“But appearances, as the humans say, can be deceiving, General,” Phlox said with his usual good cheer, a wide smile splitting his chubby Denobulan features. He gestured to the large display screen above the imaging chamber, showing a tomographic view of the raider’s anatomy. “Although these individuals have managed to obscure their biosigns sufficiently to fool external scans, a more detailed analysis confirms that their internal organs are very far from the Suliban norm.”
“One doesn’t expect ‘the Suliban norm’ from the Cabal, Doctor,” the general replied, beginning to grow impatient.
“Ahh,” Phlox said, his grin widening as he raised a scalpel. “But does one expect this?”
Valk stiffened in surprise as Phlox drew the scalpel deftly and efficiently across the side of the raider’s mottled face. Archer was a bit startled as well; his source, well-trained in the ways of secrecy, had not fully briefed him on what to expect. But as soon as it became evident that there was no blood emerging from the cut, he began to realize what he was about to see.
Indeed, a moment later, Phlox pulled back the Suliban face to reveal a different alien face underneath—humanoid in structure with a compact nose and thin lips, but covered in gray reptilian scales, with low, gently curving ridges of raised scales adorning the cheeks and forehead and forming crests above the eyes. “What is that?” Valk cried.
“A Malurian, General,” the doctor replied, the showman in him relishing the reveal. “The other is as well, and so, I daresay, were the rest.”
“Malurians?”
“They run one of the major criminal operations in known space,” Archer told him. “My crew and I first encountered them eleven years ago on a pre-warp planet, mining veridium for black-market munitions. Their operation was poisoning thousands of the native people, the Akaali, until we put a stop to it.” Archer remembered the Malurians’ leader, a man calling himself Garos. He had been a real piece of work, with the personality of a used-car salesman and the ruthlessness of a Romulan, contending with shocking casualness that a few thousand Akaali wouldn’t be missed. Archer had always regretted being unable to do more than send him into retreat, free to wreak havoc somewhere else. “Other Starfleet ships have encountered them a few times in the years since. They’re masters of disguise and deception.”
“Their dermal camouflage is quite ingenious,” Phlox said. “It stretches, respirates, perspires, even heals and grows hair, if necessary, just like the real thing. It can be worn for weeks without needing repair or replacement, barring accident. And it can even mask the Malurian biosigns within.”
“When you analyze the captured cell ships,” Archer added, “you’ll probably find they’re fakes too, which is why they didn’t have warp drive on their own.”
“But why did they attack our colony?” Valk pressed. “And why in Suliban disguise?”
Archer faced him. “To provoke exactly the reaction you had, General. To try to trigger a war between Tandar and the Federation. See, when the major spacegoing powers band together to promote peace, law and order, that’s not a good thing for the criminal element. They want to nip the Federation in the bud before it gets too strong—or at least keep us so busy fighting our neighbors that we won’t be able to focus on them.”
“Hm.” Valk contemplated for a moment. “From what I’ve seen, they needn’t have bothered.”
“General?”
The massive Tandaran chuckled. “You and your allies can’t even get your equipment to work together effectively. I saw how it worried you that I discovered that. But you needn’t be concerned. You pose no threat to anyone, least of all Tandar. So we will have no quarrel with you—as long as you continue to stay out of our business.” He smirked. “Hmp. I daresay you’ve got enough problems of your own to deal with.”
Qhembembem Outpost
Dular Garos knew better than to try to fight the well-muscled giants who had waylaid him shortly after he’d landed his ersatz cell ship, before he’d even managed to get back to the Malurian compound. He simply let them escort him to meet with their master, knowing his best chance of survival was to play along. He generally preferred more subtle means of dealing with a crisis than open confrontation. He didn’t even resist when they unceremoniously ripped off his Suliban disguise, even though it stung as the adhesive pulled on his scales, and even though it had been a very expensive and meticulously designed piece of work.
He was a bit surprised, though, when the massive retainers plopped him down in front of a subspace transceiver. He’d expected to be brought before the local master of this particular syndicate, but evidently he’d drawn attention from someplace higher up—and someone too prominent to be caught anywhere near this cesspool.
“Mister Garos,” purred the woman who appeared on the screen—evidently quite a striking humanoid female, judging from the seductive way she presented herself, though she was far from his type. “You promised us some juicy young slaves.”
“I expected to have a consignment for auction to the highest bidder,” Garos replied, matching her faux-amiable tone and the steel hidden underneath. “You were welcome to participate, but I made your people no promises.”
“It’s not the first time you’ve failed to deliver the goods, though. You do have the worst luck when Starfleet gets involved.”
Garos wished he were still masked; it would have made it easier to conceal the impact her words inflicted on him. He had been rising in influence in his alignment until that upstart human captain, Archer, had exposed and scuttled his veridium-mining operation, earning him exile for his failure. Until he redeemed himself, he would never see his ancestral mating ground again.
“And was it really necessary to kill so many of your own people?” the woman asked, sounding more amused than shocked. “I doubt your alignment will think very highly of that.”
“It was necessary if we were to convince the Tandarans that the Federation was backing their enemies.” He hadn’t enjoyed killing so many useful underlings, many of whom had been highly competent. Some had been quite pleasant company as well. But the good of Maluria would always come first.
“Except that didn’t actually, well, work, did it? Instead you’ve just proven to two of the region’s powers that they have a common enemy, and probably driven them closer together in the process. Now, why does that sound so familiar?” she asked, idly twirling her long hair with a finger. “Oh, yes. That’s just what happened when the Romulans tried to do the same thing. Rather than provoking a war between the Vulcans, Andorians, and the rest, they provoked an unprecedented alliance—and the result was that troublesome Federation.”
“Is that the only reason you brought me here?” Garos asked. “To critique my lack of originality?”
“Far more than that, my dear Garos. You have the right idea; this Federation experiment could become a real threat to our free enterprise if it succeeds, so it’s in our best interests to smother it in the crib. But dividing to conquer has been tried, and has failed.”
“Then what do you propose as an alternative?”
“That we follow the Federation’s own example—embrace the strength that comes from partnership,” the woman replied, a cunning grin on her delicate face. “If they want to ally with their neighbors against a common enemy, why, let’s give them one—but one that suits our purposes.
“For the same drive to unite that created the Federation . . . also contains the seeds of its destruction.”
2
September 27, 2162
U.S.S. Endeavour
“SO HOW CONVINCING was this virtual technology?” Malcolm Reed asked between bites of his pineapple chutney–grilled chicken.
“Not as real as Xyrillian or Kantare holograms,” Admiral Archer replied after taking a sip of his iced tea. They and T’Pol sat together in Endeavour’s captain’s mess, and now that Malcolm was a senior officer himself, he had grown far more comfortable dining with his captain—as well as his former captain on occasions like this.
“Probably just as well,” Reed replied, and Archer nodded in agreement. Both the Xyrillians and their Kantare trading partners had banned the sale of their holographic simulation technology to other worlds upon learning that the Klingons, who had obtained Xyrillian simulator tech in a trade that Archer himself had brokered, had been using it to torture prisoners. Luckily the Klingons were hard on their toys and lacked the expertise to repair the simulators, so the problem was well on the way to resolving itself.
The admiral shook his head. “But it was real enough. I can’t forget that saving those children . . . it’s not really a happy ending. A lot of them lost their parents, and they’ll all be traumatized by this for a long time to come.” He poked at his salad with his fork, then let it drop into the bowl. “I knew the Malurians could be ruthless, but this. . . .”
“Their goal was to enrage the Tandarans,” T’Pol pointed out. “Jeopardizing children is an effective way of provoking an intense emotional reaction from most humanoids.” She paused, then went on with veiled intensity, “Including Vulcans.”
Archer gave her a little smile as thanks for her expression of understanding. Reed reflected on how much T’Pol had mellowed in her years among humans—and how much Archer had mellowed toward Vulcans in the eleven years he’d known T’Pol. The two of them made a fine, if unlikely, team, Reed had long thought, and he felt a renewed twinge of regret that they no longer served together on a regular basis. He had grown unwontedly close to his crewmates aboard Enterprise, and though he was lucky to have T’Pol, Hoshi, Phlox, and Cutler still serving alongside him, it just wasn’t quite the same.
“It’s not just the Malurians,” the admiral went on. “What bothers me is how vulnerable the Federation is to stuff like this. We’re . . . the new kid on the block. Nobody knows what to make of us yet. And that makes it easy for people like the Malurians to smear our reputation. I mean, I can see where General Valk was coming from. We’ve just come out of a six-year war—and we won. We don’t exactly look peaceful and non-threatening to our neighbors.”
“Some would say that’s a good thing, sir,” Reed said. “Better to be in a position of strength, don’t you think?”
“Not if it makes other people afraid of us. We need to show the galaxy that the Federation is about cooperation. Planets and species coming together for the common good. We need to show them our strength is for protection, not aggression.”
“We are demonstrating that,” T’Pol said, “by example. Our actions this week have demonstrated it to the Tandarans.”
“But it’s still one hell of a fragile reputation. And there are a lot of skeptical people out there—and more than a few rooting for us to fail.” Reed could think of no reply, nor could he disagree with the admiral’s assessment of the challenges ahead.
“Well,” Archer said after a long, solemn moment, putting on a more cheerful mien. “That’s enough depressing talk for one meal. Especially when I have some much better news to talk about.”
Malcolm realized the admiral’s eyes were on him, and bore a distinct twinkle. “Sir?”
“I’ve been sitting on this until we resolved the crisis, so it wouldn’t distract you from the mission. And your good work yesterday rescuing the children just confirmed to me that Starfleet has made the right choice.”
Reed was still confused. “About what, sir?”
“You’ve heard of the U.S.S. Pioneer?”
“It’s . . . one of the newer Intrepid-class ships, isn’t it?” The Intrepids were an offshoot of the NX-class warp 5 technology, a smaller variant built from the same basic components. Like their parent class, they’d seen their construction put on hold during the Romulan War in favor of simpler vessels.
“That’s right.”
“I’m glad they’ve put them back into production, sir. They’re good, solid ships. As advanced as an NX—er, Columbia class—but stripped down to the essentials. Lean and mean.”
“I’m glad you approve.” Archer’s grin widened. “Because she’s yours.”
Reed blinked. “Sir?”
“The Pioneer. Starfleet wants you to be her captain.”
After a moment of dumbstruck silence from Reed, Captain T’Pol turned to him and said, “That is quite an honor, Malcolm. Congratulations.”
“Thank . . . thank you . . .”
“Something wrong?” Archer asked with a lopsided grin.
“It’s just . . . sir, I’m very honored by the offer, but I’m not sure I’m ready yet. I haven’t been a commander very long . . .”
“Nonsense. You and the rest of Enterprise’s old crew have more field experience than anyone else in Starfleet. And even with the added strength of the Andorians, Vulcans, and Tellarites, we’re still recovering from all the losses we sustained in the war. Starfleet needs good people commanding its ships.”
“I understand, sir. But . . . I feel we’ve always been strongest as a team. I . . . you know I don’t make new friends easily, sir, and this crew, and before it Enterprise’s . . .”
The admiral gave him a gentle smile. “I appreciate your loyalty, Malcolm. And believe me, I know how you feel. I didn’t like being kicked upstairs at first, but now I see it was necessary.” He leaned forward. “We’re part of something new now, something bigger. We’re building a whole new nation, unlike anything we’ve known before. And that means we have to be ready to embrace change.” Archer reached across the table and clasped Reed’s wrist. “And the more trusted friends and comrades I see out there on the front lines, representing the Federation to the galaxy, the better I’ll feel about its future.”
Reed straightened with pride. “Then it will be my honor to accept command, Admiral. I promise I won’t let you down.”
October 1, 2162
Smithsonian Orbital Annex, Enterprise NX-01 exhibit
Coming back to the bridge of Enterprise was always a bittersweet experience for Jonathan Archer. Nostalgia for his time aboard this ship clashed with regret at what he had been forced to give up—not only Enterprise herself, thanks to the crippling blows the Romulans had inflicted on her spaceframe and internal systems, but the freedom to command a starship at all, thanks to the neurological damage inflicted by the radiations and traumas of his years in deep space. He looked around the carefully restored bridge at the thick plastic shells that encased its consoles and his old command chair to protect them from the skin oils and exhalations of the thousands of tourists who tramped through here during the day, and saw them as a symbol of the inaccessibility of that extraordinary phase of his life.
Archer looked down at Porthos, who was hesitantly lifting his head and forelegs, considering whether to jump up onto the command chair, before deciding that the hard, clear surface encasing it was too uninviting. “I know how you feel, boy,” Archer said to the small beagle.
To be sure, those nine years on this ship had been as full of bad memories as good, the majority of them spent fighting wars for the very survival of humanity. He looked back on those first two years of exploration and marveled at how naïve and optimistic he and his crew had been, how recklessly they had stumbled about in a frontier far more dangerous than they could ever have imagined. And yet he envied the younger Jonathan Archer for that very spirit of adventure, that sense of wonder and optimism about the universe beyond the known. Perhaps Archer himself could never recapture that spirit, but he hoped he could help build a future that would allow it to flourish, one where Starfleet could again become a tool of discovery and diplomacy. That was the bright side of being forced into a desk job by his own failing coordination: it put him into a position of greater influence, with the ability to help shape what the new Federation Starfleet would become, and even to make his voice heard in the civilian government. He felt an affinity for Enterprise herself: also forced into retirement by incurable system damage, but able to serve as an aspirational symbol for the Federation, an exemplar of its highest ideals and accomplishments in peace and war alike. Though she had endured her share of battles, Archer had
seen to it that her primary role during the long Romulan War was a diplomatic one, a charm offensive to win allies and support through good works and neighborliness—not only to help Earth survive the war and ultimately prevail with the help of its sometimes grudging friends, but to lay the groundwork for the role Archer hoped the Federation would come to play in peacetime. Through his peripheral involvement in the Temporal Cold War, he had been given glimpses of a future in which the Federation had united much of the galaxy in peace and protected that peace from those who would destroy it; but those same glimpses had shown him how tenuous and mutable the future could be. He knew for a fact that such a future was attainable, yet he knew he couldn’t sit back and trust in fate. It would have to be earned.
Some in Starfleet were clamoring for a new ship bearing the Enterprise name; but with a new government still feeling itself out, there was a lot of political jockeying for naming rights of new ships, so another Enterprise might have to wait its turn. Indeed, there was some political pressure to avoid using the name for a while, for it was still a controversial ship in some quarters, particularly the Klingon Empire. Promoting Archer to admiral had provoked enough grumbling from the High Council as it was; another Enterprise might be too great an affront for the Klingons to ignore, at least until memories faded and tempers cooled (the latter of which could take an especially long time with Klingons).
And truth be told, Archer didn’t really want another Enterprise to be commissioned during his lifetime. He appreciated the desire to honor the ship that was his father’s legacy and his own greatest pride. But he didn’t want another namesake vessel competing with the memory of this one. He was sure there would be other ships of the name someday; humans had been using it for over four hundred and fifty years, and other Federation members had traditional ship names with the same literal meaning of bold venture or ambition—Vol’Rala for the Andorians, Hrumog for the Tellarites. But for now, when people heard the name Enterprise, Archer wanted their thoughts to be directed to this vessel alone.
Star Trek: Enterprise - 015 - Rise of the Federation: A Choice of Futures Page 3
