Star Trek: Enterprise: The Good That Men Do

by Andy Mangels

  But he knew he didn’t have any alternative, especially not when the stakes were as high as they were right now. Maybe having ‘Cunaehr’ at his side for a while will give the poor old guy some comfort after everything he’s been through, Trip thought, trying to assuage his conscience with only partial success.

  Evidently distracted from his earlier self-recriminations—and slipping back into his mission-planning mode—Phuong interrupted Trip’s ruminations. “So we now have two extremely urgent reasons to get Ehrehin out of here as quickly as possible.” He began ticking points off on his fingers. “First, there’s Ehrehin himself, and the knowledge he’s carrying. Second, we have to warn Coridan Prime about our new intelligence that corroborates our suspicions that they will be the Romulans’ first target. But I seriously doubt we’ll be able to do that from here without tipping our hand to Ch’uihv.”

  It all made sense to Trip, particularly the point about alerting the Coridanites. It would be a disaster of immeasurable proportions if the Romulans—whether they answered to the Praetor or to the Ejhoi Ormiin—were to succeed in seizing control of Coridan’s vast dilithium reserves. After all, if Ehrehin’s new engine really proved capable of reaching and sustaining a speed of warp seven—as Coridan Prime’s ships were rumored to do routinely these days—it would no doubt be one of the most dilithium-hungry technologies ever devised.

  But Trip could see at least one glaring problem—perhaps an insurmountable one—with Phuong’s plan. “Somehow, I don’t see Ch’uihv just letting us take Ehrehin back to the Branson.”

  “That’s why we’re not going to use the Branson,” Phuong said with a grin. “But I’m betting we’ll find something suitable in Ch’uihv’s own vehicle pool—after I get out and do a little reconnaissance work, that is. After all, Ch’uihv never told either of us that we weren’t allowed to stroll the grounds a bit during our stay.”

  Trip shook his head, not quite sure he was believing what he was hearing. “Are you serious?”

  “This is what spies do: improvise,” Phuong said as he moved toward the door, where he paused for a moment, looking back at Trip. “Stay here and get some rest. You look like hell.” And with that, he vanished into the corridor beyond.

  The door whisked closed again, and Trip stood staring at it incredulously.

  That turncoat Sopek was way, way off base about who’s really “intermittently rational” around here, Trip thought, shaking his head.

  Twenty-Seven

  Friday, February 21, 2155

  Enterprise NX-01

  T’POL SAT IN SHUTTLEPOD TWO with the others. Ensign Mayweather was at the helm, and a pair of MACOs sat at the ready. The cabin was dimly lit, and the ship rocked sharply as they entered the troposphere of the planet.

  “I went to see Phlox this morning,” the man sitting next to her said.

  She turned, and was startled to see a Vulcan sitting there. Had he been there all this time?

  And yet, he was not a Vulcan, despite the dark hair, arched brows, gracefully pointed ears, and slightly green-tinted skin. Something about him was different, yet comfortably familiar.

  “I saw the doctor today as well,” T’Pol said, unsure of what else to say.

  The man turned toward her. “Did he talk about me?”

  T’Pol’s eyebrow rose reflexively. “You?”

  “Us?”

  “What about us?” T’Pol asked. “This is illogical.”

  “Why’d you bring it up, then?” the man asked.

  The shuttle continued to rock around them, but none of the others present were speaking, as if they were frozen in place. Exasperated, T’Pol turned and looked more closely at the man. There was something in his eyes…

  He smiled and winked, and then reached up to tug on the zipper at the top of his head. His skin unzipped down his forehead, over his nose and lips, down his chin, and to his chest.

  T’Pol reached over and pulled apart the skin, revealing the far more familiar face underneath. Trip smiled at her, his expression both sweet and haunted.

  He was most certainly not dead.

  “Wherever you are, do you ever miss me?” she asked, pitching her voice low to prevent the others from hearing. It didn’t matter, since it appeared that they were no longer aboard the shuttlepod anyway; they were in his quarters aboard Enterprise.

  He looked surprised. “You mean…”

  She nodded shyly. “Yes.”

  He picked up the toy armadillo from above the bed and idly played with it as he looked out the viewport at the stars, which looked like so many twinkling lights set against a black velvet curtain. “You know how long it’s been?” he finally asked.

  “That’s not what I asked you,” she said, standing, nude, and approaching him from behind.

  He bent forward as she began applying neuropressure to his shoulders. “Well…uh…yeah…I guess, sometimes.”

  The remainder of the green-tinted Vulcan skinsuit began to slough away under T’Pol’s ministrations, exposing more of Trip beneath it. She grasped it in the center of his back and tore it away. The remnants fluttered to the floor and became fine gritty sand, like the parched red soil of Vulcan’s Forge.

  “I haven’t thought about those days in a long time,” T’Pol said, reaching around his sides to hug him from behind.

  He turned around and looked down at her, smiling slightly. “Benefit of being a Vulcan.”

  She lay back on the bed with him, sweat beading on her collarbone and forehead. A wave of ecstasy moved through her. His skills were so different from the savage couplings of Pon farr.

  “After speaking with Doctor Phlox, I realized that we might never see each other again, dead or alive,” she said finally, the warm glow ebbing.

  He climbed on top of her, pressing her down into the mattress as he placed his hands against her temples, spreading his fingers and placing his thumbs beside the bridge of her nose. “I can guarantee you that we’re not going to lose touch. My mind to your mind. Stop thinking like that. My thoughts to your thoughts.”

  The tears flowed out of her again, pouring over his fingers and down her face in rivulets, filling the bed, submerging them both in seconds. Trip pulled her close as they sank into the warmth, his mouth coming to hers, his eyes seeing into her soul.

  However long it may be…I believe I’m going to miss you, she thought.

  And in her dreams, the tears and regret and happiness and love caused T’Pol no pain at all.

  Twenty-Eight

  Friday, February 21, 2155

  Rator II

  TRIP COULD SEE T’POL lying on the bed beside him, although he knew that her presence here was a physical impossibility. Even so, there she was, warm against his body, speaking with him, making love to him. It was obvious that she was no phantom image from some transient dream; she was every bit as tangible and real as he was.

  Then Trip felt something grab his shoulder.

  He awakened with a start to see a smiling Phuong standing over him. The visual effect was startling: a Vulcan—no, a Romulan—smiling. His heart racing, Trip sat up on the low sofa where he had evidently fallen asleep after Phuong had left.

  “You okay?” Phuong said, his smile folding into a look of concern.

  She was here with me, right in this room, Trip thought, still unable to relinquish the sense of reality the absurd dream-reality had carried with it. I know she was here.

  “I’m fine.”

  Phuong’s smile returned, and he patted Trip on the shoulder. “Well, I’m glad to see you decided to take my advice and get a little shut-eye while I was out scouting.”

  “Scouting?” Still unnerved by the sudden transition from deep sleep to bleary wakefulness, Trip rubbed at his aching eyes. “What…what did you find?”

  Phuong’s smile broadened into a triumphant grin. “Our way out of here. Once we collect Doctor Ehrehin, that is.”

  Trip rose from the sofa and paused momentarily to consider his partner’s ad hoc plan, or lack thereof. While h
e knew he could have done with a few more hours of sleep, there wasn’t much to be gained by waiting. They were, after all, among hostiles who might see through their disguises at any moment and then turn on them. And every passing hour might give Ch’uihv the opportunity he needed to break Ehrehin once and for all, and plunder the dangerous secrets he carried.

  Despite his unease about what lay ahead, Trip tried his best to match Phuong’s insouciant grin.

  “What are we waiting for?”

  “Have you come to get me out of here?” Ehrehin asked earnestly.

  After pausing to check the charge on the pistol he’d taken from one of the two unconscious guards in the corridor—Phuong had identified the weapon as a “disruptor”—Trip met the elderly scientist’s gaze squarely. “As a matter of fact—yes, we have.”

  Ehrehin beamed at him. After helping the old man out of his chair and onto his feet, Trip turned toward Phuong, who displayed a somewhat worried expression.

  “What’s wrong?” Trip asked as he carefully walked Ehrehin toward the chamber’s single door.

  “I’m afraid my surveillance jammers won’t last much longer,” Phuong said, his head tipped as he listened to electronic inputs from his clothing that only he could hear. “And if somebody opens the storage lockers down the corridor and finds those guards before we can get away…”

  Using the palm-sized electronic key he’d taken from one of the guards, Trip opened the door to the outer corridor while Ehrehin continued to lean on him. “Then let’s get a move on.”

  Per Phuong’s clever introduction of several specialized computer viruses into the facility’s systems, the corridor beyond the door suddenly plunged into near-total darkness, making it difficult for Trip to see Phuong as he led the way through a complex series of bends and turns that he had obviously committed carefully to memory a few hours earlier when he had reconned the building. Trip supported most of Ehrehin’s weight while continuously turning and dodging the various Ejhoi Ormiin personnel who hustled past them in all directions; fortunately, they were apparently confused and thus far utterly oblivious to the jailbreak that was occurring right under their noses.

  A seeming eternity later, Trip briefly leaned an exhausted Ehrehin against a wall while Phuong manually cranked open a door that led to yet another darkened chamber. Once the trio was inside, Trip inferred from the loud echoes of their footfalls that they had entered a vast, cavernous space.

  An underground hangar, he realized.

  “This way!” Phuong hissed, and led the way to a nearby shape that became clearly visible only after Phuong manually opened an exterior entry hatch, which automatically activated a set of dim interior lights. Trip saw that they were about to board a sleek yet battered-looking space vessel, a vaguely cylindrical craft equipped with twin outboard engine nacelles. The ship was positioned horizontally on several landing struts, and Trip estimated her to be about as large as the Branson, or about three times the size of one of Enterprise’s shuttlepods.

  Let’s hope those nacelles will make this bucket as fast as she looks, he thought as Phuong helped him walk Ehrehin toward the open gangway. Trip couldn’t help but notice that Phuong seemed imbued with renewed strength, as though he had redeemed himself for whatever mistakes he and Section 31 might have made earlier.

  A loud explosion to Trip’s left, accompanied by a bright shower of multicolored sparks and flame, shoved him unceremoniously to his knees. The blast would have sent Ehrehin sprawling had Phuong not caught and steadied him.

  “Stay where you are, all of you!” called a stern male voice behind Trip, who guessed it was coming from near the very same entrance that he, Phuong, and Ehrehin had just used. The vast hangar was immediately filled with the staccato reports of many loud, echoing footfalls, and the din swiftly surrounded them.

  Aw, crap, Trip thought.

  The hangar’s overhead lights came on, triggered by what Trip assumed was an emergency power circuit designed for occasions such as this. Though Trip’s eyes were momentarily dazzled by the brilliance, he could make out the ring of armed, uniformed figures deployed all around them. One of those figures stepped directly toward him, carrying a large black pistol in one hand.

  It was Ch’uihv. Or Sopek.

  Trip decided it didn’t much matter what the man chose to call himself.

  The former Vulcan ship captain came to a stop perhaps two meters away from Trip—close enough for Trip to catch the full brunt of the man’s angry, hostile glare.

  “I am very disappointed in you, Cunaehr. Some of my associates counseled me initially not to trust you, but I ignored them because of your relationship to the esteemed Doctor Ehrehin.” Ch’uihv paused to favor the old man with a respectful nod before fixing his angry glare again upon Trip. “But it is clear to me now that you are most likely either a spy for Admiral Valdore and the military, or an operative for one of the Romulan Star Empire’s intelligence services.”

  He raised his weapon and leveled it straight at Trip. Think fast, Tucker, he thought, struggling in vain to find the right words to buy at least a little more time before his assailant opened fire.

  “Cunaehr had absolutely nothing to do with this,” Phuong said in a loud, confident voice as he stepped directly between Ehrehin and Ch’uihv, his hands raised over his head. “This was entirely my doing, not his. I merely thought it prudent to bring Cunaehr along to calm Doctor Ehrehin should he become emotionally overwrought.”

  What the hell does he think he’s doing? Trip thought.

  A thoughtful look crossed Ch’uihv’s face, and he lowered his weapon momentarily. Then he took Trip’s weapon, walked past him, and stopped within a meter or so of Phuong, who had just dropped his own weapon onto the floor. Ch’uihv raised his weapon once again.

  And fired it point-blank at Phuong, who was instantly reduced to a pile of incinerated flesh and clothing. The sickening stench of immolated flesh filled the hangar, and Trip had to work hard to suppress his suddenly buoyant gorge. In the distance, he heard at least one of the armed guards retching. A fleeting hazy memory, now suddenly crystal clear, danced through his mind: the Adigeon surgeon warning him that this voyage into the Romulan Star Empire would probably be a strictly oneway affair.

  Ch’uihv stood almost directly over Phuong’s smoldering mortal remains. Strangely, Trip thought the look on his violence-hardened face strongly resembled pity. “Such a noble soul,” he said. “And such a filthy liar.” He raised his weapon again.

  This time, he pointed it directly at Trip’s head.

  Twenty-Nine

  Friday, February 21, 2155

  Enterprise NX-01

  STANDING ALONGSIDE CAPTAIN ARCHER, Phlox watched anxiously as T’Pol adjusted the power levels on the telepresence helmet yet again. Against his better judgment, the doctor had allowed Shran to be rewired to the device, but only after Shran, Theras, and T’Pol had all had six hours of desperately needed sleep.

  He still thought that the machine was likely to cause irreparable damage to Shran’s cerebral cortex, but the Andorian was adamant, and the device did seem to represent their one tangible hope of finding the kidnapped Aenar. However, Phlox’s current concerns were exacerbated by the unpleasant whine of the machine and the ugly burned-flesh-and-ozone smell that once again permeated his sickbay.

  Shran ground his teeth, his hands alternately and repeatedly flexing and extending, perhaps because the helmet restricted the unconscious, emotionally driven movements of his antennae. “I think…I sense something,” he said. “The ship that’s carrying Jhamel. It is in Romulan space.”

  T’Pol’s expression showed more concern than surprise. “Are you certain?”

  Tears rolled down Shran’s face from underneath the helmet, leaving indigo streaks against the backdrop of the Andorian’s sky-blue skin. “Yes. I…recognize some of the constellations.”

  Archer and T’Pol exchanged determined glances.

  Suddenly, Shran’s expression took on a look of fear. “Jhamel! I’m…lo
sing her. Something is wrong with her!” His vision blocked by the helmet, he pointed in T’Pol’s general direction, his arm shaking violently. “Turn up the gain!”

  Phlox studied the readings on his scanner. “You are already experiencing severe nerve and cellular damage, Shran. Any more power, and you will be unable to physically function.”

  “Do it!” Shran shrieked, his body convulsing. “I’m losing her!”

  T’Pol looked at the console, then back at Shran, apparently considering the warrior’s plea. Her hand hovered over the control for an instant that seemed to stretch into minutes, then pushed down on the cutoff control.

  Phlox was glad that things hadn’t gone as far as they had the first time, and immediately began scanning Shran for further damage.

  The Andorian slumped forward in his chair, still twitching violently. Phlox and Archer moved to hold him up, as T’Pol unlatched the telepresence helmet from his head.

  “Why didn’t you turn the gain up higher?” Shran asked, his anger-laced voice barely more than a whispery rasp.

  “Because you cannot save Jhamel if you are in a vegetative state, or dead,” T’Pol said.

  “Can you tell us the heading of the vessel she’s on?” Archer asked.

  “If I can see some star charts,” Shran said, his breathing labored. “I’ve traveled a bit more than most Imperial Guardsmen.”

  “You need to be treated first,” Phlox said. He didn’t like some of the readings his scans were showing, but with some medicinal cocktails, he felt that the Andorian might be restored to his usual strong and aggressive state.

  “Help me get him to the bed,” Phlox said, gesturing toward one of the medical bays.

  As the quartet transported Shran to the bed—Theras taking his feet and following the lead of the others—the wall-mounted com unit let out a loud whistle.