“Probably just some overambitious types who didn’t have the sense to back off when the Orions did.”
“Still, too bad we couldn’t have kept them in the dark that we’d found out. Caught them in the act.”
“Fake a war with the Vertians just to catch some drug smugglers?” Gardner asked.
“It does sound disproportionate when you put it like that.” He sighed. “I’m just worried about what the Orions will be doing next. Would’ve helped me sleep better if they had fewer ships and weapons to do it with.”
“Whatever they’re planning, Starfleet is ready. The borders are well defended.” The admiral paused. “If I may ask, sir, is the commission any closer to appointing a new defense commissioner?”
“We’re reviewing candidates.”
Gardner noted his sour expression. “Mister President?”
“It just doesn’t seem fair that Noar had to resign. He was manipulated—drugged, essentially.”
“Because he had the poor judgment to get himself in a compromising situation . . . sir.”
“I suppose. It just feels more like politics—avoiding a scandal, even if it ruins an otherwise exemplary career.”
“Some things are universal, I guess.”
“Maybe. At least I won’t have to worry about politics much longer.”
Gardner stared. “Sir?”
“You might as well be the first to know, Samuel. I won’t be putting my name up for re-election next year.”
“But . . . why, sir? You’ve been doing a fine job under trying circumstances.”
“Have I? Look what almost happened under my watch.”
“You made a reasonable decision to guard against an apparent threat. You protected the Federation, just like you protected Earth during the war.”
“But that’s just it. We’re not fighting the last war anymore. Maybe that didn’t sink in until now.” He rose and looked out the window at the vista of Paris beyond. “It wasn’t the warriors who saved us with the Vertians, Sammy. It was the thinkers and the talkers. Same with Pioneer—being scientists and communicators was what saved them, and saved their breakthroughs for Starfleet.”
He turned back to the chief of staff. “So I’ve realized—Jonathan Archer is right. Again. In this complicated, mysterious galaxy, with so much out there we can’t assume we understand or know how to cope with . . . knowledge will be our best defense. We need to move beyond our wartime mentality and become explorers again. And we need a president who can define a peacetime role for the Federation.”
Gardner tried to take it in. “Sir . . . we’ll always need a strong defense. The Orions and Malurians won’t be going away, and we don’t know how long the Klingons will stay preoccupied.”
“Of course we will. But that can’t be all we are. If this last month has proven anything, it’s that if you go looking for a fight, you tend to find it.”
The admiral held his gaze, realizing his mind was made up. “I understand, sir.”
Vanderbilt clasped his shoulder. “I’m not sure you do. But I trust you to do your duty.”
“Thank you, Mister President.”
He dismissed Gardner. Once he was alone, he gazed at his desk and tried to imagine who might take his place. Councillor T’Maran or Thoris? Earth’s Prime Minister Samuels, or Centauri’s Ambassador Sloane? Commissioner Soval might be a good choice, if he weren’t so valuable where he was.
Although Vanderbilt found he couldn’t shake the image of Jonathan Archer sitting in that chair someday.
April 25, 2163
U.S.S. Pioneer, San Francisco Navy Yards Orbital Facility
Malcolm Reed showed Admiral Archer and Captain T’Pol into Pioneer’s mess hall, where a few of the crew were taking time off between repair shifts. He was pleased to see that Tobin Dax was dining and carrying on a lively conversation with several crew members, including Grev, Val Williams, and the historian Samuel Kirk. He noted how Kirk was looking at Williams and hoped he wouldn’t have to have another talk with her about shipboard romances—although at second glance, she didn’t seem to return his interest. They broke off conversation when they saw the admiral and visiting captain, but Archer said, “At ease, everyone,” and took a moment to greet them all, pausing to invite Williams to dine with him and her father sometime.
Soon the three of them were in the captain’s mess. “I finally get to return the favor, sir,” Reed said, offering a seat.
“Thank you, Malcolm.”
“Yes, thank you,” T’Pol said. “I appreciate the opportunity to visit Pioneer at last. It lives up to your descriptions.”
“I’m glad to have you, Captain. And thank you.”
Archer looked around. “Well, your crew has fixed the ship up very nicely after what you went through.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And the discoveries you brought back—not just the solution to the integration problem, but those cloud whales.” He shook his head as Reed poured his iced tea. “Amazing.”
“We owe them all our lives. It’s refreshing to encounter beings of such kindness.”
T’Pol offered an appreciative nod. “Our time negotiating with the Vertians was illuminating as well. They are beings of great compassion. It is regrettable—and something of an object lesson—that they were trapped by such a narrow definition of who was worthy of their compassion. But their own history is virtually devoid of war and persecution. It makes for a fascinating study.”
Archer shook his head. “I envy you, Captains. Still out there, discovering all these amazing things. Living the adventure.”
“Yes, sir,” Reed said. “And thanks to Doctor Dax and Mister Sangupta, we can now do it more reliably and safely.”
“Indeed,” added T’Pol. “Starfleet can finally embody the principle of Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combination—different worlds’ technologies meshing harmoniously to create a greater whole.”
“And not just the technologies,” Reed said, “but the people as well. A symbiosis, you could say,” he added, reflecting on the fascinating secret Doctor Dax had confided to him not long before.
“An interesting analogy,” T’Pol said.
“I know you had concerns about connecting with your crew, Malcolm,” Archer said. “Looks to me like you had nothing to worry about.”
“Well . . . I had my moments of doubt. But we’re past that now.”
“Nothing like a little life-or-death crisis to bring a crew together.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“I’m so proud of you both,” Archer said. “You and your crews. You’ve proven how valuable exploration and peaceful contact are to the Federation. It’s like you’re keeping the spirit of Enterprise alive in both your ships.”
“That’s a lovely thought, sir,” Reed said. “Nevertheless, I’m sure there are still those who disagree.”
“Oh, yes. I don’t think Admiral Shran will ever be a pacifist,” Archer chuckled.
“There’s value in that too, sir. There are still dangers out there, both known and unknown. We have to be ready.”
“I’ll grant that. But we have to be ready for peace too.” He nursed his tea for a moment. “These are critical years. What we do now, the decisions we make, will determine the course of the Federation for centuries to come. We have to make the right choices.” He smiled. “And that’s why I feel so lucky that we have people like you and your crews out there making the big decisions.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, sir,” Reed said.
“Malcolm is correct, Admiral,” T’Pol added. “Your decisions can make a far wider difference than ours.”
Archer nodded. “I believe I can do a lot of good where I am now. The Federation is still feeling its way . . . still vulnerable. It needs all the help and support we can give it.”
Reed lifted his glass. “Amen.”
The three of them clinked glasses. “I will always miss being an explorer,” Archer said. Then he smiled. “But I joined Starfleet to seek out new
life and new civilizations, like Doctor Cochrane said. Well, the Federation is a new civilization forming right before our eyes—and I’m getting to explore it from the inside. And that, my friends, is one hell of an adventure.”
April 26, 2163
Smithsonian Orbital Annex, Enterprise NX-01 exhibit
Archer found Trip in engineering this time, not the bridge. That was fine with him; he was happy to let Porthos run around in the more spacious chamber, although admittedly his old friend was getting somewhat elderly for a beagle and wasn’t as sprightly as he had once been. Seeing that, here in the familiar engine room with the historic Warp Five engine encased in clear polymer, reminded him of how much time had passed since he had begun his journeys aboard this ship, and how much had changed in that time. While many of the changes were for the better, they had come with a cost.
A bigger cost in some cases than others, he thought as he looked at the man that only he and a few others still called Trip. “I guess you’ve heard,” he said. “The medical supplies got where they were supposed to go, and thousands of people who would’ve died from Denebian fever are now recovering.”
“I may have overheard a news item about that somewhere,” Trip replied.
“A lot of people owe you their thanks, Trip. Myself included. I may not be crazy about the people you work with . . . but it’s good to know I can still count on you when I need to.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” the other man said, giving a reserved smile. Still, the sense of careful distance between the two men didn’t go away. Porthos trotted over, looked at Trip for a few moments, then opted to sidle up to Archer instead. The admiral knelt and scratched his head, but he respected his wish—and Trip’s—to maintain the distance.
Still, the concerned look in his old friend’s eyes drew his attention. “What are you thinking?” he asked.
“Oh. It’s just . . .” He considered his words carefully, something which had become far more of a habit for him than it had once been. “I’m not convinced our problems with the Orions are over. Devna gave up the Deneb operation way too easily.”
“In exchange for her freedom.”
“Yeah, but there’s no way the Syndicate would let her live if she gave up something really important to them. That suggests that Deneb wasn’t their endgame—just a bonus they could easily live without. I think—we think—that their real goal was to create a rift with the Vulcans. Make the Federation so warlike that they’d secede. And the Federation might not have survived that kind of a rift. Jonathan, if the Orions were aiming that high, they won’t stop after this.”
“Trip,” Archer said, a touch of sternness creeping into his voice. “Starfleet Intelligence can handle the Orions.”
“And so can we. Is there really that big a difference?”
“Yeah, I think there is. Because SI has to justify its actions to a government elected to represent the people. Now that I’ve worked with you, now that I’ve gotten a hint of the sort of things your ‘Section 31’ is willing to do . . .” He shook his head. “I’m just not comfortable with an agency that doesn’t let the public have a say in what’s being done in their name.” He met Trip’s eyes. “And I don’t think you’re comfortable with it either.”
Trip was silent for a time. “There are things about this gig I’m not crazy about. But we don’t go any farther than we have to.”
“Not yet. But who gets to decide how far is too far? Without some, some mechanism to keep a check on your agency’s decisions, who knows what it could become in the future? And what happens once the extreme threats are passed? What are you gonna do to justify staying in business then? What if Section 31 becomes more about protecting its own secrecy than protecting the Federation?”
“That’s why I gotta stay with ’em,” Trip said. “I know it’s not gonna be easy to keep the Section on the straight and narrow. But I’m doin’ everything I can to keep ’em that way.”
“The best way to do that would be to bring them into the light. Fold them into the new Starfleet along with all the other services.”
“And what happens when the only way to get a job done is in the dark?”
“What happens when you wield that hammer so long you see every problem as a nail?”
The two old friends mutually broke off, recognizing that things were growing too tense between them. After a moment, Archer picked up Porthos. “I’m going to ask you this once,” he said, the solemnity of his tone catching his friend’s attention. “Leave the Orions to Starfleet. What we’re building . . . the nobility, the decency of it . . . it’s still fragile. We’ve seen how easily it could go astray. And the means inform the ends, Trip. Protecting the Federation is something that needs to be done in the light.”
The man who had been Charles Tucker considered his words. “I hope you’re right,” he said, though his voice bore little optimism. “I’d sorely love to be out of a job.”
May 21, 2163
Rivgor, orbiting Psi Serpentis B
Garos watched as Navaar and her sisters finalized the agreement with their shipboard guest. “You’re sure you can supply us at the necessary levels without the Federation finding out?” D’Nesh asked.
The Basileus of M’Tezir straightened, pride showing on his ridiculous goggle-eyed face. “Those trusting Federationers will be easy to fool. Have no fear; my nation’s mineral wealth is inexhaustible. And the Federation does not expect to get all of it; there are reserves they have no interest in tapping due to the danger to my subjects or to the natural habitats of animals.” The Saurian monarch scoffed. “As if those are any less mine to command or discard as I please.”
Navaar smiled broadly. “Well then, it sounds as if everyone will get what they deserve. What could be more equitable?”
The Basileus leaned forward menacingly. The Three Sisters’ huge Orion guards stepped forward, prompting the Saurian’s own bodyguards to follow suit, but Navaar halted them with a slight gesture. Garos remained where he was, uninterested in risking his own well-being on behalf of non-Malurians. “Providing you live up to your end of the bargain,” the Saurian snarled.
“Don’t worry,” D’Nesh said, looking irritated that the monarch was as immune to her mammalian pheromones as Garos was. “Our advisors will teach you how to build the weapons and ships you asked for. The rest of N’Ragolar won’t be able to stand against your armies.” Beside her, Maras simply filed her nails, unconcerned with anything else.
“As it should be,” the Basileus murmured, half to himself. “As it was destined to be.”
“It doesn’t bother you?” Garos asked. At the Saurian’s inquisitive glare, he elaborated. “Having to rely on the tools of such weak, fragile beings as us in order to master your world? What does that say about your own strength?”
The Basileus faced down the Malurian with contempt. “What do you know of strength—you whose people hide behind masks and trickery? You may be less hideous than these mammals, but you cower and connive just as they do. So you cannot see. Yes, your races are weak, but that drives you to build stronger tools to compensate. Tools that you have used to master the very stars and build great empires.” He straightened. “Just imagine what those tools could achieve in the hands of beings of true power and ambition.”
“And you fancy yourself the one who will find out?”
“Who better?”
Navaar maintained her poise and charm, smiling in feigned admiration at the petty tyrant. “Then this may be an even more auspicious agreement than we had thought. We are honored to serve you, Basileus.”
The Saurian considered, then gave a sharp, dismissive gesture. “Forget that antiquated title. With the new destiny I intend to carve out for myself, the tradition of subsuming my own identity within the ancient lineage of kings no longer seems appropriate. It is time that I reclaim my true name.
“Call me Maltuvis.”
Navaar rose and bowed. D’Nesh followed suit, giving the distracted Maras a tug on her flimsy waistband to g
oad her into doing the same. “It is our honor, noble Maltuvis,” said Navaar. “Rest assured we shall fulfill our obligation to you with thoroughness and pride.”
“You had better. Those who disappoint Maltuvis do not live to regret it.” With that, the erstwhile Basileus left, taking his bodyguards with him.
The sisters traded a look and broke up laughing, but Garos was less amused. “I see what you’re doing, Navaar. With the Mutes no longer a threat, you need to groom your next interstellar menace to provoke Starfleet. But is that wise? They know we’ve attempted to goad them in that direction. They won’t be so easily manipulated next time.”
“Oh, but that’s why I chose the Saurians,” Navaar said, twirling her hair in the way she imagined to be seductive, oblivious as always to the fact that it had no impact on him. “It’s the Federation that brought them knowledge of the stars—that’s teaching them, encouraging them, showing them the power their resources give them. They’re the ones whose insistence on fairness led them to include Maltuvis as an equal partner and put him in a position to act on his ambitions. So whatever consequences Maltuvis’s hunger for conquest may lead to, the Federation will be compelled to intervene—or else to stand by and watch for fear of losing all those lovely resources he will control. Either way, they will blame themselves.”
Navaar’s smile widened. “And so will all his victims.”
STAR TREK: ENTERPRISE
RISE OF THE FEDERATION
will continue
Spring 2014
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks to my editor at Pocket Books for inviting me to tell the story of this virtually uncharted period of Star Trek history and finally complete my Trek grand slam by writing for all five canonical series. Rise of the Federation follows from the continuity of the previous post-series Enterprise novels The Good That Men Do and Kobayashi Maru, by Andy Mangels and Michael A. Martin; and the duology The Romulan War, by Martin. Characters and ideas drawn from canon are too numerous to list exhaustively, but a few key ones for clarity: Admiral Forrest’s aide Williams (Jim Fitzpatrick) was introduced in Enterprise: “Broken Bow,” by Rick Berman & Brannon Braga, and was named in honor of William Shatner. Garos (Wade Anthony Williams) is from “Civilization,” by Phyllis Strong & Michael Sussman. Navaar (Cyia Batten), D’Nesh (Crystal Allen), and Maras (Menina Fortunato) are from “Bound,” by Manny Coto. The “Mutes” are the nameless aliens from “Silent Enemy,” by André Bormanis; I have herein identified them with the mute civilization on Gamma Vertis IV referenced in The Original Series: “The Empath,” by Joyce Muskat. Maltuvis was a historical dictator mentioned in TOS: “What Are Little Girls Made Of?” by Robert Bloch. Devna (voice of Nichelle Nichols) is from The Animated Series: “The Time Trap,” by Joyce Perry. Bryce Shumar and Steven Mullen were referenced in The Next Generation: “Power Play” (Teleplay by Rene Balcer and Herbert J. Wright & Brannon Braga. Story by Paul Ruben and Maurice Hurley).
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