Then he fled, taking the rebels with him.
To deepen the outrage, Archer did not even perform the courtesy of destroying Duras and the Bortas. Instead, the Klingon captain was forced to return in failure to his chancellor.
Duras hoped for death; such grace was not permitted him. Instead, he was demoted to second weapons officer, and sent to the underbelly of space. His kin was shamed, and no longer spoke his name.
They had managed to capture Archer, and bring him before a tribunal on the outpost Narendra III. Duras had appeared and engaged the empires best prosecutor, Orak. Confident of victory, confident that his position as captain would be restored, Duras had watched the trial—only to be aghast when an all-too-lenient sentence was handed down. Archer was sentenced to labor in the dilithium mines on the ice world, Rura Penthe—but once again, human treachery intervened.
Archer escaped, and Duras was left to remain a lowly weapons officer.
Now, standing on the dais before the High Council, a muscle in Duras’s left jaw spasmed, the only outward sign of the hatred that consumed him. He lived only to redeem his house; he lived only to kill Archer.
A Council member spoke, his tone dripping with condescension. “You had a simple mission, Duras: locate the rebels Archer was harboring and return them to the empire. But you failed. Archer made a fool of you!”
Duras permitted himself no reply; the words that sprang to his firmly compressed lips would have cost him his life.
At last, the chancellor uttered the words Duras had long yearned to hear.
“We are offering you a chance to regain your command, and your honor.”
So; the decision had been made in his favor. Duras let go a long breath of pure satisfaction.
“I will not fail!” he swore to the chancellor.
In his mind’s eye, he saw the Enterprise, charred and floating, dead in space.
Aboard the Enterprise, Chief Engineer Charles “Trip” Tucker entered the conference room and immediately knew something was wrong, very wrong.
Even before he received the summons to the conference room, the ship had slowed to impulse—which probably meant communications were coming in from Earth. He’d thought nothing of it, had assumed it meant a new mission, some new chore they’d thought up at HQ. He’d been in engineering running maintenance on the warp drive, and for some odd reason thinking of Lizzie.
Remembering times from long ago: thirteen-year-old Lizzie. Trip had been almost seventeen then, and he had caught her kissing a kid two years older than she was, a skinny sophomore who he knew from the local high school—what was his name? Carlo something. He was a whiz at botany, that kid; he had actually been in the same class with Trip and the other seniors.
Carlo, all elbows and knees, and Trip had flipped his lid when he found skinny Carlo in a liplock with his little sister behind the movie theater.
Hey, he’d yelled, as he grabbed the kid by the shoulder and pulled the two lovebirds apart. Why don’t you go pick on someone your own age?
Lizzie’d been furious. Hey, leave him alone, Trip.
Get out of here! Trip had shouted, ignoring his sister, and Carlo obeyed, taking flight.
He and Lizzie had fought like the dickens then—he wasn’t sure who was madder at whom, but all of his protective big-brother instincts had come to the fore that day.
Tucker grinned at the memory. Funny, how back then two years had made poor frightened Carlo seem like a sophisticated man of the world, out to take advantage of his baby sister. Of course, knowing Lizzie, it was hard to say who was taking advantage of whom. Lizzie had always insisted she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Didn’t Trip trust her?
Trip trusted her, all right; no one had a sounder head on her shoulders than Lizzie. It was the guys he had the problem with. Being a guy himself, he knew they were up to no good.
Tucker’s reverie had been interrupted then, when a call came, asking him to report to the conference room immediately.
Trip entered and found the Vulcan Science Officer T’Pol, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, Doctor Phlox, Hoshi, and Mayweather, all standing around the table.
Standing, not sitting and talking casually. The expressions—save for T’Pol’s, of course, which was always blandly passive—were all grim. Something major was up, and it wasn’t good.
“What’s going on?” Trip asked.
“The Captain wants to talk to us,” Reed said somberly. His British accent seemed even more pronounced than usual—as it often did when he was worried or tense about something, a fact Trip had learned over the course of their friendship.
“About what?”
The linguist and communications officer, Hoshi Sato, was petite and delicate-boned, her long dark hair pulled back at the nape of her neck. Her brow was frankly furrowed with concern. Travis wasn’t surprised; she’d always been a bit of a worry-wart, although after logging some experience aboard Enterprise, she’d learned to loosen up quite a bit. “He’s speaking to Admiral Forrest ... it’s about the third time in the last hour.”
“Something’s obviously up,” Trip said.
Even Doctor Phlox’s normally cheery demeanor had vanished. “I can’t remember the last time he asked me to join the senior staff for a briefing,” the Denobulan said, clearly perplexed. His brow, too, was lined ... and edged with small skeletal ridges, all the way around the orbital socket. A receding hairline made them all the more noticeable—at least, in Trip’s opinion.
“Maybe it has something to do with—” Reed began, but broke off at once as Archer walked into the room. He had a decade and a few inches in height on Trip, but was still lean and fit, younger-looking than his forty-odd years.
Everyone turned toward him.
Trip knew at once that someone had died. More than one person, in fact; many more.
Archer’s expression was beyond grim; it was the face of a man trying to digest something which could not be comprehended. It was the face of a man overwhelmed by the news he was about to relay. Trip thought at once of his mother’s expression, at the instant she had been forced to tell Trip’s dad that his brother had been killed.
“There’s been an attack on Earth,” Archer said, his voice hoarse, nearly a whisper. He was looking directly at his staff, yet at the same time seemed to be staring at a distant point far beyond them, at a sight too horrific for words. The Captain paused for a long moment, as though he could not find further words to explain what had happened.
Trip heard the surprised gasps around him, but he could focus on no one other than Archer. “What do you mean, attack?” he demanded. At the same instant he asked the question, he felt an odd pricking sensation on the back of his neck, an odd instinct that he was about to hear news that would strike at him personally.
The Captain was clearly struggling not to be stunned himself by the news he relayed. “A probe ... They don’t know where it came from. It fired a weapon that cut a swath ... four thousand meters long ... from Florida to Venezuela.” He drew in a breath, then added, “There may have been a million casualties.”
The word Florida pierced Trip like a dagger; he could not keep his jaw from dropping. “A million?” he heard Reed reiterate in disbelief. Lizzie, he thought, and the image of her kissing fifteen-year-old Carlo, her blond hair falling forward onto the boy’s shoulders, surfaced again in his mind. No, of course she’s okay, don’t even think about it. There are millions and millions of people in Florida; chances are she’s okay. Of course she’s okay.
He had to force himself to follow the rest of the conversation. It was difficult; numbness started to creep over him.
“We’ve been recalled,” Archer continued.
“Did they say why?” The words came out of Trip without his thinking about them; his mind was still repeating the mantra, She’s okay ...
Yet he knew, with dreadful, inexplicable certainty, that she was not.
“I didn’t ask.”
Ensign Travis Mayweather, the helmsman and one of the yo
ungest members of the crew—but the one with the most hours logged in space—spoke up. “It’ll take a while to get back, sir.”
A voice filtered through the companel. Trip was too dazed even to recognize it. “Bridge to Captain Archer.”
Archer tapped the companel. “Go ahead.”
“It’s Admiral Forrest.”
“Understood.” Archer turned and headed for the door. As he moved, he glanced over his shoulder back at Mayweather. “Set a course, Travis. Warp five.”
He left behind a silent crew.
Inside the ready room, Jonathan Archer stood, arms folded tightly across his chest as if he could somehow hold in the emotions warring within him, and stared out the window at the stars streaming past. Normally, the sight never failed to thrill him—warp speed, achieved at last—but now he saw nothing but Admiral Forrest’s lined face, pale against the dark blue-black of his uniform, as he tried to describe the destruction.
The land, the sea, scorched and gouged beyond recognition; ugly craters miles deep. The devastation was so vast, so complete, that it was impossible to know the full extent yet.
And if there can be one attack, Archer knew, there can be many. Perhaps this is only the first.
It would be a hell of thing if humanity finally managed to avoid destroying itself, only to be destroyed by another species. It wouldn’t be fair. Just as we were finding our way ...
His father, Henry Archer, had devoted his entire career to building a ship that would house Zefram Cochrane’s warp drive. Enterprise was Henry’s baby; he had waited a lifetime to see it launch ... only to be disappointed. The Vulcans had claimed humans weren’t “ready,” weren’t “mature” enough to interact safely with other species. They had delayed the launch. ... until finally, the son, Jonathan Archer, now her captain, had insisted that Enterprise be allowed into space.
By that time, his dad had already died. But the way he saw it, Jon figured he owed it—to his dad, to the human race, to make sure Enterprise did what she had been designed to do.
Now everything—the mission, Earth itself—was in jeopardy.
Archer’s door chimed. Without turning from the window, he called, “Come in.”
He heard the footsteps, heard Trip Tucker’s Southern-accented tenor behind him.
“Excuse me, Captain ...”
“Trip,” he said, still without turning.
“When you spoke to Admiral Forrest ...”
“Yes?” The stars were still streaming dizzyingly past. Archer wondered if, after their return to Earth, he would ever be able to see them at warp speed again. If there was an even larger attack against Earth, the Enterprise might need to be used in combat against alien vessels.
“Did he say what part of Florida was hit?” Tucker pressed.
Archer was still too caught up in his own thoughts to register the personal import of Trip’s question. “No, I’m sorry.”
“She may have been away.” There was a catch in Tucker’s voice; he was struggling. “Architects take a lot of trips ...”
Archer at last heard the undercurrent of pain in his engineers voice. He pulled himself from his reverie and turned to face Trip.
How could he, Archer, have been so thoughtless? Of course; Tucker’s family was from Florida, and from Trip’s brotherly tone, Archer guessed they were talking about a sibling. “Older or younger?” he asked—with just enough concern. Too much would make it harder for Trip to maintain his composure.
“She’s my baby sister,” Trip said. His golden hair was disheveled, as though he had been running his hands anxiously through it.
The words came like a blow. For his friend’s sake, Archer did not allow his expression to change; he merely listened as Trip continued.
“When we were in school, I made sure all the boys in her class got a good look at me ... None of them ever messed with her.” He barely managed to finish without choking up.
Archer did not quite smile at the words; he imagined Trip, something of a hell raiser himself, must have made quite a formidable big brother. “Maybe she was away on a trip,” he said firmly, insistently, echoing Tucker’s hope.
For a time, neither spoke; it was clear Trip didn’t believe it.
The engineer lowered his face, got control of himself again, then looked squarely back at Archer. “Anything you can tell me about what the admiral said?” He squared his shoulders, clearly steeling himself for the response.
For the most fleeting instant, Archer considered not revealing everything—but he put himself in Tucker’s place. If it were his relative, he would want to know the truth. Reluctantly, he said, “The number of casualties has been revised ...” He drew a breath. “It’s up to three million.”
Grief and fury flickered across Tucker’s face. “Why would someone do this ... ?”
There was no answer; Archer did not try to give one. The door chimed again. “Come in,” he said.
T’Pol entered. Amazing, Archer thought, that while the Vulcan’s face showed no obvious emotion, her movements, voice, and even posture managed to convey compassion toward her stricken crewmates. She seemed to sense at once that Trip was experiencing some difficulty; therefore, her attitude was deferential, as if she realized she was interrupting an emotional moment. Careful to leave Tucker plenty of physical space, she said quietly to the Captain, “I spoke with Ambassador Soval ...”
“And?” Archer asked.
“A Vulcan transport located the pod in Central Asia. They retrieved it and brought it to Starfleet Headquarters.”
Tucker listened with ferocious interest.
Archer at once moved away from the window and stepped up to the Vulcan. “What do they know?”
“Very little,” T’Pol replied. “There was a pilot ... killed on impact.”
“Who the hell was he?” Trip demanded, his tone ragged, verging on the desperate. “What species?”
T’Pol’s calm demeanor was a stark contrast. “They don’t know.”
“Did they say anything about what part of Florida?”
T’Pol lifted her eyebrows curiously at the engineer. “No.”
Archer explained. “Trip’s sister lives in Florida.”
T’Pol nodded, understanding. Archer silently blessed her for not bringing up the fact that a Vulcan would not be emotionally overwhelmed by the possible loss of a family member.
The com beeped; Archer was tempted to groan. Whatever it was, it could not be good news. He pressed the companel. “Archer.”
Reed’s voice filtered through the panel. “Three Suliban vessels just showed up ... one off starboard, two dorsal.”
Even worse news than expected. He’d at least expected to make it home to Earth. Now they were forced to deal with the Suliban, warriors from the future renowned for their deceit, interested only in manipulating the flow of time to their own advantage. They had tried to kill Archer before; whatever they wanted now, it wasn’t good.
“Just what we need,” Archer muttered, then said, more loudly, to Reed: “Tactical Alert.”
As the klaxons blared, the Captain and his two officers headed for the bridge.
Chapter 3
Accompanied by T’Pol and Tucker, Archer stepped onto the dimly lit bridge to see a large Suliban vessel, flanked by two smaller cell ships, on the viewscreen. Hoshi, Reed, and Mayweather were at their stations as the Captain took his chair.
“Hail them,” Archer ordered.
Hoshi complied, working her console; after a pause, she turned toward Archer. “They’re not responding.”
“Try again,” Archer said.
In the instant he spoke, he caught movement in his peripheral vision—swift and spiderlike flashes of red. One moved toward him from the side, two overhead.
The Suliban, Archer thought, just before the bridge went utterly dark ... then vanished completely.
* * *
The lights flickered, then came back on.
It was Malcolm Reed who noticed first that Archer’s chair was empty; he ca
lled out to the others.
“The Captain!”
Archer found himself standing in a small, dimly lit chamber; he had no doubt that he was now aboard the largest of the Suliban vessels, transported there instantaneously courtesy of future technology.
He had hardly time to draw in a breath and orient himself before Silik entered, flanked by two Suliban warriors.
Archer was not surprised; this was not his first encounter with Silik—a high-ranking officer in the Suliban Cabal, a mysterious organization from the twenty-second century, fighting in what he referred to as the Temporal Cold War.
Of all the aliens Archer had encountered, Silik still impressed him as the most exotic-looking. Though his body and features were clearly humanoid, he was entirely hairless, and his skin was a deep shade of olive green, stippled with rust. His eyes were bright, clear orange; combined with his red uniform, it made him an unsettlingly colorful creature.
It was hard to know, however, just how much of that coloration was natural for a Suliban; Silik bragged about his genetic enhancements, which he earned—or lost—depending on his performance as a soldier. He had little love for Archer, who had once cost him his visual enhancements.
Silik spoke immediately after entering, without explanation or greeting. “There’s someone who needs to speak with you.” He spoke in an elegant, rich bass. Natural or an enhancement? Archer wondered. He was lean and fluid in his movements, naturally graceful, and velvety in manner.
Archer looked on him with hatred. It could not be an accident that Silik had chosen to appear now, after the devastation on Earth; clearly, the two were connected. It was easy to envision a scenario where the temporal warrior had decided to conveniently remove certain humans who might one day in the future cause trouble for the Suliban. “I knew you had something to do with this.”
Silik’s expression was perpetually bland; either he was a master of self-control, or members of his race were not given to showing emotion using their facial muscles. “Do with what?” Impossible to tell whether he was lying—though the Captain had come to learn that most of the time, Silik was.
STAR TREK: Enterprise - The Expanse Page 2