Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War: Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Star Trek : Enterprise)

by Michael A. Martin

  Just as he couldn’t remember ever having awakened here entirely alone except for the woman who called herself Ych’a sitting at his side, practically hovering over him.

  “Terix,” she said. “I’m glad to see you are awake again.”

  Terix.

  They kept telling him that was his name. It sounded familiar in his ears, yet somehow alien, at least in contrast to many of the other names he’d heard spoken on this ship since his arrival here. Terix. Whether it belonged to him or not, it was a name, probably as good as any other, and it gave him something positive to hang on to.

  “Terix,” he said, sitting up in the infirmary bed.

  She fixed him with a knowing gaze. “It sounds strange to you,” she said, not asking a question, “when I speak your name.”

  For such a stoic woman, he found her perspicacity very surprising. “Yes. Yes, it does.” He frowned. “But why should that be?”

  “That is because, strictly speaking, it isn’t really your name.”

  His feeling of surprise leveled out, transforming into a deep wariness. “That isn’t what you told me before.”

  “That is because I could not afford to reveal the whole truth to you until I could do so in private. Since no patients require treatment presently, Doctor Sivath and her staff are occupied elsewhere. Therefore, this is my first opportunity to be fully candid with you.”

  He vaguely recalled someone telling him that Vulcans never lied. That notion grappled in the depths of his hindbrain with a lingering sense of distrust.

  “All right,” he said, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His bare feet were touching the cold floor, but he remained seated, dressed in a loose-fitting infirmary gown and a single tangled blanket. “Go ahead and be candid.”

  She nodded. After a pause to look over her shoulder, apparently to assure their continued privacy, she met his stare head-on and said, “Although you have been operating as Terix of Romulus for the last fourteen years, your real name is Tevik of Vulcan.”

  “Operating?”

  “You have been carrying out a long-term deep-cover assignment on Romulus for the V’Shar, Vulcan’s principal intelligence agency.”

  He ran his fingertips over the prominent ridge that crossed his brow and subtly jutted over his eyes. “ I am a Vulcan and not a Romulan?”

  She nodded. “That is correct. Your Romulan appearance is the result of cosmetic surgery. It is easy enough to verify, should you require proof.”

  He also supposed it would be equally easy for Ych’a to rig a medical scanner so that it would support whatever “facts” she wished him to believe.

  A people who cannot lie, yet they have a spy bureau, he thought as he began to perceive just how difficult it was to know how far he ought to extend his trust.

  Finally he decided to accept Ych’a at face value, at least until and unless she gave him a good reason to withdraw that acceptance.

  “That won’t be necessary,” he said at length. “But I do have some questions.”

  “Undoubtedly,” she said.

  “I feel... intensely conflicted emotions. I thought Vulcans were not subject to such things.”

  “Vulcans experience essentially the same emotions as do other humanoid species. We have developed many psychological and physiological mechanisms to control and suppress them, however.”

  He thought he was beginning to understand. “But Romulans have not.”

  “Correct. And many of your emotional suppression systems have been medically modified, just as both your external appearance and your memory engrams have been altered.”

  Memory? This was all going to take some time to sort out, let alone accept. “To enable me to pass among Romulans as Terix?” he said.

  “Yes. Some of your emotional dysfunction may also stem from the same recent head injuries that have at least temporarily prevented you from accessing many years of your memories.”

  He felt his eyes narrow involuntarily. “My own Vulcan memories? Or memory engrams prepared for me by this... V’Shar intelligence bureau?”

  “At present, you appear to be unable to access either set of memories to any significant extent. Doctor Sivath believes this may be the result of the action of a built-in Vulcan neurological defense mechanism.”

  “Defense mechanism,” he said, trying to match the flatness of her affect despite the spiral of confusion he felt rising within his breast.

  “Your mind needs to determine which of the two conflicting identities locked in your brain’s memory engrams is genuine: that of Tevik of Vulcan or that of Terix of Romulus.

  “Once your mind resolves that conflict, your brain should respond by bringing the appropriate memories—and identity—to the surface almost immediately. Disconnected fragments of your artificial memory engrams may linger for some time thereafter, until they are finally subsumed and overwritten by the genuine ones.”

  The prospect of laying his last lingering doubts to rest was an attractive one indeed. “How can this be this done?” he asked.

  She closed the distance between them until they were almost nose to nose. Her hands, fingers extended almost like claws, extended toward his face. He tried not to flinch or display any fear as her fingertips made contact with his temples. The effect was jolting, like a mild electric shock.

  “Therapeutic mind-melds, conducted in a series,” she said. The feeling of electricity briefly intensified before it began giving way to a rising wave of euphoria.

  “My mind to your mind,” Ych’a said.

  The wave rose further still until it engulfed him, crashed over him, and carried him away.

  SEVENTEEN

  Jupiter Station

  GANNET BROOKS CURSED QUIETLY after the transport vessel’s captain had announced the unscheduled one-day layover at Jupiter Station, a development that she’d assumed had something to do with the ominous vibrations and noises she’d noticed right around the time the ship had passed the large, nearly round minor planet Vesta.

  But that was only the bad news, and it wasn’t altogether bad at that. After all, Brooks now had an opportunity to try for on-the-fly interviews with Jupiter Station’s usually isolated staff. Like the lonely keepers of Earth’s ancient lighthouses, or the scientists in the Antarctic outposts of previous centuries, these folks were almost sure to be eager to share their perspectives about war, peace, and who knew what else.

  But Brooks put those plans on hold the moment she looked out the window beside her seat. Despite the overpowering multi-hued vista of Jupiter that dominated her view of space, she couldn’t help but notice that an NX-class starship was docked alongside the landing slot that her own transport was approaching.

  Enterprise? she thought as her eyes searched the starship’s battle-worn blue-gray hull for markings. She wondered whether Travis would have time for a sit-down interview over dinner. Better yet, he might get her access to Captain Archer, who might be eager to share his side of the Kobayashi Maru incident with her audience.

  No, not Enterprise, she realized a moment later as she recalled that the NX-01 was still quite far away from Earth. It’s Columbia. Probably picking up or dropping off equipment related to the new Vulcan defense grid.

  It was all Brooks could do not to run down the gangway once the transport’s stewards had opened the inner airlocks, allowing the small craft’s dozen or so passengers, mostly well-heeled tourists from Earth and Mars, to disembark.

  She had known enough starfarers, both in and out of Starfleet, during her journalistic career to know that the bar was her best starting place. Within perhaps ten minutes, she was rewarded with the sight of several people dressed in identical dark blue Starfleet coveralls.

  Brooks decided to approach the nearest uniformed person, a young woman with flaming red hair who was sitting alone at a table near the room’s center, finishing up a sandwich and a tall glass of beer.

  Pausing for a moment to study the rank insignia on the woman’s collar, Brooks said, “Mind if I join you, Ensi
gn?”

  The officer took a final swallow of beer, pushed her mostly empty plate to the side, and gestured noncommittally at the chair on the small table’s opposite side. “Go right ahead,” she said, speaking in a brogue that evoked images of the Scottish highlands. “I’m afraid I can’t stay long, though.”

  Brooks sat, nodding. “Ah. Setting up the warp-field detection grid must be keeping you pretty busy.” Extending her right hand across the table, she added, “My name is Gannet Brooks. I’m a journalist from Newstime.”

  A look of recognition ignited behind the young woman’s eyes, replacing the momentary glare of suspicion that had preceded it. “Sidra Valerian,” she said, apparently granting Brooks at least a little provisional trust. Valerian rose slightly from her chair momentarily as she grasped Brook’s proffered hand. “I’m the chief communications officer aboard the Starship Columbia.”

  “Do you mind sharing some of your thoughts about the Romulan conflict with my audience?”

  Ensign Valerian appeared to mull that over for a moment. “On or off the record?”

  Brooks smiled slyly. “Entirely up to you. And if your captain wants to chime in as well, on or off the record, then so much the better.”

  After another several heartbeats of silent contemplation, Valerian returned Brooks’s smile and waved to a passing waiter who was carrying a number of exotic-looking fluted bottles.

  Before getting comfortable, Brooks reached into her pocket, her fingers immediately closing around the reassuring rectangular shape of her official Newstime credit chit.

  EIGHTEEN

  Day Three, Month of re’T’Khutai

  Wednesday, July 30, 2155

  The Hall of State, Dartha, Romulus

  “ADMIRAL, I HAVE UNCOVERED some of the details regarding Thhaei’s plan to help the humans repel the surprise attacks against their homeworld and colonies,“ Commander T’Voras announced from the small viser that sat atop the massive sherawood desk.

  Not entirely surprised by this news, Admiral Valdore i’Kaleh tr’Irrhaimehn continued slowly running the laser sharpener along the gleaming edge of the dathe’anofv-sen, his Honor Blade, before returning the weapon reverently to the display rack mounted on his office’s rear wall.

  Curious as to how his own vantage point on the Thaessu—the Vulcan cousins of the Romulan people—might differ from that of one of his most accomplished ship captains, Valdore turned to face the image hovering over his desk.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “The Thaessu are assisting the hevam of Earth and its outsystem holdings in the installation and maintenance of systemwide sensor networks,” T’Voras said, his manner pleasingly crisp and disciplined. “Their purpose is to provide advance warning of the approach of hostile warp-driven vessels.”

  “Precisely how much early warning are you talking about, Commander?”

  “I can only estimate, Admiral. But given the necessity of coming out of warp with sufficient error margins to avoid colliding with our targets or overshooting them, the warning network could give the Earthers upwards of several dierha to prepare for our arrival.”

  “That could constitute a significant fraction of a Terran day,” Valdore said, trying to come to terms with a rumor that was looking increasingly like a bitter reality. The human journalist Naquase’s initial reports about this very subject, which had reached the ears of the Tal Shiar even as they had saturated the Coalition’s public newsnets, appeared to be based upon something more tangible than hearsay.

  T’Karik’s balls, he thought as he began to spin new alternative strategic and tactical scenarios on the fly. Our misbegotten leaf-eating relations really could cost us the element of surprise. And we’re going to need that if we are to claim a decisive and early victory, even with the advantage of the arrenhe’hwiua telecapture weapon.

  T’Voras continued, “I have to assume, Admiral, that similar warp-detection grids could soon protect other Coalition worlds. Perhaps even all of them.”

  “I agree, Commander,” Valdore said with a stern nod. “We must take no unnecessary chances.” Praetor D’deridex’s incessant tantrums and ceaseless demands notwithstanding.

  “Perhaps a revision of our attack timetable is in order then, Admiral.”

  Valdore raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “A revision?”

  “I recommend that we move up our assault on Earth. We should attack immediately, Admiral.”

  “That operation will depend greatly on our strategic assets on Isneih Kre,” Valdore said, frowning as he considered the world that the hevam called Calder II. He had been hearing entirely too much of this sort of thing from the Empire’s ever more irrational—not to mention militarily inept—praetor. “Our force buildup in the Isneih system is far from complete.”

  He paused momentarily as he considered a third alternative.

  “Then I will await your orders, Admiral,” T’Voras said, signaling that he was finished both with his report and with his military recommendations.

  “Thank you, Commander. I will brief you and the rest of the flag-rank command staff with an alternative battle plan very shortly. Valdore out.” And with that he toggled a switch atop his desk, causing T’Voras’s image to vanish.

  He activated another switch. “Nijil, this is Valdore.”

  The life-sized head and shoulders of Valdore’s chief technologist manifested over the desk like an apparition a moment later.

  “What can I do for you today, Admiral?” said the scientist, who wore his customary unsmiling, almost wary expression.

  Speaking with a spareness and efficiency born of long practice, Valdore explained the potentially devastating change that the Vulcans had just wrought to the tactical landscape.

  “You told me recently that one of your research staff has achieved a breakthrough of sorts,” Valdore added once he had finished bringing Nijil up to date.

  His eyes grown large with alarm, the technologist said, “We have indeed recently broken significant new theoretical ground, Admiral.”

  Valdore scowled. “Theoretical. Nothing practical?”

  “Admiral, many engineering problems still remain to be solved before either the cloaking device project or the avaihh lli vastam will be ready for full deployment. We are still six khaidoa away from full production readiness, at least.”

  “You’re talking about half a fvheisn or more!” That was at least half the time it took for Romulus and Remus to tumble jointly about Eisn, the bright yellow star that sustained both worlds.

  “Conservatively, Admiral. It was all in the morning departmental update report.”

  Valdore muttered a curse and gave the chief technologist a brusque dismissal before switching off the viser by pounding his fist on the switch.

  Departmental update reports, he thought, fulminating. Who in all the hells of Erebus has the time to wade through all of that kllhe’mnhe? With the Coalition planets, particularly the Earthers, expanding relentlessly into the formerly sacrosanct far Avrrhinul Outmarches that abutted the core territories of Romulan space, an obsessive commitment to paperwork was something the admiral simply couldn’t afford.

  Regardless, Nijil had told him what he’d most needed to know: a reliable warp-seven stardrive remained out of the Romulan Star Empire’s reach, as did a practical cloaking device capable of shielding his ships from detection.

  He mulled over Nijil’s unpleasant revelations, his mind racing as it resumed the strategic and tactical improvisations he had begun spinning during his conversation with T’Voras.

  Then the idea came to him. It arrived more or less fully formed, as though one of the ancient gods of his ancestors had whispered it directly into his ear.

  Now he could see a way to incorporate T’Voras’s recommendation with the untoward news that both the commander and Doctor Nijil had brought him. The new scheme would of necessity involve some degree of delay to the large-scale invasion plans, but would neither interfere with the fleet’s current spate of small-scale, morale-sapping
raids nor bind the Empire’s military to Nijil’s whimsically elastic schedules. But most significantly, it still augured a relatively swift and sure Romulan victory over both the humans and their Coalition allies.

  Unless, of course, he thought, a certain troublesome Praetor tries to intervene at an inopportune time.

  NINETEEN

  Wednesday, August 6, 2155

  Jokhang Temple, Barkhor Square

  Lhasa, Tibet, Earth

  KEISHA NAQUASE’S EXHALATIONS STEAMED in the cold, rarefied air of the plaza, and her breathing sounded labored in her own ears as she walked. Pointedly trying to avoid casting a longing eye on the comparative warmth and comfort of the ornate compound nearby—an ancient temple-and-monastery complex known to the locals as “the White House of the Buddha”—Naquase wasted as little time as possible broaching the topic that was uppermost on her mind.