“Not beyond?” sh’Prenni asked.
It was Silash ch’Gesrit who responded. “It’ll take a lot of power to force the signal through planetwide,” the chief engineer said. “The power demands to transmit it over subspace would be prohibitive, even to target just one other system, let alone the entire Partnership network.”
“All right, then we take it one system at a time—unless we can convince the Partnership to see reason.” The captain cocked her antennae forward. “For now, though—”
“Captain!” Banerji called. “We’re getting a hail from the surface.”
Zh’Vethris threw Breg a look. “Took them long enough to notice us.”
“Always refreshing to hear a living voice, though,” the captain told her. “On the screen, Hari.”
The semicircular display lit up with an image of two aliens—erect beings resembling some kind of arboreal rodents with golden fur and large, circular eyes. The one nearer the screen had a bright, multicolored fin atop its head. Behind them were the crisp, institutional white walls of a Ware facility. “Please,” the finned one said without preamble, “whoever you are, stop this attack! Our people depend on the Ware!”
“I’m afraid that’s exactly the problem,” sh’Prenni said. “I’m Captain Reshthenar sh’Prenni of Vol’Rala, a starship of the United Federation of Planets. And you?”
“Tefcem var Skos of the Partnership world Etrafso. My overmate is Wylbet, for whom I speak.” Presumably that was the finless individual in the background. “Please, we ask only to be left alone. We mean your people no harm.” Var Skos raised a mittenlike hand in supplication.
“The harm is not from you, Tefcem var Skos, but toward you and your people, inflicted by the Ware.”
“The Ware is our bounty, our protection.”
“It is a trap. You’ve become dependent on it to fight your battles, feed your people. We have seen whole civilizations destroyed by such dependence.”
“And what gives you the right to decide this for us?”
“The Ware threatens all life. If you feed it victims, you help it spread and endanger other worlds. We act in the defense of all worlds, including your own.” Sh’Prenni stepped forward to stand behind Breg’s right shoulder. “I know this will be a difficult transition for your people, and I’m sorry. But the Federation will assist you in regaining your self-sufficiency. We will assign a vessel to see to your needs and guide you through the transition.”
“And will we still have our prosperity, our health?”
Breg felt compelled to speak up. “No one can prosper if anyone is exploited. If people’s lives aren’t valued, then any material value you cherish is an illusion.”
“You do not understand our lives, alien. You will take the very essence of the Partnership from us.”
“Oh, I’ve heard that before,” Breg snapped. “Defending your own kind, your own ways, at any cost, so long as it’s others who pay the price. Your so-called Partnership lives on the backs of its weaker members. You’ve made them too dependent to stand for themselves. But that’s where we come in.”
She felt sh’Prenni’s hand on her shoulder, at once reining her in and offering moral support. “We’re not here to take anything from your people,” the captain said. “We’re here to give you back your freedom. Your dignity. Your future.”
“You will cost us everything.”
“Those of you who thrive by exploiting others? Hell, yes, and glad of it. You’re the ones who happen to be talking to me, but I’m listening to the voices who can’t speak for themselves. And from where I’m standing, those voices are far louder. Vol’Rala out.” The screen went dark. “As I was saying, Hari—let’s wake this world.”
Breg smiled up at her captain. She hoped the Starfleet captains liberating Alrond right now were as committed and passionate as sh’Prenni. But at this moment, she was glad to be here instead of there.
Oceantop City, Partnership planet Rastish
Rinheith Chep felt a wave of dread rippling through his neck feathers as soon as he saw Fendob’s body language. He had been taking his midday meal on his favorite promenade, enjoying the sea air and the view of the calm, flat ocean that surrounded the city on all sides, hoping its example would help him find the placidity that had so often eluded him these last few years—particularly since this latest alien incursion had begun. All Fendob said once she reached him was “Message, Vinik-Hev,” but he knew his loyal Monsof understood the looming crisis better than her language skills allowed her to express.
Rinheith let his wings flap nervously as Fendob led him through the floating city’s passages to his white-walled office and activated the communication controls for him; it was about all his wings were good for. He often envied the Monsof for the dexterity of their five-digited hands, which far exceeded that of the Hurraait beak and tongue. But he could never resent Fendob for it, since she had been his cherished companion since her childhood. She was almost as dear to him as her departed father, Gondob, who had been his Hands since he was a chick.
The Ware screen slid forward from the wall and lit up to display the streamlined, delta-winged body of Vinik-Hev, the Senior Partner for Avathox, her visage distorted by the dense, hot atmosphere in which she floated. “Greetings, Partner,” Rinheith cawed.
“Greetings, Partner,” the Xavoth replied, her rapid, low-pitched speech interpreted into Hurraait language by the Ware. “I convey terrible news. Etrafso has gone dark.”
Rinheith had expected this, but the news still filled him with dread. “A whole world now fallen to these invaders. We must rally the Partners. Devise some form of defense.”
“What defense can there be? They can shut down the very Ware itself.”
“Can no one reason with them?”
“The drones intercepted their communication with Wylbet and Tefcem before their strike,” Vinik-Hev informed him. “They see the Ware as a threat. They believe they are helping us!”
Rinheith sank onto his cushioned perch, despairing. He felt Fendob’s sensitive fingers stroking his back feathers, but he took little comfort in it this time. It was unfair to her, but on some level she reminded him of the invaders, who appeared to be primates like the Monsof, but with fuller linguistic development and finer motor skills. “Have you spoken with the scholars? Do they see any hope that the Ware can devise its own defense?”
“We had thought the Ware could adapt to anything. Apparently we were wrong. Our scholars are out of their depth.”
“Then what can we do?”
“Only prepare yourself. Chep . . . the drones report that the ship that shut down Etrafso is heading for you now. They are mere days from Rastish.”
Rinheith pondered for a long moment. “Very well. We shall begin stockpiling food, medicines, independent tools, everything we can.”
Vinik-Hev’s dangling underlimbs folded into a skeptical stance. “You will have to depend heavily on your Monsof. Can they handle the burden without the Ware to guide them?”
The Senior Partner regretted his earlier thoughts toward the primates. “They are more intelligent than they seem, my friend. And their survival is as much at stake as our own. They will not fail us.” Fendob looked up at him with a gawky grin.
“They do make fine volunteers for the data cores,” Vinik-Hev conceded. “Proof enough of their mental capacity, I suppose. But what happens when the stockpiles run out? Can they build as well as the Ware?”
Rinheith had no answer. Fendob lowered her head unhappily.
But then the voice of the Ware spoke from the screen. “Proximity alert. Incoming communication.” The image of the Xavoth Senior Partner shrank to a window as the screen projected a schematic of Rastish’s system, highlighting two ships that had just dropped out of warp.
At first, Rinheith feared that the invaders had already arrived, well ahead of schedule. But the readings showed that on
e of the two vessels was a Ware command ship. That brought him comfort—until he remembered that such a ship would be useless against the invaders who called themselves “Starfleet.”
Noting Fendob’s inquisitive look, he nodded to her. “Accept the communication. Vinik-Hev, you should monitor.”
The schematic was replaced by a view from inside the command ship, with Vinik-Hev remaining in an inset. Two primates stood in its main chamber, both with dark brown skin and smooth brows, but otherwise different. One was hairless with light-colored spots above and around his vivid gold eyes and small fins behind his ears. The other had an unruly mane of dark hair, no spots, and no evident fins. It was the hairless one who spoke. “Greetings. My name is Daskel Vabion of the planet Vanot. My associate is Captain Lokog of the Klingon Empire. Please pardon our intrusion, but we have been monitoring your communications, as well as the larger situation, using the facilities of this Ware command vessel. We believe we may be able to offer you assistance against the Starfleet threat.”
Rinheith schooled himself to caution. “This is quite a claim, sir. But these invaders have the ability to neutralize Ware.”
“I am aware of that, Partner. But I have worked with the Ware far longer than they have. Indeed, their ability to shut down the Ware is based on my own research into its operation. This very ship was shut down through their actions—until I reactivated it.”
Now Rinheith began to feel hope. But Vinik-Hev tempered it with a reminder of caution: “Vabion. This is hopeful news, if true. But what is to keep them from shutting it down again?”
“That is a wise question, Partner. I am aware of that risk. I am also aware that I alone cannot maintain a holding action against the entire Starfleet task force. But that is where my associate comes in.”
The other primate, Lokog, spoke in rougher, more aggressive tones. “We Klingons are a race of warriors. We have fought Starfleet before—and we would gladly fight them again. And our ships . . . are not Ware.”
Rinheith felt his wings begin to spread as he realized just what was being offered.
6
August 8, 2165
Gronim City, Denobula
THE FORECAST FOR VANEEL’S WEDDING DAY had promised heavy rain and occasional thunderstorms, and it proved accurate. The Denobulans in the wedding party rejoiced at this, gleefully letting the rain drench them as they conducted the ceremony, for to them it was a cleansing beginning to Vaneel and Pehle’s new life. There was no analogy for this in Vulcan thought, so T’Pol wondered if the human practice of baptism might be a fit comparison.
The lightning flashing overhead was initially a source of concern to T’Pol, but as she assessed her surroundings, she realized the rooftop garden was surrounded by taller skyscrapers, all of which appeared to be topped with sophisticated apparatus for attracting lightning and absorbing its charge as a source of power. A subtler, but still effective, array of lightning rods and wires encompassed the roof itself.
A portion of the seating area was beneath a transparent overhang for the benefit of offworld guests such as T’Pol and her Starfleet colleagues. Still, the humid conditions were not beneficial for T’Pol’s desert-adapted lungs and skin. She counted herself fortunate that this ceremony included only one wedding, and that one of the participants was monogamous. Even a single Denobulan wedding was a complicated affair; rather than being officiated by a single religious or secular authority figure, it was approached more as a vote, with the spouses’ petition to wed requiring the unanimous consent of their first-tier family members (in this case, on Vaneel’s side, her parents, Phlox and Feezal, her full brother, Tullis, and her husbands, Thesh and Sun-woo, and on Pehle’s side, merely Sohon Retab, voting on behalf of himself and his wife). Even though the parties involved must give their prior consent in order for a wedding to proceed at all, the ritual required the bride and groom to make ceremonial declarations of their case to the voting members, who would in turn make speeches expressing their own approval of the marriage. There would then be an exchange of vows, not only between the bride and groom, but between each participant and the other’s pre-existing spouses, if any. Depending on the number of simultaneous weddings being conducted and the number of parents, siblings, and prior spouses involved, some Denobulan weddings could be marathon events lasting a day or more, given the Denobulans’ lack of need for nightly sleep. By contrast, Vaneel and Pehle’s wedding would likely take only a few hours.
Based on Phlox’s stories about his iconoclastic daughter, T’Pol was unsurprised when Vaneel chose to break with Denobulan tradition and play her part in the ceremony according to Antaran custom. Evidently this was not without precedent. “When she married Sun-woo,” Jeremy Lucas muttered to Archer and Danica, “she made it a combined Denobulan-Buddhist ceremony. Wore a Bhaku dress, made the recitations, everything.”
The Antaran wedding ritual evidently entailed the bride and groom selecting a poem from the planet’s romantic or historical epic tradition, one which they believed best illustrated the significance and character of their own relationship, and chanting it together while adorned in ornate traditional costumes representing its characters. Memorizing the lengthy piece and its intricate choreography required extensive rehearsal, the stress of which had reportedly driven many couples to sever their engagement. The Antarans believed this was a way of weeding out those couples not fully committed or temperamentally suited to each other. Vaneel and Pehle appeared to carry out the performance with adequate skill, as far as T’Pol could discern, though the artistic and cultural significance of the recitation was mostly lost on her. The Denobulan guests seemed rather bewildered by it as well, but that was probably just the reaction Vaneel had wished to evoke. If the mingling of Denobulan and Antaran cultures were to succeed, they would need to accept each other as they were.
For his part, however, Pehle followed up the recitation with a more conventional, Denobulan-style presentation of his case to the voting family members. The statement was meant to convey what the groom believed he could contribute to his spouse and to the family as a whole, generally including his economic prospects and the genetic benefits he could contribute as a parent, as well as more personal considerations. The parenting question was an area where Pehle was unable to offer much in the way of prospects. “I don’t know if it will be possible for me to conceive a child with Vaneel,” he confessed. “We’ve spoken with some of the best genetic engineers on Denobula, and they’re researching the question, but it’s a possibility that’s gone uninvestigated by both our planets’ medical science, for reasons I don’t need to restate. It could be years before we determine whether it’s even possible for us to conceive, let alone with a safe chance of the baby’s survival.”
T’Pol felt a sharp twinge of emotion at the reminder of Elizabeth, the hybrid child that Earth’s Terra Prime extremists had conceived by blending her DNA with that of Charles Tucker. The infant had been a pawn in a twisted plan meant to warn of the “danger” of alien contamination of the human genome, but had tragically suggested the reverse when she had proven unviable and died mere weeks into her life. Though the child had been conceived without her or Tucker’s consent, essentially as a violation of them both, neither of them had blamed Elizabeth for what Terra Prime had done, and both had felt her death as keenly as if they had conceived her by choice. Phlox had told them that Terra Prime’s botched engineering had been responsible, that it might still be possible for a Vulcan and a human to produce a viable child together with the proper medical intervention; but it was still a risk she wasn’t sure she would ever be willing to take.
“But that’s the nature of trying new things,” Pehle went on, heedless of the pouring rain. “We just can’t predict what will happen. When I grow an Antaran plant in Denobulan soil, or Vulcan or Terran or B’Saari soil, I don’t know how its development might be changed by the new conditions in which I nurture it.
“I’m supposed to tell you wha
t I can contribute to this family—how you will be enriched by my participation. The fact is, I can’t answer that question. There’s no precedent for this. It’s the first trial of the experiment, and there’s no predicting how it’ll turn out.
“But if you ask me—and if you ask my brave, adventurous Vaneel, I’m sure—that’s exactly why it has to be tried. Every day we spend together, we discover something new about ourselves, something changed by our interaction with someone so new and different to us. Every day, we become more in combination than we were apart. And so the fact that I can’t tell you what comes next—that excites me deeply. And it should do the same for you.”
Once he finished, Hoshi Sato turned to T’Pol with a smile. “Infinite diversity in infinite combinations. Very Vulcan of him, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would like to think so,” T’Pol replied. It hadn’t been that long ago that those Vulcans who repudiated such inclusion of outsiders had attempted to regain control of the planet’s government and society—but they had been roundly defeated and discredited, giving T’Pol confidence that the majority of her people lived up to Sato’s characterization.
Still, for a Vulcan to marry an offworlder was virtually unheard of. Most Vulcans were pledged to their future mates in childhood, leaving little room for such variations from tradition. T’Pol was free from such an obligation, since her husband, Koss, had released her from her vows. But by the same token, she had been generally disinclined to consider marriage as a viable prospect for her, preferring to focus on her career as a scientist and officer.
Could that be why she was content in her relationship with Charles Tucker? Not only was he someone she would never be expected to marry, but he was generally kept far from her by his work—not to mention that he was presumed dead, ensuring that the very existence of their relationship must remain secret. All of which provided reasons—or perhaps excuses—for the absence of a deeper commitment such as marriage or parenting.
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