Hemnask furrowed her brow in puzzlement. “I thought it was Admiral Archer who recovered Surak’s writings only a few years ago.”
“The Kir’Shara, yes. What my husband translated were the Analects—secondhand or reconstructed accounts of Surak’s original teachings.”
“I see. And has Skon undertaken a translation of the Kir’Shara yet?”
“He has plans to do so, as his teaching career permits.”
“I look forward to reading it,” Archer said. “I’ve read the computer translation, but it’s missing something.”
“Indeed. At any rate, Skon’s duties precluded him from assisting Solkar in this concluding achievement to his career, so I undertook the task. I have considered entering the diplomatic field myself, once our child is old enough not to need constant care.”
Hemnask frowned. “If your child isn’t old enough yet, then why leave them now?”
“I have not.” She placed a hand on her belly. “He is in my care at every moment.”
The Zami woman stared, then broke into a radiant grin. “I . . . Congratulations! I had no idea. What a blessing this is!”
“Yes, congratulations,” Archer said, trying to keep his tone subdued so as not to embarrass the Vulcan woman with an emotional outburst. “How . . . if it’s not rude to ask, how far along are you?”
“Far along . . .? Ahh, yes. Approximately one Terran month, or one-thirteenth of the gestation period.”
“And he’s already begun his glorious diplomatic career,” Hemnask joked. Then she looked at T’Rama more seriously. “I envy you. The way you’ve managed to balance your professional duties with your family obligations.”
“It has not been completely effortless,” T’Rama conceded. “But Vulcan kinship structures and traditions have evolved over the millennia to provide an orderly framework for managing such responsibilities. My former employer T’Pau is also a member of Solkar and Skon’s clan. Thus, my transition to a new career is facilitated, and my requirements as an expectant parent are accommodated.”
“All very logical,” Archer said.
“Thank you.”
Hemnask shook her head, impressed. “If only it were so easy for the rest of us. My people, the Zami . . . we place great importance on our family bonds, and on the obligations that come with them. Perhaps that is why we have retained our cultural distinctiveness after so many centuries living among other Rigelians. Yet I have often found it . . . difficult to reconcile my duties to the Rigelian people with my duties to my family.”
“Perhaps because your people encompass so many cultures,” T’Rama replied. “It is possible Vulcans may face similar dilemmas in the future as members of the Federation.” She threw a look at Kamenev and the other Planetarist-leaning delegates. “Certainly there are already challenges in finding common ground. Yet Surak taught that diversity in combination can be a source of great dynamism and progress. Even through our conflicts, we can learn and grow stronger.” She quirked a brow at Archer. “One hopes.”
Hemnask laughed, and T’Rama seemed surprisingly untroubled by the response. Archer found her atypically laid back for a Vulcan; he wondered if it was something hormonal, or if she was always like this.
At any rate, Hemnask was right: the Vulcan woman’s seeming ability to balance family and career was impressive. Archer found himself thinking back to his earlier conversation with Dani Erickson. Was he using his career as an excuse to avoid personal entanglements? Margaret Mullin had dumped him all those years ago out of fear of becoming a “Starfleet widow.” Had he taken her fear to heart and made it a self-fulfilling prophecy? If a Vulcan could be a wife, daughter-in-law, expectant mother, and diplomat without seeing a conflict, why wasn’t Archer even dating anyone? True, he believed he had a mission, even a calling, to ensure that the Federation achieved the future he knew it could have, and to defeat the forces that sought to deny that future. But did the future need his attention around the clock, every day? Was there no room for his own needs in the present?
It was particularly hard to ignore such thoughts as he watched Sedra Hemnask laugh, tossing back her mass of golden-brown hair to expose a delicately pointed ear which, combined with her delicate features and large green eyes, gave her an elfin beauty. And when those eyes met with his and her smile widened, he found himself wanting to forget about the future for a while.
6
June 17, 2164
Rigelian Trade Commission secure facility, Mount Halanar, Rigel V
STUDYING IN the RTC’s secure archive wasn’t turning out to be quite the historical mother lode Samuel Kirk had expected. For security reasons, the Commission forbade recording or communication devices within the archive—a massive vault carved deep within a mountain on Rigel V’s southernmost continent—and live guards were a constant presence to ensure nobody tried to sneak out with a historical relic. Ensign Grev hadn’t even been allowed to bring in a text translator unit; he had to rely on his own weeklong study of older Rigelian dialects, and on the assistance of an elderly Zami interpreter who worked for the archive. Kirk was only allowed to take handwritten notes about the documents that he and Grev observed. True, it was a privilege to have access to them at all, but it was frustrating that he wouldn’t be able to provide primary-source support for his account.
Moreover, they weren’t even granted full access to the archive. One particularly heavy-looking (and heavily guarded) door had attracted Kirk’s interest, but his guide, Assistant Director Vons, had made it clear that his invitation to the historian did not include access to that part of the facility. “Those are more recent secure records,” the Jelna board member had explained. “Matters where confidentiality is still important to maintain.”
Grev, as usual, took an understanding tone, suggesting that greater access might come once Rigel and the Federation had formed closer ties. But Kirk was starting to think the Rigelians’ love of secrecy might hamper their participation in a society as open as the Federation.
During a lull in their work, while Vons went off to take a call and the archive interpreter worked to retrieve some ancient settlement accord from the darkest corners of the stacks, Kirk noticed Grev staring at him inquisitively. “What?” he asked the chubby young Tellarite.
“So?” the communications officer asked. “You and Val. How’s that going?”
Kirk’s gaze reflexively darted toward Crewman Mishima, the security guard that Williams had assigned to accompany them. Mercifully, the tall, gray-shirted man seemed engrossed in a staring contest with the archive guards who stood watch over them, one a massive Chelon and the other a wiry but muscular man of Coridanite ancestry. “What do you mean?” he asked softly, hoping Grev would get the hint.
He did; the young Tellarite leaned forward, elbows on the table, and continued in a more conspiratorial tone. “I mean, have you thought about asking her to dinner?” Kirk stared, but Grev just smiled. “It’s not that hard to see you like her, Sam. And she likes you!”
Kirk fidgeted. “As a friend, sure.”
“Friendship can be the start of a lot of things.”
“Or it can be the end of them. I’m not the kind of man Val looks at in that way.”
“Maybe you just haven’t given her a reason to yet.”
Kirk threw the young ensign a glare, annoyed at his attempt to stir up false hope. “Come on, Grev. Even if she were interested, you know where Captain Reed stands on fraternization.”
“He’s been mellowing. And you’re not a bridge officer like Rey. It’s not likely an armory officer and a historian would be part of the same chain of command. Maybe it’d be okay.”
“Maybe.” He shook his head and scoffed. “As if it wouldn’t be enough of an uphill battle just getting Val’s attention.”
“Fortune favors the bold, my friend.”
“Yeah, and that’s why I’m a lowly ship’s historian. Boldness is Val’s specialty.”
“You wouldn’t be in Starfleet if you didn’t crave challenges.”
>
Kirk threw him an irritated look. “Are you really interested in this, or are you just being Tellarite and looking for an excuse to argue?”
“Who says it can’t be both?” Grev replied with aggravating good cheer.
Before Kirk could reply, a muffled thumping sound came from some other part of the stacks. “What’s that?” Mishima asked, suddenly on the alert.
“I’ll check it out,” the Coridanite guard said. “Stay here.” Kirk noticed they left the bigger, more dangerous guard to keep watch on him and Grev. Chelons weren’t very flexible or fast-moving, but he understood that they could secrete a highly lethal contact toxin from their skins if provoked. Not that he would’ve wanted to provoke this one anyway.
“Ooh, I hope Mister Vons didn’t knock over something valuable,” Grev said. “He’s just shifty enough to pin the blame on us.”
“What makes you think he’s shifty?” Kirk asked.
“There’s just something off about his body language,” Grev said, leaning forward and whispering again. “Like he’s trying too hard not to seem like he’s trying to hide something.” Kirk just stared, trying to parse that, and Grev shrugged. “I notice these things.”
A scuffling sound came from beyond the stacks, followed by a more resounding thump. “Tastra!” the Chelon called, her beak clicking in concern. “Tastra, respond!” When no response came, she heaved her formidable bulk forward. “Wait here,” she told the Pioneer personnel.
“We should stick together,” Mishima said. Kirk and Grev rose from the table, moving toward him.
“Do as you will,” the Chelon replied. “I need to see to the vault.” Kirk realized the sounds were coming from the direction of the heavy vault door.
The Chelon led the way, Mishima behind her, and the other two stayed safely in the rear. When they arrived at the vault, all seemed normal. A contingent of four armed guards flanked the vault door, and Vons stood alone nearby. But someone was missing. “Where is Tastra?” the Chelon asked.
Vons looked unconcerned. “Isn’t he with you?”
“He came this way moments ago. There were noises.”
“Ahh, yes,” Vons said, smiling. “We did our best, but some noises are unavoidable.”
Suddenly the Chelon convulsed and clutched her throat—and Kirk realized there was a very large knife stuck in it. He thought he saw a glimpse of motion by Mishima, but by the time he turned his head, he only saw the crewman—falling to the floor with a knife in his upper chest, his phase pistol only half-drawn. Kirk and Grev recoiled in horror. Kirk sensed more movement around him—a faint shuffling step, a puff of moving air, a shadow in the corner of his eye—but he could see nothing but the archive stacks.
“I advise you not to run,” Vons told them in a bored tone. “Let me show you why.”
The Jelna clicked his tongue several times, and the scene changed. Kirk blinked in confusion, seeing the chamber anew as if he had just woken from a dream. He and Grev were surrounded by several large Zami armed with knives and guns—and by something else. By Vons’s feet were two large, six-legged lizards, maybe a meter eighty from snout to tail tip and a third of that in height. Their swaybacked pink bodies, frilled necks, prominent overbites, and upturned mouths gave them a comical, Seussian appearance—in striking contrast to the horror of the scene surrounding them, where not only Mishima and the Chelon but Tastra and the four vault guards lay bleeding out on the floor. One of the lizards blinked its yellow eyes at him lazily, as unconcerned by the carnage as Vons himself.
“What . . . what’s going on here?” Grev demanded, trying and failing to put steel in his soft tenor voice.
“Oh, don’t worry, you won’t be joining them,” the assistant director replied as he moved toward the vault. “We require your services—or will once we obtain what we’re here for.” He placed his hand on the vault’s biometric interface, then let it scan his irises and repeated a code phrase to verify his voiceprint. Then one of the Zami assassins placed Tastra’s hand on a scanner at the guard station. For a moment, nothing happened, but then the vault door unlocked and began to swing open. “That’s a relief,” Vons said. “Just enough of a pulse left. For a moment there, Damreg, I thought you’d miscalculated how long he’d take to die.”
“We know our business,” the fair-haired, pointed-eared assassin said, letting Tastra fall hard to the floor. Kirk turned away before he hit.
Vons led two of the assassins into the vault while the others kept watch over Kirk and Grev. Finally the criminals emerged carrying what looked to Kirk like some kind of computer servers, boxy hexagonal units just small enough to be tucked under an arm and adorned on one edge with indicator lights, most of which were dormant. “What are those?” Kirk asked.
“Be patient, Mister Kirk, you’ll find out. We could use your help breaking the encryption on their contents. Well, mainly Mister Grev’s help, but your own skills could prove useful in evaluating what he decrypts.”
“And what makes you think I’d help you?” Grev insisted, crossing his arms.
“Well, how about this?” Vons gestured to a darker-haired assassin with rounder ears than the rest, and suddenly Kirk was in the Zami’s grip with a knife edge tickling his throat. “I said he could prove useful, but I was being polite. Mainly he’s a hostage for your cooperation. Do we have an understanding?”
Kirk rallied his courage. Whatever was in those servers was important enough to warrant extensive security—and important enough to kill for. It couldn’t be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. “Don’t help them on my account, Grev!”
“Noble words, Mister Kirk, but think it through. If he refuses to cooperate, we’ll have to kill you both anyway. That would make the decryption somewhat more challenging for us, but really, what choice would we have?”
But Grev was already looking at Kirk with concern and apology. “I’m sorry, Sam. I can’t let them hurt you.” He sighed. “I’ll go with you, but you have to let him go.”
Vons looked annoyed. “You really don’t grasp the situation, do you? I don’t ‘have’ to do anything. I’m the one with all the power here. Which means you have to do what I say you have to do.” He shook his head. “Honestly, why am I trying to convince you? You’re both coming anyway, because that’s the plan.”
He turned to Damreg. “Is the relay in place?”
The assassin checked an interface device in his hand. “Online and ready.”
Vons nodded. “Place the charges.”
The other assassins removed small packs of what looked like plastic explosive from their belt pouches, positioning them strategically. Kirk reflexively started to protest, horrified by the imminent loss to history, but the knife against his throat reminded him of a more pressing set of priorities. He cursed himself for his helplessness; no doubt Val would’ve known several dozen moves for disarming the assassin and getting the drop on the others.
Once the charges were set, Vons ordered their activation. Grev stared in dismay at the Rigelian numerals counting down on the detonators. “But . . . but that doesn’t give us enough time to get out!”
Vons gestured theatrically to Damreg, who began pressing buttons on his interface device. “Except.”
He didn’t need to continue the sentence; the tingling sensation that engulfed Kirk’s body a moment later spoke volumes. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping that whatever transporter technology his abductors were using was more reliable than the Federation kind. . . .
June 18, 2164
U.S.S. Endeavour, orbiting Babel
“Apparently Crewman Mishima lived long enough to disarm one of the explosive devices,” Malcolm Reed reported from the bridge’s main viewer, a mix of pride and anger leavening his disciplined voice. “It didn’t save him, but it reduced the blast damage just enough to let us recover some of the evidence they were hoping to obliterate. We’ve been able to determine that most of the attackers were Zami Rigelians, and that they had help from Assistant Director Vons, who has now disappeared.” He
took a breath. “Moreover, we’ve verified that there are no remains from Ensign Grev and Lieutenant Kirk. Apparently they’ve been abducted, though we’re not sure why.”
The bridge personnel around Archer showed relief. But Archer’s eyes were on Sedra Hemnask, who was here along with Ambassador Jahlet to hear Reed’s report, as it concerned their system. He thought he caught a hint of realization in her expression. “Director?” he prompted. “If there’s something you want to tell us about what was stolen from that vault . . .”
“What they took . . . were potentially the most valuable and most destructive things in our possession,” she replied softly.
“Some kind of weapon?” Captain T’Pol asked from her command chair.
Hemnask gave a faint chuckle. “In a sense—though the Trade Commission’s most potent weapons have never involved physical force. No, our power comes from the secrets we hold.” She shook her head. “Or so I thought. It seems Rehlen Vons had deeper secrets than I imagined. That he would do this to us . . . betray us to the First Families. . . . What hold could they have over him?”
“Director, please,” T’Pol went on. “In hostage situations, time is of the essence.”
Hemnask shook herself. “Yes, of course. Let me explain.” She took another moment to gather her thoughts. “We hear what your delegates say about our system,” she said. “That the Trade Commission does not pay attention to the misdeeds of our business partners, that we allow them to get away with all things. The truth is . . . we take note of everything. Every action they take, every crime they commit, every violation and exploitation we can document. We see it all, and we remember it all. And that is our weapon.”
After a moment, Takashi Kimura spoke from the tactical station. “It sounds like you’re talking about blackmail.”
“We see it as . . . leverage,” Hemnask told him. “We must balance our commitment to the self-determination of Rigel’s worlds and communities with the stability of Rigel as a whole. And so we watch. Normally watching is all we do. But if someone threatens an act that could destabilize the system, then we let them know what we have seen . . . and we encourage them to be more cooperative, lest certain uncomfortable truths come to light.
Star Trek: Enterprise - 016 - Rise of the Federation: Tower of Babel Page 11