STAR TREK: Enterprise - What Price Honor?

by Dave Stern

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I know there’s a lot going on,” Archer said. “But as soon as you can—”

  “By tomorrow morning, sir. It’ll be in the system.”

  “Good. I appreciate it.” Archer hesitated. “One other thing, Malcolm. Just so you know—there’s no question in my mind about the incident. I stand behind you one hundred percent.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Which means I’m taking your word for something else, too.”

  “Sir?”

  “That no matter what Doctor Phlox found—or didn’t find—something happened to Ensign Hart down there. Something that made her behave the way she did. And we’re going to get to the bottom of it. “So we’re not leaving yet?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Archer said. “Listen. Try to get Roan one more time tonight. But if you can’t—get some sleep. You look like you need it.”

  Reed smiled. “That is an understatement, Captain.”

  “All right, then.” Archer stood up. “Dismissed.”

  The captain was right. He needed to sleep. The way his mind was racing, though ... he wasn’t sure he could. What he could do was eat—he hadn’t had anything since breakfast.

  The mess hall was practically deserted. Two crewmen from medical in the corner, laughing, heads bowed together over what looked like coffee and dessert. Fraternizing.

  The regulations didn’t apply to them. Not the way they had to him and Alana. It wasn’t fair. It was blatantly unfair, in fact. Trip was right—those rules were going to change. Too late for him, though.

  Reed picked out some leftover lasagna—vegetarian, he thought the chef said, though when he took his first few bites he could have sworn he tasted meat. Probably synthetic. He didn’t care.

  He picked at his food absently, thinking about Alana, about Goridian, and Valay, and Roan. What he’d seen down at the outpost. It was all tied together somehow, though he was too tired to even try to make the pieces fit.

  Coffee then, he thought, and went and got a big mugful. Added milk—and sugar for good measure, which he never did. A little extra energy.

  He set the mug back down on the table, and sat. One of the two crewmen from medical laughed, and spoke quietly to the other. He heard the sound of chairs pushing back, then footsteps. When he looked up, he was alone.

  He stared at the empty chair across from him, and pictured Alana again, the night they met in her quarters, and talked about Dinai Station.

  “Thing was, the pirates were smart,” she said. “They dressed the hostages up like bad guys, and used them as stalking horses.”

  His vision swam for a second then—and in his mind, he saw her leaning forward, till her face was only inches apart from his, so close her features blurred.

  “They dressed up,” she repeated. “They weren’t who they seemed to be. Do you understand?”

  He didn’t. He didn’t remember her using those words.

  “Malcolm,” she repeated, leaning even closer. God, she was right there with him. “Listen to me.”

  I am listening, he said, almost to himself. I am.

  But he was so tired.

  He laid his head down on the table a second to rest.

  Ten

  ARMORY

  1/13/2151 1421 HOURS

  “I CAN TELL YOU exactly what the problem is,” Trip said from several feet above and to the right of Reed. “An excess of energy.”

  “Which is why we need to modify these circuits, not reroute them,” Reed replied. He had one knee down on the deck, the front panel off the auxiliary control relays, and was busy tracing the energy flow from the plasma conduits to the firing circuits. “Reconfiguring the energy grid is the only way to make sure the system works as a unit.”

  Trip snorted audibly.

  “Whoa, whoa. Hold on a minute there, mister.”

  Reed pinched a bundle of conduit between thumb and forefinger so as not to lose track of the line he was tracing, and looked up.

  They were trying out the latest in a series of modifications Reed had proposed for the ship’s phase cannons. Neither man wanted a repeat of what had happened the last time they’d used those weapons—two full days of double shifts, repairing the overheated circuits.

  Trip wagged the diagnostic caliper in his hand at Reed. “We are not goin’ to reinvent the wheel here. There’s no need for that—all we want is to maximize the energy output of this one component, of this one system. Besides ...” He lowered his voice and leaned closer to Reed. “When I was talking about excess energy, I wasn’t talkin’ about the damn phase cannons, Malcolm.” He smiled. “I was talking about you and Ensign Hart.”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Reed said, standing up quickly. “You’re not going to start in on that again, are you?”

  Trip held up his hands in mock surrender. “Just trying to help out.”

  “Your concern is touching,” Reed said. “But unnecessary.”

  “Why’s that?” Trip asked.

  “Ensign Hart is transferring,” he said.

  Trip’s mouth fell open in surprise. “What?”

  “Transferring,” Reed said. “As in leaving the ship.”

  And with that, Reed turned and crossed the length of the armory to the far circuit panel, where the energy conduit from the engineering deck entered the room.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Trip said, catching up to him. “First of all, how can she transfer off Enterprise? We don’t exactly make regular ports of call.”

  “The next cargo ship, transfer station, docking facility—the next non-hostile headed toward Earth, she’ll be on it.”

  “Well ... damn,” Trip said. “Why?”

  Reed flashed on Alana’s face last night, when he’d stood in the doorway of her quarters and said goodbye.

  “Malcolm?” Trip repeated. “Why?”

  “You’d have to ask her,” Reed said. “Excuse me.”

  He unscrewed the access panel, found the line that branched off to the cannon relays, and made sure the power to it was shut down. Which was harder to do than he thought it would be. It would be a good idea to have a convenient way to close that down without going into the interior workings of the system. A safety switch, for lack of a better term. He pulled out his padd from his back pocket and added that item to his to-do list.

  He noted that Captain Archer had scheduled a meeting to discuss Alana’s transfer request later that afternoon. He could see how that one was going to play out already.

  “I didn’t exactly abuse my position, sir,” Reed heard himself saying.

  Archer would nod, and not say anything for a moment. And then, “How—exactly—would you characterize what you did?” the captain would say.

  And Reed pictured himself standing in the ready room, shuffling his feet, clearing his throat, and searching for the words to describe his actions of the past week and a half with regard to Alana.

  Wonderful, he thought, snapping the padd shut. I’m really looking forward to that.

  A dozen feet away, Bishop had the weapons locker open, and was checking charges on the phase pistols. He worked in silence, his movements practiced and precise.

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  He looked up and saw Trip standing next to him again.

  “About what?”

  “Ensign Hart’s transfer.”

  “What can I do? That’s what she wants, I suppose.”

  “Is it?” Trip asked. “Ships grapevine has it that her, and you—”

  “Trip,” Reed said, lowering his voice. “There are rules about officers fraternizing with subordinates, in case you hadn’t heard.”

  “Rules,” Trip snorted, following Malcolm over to the torpedo bays. “Bunch of pencil-pushers back in San Francisco copying over old Navy regulations into the Starfleet manual? That’s a rule that needs to get changed, and quick.”

  “Those Navy regulations were put in place for good r
eason.”

  “Different times, my friend. How long you think we’re gonna be out here? One year? Two?”

  “At least,” Reed said.

  Trip nodded. “You got that right. I’ve heard rumors of five, and maybe even longer. And we’re not always going to be near a starbase, or a planet like Risa. Besides, this is not your fathers navy, am I right?” He prodded Malcolm with the caliper. “Things are going to happen. Those regulations are an anachronism. Mark my words, you’ll not only be seeing relationships aboard starships, but weddings too.”

  “You might be right,” Reed said. “But until the regulations change, it’s our duty to obey them.”

  He bent down, then, and checked the energy flow from the conduit to the bays.

  Trip bent down with him.

  “You ought to speak to the captain. That’s what I’d do. Tell him you and Ensign Hart—”

  Reed had had enough.

  “Trip, as far as I’m concerned, Ensign Hart is a closed subject—all right?”

  The armory fell silent for a second.

  Which was when Reed realized he’d spoken rather louder than he’d intended. Shouted, actually.

  He looked around the armory, and saw Bishop staring at the two of them. Bishop saw him looking, and quickly turned back to his work.

  Reed turned back to Trip.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to yell.”

  “I get your point, Malcolm,” Trip said quietly. “I was only trying to be your friend here.”

  And he went off to the far corner of the armory to busy himself with something else.

  Wonderful, Reed thought again. Piss off the captain’s number two, then piss off the man in charge. Good strategy. What a perfect day this is turning out to be.

  The armory door slid open, and Alana walked in.

  Bishop and Trip both looked over at her, and promptly looked away.

  Alana stopped in her tracks.

  “Is something wrong?” Her gaze went around the room, and settled on Reed. She looked puzzled. Reed was puzzled too, but for a different reason.

  “Ensign?” he said. “What—why are you here? You’re not on till tonight.”

  She snapped to attention, then, her gaze focused on the wall directly behind Reed.

  “I’m covering for Diaz. She’s sick.”

  She wouldn’t look at him. But Reed couldn’t stop looking at her. At that instant, he wanted nothing more than to walk right over to her and tell her the transfer was stupid, and he was stupid, and the regulations were stupid, and the two of them should march hand-in-hand up to Captain Archer and tell him that in so many words.

  “The regulations are stupid?” he pictured the captain saying.

  “Yes, sir.” He saw himself standing firm in front of the captain, sharing a smile with Alana.

  In his mind, Archer turned to Hart. “Would you excuse us a second, Ensign?’

  “Of course, sir.”

  And then she left the room, and Archer turned to Reed and said—

  “Let’s talk about stupid for a moment, all right, Malcolm?”

  He shook his head, and returned to reality.

  “All right, Ensign,” Reed said to Alana. “Why don’t you assist Mister Bishop with the phase pistols?”

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  Reed turned his back to the two of them and returned to work.

  Perhaps thirty seconds later, he became aware of someone standing next to him.

  He looked up to see Alana glaring at him.

  “I would have preferred,” she said through clenched teeth, “to tell my shipmates myself about the transfer.”

  “I’m sorry.” Reed quickly stood. “The commander and I were having a private conversation, and we were overheard.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “In the long run, I suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

  “It does matter. And I apologize.” He lowered his voice. “Alana, I wish you had come to talk to me before putting in this request.”

  “It’s my decision, sir. I didn’t see the need to talk to you about it.”

  “Alana.” Reed lowered his voice. “You don’t have to keep calling me sir.”

  “Of course I do,” she said, her lips tight. “Regulations. Sir.”

  “Oh for God’s sake.” Reed shook his head. “This sort of conversation is exactly why—”

  The com sounded. “Bridge to armory.”

  That was Captain Archer.

  “Excuse me,” he said to Alana, and walked over to the com panel.

  “Armory. Lieutenant Reed. Go ahead, sir.”

  “We need you up here, Lieutenant. And if Commander Tucker’s with you—”

  “Right here, Captain,” said Trip, stepping up next to Reed. The commander looked amused—Reed had no doubt Trip had been listening to his conversation with Alana.

  “You’d better head over to engineering, Trip.”

  “What’s up, Captain?” Trip asked.

  “Hoshi’s picked up something on subspace,” Archer said. “I want everyone at their stations.”

  “Aye, sir,” Reed said. “Out.”

  “We’ll have to continue this project later, Lieutenant Reed,” Trip said. There was a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “And our previous conversation as well.”

  And with that, he was out the door.

  Reed turned back to Alana.

  “Ensign, we’ll have to finish our conversation later as well, I’m afraid.”

  “No need,” she told him. “It’s already finished. Sir.”

  She walked back over to the weapons locker, and started checking phase charges again.

  Reed thought about saying something. But he couldn’t think of what.

  After a moment, he gave up and headed for the turbolift.

  The bridge was a beehive of activity. Reed assumed his station, and pulled up a quick readout of the ship’s tactical systems. All were at nominal status.

  “Signal strength is increasing, Captain,” Hoshi said. “But still very faint.”

  “Put it up on speakers, if you can,” Archer said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  A buzz of static filled the air. Reed couldn’t make out anything intelligible through it.

  “Can you clean it up?” Archer asked, swiveling in his chair toward Hoshi.

  “Trying, sir,” she said. Her hands flew across the control surface at her station. The static eased up a little bit. Syllables—nonsense, all of them, as far as Reed could tell—filled the bridge.

  “The pattern is repeating—seven distinct fragments,” Hoshi said. “It’s a recording of some sort.” She cocked her head to one side, her eyes half-closed, listening intently.

  Reed tried to listen as well. The voice was pitched low—male, was his first guess—and whoever was speaking sounded quite anxious. Panicked, even.

  “Sounds like a distress signal,” the captain said, echoing his own thoughts.

  Hoshi nodded. “Quite possibly, sir.”

  “May I remind you both,” T’Pol said, “it is dangerous to project one culture’s behavioral characteristics onto another.”

  “I know that,” Hoshi said. “That’s why I’m running it through the translation matrix.”

  Archer got up from his chair to stand by her station. He stood there a good five minutes. The bridge remained silent the whole time. Reed cleared the tactical status display from his monitor and brought up a sensor schematic of local space.

  Finally, Hoshi shook her head. “Nothing, sir. Not enough to translate.”

  Archer nodded. “All right. We’re going to proceed on the basis that it is a distress signal. Can we get a location on it?”

  “I have been attempting to do just that,” T’Pol said. She nodded toward the viewscreen, where the view of space outside the ship was suddenly replaced by a diagram.

  “We have just entered the Eris Alpha system,” T’Pol said. “A binary star system.” The diagram showed two large dots right next to each other, sur
rounded by perhaps two dozen smaller ones at various distances. “Eris Alpha Prime is the larger star. The signal is coming from one of the planets nearest to it, or a point nearby. We’ll need to drop out of warp to pinpoint its exact origin.”

  Archer nodded. “Bring us to impulse, Mister Mayweather.”

  The omnipresent thrum of the ship’s warp engines died out, replaced by a much softer hum.

  At her station, T’Pol was studying a number of readouts.

  “Triangulating the transmission’s source,” T’Pol said. She studied the displays around her station, then looked up.

  “There is a planetoid orbiting Eris Alpha III,” she said. One of the smaller dots on the diagram filling the viewscreen began blinking. “That is the source of the transmission.”

  Archer took his chair again. “Take us there, Mister Mayweather. Full impulse.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Reed tied in to the sensors, and began scanning the area they were heading toward. He whistled softly. “A lot of background radiation around that area, sir. No wonder the signal is so distorted.”

  “A lot of debris in the space surrounding the planetoid as well,” T’Pol chimed in.

  “Weapons fire?” Archer asked.

  Reed exchanged a quick glance with T’Pol, and nodded. “Quite possibly, sir,” Reed said. “The energy signatures are indicative of a number of small explosions—or a single larger one.”

  “How recent?”

  “Very,” T’Pol said. “Within the last twenty-four hours.”

  Reed had already reached the same conclusion from the readouts at his console. Now he keyed in a series of commands to his console that brought the armory crew to alert status.

  Archer nodded. “How sophisticated is the technology involved? Are we talking about warp-capable species?”

  “Impossible to tell from this distance,” T’Pol answered.

  “Any records in the Vulcan archives of civilizations out here?”

  “Vulcans have not been out this far, sir.”

  “ETA, Travis?” Archer asked the helmsman.

  “Thirty seconds, sir.”

  The time passed in silence. Reed alternated looking between his sensors and the viewscreen. A planet drifted into view—barren rock, a moon-desolate, crater-filled surface. As they circled it, they came up on a smaller body in orbit.