What Price Honor?

by Dave Stern

  “Hold on a minute,” the captain said. “There’s no price on our assistance, Commodore. That’s not why we agreed to help you.”

  “Not at all. No price on the treatment we give you,” Phlox added. Reed noticed that the doctor had slipped out his tricorder again and was scanning the commodore. “Speaking of which, we need to attend to those burns you suffered, sir. They must be quite painful.”

  Roan waved him away. “I am used to pain. Especially when it comes to burns—as you can see.” He pointed at the mottled patch of red and brown skin that ran down the side of his face.

  “I can give you something to make you more comfortable,” Phlox said.

  “No. I need my faculties about me, Doctor. Both to deal with Valay, and to explain the situation to you.”

  Roan was silent a moment. Everyone waited for him to continue.

  “We were discussing technology. Your jamming beam,” Archer prompted.

  “No.” Roan shook his head. “Not ours.”

  “Ambassador Valay’s jamming beam. Excuse me.”

  “No,” Roan said again. “You miss my point. The jamming beam—the technology as a whole—none of it is ours.”

  “Wait a second.” Trip asked, “Not yours? So whose is it?”

  Reed had a sudden, sneaking suspicion that he knew. “The Ta’alaat. That’s why your people are at war.”

  “No, no.” Roan managed a small smile. “And yet—in a way, you are right. Technology is why we’re fighting. Technology, and my people’s appropriation of it.”

  “I’m a little confused, Commodore,” Archer said. “If it’s not the Ta’alaat’s technology, then why are they so upset?”

  “Because they feel their claim to it is greater. Though most of the Ta’alaat would prefer that no one have access to the technology—except, of course, for its rightful owners.”

  “Who are—” the captain prompted.

  “We do not know exactly. No one does.”

  “Now you lost me,” Trip said.

  “It’s quite simple. For the past several hundred years, my people have progressed, and prospered, not so much by reaping the fruits of our own efforts, but by searching out and uncovering machines left behind by another race. Machines that—even in their decaying condition—contain scientific advancements far beyond what we are currently capable of. The technology involved—it often seems miraculous.”

  Things suddenly clicked into place for Reed.

  “They built the outpost on the planetoid below—this race you’re talking about,” he said.

  “That’s right. Built it, and at some point approximately ten thousand years ago, abandoned it wholesale.”

  Reed remembered too the series of shallow depressions he’d seen on the planetoid’s surface then, and realized what they were. Excavation pits. “You were conducting a dig down there. An archaeological dig.”

  “Yes. Our scientists had just broken through to the tunnel complex when the attack occurred.”

  “Commodore,” Phlox said. “I wonder if you have records detailing the sorts of machines your scientists discovered. That information could be of assistance to us—in determining what happened to our crewman.”

  “It is more than likely,” Roan said. “Unfortunately, those records are down on the planet’s surface—and we are here.”

  “So who were these people who built the outpost?” Archer asked.

  “We don’t know. Over the centuries, we’ve discovered records throughout this sector calling them by various names. The Anu’anshee, the Krytallans, the Irakua. We have never been able to decipher their language to determine what they called themselves.”

  “The Anu’anshee,” T’Pol broke in. “Interesting. If memory serves, a race by that name appears within the Vulcan database as one of the earliest known warp-capable species in the galaxy.”

  “That is not surprising. Our scientists deduced that thousands of years ago, they established a substantial presence throughout the quadrant.”

  “This still doesn’t explain why the Ta’alaat and you are at war,” Trip said. “Why do they care about this technology so much?”

  “Because to them, the Anu’anshee are gods—their gods.” Roan took another sip of water. “We first encountered the Ta’alaat several hundred years ago, during one of our planet’s earliest warp flights. They were a far more primitive race than we, having just made the transition from a nomadic to an agricultural civilization. We had intended to leave their planet without making contact—until we picked up some anomalous power signatures from within their cities.”

  “Power sources—like the one in the pyramid here,” Reed said.

  “That’s right,” Roan said. “We found a field generator there of such advanced design and complexity that it was judged necessary to examine it further. The generator, unfortunately, was housed within one of their temples. A holy place.”

  “I’m beginning to get a sense of what’s involved here,” Archer asked.

  “Me too. So you booted them out of their temple?” Trip asked. “Yeah, I can see how that might cause some tension.”

  “I’m not trying to condone or apologize for what happened hundreds of years ago,” Roan said. “Only to explain. Our people were prepared for an initial outburst of hatred—we had already decided to share the fruits of the technology with the Ta’alaat, as a way to make up for our trespass. But we underestimated how deeply they venerated these sites.”

  “If you want to see somebody’s blood boil, start disrespecting their religion,” Trip said.

  “If by boiling blood you mean to say they were angry…well, that is an understatement, Commander. We had no idea the lengths to which they would go on behalf of their beliefs. Within a hundred years, the Ta’alaat had made the jump from throwing stones to using phased-energy weapons against us—and with the passing of time, their attacks only get deadlier. This horror on the planet below is the worst yet. Sixty people dead—sixty innocent scientists.”

  “Forgive me, sir,” T’Pol said, “but you must be aware that from the perspective of the Ta’alaat, they are as guilty as any who profane their temple.”

  “In war, there is a difference between targeting soldiers—and killing scientists.”

  “Logically speaking, it is all a matter of perspective.”

  “This explains why Goridian and the Ta’alaat hate your people,” Captain Archer said. “It doesn’t explain the fight between you and Ambassador Valay.”

  “It’s all part of the same fight, Captain,” Roan said. “There are those of us—myself included—who think the only way out of this situation is a reversal of the last several centuries of policy. Then there are others—such as Ambassador Valay—who want to consider what’s happening between the Ta’alaat and my people a war, and respond accordingly.”

  “From what you’re telling us, that would be a one-sided war,” Reed said.

  “The Ta’alaat have weapons of their own at this point,” Roan said, “But the fight would be short. No—fight is the wrong term. It would be a massacre.”

  “And again—that explains why Valay killed Goridian. It doesn’t explain why she attacked you.”

  “My reputation,” Roan said. “Who I am. You see, in the past, my position on the Ta’alaat was much more in line with Ambassador Valay’s. I was something of a hero, I am forced to say. Because of certain events.”

  “Dar Shalaan,” Reed guessed, and from the look of surprise that crossed the commodore’s face, he knew he was right. “But what does killing you get her?”

  “I have been trying to figure that out,” Roan said. “I can only assume that she hopes to pin my death on the Ta’alaat, and thereby win support for her cause.”

  “History shows us that such extreme actions rarely achieve their desired ends,” T’Pol said. “Your death could have exactly the opposite result—it could win sympathy for your cause.”

  “The only thing your death does for certain is increase the enmity between your position and
hers,” the captain said.

  “I don’t know how much more bitter the struggle could get,” Roan said. “In my opinion, we have been on the verge of civil war for several months now. No one wins if that scenario comes to pass.”

  “That’s not exactly true,” Reed said. “Strategically speaking, the Ta’alaat win in that instance.”

  “Your point being that the ambassador is a Ta’alaat spy? I hardly think so,” Roan said. “She did, after all, kill Goridian. No, there is simply no way of determining her plan at the moment. What I need to do now is to contact my government.”

  T’Pol and Archer exchanged looks.

  But before either of them could speak, Phlox stood up. “I’m afraid that in fact what you must do now, Commodore, is come with me to sickbay. Where I can finish examining you, and insure that the injuries you suffered previously have not worsened.”

  Roan shook his head. “I appreciate your concern, Doctor, but the situation here is simply too urgent to allow—”

  “I recognize that tone in Phlox’s voice, Commodore,” Captain Archer said. “Better do what he says, or he may sedate you right here and now and do the examination on the mess table.”

  Archer smiled as he spoke, but there was an undercurrent of command in his voice. The captain wanted Roan to leave with Phlox so that he could discuss the situation with his senior officers.

  “Well.” Roan looked from the captain to the doctor, and nodded slowly. Reed had the feeling the commodore knew exactly what was going on. “We wouldn’t want that to happen, would we?”

  “No,” Archer said. “We wouldn’t.”

  “All right,” Roan said. “Sickbay it is, then.”

  “Good. Follow me then. Captain, I will inform you of the commodore’s condition as soon as possible. Good morning, everyone.”

  He left the room. Roan followed, but stopped in the open doorway, and turned back to Archer.

  “Whatever you decide to do, Captain—you’ve saved my life. I appreciate that. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Archer said.

  Roan stepped through the door, and it slid shut.

  “What a mess,” Trip said. “Not only have we landed ourselves smack in the middle of a war, it’s a civil war, to boot.”

  “We must use the transporter to send the commodore back to the planetoid’s surface, and withdraw,” T’Pol said.

  “I’m with her, sir,” Trip said. “We saved his life, and that’s a good thing, but now it’s time for us to leave.”

  “Before we find out what happened to Ensign Hart?” Reed asked.

  “We know what happened to Ensign Hart,” T’Pol said. “She is dead. If you are suggesting that we return to the planet’s surface to search for clues as to what caused the behavior that ultimately led to her death, I believe that to be a foolish course of action. The information we might find is not worth the risk of involving ourselves in this war.”

  Trip sighed heavily. “I have to agree with her, Malcolm. I’m sorry. Even forgetting about Hart for a second, we go down to that outpost again we’re just asking to get shot at.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Archer said quietly.

  “Captain?” Trip looked at him with surprise. “You can’t be thinking of getting involved here. It’ll be the Suliban refugees all over again—people’ll get wind of this, the same way Zobral did, and they’ll be banging down our door for food and weapons and God knows what else.”

  “I don’t think so,” Archer said. “What Valay is doing—killing Goridian, antagonizing us, going after the commodore—my gut tells me it’s outside the context of this political battle with Roan.”

  T’Pol looked at him quizzically. “Your gut?”

  “It’s a human expression. My instincts.”

  “I must disagree with you then, sir. Instincts are not a reliable basis for decision. Vulcans trust precedent. Probability.”

  “Trust me then.” Archer smiled. “Because precedent shows, that in all probability—I’m right about this.”

  Archer smiled. T’Pol’s expression didn’t change.

  Trip threw up his hands in disgust.

  “Oh for Pete’s sake. I don’t know what the heck we have these meetings for anyway. No changin’ your mind once it’s made up.”

  “What course of action do you propose, Captain?” T’Pol asked.

  “I’m thinking about that,” Archer said, walking to the window. He looked out at the planetoid below.

  Reed followed his gaze, down past the Sarkassian ships, to the outpost itself.

  His gut—his instincts, the little voice inside his head, whatever you wanted to call it—told him the answers were all down there. To everything. Goridian’s actions. Valay’s responses. And most especially…

  What had happened to Alana.

  Sixteen

  LAUNCH BAY 2

  1/13/2151 1704 HOURS

  “HOLD HER STEADY,” Phlox said. The doctor had an ampule in one hand, and was drawing its contents into the hypodermic he held in his other.

  Alana lay on the gurney in front of him. Reed stood on one side of it, Trip the other. Each had hold of one of Alana’s arms. Bishop had her ankles. Keeping her still wasn’t easy. The seizures hadn’t subsided at all, were if anything more intense now than they’d been when Reed had first found her. He wondered how long this could go on for.

  He wondered how much more her body could take.

  “What the hell is the matter with her?” Trip asked, grimacing as he tried to keep hold of her wrist. Sweat had broken out on his brow; he seemed rattled by what was happening in a way Reed had never seen him rattled before. Hell, they were all rattled—Trip, the captain, himself, even Phlox.

  The entire landing party—as well as Phlox and Ensign Cutler—was gathered on the shuttle deck. The landing party plus one, actually—that one being the alien Reed had discovered lying next to Hart inside the pyramid, who had turned out to be comatose, not dead. Cutler stood over him now, tricorder in hand, taking readings.

  “If I knew what was the matter with Ensign Hart, Commander, I would fix it,” Phlox said irritably.

  “No clues at all as to what’s causing this?” Archer asked.

  “No. In layman’s terms, her brain is short-circuiting, and I cannot find the fault in the wiring. She has no history of such episodes. And I find no evidence of physical trauma.” He studied the hypo a moment, checking the dosage. “There.”

  Phlox brought the hypo down and in one swift motion jabbed it into Alana’s shoulder—the one Reed was holding. Reed winced sympathetically.

  Alana didn’t notice at all.

  “That should help,” Phlox said. “Give it a few minutes.”

  “What did you give her?” Archer asked.

  “Diaphragen,” Phlox said.

  “Isn’t that poison?” Reed asked.

  “In this instance, it acts as a paralyzing agent,” said Phlox. “I cannot stop the seizures—but I can help stop their physiological expression.”

  “Why not just sedate her? Put her to sleep?”

  “No. The diaphragen paralyzes only the large muscle groups. Putting her completely under while she’s seizing so violently could have an affect on her autonomic systems as well—her breathing. I don’t want to risk it. Perhaps in sickbay, but not here.”

  Alana twitched right then, almost tearing loose from Reed’s grasp. Like she’d been shot through with a hundred thousand volts. Short-circuited, just like the doctor had said.

  Electricity.

  The smell in the pyramid—the air, crackling with energy.

  He and Trip held Alana down till the worst of it passed. Then he told Phlox what he remembered.

  “Interesting,” the doctor said. “A powerful enough electric shock—that is consistent with some of these readings, at least. But you saw no weapon.”

  “Or machinery of any recognizable kind,” Reed said.

  “We need to get back down there then,” Phlox said. “See if we can discover what cause
d this.”

  “Start by looking at my tricorder readings, Doctor,” Archer said. “We haven’t had a chance to examine them at all.”

  The captain, Hoshi, and Bishop had been there as well—they were the ones whose life signs Reed had picked up as he sat in the pyramid, cradling Hart in his arms. They’d separated from Alana when the tunnel they were in had branched off in different directions. Though Reed only found that out later, of course, after they’d gotten Alana—and the alien—back to the shuttlecraft. Trip was waiting there too. The reunion was a little less joyful than it would ordinarily have been, however, given Hart’s condition.

  Which suddenly seemed to be improving.

  “Doctor,” Reed said, drawing Phlox’s attention.

  “Ah. The diaphragen seems to be taking effect. Good.”

  Reed let go of Alana’s arm. It flopped on the gurney, then lay still.

  “I need to get her to sickbay. Right away.” Phlox began securing the restraints on the gurney. Reed helped him.

  “What about him?” Archer asked, nodding over his shoulder to the alien.

  “He doesn’t show any of the same symptoms, if that’s what you’re asking,” Phlox said. “I haven’t had time to study his readings in depth, but from what I can tell—”

  The com sounded.

  “Bridge to Captain Archer. Bridge to the captain.”

  That was May weather. There was an urgent tone to his voice.

  “Archer here.”

  “Picking up two ships closing fast on our position.”

  “On my way.” Archer turned to Phlox. “Keep me posted on her condition. Everyone else, to your stations.”

  Trip, Hoshi, and T’Pol followed the captain out the door.

  Reed hesitated.

  “There’s nothing you can do, Lieutenant.”

  He turned and saw Phlox staring at him.

  “Go,” the doctor said. “I’ll call you the second I know something.”

  Reed nodded. “All right.”

  He jogged after Archer and the others.

  Emerging from the turbolift, Reed saw that the main viewscreen was filled with the image of a man—humanoid, at any rate—sitting in what looked to be the equivalent of their bridge. He looked to be of the same race as the alien they’d found at the outpost—the same pale, almost translucent skin and snow white hair—although the man on the viewscreen, and for that matter, all the others on the ship that Reed could see, were elongated versions of the survivor they’d found, tall and thin, to the point of what in humans would have been emaciated.