The Good That Men Do

by Michael A. Martin

  “I apologize, Admiral,” Archer said as he turned back to the screen in front of the desk. He barely resisted an urge to ask the admiral if he had actually read Trip’s report on the cloaked Romulan mines, though he strongly suspected that he already knew the answer.

  “It’s already forgotten, Captain,” Gardner said, putting on an almost amiable smile. “We’ll chalk it up to garbled communications and leave it at that.”

  Archer cast a quick warning glance back at Trip, who took the hint and remained silent.

  “Carry on with your present orders, Captain. I look forward to seeing you all at the Coalition Compact ceremonies three weeks from now.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Archer knew when he was being shut up and shown the door without having to hear it in so many words.

  “Gardner out.” The silver-haired visage abruptly disappeared from the screen, to be replaced by the white-on-blue Earth-and-laurel-leaf insignia of the United Earth government.

  Archer turned his chair toward T’Pol and Trip. “Well. That’s that. Gardner is obviously taking no chances. He’s not going to risk doing anything that might rock the boat.” He turned a hard gaze upon Trip. “And he obviously must think I’m running a pirate ship, judging from the discipline around here.”

  Trip was shame-faced. “Sorry, Captain. I opened my mouth without engaging my brain first. As usual.”

  Archer couldn’t help but smile at that. “I’m not keeping score, Trip. There isn’t a tote board big enough. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re probably right about the Romulans. You had me half-convinced when we spoke after we met with Shran and Theras.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Trip said, “what brought you the rest of the way to my side of the argument?”

  Archer hiked a thumb over his shoulder toward his computer screen. “Admiral Gardner, and his self-inflicted blind spot. I wonder how many times in history some avoidable catastrophe was allowed to happen only because the leaders at the time were in complete denial about its existence.”

  Trip nodded, somber. “I suppose the question now is, What do we do about it?”

  “Trip, I’m not sure there is anything we can do,” Archer said with a resigned sigh. “Not without violating direct Starfleet orders.”

  “But the Romulans are obviously up to no good, Captain.” Trip’s earlier frustrated tone had returned full force. “And I’d wager that they aren’t going to just sit on their hands until the Coalition has finished dotting all its i’s and crossing all its t’s.”

  “Do you suppose, Commander,” T’Pol said with her customary coolness, “that your opinion regarding the Romulans might have been shaded by your recent brush with death inside one of their drone ships?”

  Trip regarded her in contemplative silence for a long moment, frowning. At length, he said, “Well, I won’t deny that that incident got my attention, big-time. But it doesn’t undercut the possibility that the Romulans have just collected enough Aenar telepaths to pull the same trick again, dozens of times, and in dozens of places. In my book, that fact alone puts them on a very short list of nominees for the next big threat against Earth.”

  Archer couldn’t disagree, though he still had to admit that he, Trip, and Shran still could neither prove anything nor sway the powers that be to take any preventive action.

  Recalling the suddenness of the horrific Xindi attack, Archer hoped it wouldn’t already be too late by the time his superiors finally became convinced.

  Lying on the narrow bed in his quarters, his shoulders propped up by a pile of none-too-soft Starfleet-issue pillows, Archer idly tossed a water-polo ball against one of the four walls of his spartan cabin. Lying in the far corner with his face on his outstretched paws, Archer’s beagle Porthos watched the captain intently.

  T’Pol was standing beside Archer, resolutely refusing, as usual, to sit in either of the room’s two simple, gray Starfleet-issue chairs. He wondered if his first officer found the chairs uncomfortable or if she wasn’t simply trying to keep her distance from Porthos, whose scent she had often said she found disagreeable.

  “If we’re late for the ceremony, it will have farreaching consequences,” she said finally, clearly not content to leave the matter of the Aenar mass kidnapping alone until Archer had resolved it one way or the other.

  Archer frowned, annoyed to be reminded yet again of the impending diplomatic event on Earth. “If Shran hadn’t helped us, I never would’ve gotten aboard the Xindi weapon. Have you forgotten that? This alliance is based on friendship and loyalty- exactly what Shran is looking for right now.”

  After a beat of silence, she said, very quietly, “I don’t trust him.”

  “You don’t trust Andorians,” he said, his annoyance escalating another notch. “The Vulcan Council is a little more enlightened. If they’re willing to forge an alliance with Andoria, the least you can do is give Shran the benefit of the doubt.”

  Though her Vulcan poise seemed to remain in place, Archer sensed that she was shrinking from his words, rebuked. He tried to soften his tone somewhat as he continued, “When we met four years ago, I didn’t trust you. For that matter, I didn’t trust any Vulcans. You helped me get past that, remember?” He paused, struggling for the words that would best explain the decision he’d just made. “I can’t turn my back on him, T’Pol. Try to understand.”

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  Porthos chose that moment to leap up onto the bed and into Archer’s lap with an enthusiastic woof. The captain tossed the water-polo ball aside and gave the beagle an affectionate scratch between the ears. T’Pol quietly edged away from Porthos, though she seemed to be making a concerted effort to be discreet about showing her persistent aversion to the dog.

  Setting Porthos aside, Archer rose from the bed and crossed to the room’s small refrigeration unit, from which he extracted several small morsels of sharp cheddar cheese. He tossed them to Porthos, one at a time, and each piece vanished before hitting the deck, like skeet being launched and vaporized on a MACO phase-rifle range. Porthos sat up, his tail thumping against the deck in gratitude, his dark eyes regarding Archer expectantly.

  “That’s all for today. Phlox says you need to watch your serum cholesterol.”

  The beagle half growled and half whined in disappointment as Archer walked to the wall-mounted com unit beside which T’Pol was standing. He pushed the large button in the panel’s center.

  “Archer to Lieutenant O’Neill.”

  “O’Neill here, sir,” came the third watch commander’s crisp reply.

  Archer’s eyes locked with T’Pol’s.

  “Change our heading, Lieutenant. We’re going into Andorian space. Best speed.”

  “Sir?”

  “I want to follow the trail of that Orion slave ship. Ensign Sato will inform Shran and Theras. Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed will coordinate our efforts with theirs. Shran will provide us with the vessel’s warp-signature profile for our sensor scans.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Archer out.” He pressed the button again, closing the channel, then headed for the door.

  “Captain,” T’Pol said.

  He turned to face her, pausing in the open doorway. “Yes?”

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Always.” He stepped back toward her.

  “I can’t help but wonder whether you had already made your mind up to help Shran before you contacted Admiral Gardner.”

  Archer allowed himself an enigmatic smile. “I can see how it might look that way.”

  “Indeed. Especially given the fact that you never came right out and asked the admiral for his permission to investigate the mass Aenar kidnapping.”

  “I suppose you also noticed that Gardner never exactly ordered me not to go after the slavers. All he said was that he couldn’t order me to do it.”

  She raised an eyebrow and a look rather like a smirk twisted her lips. “I will remember to mention that when I appear as a character w
itness at your court-martial.”

  Archer couldn’t have been more stunned had she drawn a phase pistol on him and fired. “That’s remarkable, T’Pol. Did you… did you just make a joke?”

  “For your sake, sir, I certainly hope so.”

  Was that another one? he thought as he opened his door again. He let his enigmatic smile glide right into a mischievous grin as he walked back into the doorway.

  “Sometimes,” he said over his shoulder as T’Pol followed him, “it’s a lot easier to beg for forgiveness than to ask for permission.”

  As he entered the corridor and headed toward the central turbolift that led to the bridge, he wryly considered one day proposing that aphorism as a new Starfleet regulation.

  Ten

  Monday, February 10, 2155

  Enterprise Nx-01

  MALCOLM REED WATCHED as Tucker raised the shot glass toward the broad crew mess hall window as though toasting the still mostly unexplored interstellar wilderness that lay beyond it. He drained it in a single swallow, appearing to relish the way it burned as it went down. He set the empty glass onto the tabletop with a resounding thwack beside the bottle of Skagaran Lone Star tequila.

  “I think that stuff might do a better job of scrubbing your plasma conduits than whatever it is you’re using now, Trip,” Reed said. Besides Commander Tucker, Reed thought he might well be the only other off-duty soul still awake at this ungodly hour. Malcolm had also ceased filling his own shot glass perhaps ten minutes earlier, leaving it upended before him in a silent gesture of surrender.

  “I think maybe I’ll pass your suggestion along to Lieutenant Burch,” Trip said, making a sour face as he pushed both the bottle and his own glass closer to the center of the tabletop. “Besides, a hangover probably won’t make me any more persuasive to Admiral Gardner, or anybody else in Starfleet Command. Hell, T’Pol didn’t want to hear me out even when I was sober.”

  Reed thought Trip’s decision to forgo the remaining tequila was a wise one. But he also knew that the decisions that lay ahead would require a good deal more than just wisdom.

  “For whatever it’s worth, Trip, I think your analysis of the Aenar kidnapping is spot on, T’Pol notwithstanding. Are you going to keep trying to persuade the brass that the Romulans are the ones behind it?”

  “What choice do I have?” Trip said, sounding almost belligerent. “You’ve done the math the same way I have, Malcolm. What the hell would you do in my place?”

  Reed held up a placating hand. “I’m on your side, Trip. Remember?”

  Trip slumped back into his chair and released a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, Malcolm. I know you are. It’s just that we’ve shown Gardner that the Romulans pose what could be the biggest threat that Earth or any of our new allies have ever faced- and he just doesn’t want to hear it because it’s inconvenient for him.”

  Reed completely agreed with the commander’s assessment, and he shared his friend’s frustration, if not his present level of inebriation. “Do you suppose there’s any chance of changing his mind?”

  “Not very damned likely. The captain says the only thing that’s likely to persuade Gardner is the kind of evidence that swoops in from space and blows up whole cities.”

  Reed nodded quietly. “What about contacting other admirals in Starfleet Command? Like maybe Douglas or Black? Or even Clark or Palmieri?”

  “You mean make an end run around Gardner?” Trip didn’t sound very happy at that prospect either. “Well, I suppose career suicide is one option, Malcolm. Maybe it’ll turn out to be the only one.” He leaned forward morosely and very deliberately grabbed both the bottle and his shot glass, dragging them toward him across the beads of alcohol he had left on the otherwise spotless tabletop.

  Gardner is a blind man, Reed thought as he watched his friend pour himself another drink. Thank goodness Captain Archer is at least conducting a low-profile investigation. But what if next time it’s someone who isn’t willing to buck the system? It looks like other players will have to become involved in this game if Starfleet Command is going to wake up in time.

  Reed decided the time had come to play what might turn out to be Earth’s hole card. Speaking quietly, he said, “Before you seriously contemplate charging into Starfleet Headquarters and wrecking your career, I think you’d be wise to call somebody else I know.”

  Trip paused in mid-swallow, setting his drink down half intact. “Who?”

  Reed spared a moment to glance around the dimly lit mess hall, confirming again that no one else was present. When he turned his gaze back upon Trip, he spoke in a voice that was scarcely louder than a whisper.

  “Someone who’ll probably listen to your warnings very attentively. And might even be able to act on them.”

  Even though it is somebody I swore I’d never deal with again if I could help it, Reed thought. But desperate times need desperate deeds.

  Trip pushed both the bottle and his half-consumed drink away again. “I’m listening, Malcolm.”

  Reed nodded, drew a deep breath, settled back into his chair, and told him.

  And hoped all the while that he hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of his entire life.

  Taking a seat behind the desk in his quarters, Trip looked blearily up at the wall chronometer over the door to his quarters. His shift was to start in just under three hours.

  He adjusted the angle of the data terminal before him so that he faced it directly, activated it, and inserted the data card Malcolm had given him. Time stretched for several seconds as the black screen briefly turned sky blue while the ship’s com system followed the data card’s protocols for establishing a secure connection with the particular subspace frequency the tactical officer had provided.

  A dark-haired, middle-aged man appeared on the screen, apparently seated in a perfectly ordinary office. Trip could see the man clearly only from the chest up, noting that he wore a tailored deep brown jacket made of a leatherlike fabric. The man appeared far too rested to be completely believable, prompting Trip to wonder which Earth time zone the other man called home.

  The face on the screen displayed a look of mildly surprised recognition upon seeing Trip’s face. “Commander Tucker.”

  Trip nodded. “Harris, I presume?”

  “The very same, Commander. What can I do for you? And why are you contacting me?”

  “As opposed to Malcolm, you mean.”

  “Lieutenant Reed and I have had a long relationship. Since you’re on this frequency, I’m assuming he’s taken you into his confidence about me.”

  “According to Malcolm, that ‘relationship’ is strictly past tense, Harris.”

  Harris’s lips curved upward slightly in an ironic smile. “I’ve heard that from him on more than one occasion. It’s become quite a familiar refrain by now.” Then his dark eyes narrowed and focused on Trip as though he could see him directly, without the intermediary of a subspace transceiver. “But I’m sure you aren’t contacting me in the middle of your ship’s night just to talk about the past. In fact, I happen to know that you’re a great deal more concerned about the future.”

  “Concerned” is a nice understatement, Trip thought. Aloud, he said, “It’s about the Romulans.”

  Harris’s expression turned grave as Trip struggled to organize his thoughts. “Go on, Commander.”

  Here goes, Trip thought, taking a deep breath. “Earth and all the other Coalition planets are in serious danger. The Romulans are planning to move against us in a big way. And soon.”

  Harris displayed a degree of emotional control that T’Pol probably would have admired. “Do your colleagues aboard Enterprise concur with your opinion?”

  “Malcolm is with me on this. And so’s Captain Archer.”

  “But not Starfleet Command, I gather.”

  “You must have been eavesdropping on us, Harris.”

  Harris smiled benignly. “You’re quite the flatterer, Commander. But it isn’t all that hard to guess that the brass hats might not want to l
ook too closely at any inconvenient truths for the next few weeks. At least not until the Coalition Compact is finalized and signed. I’m sure Admiral Gardner doesn’t want to be responsible for spooking the various Coalition delegations.”

  “That’s my take on things, too,” Trip said, nodding. It hadn’t escaped his notice that Harris had never explicitly denied his charge of eavesdropping- and the idea was making all the small hairs on the back of his neck slowly rise to attention even as he continued speaking. “Are you aware of the mass kidnapping of Aenar telepaths from Andoria last week?”

  “We are, Commander. And we clearly see a Romulan hand in that action, even though they tried very hard to cover their tracks by going through intermediaries. We have no doubt that the Romulans plan to use those telepaths to revive their telepresence drone warship program, and on a considerable scale.

  “But that isn’t the end of it. Our intelligence sources show strong indications that the Romulans are on the verge of perfecting a new generation of starships, vessels capable of reaching speeds of at least warp seven.”

  Trip couldn’t keep his jaw from falling open. “Warp seven,” he said quietly. Five years after the launch of Enterprise, Earth was still working the remaining kinks out of Henry Archer’s warp five engine. “That puts them even with the Coridan shipyards.”

  Harris nodded. “Even Coridan will be hard-pressed to counter a Romulan invasion of Coalition territory, which we believe is coming soon.”

  “A warp-seven drive would use one hell of a lot of power,” Trip said, running power-curve calculations in his head.

  “Agreed. And that means that the Romulans will need to get their hands on huge quantities of dilithium- which the Coridan system planets have in far greater abundance than any of the other Coalition worlds do.”

  “So Coridan must be the Romulans’ first target,” Trip said, swallowing hard. “For lots of reasons.”

  “Once the Romulans annex the most productive dilithium mines in known space, the Coalition wouldn’t stand a chance of resisting strikes from a Coridan beach-head. Tellar, Andoria, even Vulcan would fall like dominoes following a long war of attrition, bolstered by Coridan’s captured resources and the Romulan expansion ethic.”