Mullen’s broad, dark face split into a grin. “I thought Vulcans didn’t drink.”
“I have spent many years on Earth, studying your customs.”
“We could also use new friends,” Paris went on. “New allies, maybe even new members. There are a lot of people out there who still don’t like us, so we could use some more who do.”
“All the more reason, Commander, to approach this contact with care. However friendly they may have appeared initially, we have no idea what might offend or alienate them—or what might disrupt their social order, their cherished beliefs.”
“I get it, Commissioner,” Shumar said. “You’re the diplomat, so you take the lead. That’s what you’re here for, after all.”
Soval was not reassured. In his experience, Starfleet captains had a way of taking matters into their own hands. Otherwise he wouldn’t have bothered to issue his cautions.
Something on Mullen’s science console caught his attention. “Uh, sir?” he said. “I’m picking up what seems to be . . . yes, there’s a large metallic object in low orbit of Sauria.”
Shumar looked at him sharply. “An alien ship?”
“I’m not reading any engine signatures. It’s . . . the materials are crude, power output minimal. . . . Sir, it’s a space station!”
“Can you get a visual?”
Within moments, working with the communications officer, Mullen managed to magnify and focus the image enough to reveal the space station’s structure: a small, primitive cluster of spherical and cylindrical modules, bearing a faint aesthetic similarity to the Daedalus class to which Essex belonged. “Sir, based on the Silk Road’s geological assays, I’d say the materials are strictly local,” Mullen said. “Not just from this system, but from Sauria itself.”
Paris stared. “The Saurians built it? Five years ago they had no spaceflight capability at all!” She laughed. “I think I’m gonna like these guys.”
“Captain!” It was Miguel Avila, the communications officer. “The station is hailing us.”
“Can you translate?”
“A moment . . . yes, it’s in the language of the largest nation.”
“Open a channel.”
A soft, sibilant voice came over the speaker—or maybe it was the heavy static giving that impression. “This is orbital outpost Tai’sheku to approaching Earth vessel. Welcome to Lyaksti’kton! This facility stands ready to provide anchorage and resupply to weary travelers.”
Shumar exchanged a wide-eyed look with Paris, then cleared his throat. “This is Captain Bryce Shumar of the U.S.S. Essex, representing Earth as a member of the United Federation of Planets. Your invitation to dock is a . . . welcome surprise. We would be interested to learn how you constructed your, er, outpost so swiftly.”
“You flatter us, Yu’es’es’es’ex. In truth, you returned sooner than we anticipated. Even with the cooperation of all members of the Global League, Tai’sheku is only half-complete. We only pray it will be adequate to your needs.”
Ordering Avila to mute the return channel, Shumar turned to Mullen. “Global League?”
The science officer shrugged. “Nothing in the E.C.S. files about it. Must be new.”
“Already exposure to outsiders has altered their society,” Soval pointed out.
“And for the better, it seems.” Shumar nodded at Avila, who reopened the channel. “Tai’sheku, our needs at this time are few, but we would be happy to acc—”
“Sir!” Avila interrupted.
“Stand by.” Shumar turned expectantly to the ensign.
“We’re receiving another hail from Saurian orbit.”
“Another station?” Paris asked.
“It just came into line of sight around the curve of the planet. The frequency, the language, it’s all different.”
“A smaller station, too,” Mullen added. “Cruder, little more than a tin can in orbit. But . . . it’s in orbit!”
“Are you sure there aren’t any other stations we haven’t seen yet?” Paris asked in a flustered tone.
“Pretty sure, ma’am. I’ll keep looking.”
“In the meantime,” Shumar said, “let’s hear their hail.”
“. . . station M’Tezir One extends welcome and invitation to Earth vessel. In the name of the mighty Basileus of M’Tezir, sole inheritor of N’Ragolar’s most ancient lineage of rulership, we offer the unmatched bounty and hospitality of our nation.”
“N’Ragolar?” Paris asked.
Avila answered. “The name of their planet in the M’Tezir language.”
“Outpost Tai’sheku to Yu’es’es’es’ex. You may be experiencing signal interference from an outside source. Let us reiterate: this outpost represents the Global League of Lyaksti’kton, a cooperative endeavor on behalf of all major nations of our world. We urge you not to be led astray by distracting signals. Tai’sheku is uniquely capable to provide safe haven to your vessel.”
“It seems their Global League is not so global,” Soval observed.
“So which invitation do we accept?” Mullen wanted to know.
“Well,” Paris said, “we’ve got a multicultural alliance on the one hand and what sounds like a hereditary monarchy standing alone on the other. The League sounds more appealing to me.”
“On the other hand,” Shumar said, “we don’t know how much power this M’Tezir nation wields, or how angry they’d be if we turn down their offer.” He turned to Soval. “This is your game, Commissioner. Recommendations?”
“It would be best to avoid giving any impression of partisanship,” Soval replied. “Take up an orbit equidistant from both stations and send a shuttlepod to each, docking simultaneously.”
“Can’t we just beam over?” Paris asked.
“We can’t get into transporter range of both stations at once,” Mullen pointed out.
“And I would prefer not to reveal the existence of transporters at this time,” Soval added. “As we have seen, these ‘Saurians’ are an adaptive and ambitious people, possibly to the point of haste. Transporter technology is not something to be embraced recklessly.”
“Very well,” Shumar said. “Helm, plot an equidistant orbit from the two stations. Commissioner, you take one, I the other?”
“Logical,” Soval granted. He would have preferred to send delegations of equal rank and position to both, but the Commission had not anticipated this situation. Soval did have an aide aboard, but she was a junior functionary. As Starfleet captains—particularly those in the Earth division of the service—often functioned as de facto ambassadors in first-contact situations, Shumar was the closest thing available to Soval’s equal. “I recommend you visit the Global League station. I will represent us to the M’Tezir.”
“Any particular reason?”
“With all due respect to your own diplomatic skills, Captain, I have a suspicion that dealing with the M’Tezir will require extra delicacy.”
Shumar took it philosophically. “I won’t argue, Soval. Frankly the League station looks a lot more comfortable.” He and Paris shared a laugh.
Soval hoped their levity was warranted. Given how complex the situation had grown before Essex had even entered orbit, he suspected the difficulties of this contact were only beginning.
October 19, 2162
U.S.S. Endeavour
Doctor Phlox looked unusually somber as he came back over to the examining table where Malcolm Reed had just finished dressing—and admiring the new, narrow third braid on his uniform sleeves. Reed instantly grew just as serious. “What’s wrong, Doctor?”
Phlox sighed. “I’m afraid I have some rather bad news for you, Captain. Perhaps you should sit down—”
“Just tell me, Phlox.” He braced himself.
“Since this was our last physical before you left us for good, I undertook a more thorough examination than usual. I’m sorry to tell you this, Malcolm, but I’ve discovered a subtle but significant form of genetic damage to your reproductive system. Your ability to produce viable
gametes has been compromised.”
Reed blinked several times. It was at once better and worse than he’d feared, and it took some effort to process it. “Are you saying . . . I can’t have children?”
“I’m saying it would be unwise to try.”
Reed sank down onto the bed, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. It was several moments before he spoke again. “How did this happen? What caused it?”
“I’m still investigating that. It could simply be the cumulative effect of everything you’ve been through over the years. Space is full of odd radiations even without regular exposure to weapons fire and spatial distortions.”
“So if you don’t know what caused it . . . does that mean you can’t fix it?”
Phlox lowered his gaze. “At the moment, no. I promise I will research the matter diligently, but for now . . .” He shook his head.
“My God.” Reed took a shuddering breath. For this to happen now, just at the time of his greatest success, the peak of his career . . . it was as if the universe was punishing him for becoming too optimistic.
But then he thought about the one area where success was still elusive, and laughed bitterly at the irony. “You know . . . it’s not as if I had any realistic prospect of . . . procreating in the foreseeable future anyway. I’ve had my share of romances, but nothing . . . nothing lasting. Never anything that had the potential for . . . that level of commitment. But still . . . family has always been important to the Reeds. And it matters to me to uphold that tradition. I’ve always hoped that someday, I’d meet the right woman, and . . .” He trailed off. With each passing year, that hope had grown more elusive. But now . . . even if he did find love, the Reed name and legacy might end with him.
“I understand how you feel, Malcolm,” Phlox said. “You know how much we Denobulans build our lives around our families—due to the sheer size of them if nothing else. But there is always the prospect of adoption, you know.”
“It wouldn’t be the same.”
“Not the same, but not necessarily less worthwhile. Adoptions are common in Denobulan families, since there are so many parents to go around in each one. Why, my third wife and her second husband—”
“I appreciate what you’re trying to say, Phlox. But I’m . . . not ready to think about all that just yet. I’d rather you focused your efforts on finding a way to cure this—this condition.”
Phlox placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll do everything I can. You have my word on that.”
October 25, 2162
Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco, California
Jonathan Archer was pleasantly surprised when his yeoman let him know that Doctor Phlox had come for an unannounced visit. He had been in a meeting with his aide, Captain Marcus Williams, a big, square-jawed Iowan who had performed the same duty for the late Admiral Forrest, and then for his successor Samuel Gardner until he’d requested a transfer to Archer’s office. Williams was a good man and a good friend, someone Archer had gotten to know well in the years leading up to Enterprise’s launch but had fallen out of touch with until his promotion to the admiralty. Still, their discussion of technological integration for the fleet could wait, and it sounded like Phlox was here for more than a social call.
“Doctor.” Archer shook the Denobulan’s hand once he arrived. “You remember Captain Williams.”
“Marcus, how are you? How’s the family?”
“Great, Phlox, just great.” Williams had become acquainted with Phlox as well during the latter’s months at Starfleet Medical. “Val’s just been made armory officer on Pioneer, did you hear?”
“Indeed. And I’m sure you can trust Captain Reed and Lieutenant Commander Mayweather to take good care of your daughter.” He sobered. “However, I’m afraid I have something sensitive to discuss with the admiral. We’ll have to catch up later.”
Williams glanced at Archer, who nodded. “Admiral,” he said, picking up his data tablet from the desk and heading out.
Archer rested his weight on that desk and asked, “So what’s this about, Phlox? Have you made any progress with Malcolm’s . . . condition?”
The doctor hesitated. “I’m fairly certain I have identified the cause, Admiral.”
“Well, that’s good!” He studied Phlox’s face. “Isn’t it?”
“I am hopeful that it will point the way to a treatment, but that isn’t what worries me. You see . . . what enabled me to identify the cause was a certain similarity I noticed between Captain Reed’s genetic damage . . . and your own neurological damage.”
Archer frowned. “What kind of similarity? What do . . . genes and neurons have to do with each other? Beyond the obvious.”
“That’s a very pertinent question, as a matter of fact. Both you and Captain Reed have developed your respective systemic degeneration as a result of what I’d believed to be cell replication errors—errors that manifested on a subatomic level, with particles missing or being transposed to the wrong places. I couldn’t identify any radiation that could have that kind of effect, which was why I was unable to diagnose the cause of your condition until I recognized the same kind of damage in an entirely different system of the body.”
“So whatever caused this, it’s something Malcolm and I have in common. Something we encountered on Enterprise. Was it the Expanse? The spatial anomalies?”
“I considered that. But I searched Starfleet medical records for similar cases of inexplicable genetic or systemic damage, and I’ve found four other cases—one of whom, Warren Woods, is a former MACO who served on Enterprise for a time, but the other three of whom served on three different vessels. And those are just the ones who’ve been diagnosed so far. In some cases, as with Captain Reed, the damage is extremely subtle.”
“But there is some common factor,” Archer prompted. “What are you so reluctant to tell me? Is it life-threatening?”
“Not a threat to life itself,” Phlox replied slowly, thoughtfully. “But it could have a significant impact on our way of life.”
“Spit it out, Phlox!”
The Denobulan cleared his throat. “I found only one environmental or behavioral factor that all six patients have in common. The six of you are among the most active users of the transporter in all of Starfleet. In fact, since you and Captain Reed were two of the first Starfleet personnel to be transported in the line of duty, and have stayed in the service longer than the rest, I daresay you and he have been ‘beamed’ more than any other humans in history.”
Archer stared for a long moment. Finally he rose and walked slowly to the window. “And you’re saying . . . the transporter . . . put us together wrong.”
“To a subtle extent, and on a subatomic scale.”
“They told us it was safe,” Archer said. “Emory Erickson and his team . . . they tested it for a dozen years. There were a few early casualties, but they didn’t okay it for public use until they were certain it was safe. Or so they said.”
“They were as certain as they could be under the circumstances, Admiral. Indeed, the transporter is perfectly safe for a single use, a dozen uses, even a hundred. The occasional bit errors are usually inconsequential, no worse than what the body would normally sustain from background radiation or replication errors in its own DNA. But transporters have been in use with increasing frequency on Starfleet vessels for over a decade now. The damage is gradual and cumulative, not something that could have been discovered until the technology had been in regular, widespread use for a number of years. After all, the odds of any single error occurring are quite low. Most transporter users are still perfectly fine, and might never suffer any damage no matter how long they use the transporter.”
“But both Malcolm and I suffered damage. What are the odds of that?”
“Low, but still higher for the two of you than for anyone else. And . . . the danger might be greater if a transporter is used under less than ideal circumstances, such as when the ship is under fire or the power systems damaged. Enterprise certainly had
more than its share of hazardous situations over the years.” He stepped closer. “Which reminds me. The third heaviest user of the transporter among Enterprise’s crew, at least while he was aboard, was the, ah, late, lamented Commander Tucker. If he were still with us, it would be in his best interest to submit to a thorough medical examination at the earliest opportunity.”
Archer almost smiled at Phlox’s circumlocution. They were alone, and it was unlikely that his office was bugged; but Phlox had picked up some bad habits from years of watching spy thrillers on movie night. Still, it didn’t hurt to indulge him. “I think . . . everyone . . . who might be affected by this should follow that advice. And I’ll do what I can to pass the word along.”
“Good.”
“But what happens next? What are the prospects for a cure? Or are we just going to have to give up transporters, go back to shuttlepods again?”
“I think that decision is above my pay grade, Admiral. That’s why I brought it to you.”
Great, Archer thought. Just great. Why couldn’t it have been a nice, simple Klingon invasion?
November 1, 2162
Federation Executive Building, Paris, European Alliance
“All right, we’re agreed,” said Thomas Vanderbilt, running a slender, olive-skinned hand through his monk’s fringe of graying black hair. “All Starfleet services will suspend routine use of existing transporter systems for personnel transport immediately. For now, they’re to be reserved for inanimate objects, with personnel use only in emergencies.”
Across the table, the five Starfleet joint chiefs chimed in with their unanimous agreement. Archer added his voice to the chorus; although he was subordinate to the Earth fleet’s chief of staff Samuel Gardner, President Vanderbilt had wanted him here as the man who’d brought the crisis to his attention. The first President of the Council of the United Federation of Planets liked to keep Archer at the forefront of the UFP’s diplomatic efforts, building on his reputation as one of the key players in bringing the nation together. And this had the potential to be a diplomatic disaster for the young union.
“But what comes next?” Vanderbilt went on. “Is there some simple repair we can make?”
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