Enterprise 12 - The Good That Men Do

by Star Trek

  Archer suppressed an ironic grin when he saw that Ambassador Gral of Tellar and Ambassador Anlenthoris ch’Vhendreni of Andoria—the latter being better known simply as Thoris—both appeared far more ill at ease in the presence of the masked Coridanite than they were with each other. This is going to be a long journey, Archer reminded himself. Maybe the only way it can get started is with baby steps.

  “Let me begin by publicly announcing the resolution of a major negotiating impasse,” Samuels continued, his enthusiasm escalating audibly as he played to the press. “The governments of Tellar and Coridan have at last reached an accord over the controversial issue of trade sanctions against the Orion Syndicate…”

  Once Samuels finally concluded his nearly ninety-minute presentation, Archer understood that Doctor Phlox had been absolutely right about the necessity for Samuels’ “dog and pony show.” After all of the principal delegates had taken their respective turns at the lectern, public faith in the coming Coalition Compact—Samuels had renewed his pledge to have the document’s final draft ready for its official signing within six weeks—had to be on the rise, especially if the reaction of Archer’s own crew was any indication. The captain had noticed that all of his people had stood enthralled throughout the proceedings, including Malcolm, who rarely took the words of political figures at face value and sometimes tended to fidget when not kept intensely focused on some urgent tactics-related shipboard task or other. Archer could see clearly that all of his people were overwhelmed by the historical significance of this day.

  The Coalition of Planets was transforming from dream to reality, right before everyone’s eyes. In a matter of mere weeks, the nascent alliance treaty already known across the sector and beyond as the Coalition Compact would become interstellar law, binding five sovereign worlds together inextricably in common, peaceful purpose.

  Admiral Forrest would have loved to see this. Archer couldn’t help recalling his late superior officer, the man who had sponsored his captaincy and had defended it from the beginning, through rough and smooth times. Forrest had died more than six months ago in a terror attack carried out by an aggressive and xenophobic Vulcan official named V’Las, a man cut from the same cloth as Terra Prime’s John Frederick Paxton.

  Leaning toward Hoshi, who stood between Phlox and Reed and Mayweather, Archer said, “So how does it feel to be an up-close eyewitness to history, Hoshi?”

  She replied quietly after a lengthy and uncharacteristically tongue-tied pause. “It’s kind of embarrassing for a linguist to have to admit this, sir, but I don’t think I quite have the right words for it.”

  “I know exactly how you feel,” Archer replied with a chuckle. Gesturing toward the new translator unit that hung from the lanyard encircling his collar, he added. “But thanks to you, all the delegates did have the right words.”

  Archer watched the assembled diplomats as they stood around the open circle formed by the conference tables, accepting congratulations and handshakes—or respectful gestures, in the case of the standoffish Vulcans, whose touch-telepathic abilities made them understandably disinclined to allow physical contact—from the Starfleet brass, Earth government officials, and other assorted notables. And it all took place before the all-seeing electronic eyes of the media, who were even now spreading the day’s words and images throughout the sector and beyond.

  In spite of his hopes for the future, Archer couldn’t help but wonder how many other outlying civilizations would take the news being made here today as a reason to become as paranoid as the Xindi had been.

  Now who’s being paranoid? Archer thought, trying to force himself to relax.

  Malcolm leaned down to speak sotto voce into Archer’s ear. “Is it just me, or was Ambassador Lekev going out of his way to point out every small nit in the fine print?”

  Archer had harbored similar unvoiced thoughts during the presentation, though he wondered if he hadn’t been singling Lekev out for unusual scrutiny because of the decidedly inhuman aspect presented by the ambassador’s mask.

  “Maybe we’ve all got to learn to look past masks, Malcolm,” Archer said, eager to give the Coridanites the benefit of the doubt.

  “Maybe learning to get along with other species is a beginner’s art,” Travis added.

  Archer feared that Mayweather might well be right about that. But before he could think of a suitably upbeat reply, his communicator beeped, its tone indicating an incoming signal from Enterprise. He pulled the small device from his pocket and flipped its metal grid open with a practiced flick of his wrist.

  “Archer here. Go ahead, Enterprise.”

  “O’Neill, sir,” said Lieutenant Donna “D.O.” O’Neill, her no-nonsense tones rendered slightly metallic by the communicator’s tiny speaker. She paused, apparently to stifle a sudden cough, before continuing. “Enterprise will be ready to break orbit and get under way for Vulcan within the hour, per your orders.”

  Vulcan. There Archer would finally be reunited with Trip and T’Pol—and would no doubt see the grief still lingering on both their faces, T’Pol’s tight Vulcan emotional control notwithstanding. Once again, Archer wished that Trip and T’Pol were here instead of there, focusing on the future and hope rather than on the past and despair.

  “Acknowledged, D.O.,” Archer said. “Shuttlepod One will dock with Enterprise in about forty-five minutes. Then I’ll want best speed to Vulcan. Archer out.”

  And let’s hope while we’re gone that nothing spooks these delegates the way Terra Prime did, he thought as he flipped the communicator grid closed.

  Three

  Thursday, January 30, 2155

  Vulcan’s Forge

  THE HARSH, DRY WIND stung his exposed skin. Commander Charles “Trip” Tucker III was glad that it was twilight, even if the area was still quite hot. He didn’t know how the Vulcans withstood the heat, given all their layered heavy garments. For the occasion, he had asked for a set of ceremonial robes; it seemed fitting, even if he was soaked in sweat underneath them.

  The Vulcan who had helped clothe him had also given him a matching swath of fabric intended to allow him to surreptitiously cover the neurotherapeutic sling with which Phlox had outfitted him; the weapons-burst he had taken to the shoulder while fighting Terra Prime on Mars the previous week had caused some residual, though thankfully reversible, nerve damage to his left arm. He’d be wearing the sling for another week, at least.

  T’Pol was somewhere inside the mostly rebuilt T’Karath Sanctuary. He assumed that she was making whatever preparations needed to be made. He hadn’t attended many Vulcan funerals, and hadn’t particularly had the time—or the desire—to read up on them during the few days it had taken the speedy Coridanite diplomatic vessel to ferry them here.

  “Commander Tucker?” The voice was even and crisp. He knew it belonged to a Vulcan before he even turned around. He was not surprised to recognize the shorter woman, even if her shaggy brown hair had now been swept up under a tall cap.

  “Minister T’Pau,” he replied, bowing slightly toward her. He supposed that she must have just returned from the recent round of Coalition negotiations on Earth.

  “I hope everything has been comfortable for you, under the circumstances,” she said, nodding courteously. “Our workers have been laboring night and day to turn this desolation once again into a sanctuary.”

  “I’ve been most comfortable, ma’am,” Trip said. “Your workers have done a great job over the past six months.” He had only seen in holograms what the original T’Karath Sanctuary had looked like. As was the case with many Vulcan religious and philosophical refuges, it had been designed and built to be a part of the low desert hills, rather than something separate from the inhospitable natural world that surrounded it.

  “T’Karath was once a significant part of our history,” T’Pau said, stepping forward and looking out over the rocky canyon that sloped away from the sanctuary proper. Trip admired the neat rows of hardy, ground-level plants that adorned the canyon’s ruddy,
rock-strewn sands. He’d overheard one of the workers refer to these newly planted leafy succulents as kylin’the, which were supposed to possess healing properties. The sight of life returning and persisting so stubbornly in such a hostile place made Trip feel something that strongly resembled hope.

  “A history that stretches back to the time of Surak,” T’Pau continued. “The sanctuary was mostly destroyed during a…long-past conflict among our people. More recently, my Syrrannite sect used it as a refuge, until the High Command made the decision to wipe us out. Much of what remained from the past was destroyed by the aerial bombardment.”

  “It’s good that you’re rebuilding, then,” Trip said. “It’ll stand as a monument for your people for the future.”

  T’Pau turned and regarded him with one eyebrow raised. “For now at least.” She pursed her lips, and turned back to the expansive view in front of them. “Vulcan’s future is unknown. Hundreds of years from now, this sanctuary may well be forgotten once again.”

  “I hope not,” Trip said.

  “Is that the reason you are interring her here?” T’Pau asked. “So that she will be memorialized in a place you think will hold importance in our future?”

  Trip was momentarily appalled by the question. Every time I think the next Vulcan can’t be any ruder than the last one, I get proved wrong, he thought.

  Before he could respond, he saw T’Pol step out of the entrance behind them. She was dressed in elaborate royal blue robes not unlike those he wore himself, though she didn’t look at all uncomfortable in them. Around her neck she wore the IDIC symbol her mother had sent to her shortly before her death.

  “No, Minister, that is not the reason we are interring Elizabeth here,” T’Pol said. “We do not choose to do this out of some attempt to publicly memorialize our…daughter. We do this because my mother is buried here as well. She would have appreciated knowing her granddaughter.”

  T’Pau nodded. “Even if only for a short time. That is logical.” She paused for a moment, and then added a question. “Do you think she would have accepted the child, given its…mixed parentage?”

  Trip realized that his face was betraying his emotions—annoyance at the moment—and willed his features into a calmer countenance. He knew that T’Pau had been close friends with T’Les, the mother of T’Pol. They had even been at the sanctuary here together when T’Pol and Captain Archer had arrived. Shortly afterward, Archer—who was carrying within him the katra of Surak—had found the long-lost Kir’Shara, an artifact that contained the writings of Surak. The discovery was almost simultaneous with the bombing of T’Karath, during which T’Les had been killed.

  In the aftermath of the destruction, T’Pau, Archer, and T’Pol had delivered the Kir’Shara to the Vulcan High Command, just in time to stop the traitorous Administrator V’Las from launching the people of Vulcan into an ill-advised war against the Andorians. Shortly thereafter, the High Command was dissolved, and a reformation of Vulcan government began. T’Pau had been made a minister, and since that time had led the movement to spread and adopt the philosophies and teachings of Surak on a planetary scale.

  So if she was an ally of T’Les, and she and her society both got some real benefit out of what Archer and T’Pol did here, then why is T’Pau acting this way? Trip didn’t dare ask the woman, and didn’t really need to. He had dealt with enough Vulcans to know that their suppression of emotions made them seem uncaring and unkind much of the time.

  T’Pol answered the minister before Trip could. “My mother was a highly respected faculty member at the Vulcan Science Academy. If for no other reason than this, she would have found the first offspring ever to be produced by a Vulcan and a human to be fascinating. That Elizabeth was the product of her own daughter’s genetic material would—I have no doubt—have encouraged her to accept the child.”

  Before T’Pau could say something else that might make the tension even more unbearable, Trip held his right hand up. “Minister, if it’s all the same to you, we’d like to begin the ceremony for Elizabeth now.”

  T’Pau nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Certainly. The priests have prepared the chamber for you. They have only to deliver the vessel containing the child.” She turned to walk away. “I will make certain that all work ceases until you are finished, so as not to disturb the proceedings,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Thank you,” T’Pol said, her voice flat, and quieter than normal. She turned to look at Trip, her dark eyes wide.

  He hesitated for only a moment before reaching out and pulling her into a hug with his uninjured right arm. He felt her frame stiffen against him before relaxing almost imperceptibly.

  He knew the tension was not just because of the pending funeral service. It was more personal even than that. Their relationship had all but dissolved last fall—even after T’Pol’s divorce from her husband Koss, whom she’d been forced to marry in order to get her mother re-instated at the Academy—then seemingly rekindled almost two months ago.

  The discovery just last week that, six months earlier, Terra Prime scientists had created a binary clone child, using stolen DNA from Trip and T’Pol, had hit them both like a tsunami. The radical Terra Prime isolationists had hoped to use the Vulcan-human hybrid as a way to show humans what would happen should they ally themselves with alien races. And although the terrorists were defeated on Mars, the one good result of their plans—the cloned child, which T’Pol had named Elizabeth to honor Trip’s late sister—did not survive long.

  Doctor Phlox had explained that Elizabeth had died because of flaws in the cloning procedures used to create her, but that didn’t make the loss any easier on the girl’s “parents.”

  During the few days since Elizabeth’s death, Trip and T’Pol had tried to comfort each other, but something seemed fundamentally broken now. Even when Phlox had related his subsequent discovery that whatever incompatibilities might exist between human and Vulcan DNA wouldn’t prevent Trip and T’Pol from reproducing together in the future, the news had seemed depressing rather than hopeful.

  Now, Trip felt T’Pol push away from him, away from his embrace, away from the safety of his arms, away from his emotions. She did not look up at him, but turned quickly.

  “We should go,” he heard her say, but all the strength was gone from her voice. She may not have been crying outwardly—her face displayed no emotion—but Trip had never heard her sound so…crushed.

  As T’Pol walked away, he couldn’t help but wonder if this was really the moment when their relationship finally ended.

  The torchlight flickered over the chamber walls of the room chosen to commemorate T’Les. Each of the Syrrannites who had fallen at the sanctuary was interred in a different chamber, with each commemorated by a small monument to mark his or her sacrifice.

  T’Pol had initially been surprised at the presence of the monuments, since it seemed an extravagant, almost emotional response to death, mandated by T’Pau. But the minister had reminded her that symbols helped to focus memories, and focused memories were more easily controlled and brought to heel with the stern rigors of logic. While she couldn’t argue with the statement, T’Pol still perceived a certain sentimentality attached to the various obelisks, spires, and markers.

  As she attempted to meditate, kneeling on the floor opposite Commander Tucker, T’Pol recalled one of the last conversations she had had with her mother, elsewhere in this very sanctuary. They had argued about the Syrrannites, whom T’Pol had opposed. They had quarreled over the aims of Surak’s teachings, the efficacy of the leadership of the High Command, and the overly forceful manner in which T’Pau had tried to retrieve Surak’s katra from Captain Archer. “I shouldn’t have come here looking for you, and I don’t want anything more to do with you,” T’Pol had told her. Minutes later, when the High Command attacked, her mother had been mortally wounded.

  T’Pol was holding her when she died, shortly after T’Les had admitted that she had joined the Syrrannites’ cause to help her daugh
ter learn to control her emotions. “I have always been so proud of you,” T’Les had said, just moments before drawing her last breath.

  Much had changed for T’Pol since then, at least concerning her understanding of Vulcan philosophies. Although she had always steadfastly refused to believe in the existence of the katra, the experiences that Captain Archer shared—with what he felt was the living spirit of Surak dwelling inside him—were difficult to dismiss. Something had led Archer to the Kir’Shara, and had given him the knowledge required to activate it, thereby revealing the true, undiluted teachings of Surak. Whether that was actually Surak’s katra was something she still debated even now, but even if it was solely some kind of trace memory engram of a man thousands of years gone, it was proof that Surak had lived on past his death, at least in some limited fashion.

  And if he had—or if his katra had—then it was not hard to imagine the katra s of others surviving somehow still, beyond the physical bounds of living flesh.

  Meditating here, in front of the sepulchers that contained the remains of her mother and of her own daughter, T’Pol felt herself clinging to the hope that neither of them was truly gone. That perhaps their katra s did exist, perhaps embedded in the very stone, sand, and soil of this hallowed place.

  Of course, she also had to admit to herself that her hope was undeniably born of emotion. Her mother had often admonished her for having so little control over her emotions, and while she didn’t agree with that assessment, in the nearly one-year period since she had conquered her addiction to trellium—the substance that allowed her to free herself from the grip of logic and emotional constraint—she had known that her ability to control her emotions was now clearly, perhaps irrevocably, damaged.