Rosetta

by Dave Stern

  And in the same row, but farther to the left, all the way to the left, the human captain stood impassively, arms folded across his chest, a guarded, watchful expression on his face. Sen watched as Archer’s eyes swept the hall, assessing what he saw, and an instant later the captain leaned over and whispered something into the ear of the human next to him, who nodded. Sen found himself wondering if Archer saw the assembled delegates the same way he did. A mindless, unthinking mob. Rabble. He wondered what the man thought about democracy. More than likely, the captain shared the views of most of the other Earthlings Sen had been reading about last night, viewed representative government as the ultimate evolution of the political form. No wonder they were a backwater.

  He signaled again for quiet and, when he got it, went on to place the enemy’s latest assault in context, quickly summarizing the attacks to date—how and when they had taken place, the total damage incurred broken out in monetary units and in lives lost (substantial), the Confederacy’s current state of knowledge regarding the attackers (minimal)—before finally returning to a discussion of the latest incident.

  “Two days ago, one of our Kenza-class cargo transports left Procyron heading toward the Rina declension lines, escorted by two H’ratoi fighter vessels. This morning, while attempting to transit the nearest of those lines, they were attacked.” He locked eyes with the H’ratoi ambassador again. “I’m sorry to report the convoy was destroyed. All cargo, all ships, all hands…lost.”

  The crowd erupted again. Sen struggled to be heard over them.

  “I had summoned you here to consider what sort of action we should take against these intruders. Against these recurring attacks. It is my feeling that this latest vicious, unprovoked assault dictates only one response.”

  Sen leaned forward on the lectern, quieting the angry crowd with that single movement, and cleared his throat.

  “Members of the Confederacy, we have been reactive for too long. You elected me to take a stand against these intruders, and it is now plainer than ever that we must make that stand a firm and unyielding one. As at Coreida…”

  A roar of applause from the crowd at the mention of Sen’s most famous triumph, where as viceroy he had indeed been responsible for stopping a series of unprovoked attacks on the Confederacy’s ships, though not exactly in the way people believed.

  “…we must meet force with force. We must defend our freedoms, and the freedoms of those who stand with us. My friends, war is the one—the only—answer to these unprovoked assaults.”

  A larger roar this time. Shouts for blood.

  Democracy.

  “This very morning, in emergency session,” the governor continued, “the Defense Council voted—a unanimous vote,” Sen smiled at the memory of that, thank God for the military mind, at least they knew the virtues of chain of command. The generals had simpy rubber-stamped the action he recommended, less than seven minutes, certainly, from start of the meeting to dismissal, “to declare war. I now ask the Assembly’s authorization for that action. If voting delegates will please move to your stations…”

  “We need no formal vote!” the H’ratoi ambassador bellowed, turning to face the crowd. “Our course of action is clear. Fellow delegates, all of those in favor of granting the governor a similar declaration…”

  He didn’t even need to finish his sentence. The crowd erupted in a single, unanimous roar.

  “And opposed?” the ambassador prompted.

  Not a single voice. Not a sound, a whisper of discontent.

  Sen bowed slightly, and smiled.

  “Thank you, Ambassador. I am happy to see the Confederacy so united. I want to assure you all—the Defense Council and I have been deliberating potential retaliatory strategies at some length these last few weeks, and we…”

  “Excuse me.”

  Sen frowned.

  Jonathan Archer stood in the center aisle, in a spot that had somehow miraculously cleared for him, and took a step closer to the podium.

  It was almost as if the crowd had given way for him. Ridiculous, of course. They didn’t even know who he was.

  “Forgive the interruption,” the captain continued. “My name is Jonathan Archer. I represent Starfleet and the planet Earth, Alpha Quadrant. I just wanted to introduce myself, say a few words.” He looked directly at Sen. “With your permission, of course, Governor.”

  Sen nodded. What else could he do, after all?

  Democracy.

  “Of course, Captain. Please…”

  “Thank you.” Archer turned his attention to the delegates, allowing his gaze to sweep the hall once. “My ship was recently attacked as well, so I understand completely the Assembly’s action—the anger being expressed here. The desire for revenge. I just wanted to say that during our encounter with one of these intruders, they made repeated attempts at communication before firing on us. I’d like to suggest that if we can decipher those communications, we will not only have a better idea of their motivations,” scattered hissing at that, Sen knew most of the delegates didn’t care a whit about the intruders’ motivations, all that concerned them was the cargo and the lives that were being lost, “but also an advantage during any future conflicts, that being the ability to understand their ship-to-ship communications and quite possibly transmit some false—and strategically misleading—information to their vessels.”

  The crowd, all at once, fell completely silent.

  Sen nodded silently to himself. Transmitting false and misleading information…he should have thought of that himself

  “I know our friends the Andorians here,” Archer continued, indicating the blue-skinned delegate he had been standing next to previously, “have made some progress along those lines. I believe, in fact, that they’ve even managed to translate a portion of the alien signal.”

  A murmur of surprise at that news—which Sen had deliberately been keeping quiet—buzzed through the crowd.

  “Am I correct in this assumption, Governor?” Archer asked.

  All eyes turned toward Sen.

  “Governor?” the H’ratoi ambassador prompted.

  Sen cleared his throat, nodded, and coughed before speaking, solely to give himself time to calm down, to not betray the rage that was pouring through every fiber of his being.

  He forced a smile. “Well. In part it is true. Captain,” he said to Archer, “I wish you had talked to me before sharing this news publicly. I have been consulting with the Kanthropians,” he gestured toward a group of a half-dozen Mediators seated to his right, clad in the characteristic brown robes of their order, “and have delayed making any announcement pending their evaluation of the data.”

  “Please. Forgive me if I’ve spoken out of turn,” Archer said.

  “Not at all,” Sen said. “I understand your motives completely.”

  The two men locked eyes.

  Insolent pup, Sen thought.

  “Governor.” That from General Jaedez, the Conani representative on the Defense Council. Jaedez looked mad and Sen couldn’t blame him. He’d kept knowledge of the translation—however preliminary—from them as well. No doubt Jaedez would express his displeasure more openly at the Defense Council meeting tomorrow.

  Luckily, Sen wouldn’t be there to hear it.

  “What is this translation the human refers to?” Jaedez asked.

  Sen sighed inwardly. Nothing to do now, of course, but to share the news with all.

  He gestured toward the Mediators.

  “Elder Woden. If you would…”

  One of the Kanthropians stood and faced the Assembly.

  “Any talk of a translation is premature, I must say. Certain data has been offered to us by the Andorians, and based upon that data, we have concluded that certain assignations of meaning may potentially be made, in particular one informational grouping which seems to us to correspond to—”

  “Mediator. Can you get to the point, please?” Jaedez said. “What portion of the signal has been translated?”

  The Medi
ator frowned.

  “I hesitate to use the word ‘translation.’ Preliminary data is suggestive, rather than definitive. We must all bear this in mind as—”

  “Mediator,” Jaedez said again. “The ‘suggestive’ translation, then. If you please.”

  Elder Woden frowned a moment, then nodded.

  “A single phrase. No more. The name of the attackers. Their species.” The mediator paused a moment. “We believe they are called Antianna.”

  Once more, a buzz erupted in the crowd. “Antianna? Why were we not told? What else do we know about this race?”

  “Please,” Sen said, signaling for quiet. “We are of course making further translation of the signal a high priority. The Mediators are in charge of this effort, and I can assure you…”

  “We have relevant information to share,” one of the Maszakian delegates said, standing. “Data obtained by one of our ship captains during his last encounter with the aliens. We would gladly make it available.”

  “Thank you,” Sen replied. “As I was saying…”

  “We have information to share as well,” Archer interrupted. “Similar data. And resources. I would like to offer the services of our translator,” the captain gestured behind him then, toward a strikingly attractive female, whose features instantly reminded the governor of Roia’s long-vanished physical counterpart, “who is eager to participate in any efforts to decipher the Antianna signal.”

  Sen stood a little straighter at the podium. For the first time that afternoon, his features formed into a smile of genuine pleasure.

  “A very generous offer, Captain Archer,” he said, attempting to catch the female’s eye. “Your eagerness to be involved is noted, and appreciated.”

  At that instant, the implant sounded—Roia prompting him with an update on the convoy’s progress. They were on schedule for arrival this evening. A few minutes early, even, as they were just now coming in range of the first Baustin monitoring station, which Roia had temporarily disabled to permit their safe passage into Confederacy space. And there was still much to do to prepare for their arrival.

  Time to bring things here to a close, he thought.

  “Anyone with further data on the signal—or information to share regarding the Antianna—should contact the Kanthropians immediately. I thank you in advance for your cooperation in that matter, and for coming this afternoon.” Sen smiled. “And I remind you all of the reception this evening at the solarium, to welcome those who have come from off world, who have so generously offered your services to the Confederacy in this time of need.”

  He bowed slightly, and nodded to Kuda, who instantly formed the bodyguards into a phalanx around him.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, and spun on his heel, and left the Assembly hall.

  Nine

  The captain had been swallowed up by a crowd of delegates, all anxious to talk to him. Hoshi had wandered off in search of the Andorian translator. Malcolm was going on and on about how well trained Sen’s bodyguards were (“Look at the coordination…the way they move—no wasted motion whatsoever. Remarkable”), but Travis, frankly, wasn’t paying all that much attention to any of it. He was too busy counting up the number of uniformed Thelasians he’d seen over the last hour or so, both inside (and outside) the Assembly. Dozens, at least. No, more like hundreds. Functionaries, escorts attached to each of the Assembly delegations, security personnel, maintenance workers…the Thelasian government was huge, obviously. The thought of how huge impressed him. Actually, “impressed” wasn’t the right word, “disheartened” was closer to the truth. Maybe even a little depressed. The task he’d set himself last night, the task that had been okayed by the captain this morning, before the shuttle launched, the task of wading his way through that bureaucracy to find Horizon’s money, suddenly seemed impossibly big.

  “Now, how do they do that?” Malcolm asked, interrupting his train of thought, and Travis, even though he knew the question was rhetorical, followed Reed’s gaze to the front of the Assembly, where the last of Sen’s bodyguards were now beginning to exit, four at a time, two facing the left side of the hall, two the right, each pair marching in perfect lockstep with the other, while simultaneously scanning the crowd and keeping one hand on their weapons.

  He had to admit it was an impressive sight. Unnaturally so, in fact.

  “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, all right,” Travis said.

  Malcolm frowned at him. “The what?”

  “They’re chipped.”

  Travis looked around Malcolm to see who had spoken. He found himself staring at a very short, very pale, humanoid. Male or female, it was impossible to tell.

  “Chipped?” Travis asked.

  A second humanoid, identical to the first (a twin, perhaps?), leaned around that one and said again:

  “Chipped.” The second humanoid pointed to the side of its head. “Neural implant. All the guards have to have them.”

  “Have to be on the network at all times.”

  “When they’re working.”

  “Of course when they’re working.”

  “And tall. They have to be tall, too.”

  “Even when they’re not working.”

  “Two point one two five meters. That’s tall.”

  “Of course to us, anything above one-five is tall.”

  Travis looked from one humanoid to the other, heard the opening bars of “We Welcome You to Munchkin-land” in his head, and tried hard not to laugh.

  “I’m Lieutenant Malcolm Reed,” Malcolm said. “This is my shipmate, Ensign Travis Mayweather. We’re from…”

  “Enterprise,” the first said. “Like your captain.”

  “That’s right,” Reed said.

  The first little alien closed its eyes. They stayed close for a beat; then it opened them again, and said: “Enterprise. Initial warp-five-capable vessel, developed by Starfleet, headquartered Sol system, Planet Three, Earth, Level-Four Technological Development, Dominant Culture: Anglo-Saxon. Operations head: Admiral Robert McCormick. Form of planetary government: Representative democracy. Current head…”

  “How do you know all that?” Travis asked, guessing the answer the second he spoke, which the little alien confirmed by tapping the side of its head and saying, “Chipped. Networked.”

  Travis and Malcolm exchanged glances.

  “And who are you?” Reed asked. “What race…”

  “Poz,” the first said, interrupting.

  “Verkin,” said the other.

  “We are Bynar.”

  “Were. Not anymore.”

  “Now we’re freelance.”

  “Broke the network.”

  “Hopped a transport.”

  “Stowed away.”

  “And here we are.”

  The two looked inordinately pleased with themselves.

  Malcolm held out his hand then. The two Bynar stared at it.

  “It’s a human custom,” Reed said. “A way of greeting one another. Shaking hands.”

  He showed them how to do it.

  “Interesting,” Poz said.

  “Poor hygienic practice,” Verkin said. “No worry for us—cross-species infection rates are minuscule—but among members of your own race…” The alien’s voice trailed off, and it shook its head. “Bad habit.”

  Malcolm frowned.

  “So these bodyguards,” Travis said. “They’re tied in to a network, so they’re all getting the same commands…”

  “At the exact same instant,” Poz said.

  “Makes sense, I suppose,” Reed said, frowning, clearly uncomfortable with the idea.

  “Critical response situations demand instantaneous communication and informational clarity,” Poz said.

  “Why waste time with words?” Verkin said.

  “And the chip provides this communication?”

  “Direct thought transmission.”

  “And occasionally, more,” Verkin said.

  “Unsubstantiated,” Poz said.


  “The Straz case,” Verkin said.

  The two glared at each other.

  “More?” Travis asked. “What do you mean more?”

  The two aliens continued to glare at each other.

  “Hmmphhh,” Poz said.

  “Hmmphhh,” Verkin concurred.

  “There is conflicting evidence,” Poz went on. “However…”

  “However,” Verkin nodded.

  “Some believe the technology has been taken a step further. That there are now chips which, once implanted, allow not just for thought transmission but actual control of a subject’s movements.”

  “Control?” Travis shuddered involuntarily. The idea of someone putting a chip in his head, taking charge of his movements…

  “The concept is simple enough. The interface is extended deeper into the brain structures. The implant overrides conscious thought decision.”

  “There are rumors,” Verkin said quietly, leaning forward, “that First Governor Sen has used the technique on some of his more recalcitrant political opponents. A form of punishment. The Separatists have made this charge on several occasions.”

  “The Separatists.” Reed and Travis looked at each other. “Who are they?”

  This time, it was Verkin who closed his eyes for a moment, accessing the network, and then opened them again.

  “ ‘Separatist.’ Commonly used terminology for members of an underground political movement that came to prominence over the last half-decade throughout the Thelasian Confederacy. Name arises from the core of their political belief system, that the Thelasian race must seek independence from the larger trade organization that at present governs all aspects of their lives, before the inevitable collapse of that organization threatens fundamental political stability.”

  Inevitable collapse, Travis thought. Based on what T’Pol had told them, that sounded about right.