by Dave Stern
She cleared her throat.
“Tekka-maki,” she said.
The surface of the monitor blinked once.
Out of nowhere, a voice spoke back to her.
“Language: Japanese. Species: human, Sol system, Planet Three, Earth. Accessing database. One moment please. Tekka-maki. Unavailable.”
Hoshi frowned.
“Kappa-maki.”
Same result. Japanese seemed to be out.
“Steak,” she said, feeling the need for some protein.
The monitor blinked. A second later it changed colors, and the covering slid back.
And there it was. Steak. Sliced steak, burned black around the edges, looking dry in the middle (she should, Hoshi realized, have specified medium rare), but still…
Steak.
She was impressed.
She ordered a baked potato and salad—they looked like the real thing too—grabbed a glass of water, and then joined Theera at a table in the center of the room. The Andorian glared at her as she sat, but otherwise said nothing. They ate in silence for a few moments.
Hoshi set down her fork.
“Not bad,” she said. “What’s that you have?”
Theera chewed for a moment without responding.
“Flatroot. Red bat,” she said after a moment.
“Andorian foods.”
“Yes.”
“Do they taste like they’re supposed to, or…”
“They are acceptable.”
She kept eating. She did not look up.
“I didn’t intend to play your message. I’m sorry,” Hoshi said. “I really am.”
Theera nodded.
“I accept your apology.”
“Thank you.” Hoshi pushed around the food on her plate a moment. Too much for her to finish. She set down her fork, and pushed the plate to the side.
“So what were you working on?” she asked.
Theera looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”
“What were you working on before? In the analysis chamber?”
“Ah.” Theera nodded. “Research.”
Obviously, Hoshi thought but didn’t say. “What kind?”
The Andorian hesitated a split second before replying. “Material related to the Antianna. It proved to be of no relevance.”
“Oh.” Hoshi nodded. “That’s too bad.”
“Yes,” Theera said, looking down at her plate again. “Fortunately, the research itself was interesting.”
She was lying, Hoshi realized. Why?
Theera cleared her throat. “You were working in the analysis chamber as well this morning?”
Hoshi nodded.
“On…”
She filled the Andorian in on the rough outlines of her own activities this morning—the research she’d done on the alien races within this part of the galaxy, their languages, their histories, her search for any similarities at all between them and the Antianna signal. Halfway through the recitation, she sensed Theera losing interest. She decided to change the subject.
“I hope you don’t mind my asking, but—I’m curious. The man on the screen—from your message. Who is he?”
Theera visibly tensed.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Hoshi added quickly.
The Andorian was silent so long that Hoshi thought she had decided to do just that—to not answer the question. And then: “He is Second Commander Jakon of the Imperial Science Consortium. One of our Andoria’s most significant biochemists, as well as the recipient of our highest military honors.”
“And a friend of yours,” Hoshi said. “A close friend, from the sound of it.”
“Yes,” Theera replied. “He is, in fact, my husband.”
Hoshi had just taken a sip of water.
It took every ounce of self-control she had not to spit it right back out.
Nineteen
Travis took a second shift that night, to help out Riley, who was helping out Hess, who was still short one staff member down in engineering. The first half was uneventful; they were through the Maldeev Cloud, well out of Confederacy space, nearing the transit point to the Barcana Sector. Right on schedule to pick up the Tellarite vice-ambassador tomorrow, right on track to arrive at Earth in plenty of time for the peace conference. It looked like smooth sailing, all the way. It felt like things aboard Enterprise were at last starting to get back to normal. He could focus on standard maintenance and flight operations, on helm control; he could let Poz and Verkin worry about tracking down Horizon’s money; he could say the phrase “Captain Tucker” without it tripping over his tongue.
He could, Travis realized, begin to picture what life aboard Enterprise after Jonathan Archer was going to look like.
It was going to be different, that was for sure. But he could see the crew—the senior staff in particular—settling into their new roles, learning how to interact with each other and the crew all over again. How to react to Trip, who was himself finding his way in his new role. Finding a routine, a way to make the ship run like the well-oiled machine it had been under Captain Archer’s command. Learning to pull together, as a group.
“Mister Mayweather.”
Travis looked up. O’Neill was standing over him.
“Problem?”
“No problem, ma’am.”
“Then let’s focus on the task in front of us, yes? The helm?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
The com beeped again.
“Hess to bridge.”
“Lieutenant.”
“Somebody flagged a power conduit up there for maintenance?”
Oh.
“That was me,” Travis said. “Ensign Mayweather. I showed electron flow down at ninety-eight percent.”
“Ninety-eight,” Hess repeated. She didn’t sound happy.
“Yes, ma’am.” O’Neill came down the steps from the command level to stand next to him. She didn’t look happy either.
“You know the operating range on that conduit?” Hess asked.
“I know the manual says down to ninety-five, but Commander Tucker…”
“Command…” she bit the word off just before the last syllable, “Captain Tucker is not running engineering right now. I am. When I receive a red flag from the bridge, I expect it to be a critical malfunction, not something that’ll pop up in a maintenance report at the end of shift. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Travis said. “Understood.”
“Good. Engineering out.”
Travis straightened in his chair.
O’Neill was still standing over him.
Her foot was tapping out a little beat on the floor of the bridge. That was a habit of hers, Riley had told him. Something the lieutenant did when she was feeling stressed, or tense. Frustrated.
Angry.
“This is second shift, yes, Ensign?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“It’s usually much quieter. We like it quieter.”
“Ah.” Travis nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
He was about to apologize for being at the center of that activity—though he was unsure that he could have done anything differently—when the com beeped again.
“Reed to bridge.”
O’Neill stalked up the steps to the captain’s chair, and slapped the button on it. “Bridge. O’Neill here.”
Somehow, Travis knew what the next words out of Malcolm’s mouth were going to be, even before he spoke them.
“Ensign Mayweather is there, yes?”
“Oh yes,” O’Neill said, looking straight at Travis. Everyone on the bridge, in fact, was looking at Travis. “He’s here.”
“I need to speak to him a moment.”
“Yes,” O’Neill said. “Of course. Sir.”
Her foot was tapping again.
“Mayweather here, sir.”
“Ensign—are you busy right now?”
“Umm…”
O’Neill’s foot was tapping faster.
“I’m in the a
rmory,” Reed continued. “I’ve got something I’d like you to see.”
“I’m off in a couple hours,” Travis said quickly. “I’ll be down then. Mayweather out.”
“Not so fast, not so fast,” Reed replied. “I don’t think this can wait that long. I don’t suppose Lieutenant O’Neill can spare you any sooner?”
Travis glanced up at her.
O’Neill’s arms were folded across her chest.
Her foot was going a mile a minute.
“Sir, I’d prefer to have someone on the helm,” she said.
“Of course,” Reed replied. “But—aren’t you trained on that station? Should an emergency arise?”
A pause. More tapping.
“I haven’t worked on the simulator in several months, sir. I don’t feel comfortable having that responsibility.”
“Ah. Well—that’s a skill set you ought to keep a little more current, don’t you think Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir,” O’Neill said very slowly, in a very strained voice.
Her foot had stopped tapping, Travis saw. She was standing very still.
He had the impression of a dormant volcano, about to explode.
“Good. Still…in the meantime, I suppose you’re right. Someone should be on helm. Where is Ensign Riley?”
“Down in engineering, sir,” O’Neill answered. “They’re short tonight.”
“Well…they’ll just have to stay short. Have Riley finish Ensign Mayweather’s shift.”
The foot started tapping again.
“I don’t think Lieutenant Hess will be too happy about that sir,” O’Neill said.
“Well then. Tell her it’s an order. From me.”
“Ah.” O’Neill nodded slowly. “An order. Yes, sir. I’ll tell her.”
“Good. See you in a moment then, Ensign. Reed out.”
There was silence for a moment.
Silence, so still and complete you could have heard a pin drop. And then…
O’Neill’s foot started tapping again.
“Sir,” Travis said, clearing his throat. “I mean, ma’am. I’m certain whatever it is Lieutenant Reed has to show me, it can…”
“Go,” O’Neill said sharply, and pointed toward the lift.
He went.
It took a long time to come—time during which O’Neill called down to engineering and spoke with Hess.
The two were still arguing when the doors finally closed behind him. Travis thought he heard Captain Tucker in the background while Hess was talking.
Maybe those relationships, that post–Captain Archer routine, was going to take a little bit longer to work out than he’d thought.
When he entered the armory, Malcolm was sitting in front of the viewscreen again. No surprise there.
What was surprising…Poz and Verkin were on it.
Travis shot Malcolm a questioning look.
“Separate com interlink,” Reed said, tapping the console in front of them.
Travis nodded, and pulled up a chair alongside him.
“Our friends have found something,” Reed said, gesturing to the screen.
“Several somethings,” one of the Bynar said. “Mister Poz?”
“Mister Verkin.” The other nodded. “First of all—an item of interest to all of us. A recently established legal precedent, regarding the interest rate on unlawfully embargoed monies throughout the Thelasian Confederacy. An interest rate of fifteen percent was established by gubernatorial decree in the Morianna arbitration courts, Stardate 1247.8.”
“Which I believe translates to last Wednesday, on your calendar,” Verkin put in.
“Early Wednesday,” Poz added. “Parts of last Tuesday evening as well.”
“Yes,” Verkin said. “Quite.”
Travis blinked.
“Fifteen percent.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
“Yes.”
He did the math in his head. “That’s an awful lot of money.”
Travis looked at Reed, who was smiling, and found that he was smiling as well.
“To continue,” Poz said. “Our initial search for materials related to the transaction in dispute. Governor Sen’s…”
“Ex-Governor Sen’s,” Verkin corrected.
“Ex-Governor Sen’s dealings with the S.S. Horizon.” The Bynar glanced off-screen for a second. “I’m looking at a copy of an agreement between the Horizon and the Thelasian freighter Roia Four, captained by Maxim Sen, based out of Saleeas Optim. Assignation of a previous contract between the Roia and the Th’Langan Equipment Fabrication Consortium to the Horizon, with Horizon assuming Roia’s delivery obligations under that contract regarding a shipment of thirty-six cargo pods, contents specially manufactured solar paneling. There is a specific clause in the contract relieving Sen and the Roia from any future liability regarding the cargo.”
Travis frowned. “That’s bad.”
The two Bynar nodded as one. “Yes.”
“However,” Poz continued. “Further research within the Confederacy’s archives shows that the Th’Langan Equipment Fabrication Consortium shares a physical address—a small moon within the confines of the Beta K’Leas system, which straddles the border of Confederacy and Coreidan space—with the Th’Langan Weapons Fabrication Consortium. And that Governor…”
“Ex-Governor.”
“Ex-Governor Sen had multiple previous dealings with the weapons consortium. We believe it can be convincingly argued that ex-Governor Sen was well aware of what that cargo contained, and that he—and thus, by extension, the Confederacy—are responsible for restitution.”
“And the fifteen percent interest,” Verkin said.
Poz nodded. “Compounded every thirty days.”
“Oh.” Travis was smiling again. “That’s good.”
“Yes,” Verkin said. “That’s very good.”
“Very, very good,” Poz concurred.
Reed was smiling too. “I told you they’d deliver. Now gentlemen,” he said, “I’d like to talk to you about obtaining further details on Sen’s associates. Where exactly…”
“Hang on a second,” Travis interrupted. Something was bothering him, and a second later, he had it. “That weapons consortium—it was in Coreida?”
“Straddling the border between the Coreida sector and Confederacy space.”
Travis frowned. “That name keeps coming up a lot—Coreida.”
Reed was frowning too. “Yes,” he said. “Sen was governor there later. He talked about it in his speech—to the Assembly, remember? Site of a great victory, some nonsense like that?”
Travis nodded.
“Where exactly is this Coreida?” he asked.
“On the far side of Confederacy space. Back toward the galactic rim,” Poz answered.
Next to him, Verkin was turned slightly off-screen, keying in some commands.
“Hold on one moment, “the Bynar said. “Sending you a sector map…now.”
Poz and Verkin disappeared from the screen. A split second later, their place was taken by a star map. An overview of the space in which the Thelasian Confederacy operated, incorporating the worlds and races affiliated with it—the Conani, the Maszakians, the Pfau, dozens of others, each shaded in a slightly different color. The expanse of territory was vast, Travis saw—easily the distance from Starfleet to Vulcan and back again.
“There’s Barcana,” he said, pointing to his left, to the far edge of the map.
“And there’s Coreida,” Malcolm put in, gesturing to his right.
Travis saw it too, then—a region of space shaded in light green, all the way on the other side of the Confederacy.
Next to it was a black, virtually starless region of space, with something written on it that Travis couldn’t see from where he was sitting.
“What’s that?” he asked.
Reed squinted. “Says Neutral Zone.”
“Neutral Zone.”
“Yes. Must be someone else on the other side
of it…hold on a second.” Reed keyed in some commands. The map shifted the wrong way first, to the right, and Coreida disappeared entirely.
Reed cursed under his breath, and tried again.
This time, the map slid to the left.
The space beyond the Neutral Zone came into view.
It was shaded entirely in crimson.
Another huge expanse of territory, far more irregularly shaped than Confederacy space.
Reed recognized it first.
“The Klingon Empire,” he said.
He slapped his hand down on the console, and stood suddenly.
“The Klingon Empire.”
“What?” Travis asked.
Reed started pacing.
“It fits,” he said. “Don’t you see?”
Travis shook his head.
“What fits?”
“The captain couldn’t understand it either,” Malcolm said. “He was looking for the reason why, and it was staring us in the face the whole time.”
Reed stopped pacing, and looked right at Travis.
“What made Sen suddenly turn around and invite Enterprise down to Procyron? Why did he bring us into the Assembly, why did he invite us to the reception…why was he so interested in humans? And the answer is…he wasn’t. He wasn’t interested in humans at all.”
Now Travis was really confused. “He wasn’t?”
“No. He was interested in one specific human. Jonathan Archer.” Reed jabbed a finger at the map, at the heart of the Klingon Empire. “Because of them.”
“The Klingon Empire,” Travis said.
“Exactly.”
It took Travis another few seconds. And then he got it.
“Sonuvabitch,” he said, slapping the console. “That greedy, scheming, murdering sonuvabitch. The reward money.”
“That’s right. The reward money.”
The two men locked eyes.
Reed smiled.
Travis smiled back.
“He’s alive,” Travis said. “Captain Archer is alive.”
Twenty
Deep in the bowels of the Battle Cruiser cHos (one of the new D-3 ships, which as far as Sen could tell were identical to the D-2s with the exception of an awkwardly mounted disruptor cannon directly beneath the bridge area), the ex-governor, ex-viceroy, and now ex-citizen of the Thelasian Confederacy lay still on his cot, in the semidarkness of his quarters, and considered his situation.
