by Star Trek
Only this is even more serious, Trip thought. Because the safety of the Earth and all her allies is at stake.
Still, Trip had to cling to the hope that an all-out war with the Romulans was still somehow avoidable. “There’s no way around this thing, is there?” he asked Phuong at length.
“A way around war with the Romulans?” Phuong’s expression became grave, and he shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve come to understand the Romulans a little too well to believe that’s possible.”
That’s saying a lot, considering the fact that he’s never even seen a Romulan, Trip thought. Aloud, he said, “Don’t you think Romulan dissidents—like these Ejhoi Ormiin people—might have anything to say?”
Phuong chuckled, but it was a dry, humorless sound. “Passion isn’t the same thing as power, Commander. Unfortunately, the Ejhoi Ormiin aren’t in charge, and that’s not likely to change anytime soon.”
Trip sat back in silence, staring straight ahead at the starfield through which the Branson was headed. He was suddenly struck by the sheer immensity of the implacable forces arrayed against Earth and her allies—and by the Coalition’s remote chance of survival, given its apparent blindness to the very real dangers that lay directly in its path.
“Why is it that only a few people can see what ought to be obvious?” he said a few moments later, once he’d found his voice again.
Phuong answered in soothing, encouraging tones. “Maybe certain people can’t help but see it—especially if they’re trained problem solvers.”
That seemed to Trip entirely too facile an answer, and he turned to cast a skeptical eye upon the other man. “There are lots of ‘problem solvers’ on Earth who have bigger brains than either of us do, Tinh.”
“Granted. But a lot of those ‘big brains’ are pursuing other agendas, too—like struggling to hang onto a high political office or an admiral’s pips. Public controversy and fear can work against those sort of agendas, and people like Nathan Samuels and Admiral Gardner damned well know it, especially now that they need to put the Terra Prime attacks behind them in order to keep the public calm and the Coalition together.”
“What about the other Coalition worlds?” Trip asked. “Aren’t any of them willing to listen and help?”
“Our bureau—Section 31, as you call it—is a secret organization based on Earth, Commander. And it would be a lot tougher for us to stay secret if we were to tip our hand to Earth’s allies—to say nothing of the damage we might do to interstellar relations if our allies ever got the notion that Earth is either an active or an unwitting host to what some might call a rogue spy network. Not that they don’t use similar means and methods themselves, mind you.”
Trip nodded. “Like the Vulcan agents who spied on the Andorians while posing as monks on P’Jem.”
“Exactly. Besides, I wouldn’t count on a lot of help from the allied planets right now anyway. They’ve each got their hands full. The Andorians and Vulcans are still busy spying on each other, even now. Minister T’Pau is still in the process of purging the Vulcan High Command of V’Las loyalists, which has hamstrung Vulcan’s military response capabilities, at least for a while. The Coridan worlds have been so close to civil war over the past few years that I doubt Coridan Prime would share its warp-seven technology with Earth in time to provide any tactical advantage over the Romulans. And the Tellarites never seem to get tired of arguing among themselves, or with anyone else, for that matter.”
Trip sighed, not sure how to respond, though he was certain that Phuong’s analysis was pretty much spot-on, if a bit cynical. “Sounds like you don’t have a lot of faith in the Coalition.”
“Not true,” Phuong said, waving a hand as though to dismiss Trip’s words. “I’m just realistic enough not to expect it to solve every problem overnight. The Coalition is only a starting point for Earth’s future. It’s going to need quite a bit of time to prove itself truly useful to all the parties involved.”
“But it won’t get that time if the Romulans move before we’re ready for them,” Trip said.
“Precisely.” Phuong nodded and smiled, evidently delighted at Trip’s insight. “It’s crucial that we prevent the Romulans from completing Doctor Ehrehin’s new stardrive prototypes. If we miss on this, there’ll be nothing to stop the Romulans from invading Earth itself.”
Phuong’s dark eyes seemed almost to glow with an inner fervor as he continued: “During the eleven years I served in Earth’s diplomatic service, wishful thinkers have treated my take on the Romulans like the ravings of a delusional paranoid. But the bureau saw the Romulan threat with clear eyes. Its directorate was willing to listen—and more importantly, was willing to do something. The Xindi attack taught us the importance of being out here, of being proactive. That’s why our role in keeping Earth safe will become even more critical as the Coalition moves forward and Earth comes into contact with God only knows how many more new potential adversaries in the years ahead.”
Phuong’s impassioned speech gave Trip a momentary chill of recognition. And despite his current extreme vulnerability—being in deep space with a spy who would no doubt kill him if he perceived him as dangerous to his mission—Trip realized that he simply couldn’t let it pass without comment.
“The last time I saw anybody look as intense as you do right now was the time I nearly got killed by John Frederick Paxton.”
Trip half expected an extremely angry response. But instead, Phuong laughed, the sound coming from deep in his belly.
“Stick with the bureau long enough, Commander, and there’s no way you could mistake us for Terra Prime,” Phuong finally said once his laughter finally died down. “The bureau doesn’t want humanity to shy away from alien contact. Or to expand through the galaxy as exploiters or conquerors. We only want the human race to face whatever’s out there with open eyes, open minds, and a pragmatic attitude.”
Trip absorbed Phuong’s apparently heartfelt sentiments with no small amount of relief. Turning back toward the ever-unfolding starfield that lay before him, Trip resumed studying the image of Adigeon Prime. Although his apprehensions about what lay ahead—particularly about what awaited him in the Adigeons’ surgical facilities—hadn’t entirely abated, they had at least receded somewhat.
Maybe I really did make the best decision I could have by agreeing to come out here, he thought. And the sooner we get the deed done, the sooner I’ll be able to tell my folks and T’Pol that “the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”
That was assuming, of course, that he’d find a way to survive a sojourn in entirely unknown space, while hiding and spying among deadly adversaries, people that no one from his planet had ever even laid eyes on before….
Seventeen
Monday, February 17, 2155
Enterprise NX-01
THE PALE BLUE DOT on Enterprise’s bridge viewer gradually resolved itself into a disk, then grew still further until it became recognizable as the frigid, perpetually snow-blown desert that was Rigel X—the planet where the Orion’s slave ship’s trail had abruptly ended.
Jonathan Archer had been here before, on his very first mission aboard Enterprise, in fact, and the recollection wasn’t a pleasant one. Since he had hurriedly departed from this place in the midst of a running firefight—and gotten shot while doing so—Rigel X wasn’t high on the list of locales he wanted to revisit anytime soon.
“Delightful planet, Captain,” Malcolm Reed said, with no small amount of irony. Sitting at the tactical station that faced the bridge’s center from starboard, he seemed to have read Archer’s mind better than even Theras could have.
“I suppose ending up at Risa was too much to hope for,” Archer said dryly as he rose from his command chair and strode toward the image of the dark, frigid world that now lay only a few hundred kilometers beneath Enterprise’s ventral hull. Had the star Rigel, visible beyond its tenth planet’s limb as a small but bright disk, not been a blue supergiant, this world would have been as thoroughly fr
ozen and uninhabitable as Pluto. Though quite distant from its primary star, Rigel X provided a marginally livable environment that supported a large population of itinerant traders and permanent residents, sentients from at least a dozen worlds spread throughout the several sectors of space—all of whom worked, played, and lived in an enormous, thirty-six-level commercial habitat complex built right into the planet’s living rock.
“Travis, put us into a standard orbit.”
“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said as he deftly worked the controls.
As Archer continued to watch the screen, he saw bright lines intermittently lancing the turbulent indigo atmosphere with delicate and swiftly fading traceries of fire. Too regular and elliptically shaped to be lightning discharges, the brilliant streaks betrayed the ascent and descent of all manner of spacecraft, which must have been taking traders and customers of all sorts to and from the surface of Rigel X.
The captain recalled how he’d felt four years ago, that he didn’t want a Vulcan on his ship. Now, he couldn’t imagine Enterprise without T’Pol. His science officer, quiet, competent, and still able to surprise her captain. This morning he stepped out of his ready room and immediately noticed that something was off. Looking towards the science station, Archer saw T’Pol in a Starfleet uniform. Even now he had to suppress a smile. Turning toward the science station, Archer asked, “T’Pol, have you found any ships in the vicinity that might correspond to the warp trail we followed here?”
T’Pol shook her head gravely. “I’ve already begun running scans of the surface, and every ship within range of Enterprise’s sensors, whether on the surface, in the atmosphere, or in orbit. Nothing conclusive has emerged so far, although I have detected a number of Orion ships of various classes, all of them commercial transports and freighters. It is possible that the particular vessel we followed is indeed present on the planet, but has powered down temporarily so as to make itself undetectable.”
“What about Aenar life signs?”
“So far I’ve found no evidence of any Aenar or Andorian life-forms anywhere on the planet, or aboard any of the incoming vessels I have detected.”
“But that doesn’t necessarily mean they aren’t here somewhere, Captain,” said Reed. “People who peddle flesh the way the Orions do would be highly motivated to keep their activities camouflaged. Absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence.”
“Either way,” Archer said, “somebody down there must know the location and status of that Orion slave ship we tracked here. I’m taking a landing party down to the trade complex to find out.”
“Aye, sir.” Ensign Mayweather entered a command into his helm console, then rose from his seat to face the captain. “I’ll start preparing Shuttlepod One immediately.”
Archer raised a hand in a gentle “slow down” gesture. “Not this time, Travis. We’ll be using the transporter, since we need to get in quickly and may need to get out even more quickly.” Once again, he couldn’t escape the memory of the painful energy-pistol burn he’d received the last time he’d been in a rush to leave Rigel X.
Though Mayweather looked crestfallen as he returned to his station, Archer lacked the time and the patience at the moment to promise the junior officer more exciting piloting duty “next time.”
Archer turned back to face the aft portion of the bridge, where T’Pol and Hoshi manned the two stations at his right, while Malcolm looked on from the tactical station at the captain’s left. “Malcolm, you’re coming, too. I want a pair of MACOs along to watch our backs as well. T’Pol, you have the bridge.” He started toward the turbolift, motioning to Malcolm, who immediately followed.
“Shran has already made it abundantly clear that he intends to come along with any landing party we dispatch to the surface,” T’Pol said as Archer passed.
He stopped in the open turbolift entrance for a moment, considering. “All right, T’Pol,” he said finally. “Shran can come along. I suppose he’d be pretty hard for the rest of you to live with if I were to leave him here. But Theras is definitely staying aboard Enterprise.”
T’Pol raised an eyebrow. “I’m certain that Shran will be quite pleased by both of those decisions, Captain,” she said just before the turbolift doors closed.
“Captain, are you certain it’s wise to bring Shran along on this mission?” Malcolm asked as the turbolift began its descent toward D deck, where the transporter was located. “If you don’t mind my saying so, I’ve always found him rather lacking in…restraint.”
“Really, Malcolm. I hadn’t noticed.”
Malcolm continued, ignoring Archer’s jest. “And he’s been particularly touchy since he first brought this Orion slaver business to our attention.”
“I suppose I’ll have to take him aside before we beam down and give him a gentle lecture on restraint,” Archer said.
“Good idea, sir. I’d also recommend taking along a third MACO.”
“Why?”
Malcolm grinned sheepishly. “Just in case Shran needs a little additional babysitting.”
The landing party materialized in near darkness, standing in a tight, back-to-back circle. Archer’s eyes weren’t yet adjusted to the dim light, but he could feel the penetrating cold of the trade complex’s poorer quarters immediately. He could see the flicker of the fires that Rigel X’s homeless, hopeless transients were burning to cook their meals, or perhaps merely to stay warm. He could smell the pungent mixture of smoke and sweat, despair and greed that swirled in the chill air. He could feel the harsh solidity of the metal floor beneath his boots. And in the middle distance, he could hear the roar of a crowd, punctuated by the fast, terse vocalizations of a humanoid speaking into a public address system of some sort, announcing what sounded like quantities and prices in various alien currencies.
Archer ordered the team to move out, taking the point while a pair of MACO troopers—their company leader, the petite and dark-haired Sergeant Fiona McKenzie, and the eagle-eyed Corporal Hideaki Chang—flanked him, their phase pistols holstered to avoid provoking anyone, yet still within easy reach. Reed, Shran, and the remaining MACO, a small, wiry, shaved-headed corporal named David McCammon, watched the rear as the group moved quickly through a twisting maze of causeways, alleys, and ramshackle galleries, toward the source of the sounds.
Although Archer had visited this trading facility before, what he saw when the team finally reached the large, crowded gallery-cum-amphitheater truly shocked him.
Of course, it wasn’t as though he’d never seen a slave auction before. Nine months earlier, T’Pol and several other members of his crew had briefly become trapped in just the sort of nightmare that now lay spread before him. Now as then, helpless, shackled people of every imaginable species, and members of more than a few he didn’t recognize, were being herded by armed, green-skinned overseers toward a raised dais, where a large, bejeweled, and lightly armored Orion male vended his wares to an equally diverse group of much more finely attired sentients. These obviously well-heeled buyers probably originated from points all over known space, if not from considerably beyond as well.
As his team insinuated itself close enough to the stage to get a clear look at the seemingly endless pageant of chained and nearly naked flesh from countless worlds, the fact that there were no humans among the captives being sold gave Archer only cold comfort. After all, no species had a monopoly on fear; in Archer’s experience, all sentient beings experienced that emotion in pretty much the same way. The stage presently abounded with ample evidence that fear was as universal as life was cheap.
At least in places like this, where those who thought that their wealth entitled them to purchase people seemed to be as common as hydrogen.
“There are no Aenar here, Captain,” said Shran, who was standing at Archer’s left. He, too, was studying the stage intently. Archer could see that the Andorian was as disgusted as he was by the flesh market before them.
“I haven’t seen any, either,” Archer said. The two men had to shout to hear
one another over the all-enveloping white noise made by the bidding crowd around them.
Malcolm, who had sidled up to Archer’s immediate right, consulted the scanning device in his hand. “Even at close range, I’ve found no Aenar life signs so far.”
“Perhaps they’re being sold at another slave market elsewhere on the planet,” said Shran.
“Look at the size of this operation, Shran,” Archer said. “Do you think there could be another market here capable of competing with this? Besides, Rigel X only has one central trade complex.”
“It’s one too many, if you ask me,” Reed said. His face was a study in distaste.
“I can certainly agree with you on that, pinkskin,” Shran said.
“My guess,” said Archer, trying to keep the team focused, “is that the slave ship we tracked here made a wholesale transfer of all the captured Aenar onto a second ship.”
“Makes sense,” Reed said. “They could have bypassed the auction block altogether if they already had a single buyer lined up.”
A buyer like the Romulan military, Archer thought with a chill.
Shran’s antennae flattened against his scalp in a clear display of anger and frustration. “If that’s true, then we’re not leaving this planet until I find out where that slave ship is now, and exactly what became of its…cargo.”
“Someone in charge of logistics around here would have to be able to shed some light on the matter,” Reed said.