversity in infinite combinations.’ It’s by listening to each other’s diversity, contemplating others’ wisdom as well as our own, that lets us add to our own wisdom, to apply it more broadly, more adaptably. The universe changes over time, and wisdom has to change with it.

  “Surak could not have imagined the Federation. He never wrote anything that spoke of it directly, because it was beyond the limits of his experience. So only we can decide what the Federation means to us. But I’m willing to venture a guess that Surak would have approved of the Federation. Because it’s the ultimate expression of diversity in combination. And the insights that we all bring—that we share with one another—enable us to discover more wisdom than we could on our own.

  “So we shouldn’t look to any single text, written thousands of years ago, as our sole source of wisdom. Those words are important; they should be remembered and contemplated. But wisdom comes from many sources. And we should be willing to listen to one another to discover them. Even those—perhaps especially those—who see the world differently than we do.”

  Soreth was impressed despite himself. There was some wisdom in Archer’s words—though by his own admission, he had borrowed them from a Vulcan. A Vulcan with whom Soreth had disagreed emphatically, true—but perhaps that did not mean her position was unworthy of contemplation.

  Yes, Surak had acknowledged the fundamental role of melding in Vulcan life—but he had also warned explicitly of its abuses. It had a role to play, perhaps, but a narrow one. It should be regulated and disciplined as strictly as emotion itself, kept private and not flaunted freely. Melders’ abilities might not be anomalous, but the indulgence of them was still reckless and uncouth. The fallout of recent events would give melders more license to promote their eccentricities as the true word of Surak—but they had no more monopoly on their interpretation than had V’Las.

  Soreth strode out of the square, setting his course resolutely for the debate house so he could share these new insights. The public might be reluctant to listen in the wake of V’Las, but he would find a way to divorce the message from V’Las’s corruptions. For one thing, he would no longer speak out against the Federation. It seemed he had misjudged that institution, for it had made no effort to crack down in the days since the abortive coup, allowing the Vulcan government—its Syrannite allies, true, but admittedly not the puppets V’Las had claimed—to handle the restoration of order internally. And if Archer, the Federation’s chief spokesperson, could speak with such respect and openness toward Vulcan culture, maybe there was hope for the humans yet. They might genuinely amount to something one day—provided they had Vulcans guiding them in the right direction.

  * * *

  “An excellent speech, Admiral,” T’Pol told Archer once he had stepped down from the podium in the council chamber. “Admirably free of references to mammalian birthing procedures.”

  Archer sighed. “Are people ever going to let me live the gazelle speech down?” But his annoyance was as good-natured and humorous as he knew her teasing was.


  Her reply was more serious. “After today, I think they might.”

  He caught her subtext, but he did not shy away from it now. “You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said as they made their way from the chamber. “Going over what I said back in that bunker . . . about my responsibility for my own wake.”

  “You did not fail in your responsibilities, Admiral,” T’Pol told him with appreciation. “To me or to anyone else.”

  He smiled. “I’m not saying I did. But there are bigger responsibilities. I’ve been dancing around it for years, insisting I’m just an explorer, but I have to face it: whether I intended it or not, my decisions have ended up shaping the fate of worlds. My actions contributed to the rise of the Federation, and that means I bear some responsibility for the decisions the Federation makes, the battles it has to wage to keep on the right track, whether against criminals like Garos and the Orion Syndicate or aspiring dictators like V’Las and Maltuvis. All of that is part of my wake, part of the impact of my choices. So if I want to be effective at managing the consequences of those choices, then I have to stop retreating from the level of responsibility that goes with them.”

  T’Pol’s brows quirked in approval. “Then should I offer congratulations on your impending promotion to Starfleet chief of staff?”

  He gave her a sidelong look. “I’m taking the promotion, all right. But maybe you’d better offer condolences instead. Something tells me I’m in for a rough ride.”

  Epilogue

  June 25, 2165

  ShiKahr Residential District

  SKON AND T’RAMA’S CHILD was the most dignified-looking baby Hoshi Sato had ever seen.