“Do you doubt a Klingon’s word of honor?” Nevokh shouted, erupting from his command chair.
T’Pol sat unmoved in hers. “Do you doubt a Vulcan’s sense of duty? Phlox is a member of my crew. His safety is my responsibility. If you wish his assistance, you must make your case to me.”
The Klingon clenched his fists and his jaw, but then he swallowed his anger. “Very well. But this is in the strictest confidence. May we speak without your crew hearing?”
“Give us one moment.” T’Pol rose and turned to Sato. “Forward it to my ready room.”
Once she and Phlox were alone in the captain’s spartan office, T’Pol reopened the channel on her desk monitor. “Only Doctor Phlox and I can hear you now, Commander.”
Nevokh was still hesitant. “It is said that the word of a Vulcan is unbreakable. Is this true? Can I rely on you to keep this in the strictest confidence?”
T’Pol pondered. “If the matter is relevant to Federation security, then I will be obligated to inform my superiors. But I will divulge nothing to anyone I am not duty-bound to inform.”
The Klingon took a deep breath. “Very well. I appreciate your candor. And your Federation would surely find out soon enough. I suppose I have no choice.
“Captain . . . Doctor . . . I must inform you that Chancellor M’Rek is dead.”
Phlox exchanged a look with the captain, then spoke. “You, ah, have my sincere condolences on your loss, Commander. However, I don’t see what I can do for the chancellor at this stage. If you had come to me sooner—”
“We do not ask you to save the chancellor, Denobulan. M’Rek was widely and justly despised, and the High Council has been fractious and paralyzed under his weak leadership. He did not even have the virtue of dying with honor—he grew ill and wasted away for months. No one could challenge him for leadership, for he was too weak to fight. Even Admiral Krell, who relied upon M’Rek’s patronage, agrees that he was holding the Empire back.
“But that is the root of the problem. M’Rek had many enemies. The factions within the Council accuse one another of poisoning M’Rek—slaying him secretly and without honor. An Arbiter of Succession has been named, but none of the challengers can be affirmed until they are cleared of the accusations. Yet none will accept that M’Rek died of natural causes, for the very physicians who tended to him may have been his poisoners.
“The only thing the councillors have been able to agree on, Doctor, is that they require an objective party to determine the cause of the chancellor’s death.”
“But why me?” Phlox asked. “The Empire has no love for me, given my role in the creation of the Qu’Vat virus.” He declined to point out that the release of the metagenic virus, which was responsible for the cosmetic changes in the appearance of several hundred million Klingons, had been necessary to cure a more deadly form of the pathogen—and that Fleet Admiral Krell himself had arranged for Phlox to be brought to the Qu’Vat colony under duress and forced to engineer the cure. No point in antagonizing a Klingon who, for once, seemed reasonably civil toward him.
“That is why the factions have agreed to seek you out, Phlox. There is no love lost between you and the Klingon people, and thus no reason why you would aid any of the factions.”
“Well, I suppose that makes sense. Although I truly have nothing against the Klingon people, and have no wish to see them come to harm. If my assistance will prevent further strife, I’m willing to consider it. But I’d like to take a moment to discuss it with the captain, if you don’t mind.”
“Very well. But waste no time!”
The screen went dark, and T’Pol turned to him. “You are inclined to agree to this?”
Phlox paced. “Believe me, I’m not eager to go off with the Klingons again. I’m sure many of them hold grudges against me—the QuchHa’ in particular.” T’Pol nodded, recognizing the term the Klingons had given to the population stripped of their cranial ridges by the virus. It was a rather mean-spirited wordplay: QuchHa’ was the Klingon word for “unhappy,” but was also a homonym for “deprived of a forehead.” Phlox was reluctant to use it—or its counterpart HemQuch, meaning “proud forehead,” for unaltered Klingons like Nevokh—but the Klingons themselves had embraced the labels so thoroughly that there was little alternative.
“But you heard Nevokh,” he went on. “The Empire is torn apart by factional strife, and that’s largely due to the conflict between the mutated and unmutated Klingon populations. I can’t help feeling that the situation is partly my responsibility.”
T’Pol contemplated him. “I understand your desire to minimize loss of life. But what if you find that M’Rek was assassinated, and this leads to the execution of his killers? Or simply worsens the recriminations and sparks civil war?”
Phlox paced the cramped room. “Believe me, T’Pol, I’m very much aware of those possibilities. But whatever happens, I do bear a responsibility for the current situation, and I should stand up and face it. Goodness knows, I’ve certainly tried to instill that belief in my children. Now, of all times, I can’t walk away from it.” Vaneel, who had learned that lesson as well as any of his children—and far better than some—would certainly understand if he had to risk missing her wedding. “At least I can attempt to bring some rationality and calm to the proceedings. If the factions are willing to cooperate enough to invite me—and actually make it an invitation this time—maybe that’s something I can encourage them to build on.”
The captain nodded. “I cannot fault your convictions, Phlox. And you are a civilian, so ultimately the choice is yours. If you wish to go, I will not stand in your way.”
“I really think I must, T’Pol.”
She rose. “Yet it troubles me that this is occurring so soon before the wedding. I would find it . . . disagreeable . . . to attend the event without you, Phlox.”
He smiled. “And I would find it disagreeable to be detained. Especially by Klingons. But Nevokh did give his word of honor that I would be unharmed.”
T’Pol did not look reassured. “If the Klingons suspect their chancellor was assassinated, then honor may not be as prevalent in the Empire as they claim.”
Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco
“You’re positive? M’Rek is dead?”
Admiral Jonathan Archer considered his words before responding to the Andorian shen on his desk monitor. Vinithnel sh’Mirrin was the current Federation Commissioner for Defense, and though Archer found her more reasonable than her predecessor, Min glasch Noar, he wanted to make sure there were no misunderstandings. “At this point, all we have are unconfirmed reports. We’ll know more when we get Doctor Phlox’s report in a few days—assuming the Klingons let him go like they promised.”
Sh’Mirrin’s antennae took on a thoughtful cast. “Understood. Still, you were right to notify me. We have to be ready for whatever comes. M’Rek’s inability to unify the High Council worked in our favor; it kept the Klingons too busy undermining their rivals to spare any attention for us. What if the next chancellor is able to unite the Council behind a common goal, like invading the Federation?”
“All the more reason to be glad Phlox is there,” Archer pointed out. “If he does them a favor, it might earn the Federation some goodwill in their eyes.” Even as he said it, Archer recognized how feeble a hope it was. In his past dealings with the Klingon High Council, he’d found them too preoccupied with their political games and pissing contests to be interested in alliances with the Federation. Even a decade ago, when it had been in their best interests to join with Earth against their common Romulan foes, they had come within a hair’s breadth of declaring war on Earth merely to save face for some perceived embarrassment. Chancellor M’Rek’s unofficial assistance had come in handy at the Battle of Cheron, but it would have destroyed him politically to side openly with Earth and its allies, the later founders of the Federation. And now M’Rek was gone, making it unlik
ely that the Federation had any potential allies left on the Council.
“Except that Phlox isn’t from a Federation world,” sh’Mirrin pointed out, adding one more strike against the notion. “Denobula still isn’t in any hurry to make up its mind about joining.”
“They are an ally, though. And the Klingons know that Phlox has been a doctor with Starfleet for over a decade. Maybe that’ll count for something.”
“I admire your optimism, Admiral.” She sighed. “Meanwhile, I need to brief the president and discuss our options. Depending on how things fall out on Qo’noS in the phases and moons ahead, we may need to divert Starfleet resources to the border sectors nearest the Klingon Empire.” Her phrasing reminded Archer of the small mercy that, as yet, neither Federation nor Empire had grown far enough in the other’s direction for their territories to abut. “And we’ve already got a sizeable chunk of the Guard devoted to the Alrond operation and the Ware task force. On which point, any chance Captain Reed will be bringing them home soon?”
“Admiral Shran’s the one to ask,” Archer said. “But last I heard from Pioneer, they were still searching for the originators of the Ware.”
“We may have to consider calling them back if the Klingon situation erupts. I’ll notify Shran to be ready.”
“Of course, Commissioner,” Archer said, though he felt she was being premature. “Meanwhile, where do we stand on Alrond? Is the Council any closer to approving intervention?”
“Still deliberating, I’m afraid.”
“What is there to deliberate?” Archer wondered. “The Keepers of the Throne are insane. They’re murdering Alrondian citizens just for being Arkenites. What’s more, this morning an Arkonian diplomat on Alrond was attacked by some fanatic who apparently couldn’t spell! I’ve been busy all day trying to convince the Arkonian ambassador that the Federation hasn’t declared war on them!”
“Jon . . .”
“Something has to be done about these fanatics before it gets any worse! Governor Lecheb sure isn’t gonna rein them in. She’s bending over backward to appease them rather than risk being deposed.” Lecheb sh’Makesh’s faction had always been the most extreme of the separatist groups that had rebelled against their respective worlds’ formation of the United Federation of Planets four years before. The governor of the Alrond colony neighboring Andoria, Lecheb had refused to recognize the Federation and had declared herself leader of the Andorian Empire in exile. She’d lacked enough ships to back up her rhetoric with force, so the Andorians had tolerated the situation for two years. But recently, Lecheb’s extreme nationalist rhetoric had provoked an even more radical splinter faction, the Keepers of the Throne, to begin attacking Alrond’s sizeable Arkenite population in retaliation for Arken II’s recent admission to the Federation—even though the Alrondian Arkenites were Andorian citizens by birth and culture, and thus had already been Federation members. Even Governor Lecheb had initially attempted to rein in the Keepers’ excesses, but once it became evident that they sought her overthrow as well, she had begun playing along with their demands, falling silent on the Arkenite killings and endorsing not only the expulsion of the Federation from Andoria but the restoration of the monarchy and clan-based rule.
“Admiral.” The commissioner’s sharper tone got through to him. “You’re exaggerating the risk. Even the Lechebists are shocked by how far the Keepers have gone. Councillor sh’Rothress assures me she’s close to persuading Lecheb to denounce the Keeper movement and accede to a Starfleet peacekeeping force on Alrond. But if we go in without her blessing, it’ll just shift the Lechebists’ sentiments further toward the Keepers’ extremes.”
“Meanwhile, innocent people are being beaten and killed by the day. Federation citizens!” He took a deep breath, gathering himself. “I’m sorry, Commissioner. I just hoped we were beyond this. We’ve spent the past two years trying to hold the Federation together against forces trying to tear it apart from the inside. After the election, and the defeat of V’Las on Vulcan, I’d hoped we’d finally put an end to all this.”
“And we nearly have. The very insanity of the Keepers’ actions is proof of their irrelevancy. They know the end of their era is at hand, and they’re lashing out against the inevitable. And their violence is so hideous that they’ve alienated everyone who might have stood with them—including Lecheb, once she finally admits that this kind of self-destructive lunacy is where her rhetoric inevitably led. This is the last gasp of internal revolt, Jon,” sh’Mirrin assured him.
“I hope so,” Archer said. “Because it looks like we’ve got plenty of external problems to keep us occupied.”
Once sh’Mirrin signed off, he winced and rubbed the bridge of his nose to try to ease the tension. He heard the heavy footfalls of his aide, Captain Williams, as the big, square-jawed man entered the room. “Can I get you something, Admiral?” he asked in his Midwestern drawl.
“That’s okay, Marcus. It’s just . . . I was hoping things would be quiet for a while. Give me a chance to get used to the new job. Instead, everything seems to be piling on at once. The Ware, the Keepers, the Klingons . . . Couldn’t the universe have cut me just a little break? A few days. I don’t ask much.”
Williams chuckled. “The secret is to delegate. Rely on your staff, just like you did as a captain. That’s how Admiral Forrest did it.”
Archer looked up at him, reminded that Williams had been the aide to his old friend and superior officer, the late Maxwell Forrest, before he’d come to work for Archer. “So basically you’re telling me you did all the work, is that it?”
“Mmm, ninety percent. But I try not to brag.”
Noting the data slate Williams carried, Archer asked, “What have you got there? Is that the progress report from Admiral Osman?”
“Yes, sir.” The broad-shouldered captain handed him the slate, but then said, “To sum up, Apollo and Soyuz should be ready to launch in three months, and Ares and Charybdis are on track for next spring, provided Grennex Aerospace lives up to its promises.” Archer nodded. The Rigelian shipbuilding firm had been contracted to build upgraded impulse assemblies and navigational deflectors for the new wave of Columbia-class ships now being built under the supervision of Alexis Osman, the Alpha Centaurian chief of staff responsible for overseeing the research, logistical, and administrative aspects of Starfleet, and Captain W. M. Jefferies, the head of the Starfleet Corps of Engineers. Two such ships, based on the old NX-class design of Archer’s Enterprise with a cylindrical secondary hull slung underneath to house a more powerful warp reactor, were already in service to complement T’Pol’s Endeavour. If construction proceeded apace, those ships, Buran and Shenlong, would be joined by six more within the next two years—the four Williams had mentioned, plus Phoenix and Valiant.
Williams went on. “And the admiral’s included those development proposals you wanted for the Ceres and Poseidon classes, along with the latest performance specs on the prototypes.”
“Good.” Archer had been working with Osman and Commodore Jefferies to develop new ship classes to take Starfleet into the future, but there were disagreements within the Admiralty over the best approach. Archer favored the Ceres class, a hybrid of the Daedalus and NX-series designs with innovations from Vulcan, Andorian, and Tellarite technology. The prototype had performed well in trials since its launch a year and a half ago, and Archer and Osman planned to incorporate its advances into future refits as well as new ship construction. They’d even gotten interest from civilian contractors seeking to upgrade classes like Earth’s DY-series transports and J-class freighters, or the wide range of ships built by Grennex.
But the Daedalus-class ships that Ceres had been intended to replace had proven surprisingly reliable, once upgraded to post-war specs. Their cramped, submarine-like conditions, accommodating an atypically large crew complement for ships of their size, seemed outdated in peacetime, but had proven useful for missions that required transpo
rting large numbers of personnel or colonists. Thus, many of Archer’s colleagues found the Ceres project redundant, arguing that it would be better to focus on the Poseidon class, an NX-variant destroyer developed late in the war and intended to replace the smaller Neptune class. But Archer felt the heavily armed design was unnecessary in peacetime.
As he skimmed the report, Archer noted that Osman was again trying to convince him to name one of the new ships Enterprise. He had resisted reusing the name so soon after his own Enterprise had been decommissioned and placed in the Smithsonian, and there were political fears about offending the Klingons by commemorating a ship that had been a thorn in their side so many times. Besides, the name of Captain sh’Prenni’s Vol’Rala essentially meant Enterprise, so adding another to the fleet could be seen as redundant. Osman’s memo countered that by that logic, it would be impossible to have ships named Intrepid and Dauntless at the same time, for instance. And, she said, the Klingons were too preoccupied with their own problems to care about the name of a Starfleet ship. Given the recent news from Endeavour, the Centaurian admiral may have been more right than she knew. Archer figured he should at least give the idea some consideration. After all, both the Ceres and Poseidon construction proposals extended well into the next decade. Perhaps one of the later ships in whatever class was chosen could be given the name. It might be nice to have a new Enterprise in service after all.
“Anything else?” Archer asked once he finished glancing over the report.
“Captain Shumar’s standing by on subspace. He’s got a report on that distress signal from Theta Cygni Twelve.”
Archer frowned. “And you kept him waiting?”
Williams looked somber. “From what I gather, it’s not a time-sensitive situation.”
The admiral took his point. The radio-frequency distress signal had only recently been picked up by a Tellarite freighter passing thirty light-years from Theta Cygni. The system was only sixty light-years from Earth, but in a direction where few Federation or allied ships had yet traveled—which was why it had been necessary to divert Shumar’s Essex nearly thirty-five light-years from its assigned survey route. Whatever had led to the distress signal, the crisis was probably long since over—but to ignore a cry for help was unconscionable.
Rise of the Federation: Live by the Code Page 4