by Star Trek
“Theras will give the Romulan crew some warning, Captain. They will escape their ship’s destruction. Theras has pledged to see to it.”
“If the Romulans can get to their ship’s escape pods, then so can Theras,” said T’Pol.
“He’s not going to do that,” Shran said, shaking his head, an incredulous expression on his azure face. His antennae lay flat against his scalp, which Archer interpreted as a sign of grief. “And we can’t force him.”
“For God’s sake, why?” Archer wanted to know.
“Because he killed a number of Romulan guards during the rescue mission, Captain,” Jhamel said. “He believes he must atone for this.”
“And what do you believe?” Archer said, chafing at Jhamel’s apparent willingness to abet a photonic torpedo–assisted suicide. “Let me fill you in on an ugly truth, Jhamel: Sometimes it’s necessary to kill in order to defend the lives of others. Sometimes there’s no choice other than to deal death in the name of peace. How can you just…abandon him for recognizing that fact, and acting accordingly?”
Jhamel’s brow crumpled in anger, her antennae thrusting forward almost belligerently. This was the first such emotion Archer could recall ever having seen on Jhamel’s ordinarily smooth, unlined face.
“Captain, you may not believe this, but pacifists can be very pragmatic people—just as you humans believe yourselves to be, particularly when you are ‘dealing death in the name of peace.’ So far, you’ve prevented the Romulans from turning the rest of us into weapons of war, and I sincerely thank you for that. But now you must do the same for Theras—or else they will make a weapon of him, just as they did with Gareb.”
If the Romulans have even a single Aenar telepath in their possession, Archer thought, they’ll force him to operate another one of their telepresence ships. Or maybe they’ll use him for something even worse. Recalling how Gareb had been used, and how he had bravely sacrificed himself in order to bring his involuntary servitude to an end, Archer realized that Jhamel’s thinking was every bit as pragmatic as his own.
Still, he didn’t much like where that realization would inevitably lead him. Regardless, he came to a decision, quickly if not easily.
“Travis, belay my last order. Dead stop.” Enterprise shuddered slightly as she responded to her helmsman’s deft touch on the helm console.
Mayweather regarded him with a slightly puzzled expression, but complied nevertheless, dropping Enterprise out of warp. “Dead stop, Captain.”
“On my order, bring us back to just within weapons range of the Romulan transport vessel,” Archer said, turning toward the tactical station overlooking the command well on the bridge’s starboard side. “Malcolm, get a pair of photonic torpedoes ready. Maximum yield.”
“Aye, sir.” Malcolm said, nodding affirmatively as he entered a string of commands into his console. A few moments later, he nodded at Archer to signal that the weapons tubes were ready to fire at his discretion.
“Travis, engage new course.”
“Aye, sir.”
Within moments, the Romulan transport vessel was displayed front and center on the bridge’s main viewer.
“The warships are locking their weapons again,” said Malcolm. “We’ll probably lose our warp drive if they score a direct hit this time.”
“A chance we’ll have to take, Malcolm,” Archer said, thinking of Theras, and the additional violence the Romulans would surely force upon him.
Then Archer heard Jhamel speaking very gently inside his head. “You are doing the right thing, Captain. Theras has just warned the Romulans to abandon their vessel, and they are leaving it now. I thank you for what you are about to do, Jonathan Archer. And Theras thanks you as well.”
The disembodied voice was steeped in the deepest sadness that Archer had ever known. I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t say, “You’re welcome” to either of you, Archer replied wordlessly.
“Good-bye, Theras,” Jhamel thought, prompting Archer to wonder if everyone else on the bridge had also heard her mournful farewell. He looked toward her and saw that her tears now flowed freely, if silently.
“I salute you,” Shran said, facing the viewer, his face frozen into a somber rigidity that seemed almost Vulcan.
A second voice spoke directly in Archer’s head. It took a moment for Archer to realize that it belonged to Theras. “The escape pods are launching, Captain. Please do what you must do.” Unlike Jhamel, Theras’s mind seemed to carry no excess of grief or regret. Instead, Archer thought the doomed Aenar’s telepathic essence radiated a sense of…vindication.
His throat dry, his eyes burning, Archer said, “Fire torpedoes, Malcolm. Then get us out of here, Travis. Maximum warp.”
A beat later the transport ship erupted in two spectacular conflagrations, one per torpedo. The molecular fires slowly began to spread, pulling the hull apart in several places. Archer saw the first of the escape pods launch moments later, just before the tableau of destruction vanished from the viewscreen as Enterprise leaped to warp.
Jhamel slumped in her seat, weeping violently.
Archer could only hope that she wouldn’t feel the need to seek atonement the way Theras had.
Forty
Friday, February 21, 2155
Romulan space
TRIP WATCHED AS THE BLIP on the sensor display continued its slow, steady progress toward his stolen ship, which remained effectively dead in space. “Becalmed” was how his father—an avid Gulf Coast sailboater—would have described their current condition.
There’s got to be a way to get some wind behind our sails again, Trip thought, wishing he could feel as “becalmed” as their ship had become.
He turned his pilot’s seat toward Ehrehin, who still occupied the copilot’s position. The old man regarded him darkly through the faceplates of their twin environmental suits.
“You mind giving me a hand getting this beast flying again?” Trip said, feeling he had nothing to lose by asking.
The elderly scientist favored him with a drop-jawed look of pure incredulity. “First you kidnap me, then try to keep me away from my would-be rescuers, and now you ask for my help? I certainly have to credit you with audacity, my young friend. Whoever you really are.”
Trip paused for a moment, still struggling to calm himself, though it wasn’t easy at the rate their pursuer continued to gain on them. “When did you figure out I wasn’t really Cunaehr?” he finally said in a quiet voice.
Wondering if his helmet had muffled his words too much to allow Ehrehin to have heard him, Trip was about to repeat his question when the scientist said, “Frankly, it was always difficult to accept you at face value, although I must confess that you do bear an astonishing resemblance to Cunaehr. But it was far too convenient for Cunaehr to reappear precisely when I needed his encouragement the most.”
Trip sighed, feeling like an utter failure. So the only people I’ve managed to fool on this spy mission of mine are all the people back home who think I’m dead. Peachy.
“If I really were Cunaehr, Doctor,” he said aloud, “I think I’d still ask for your help. We need to get the com system back up at least.”
“Why? So you can bargain with Valdore for your life? I must caution you: The admiral is not renowned for his willingness to take prisoners.”
You’re afraid of him, Trip thought. He’d noticed a new tremor in the scientist’s voice that couldn’t have been attributable to old age alone.
Aloud, he said, “I’m actually thinking about your safety, Doctor.”
Ehrehin smiled, and Trip saw an amused gleam in the old man’s eye. “My safety? I should think that the arrival of one of Valdore’s ships should more than ensure that.”
“Unless Valdore decides to kill you because he believes he’s caught you in the act of defecting.”
“The admiral would never believe such a story—especially if it were told by a spy.”
Trip tried to summon up everything he could remember from the briefings Phuong had
given him on Romulan politics. “The question isn’t whether Valdore believes me or not, Doctor—it’s what he already believes about you.”
Ehrehin’s smile collapsed, swept away by another dark, forehead-crumpling scowl. “What are you talking about?”
Another glimpse of the fast-approaching blip on the console sent a large bead of sweat racing down Trip’s back, and pushed his words out somewhat faster than before. “It’s no secret that you have differences with the Romulan military. You’ve even been known to criticize the Praetor himself from time to time. But I suppose that’s one of the privileges of being too important to the Romulan war machine—whose goals you haven’t been all that happy with over the years—to make you worry too much about ending up with somebody’s nice, shiny Honor Blade sticking out of your back.
“And then there’s what your military is about to do to Coridan Prime. I might not be Cunaehr, Doctor, but I think I’ve gotten to know you well enough to believe that you wouldn’t want anything to do with that.”
Trip could see that he had finally gotten Ehrehin’s full attention. He had no choice other than to press on, keep pushing any advantage he could find. “You don’t have to be a part of that. You don’t have to keep looking over your shoulder. You don’t have to live in fear of what will happen to you after the Praetor finally decides that you’ve outlived your usefulness to the Empire’s expansion plans.
“You could live among my people instead. Balance out the Empire’s need for conquest by helping us stand against their military machine. You know what will happen if you don’t: More planets will get rolled over by Valdore. Millions of people could end up dead, or as slaves. And it’ll be because you helped make it happen. In fact, maybe it can’t even happen at all without your help. Can you live with that?”
He fell silent then, and simply watched the play of emotions that crossed the old man’s deeply lined face—or at least as much of it as Ehrehin’s stubborn self-discipline and two sturdy helmet faceplates would reveal.
Trip seriously doubted that he had completely convinced Ehrehin to throw in his lot with him. But the thoughtful look in the old man’s dark eyes made it clear that he had upset the scientist’s earlier pretense of equanimity about going back to work for the Romulan military machine.
Ehrehin reeled his gaze back in from the middle distance where he seemed to do his deepest thinking, then stared at Trip with large, soulful eyes. “Cunaehr or not, you have been kind to me, whoever you are.”
“You can call me Trip.” He started to extend a gloved hand, but stopped himself, remembering that Vulcans, being touch telepaths, disliked being touched. He decided to assume that their cousins, the Romulans, might have similar habits.
The old man nodded, an awkward maneuver in the bulky pressure suit. “Very well, Trip. I will see what I can do about assisting you in getting this vessel up and running again.”
For the very first time, Trip began holding out a real hope that Ehrehin would voluntarily offer to protect the billions of innocents who lived on Coridan Prime, as well as Earth and the rest of the Coalition worlds. The notion buoyed Trip’s spirits greatly, because he knew it meant that he might soon have the opportunity to return from the dead to see his parents, his brother, T’Pol, and the rest of his Enterprise family again.
Trip glanced again at the pilot’s console, where the blip that represented Valdore’s doggedly pursuing ship was growing dangerously close to its quarry.
“We’d better get busy, then,” he said, then rose from his seat and headed for one of the tool kits he’d seen earlier in the aft section, moving as quickly as his bulky environmental suit would permit.
Forty-One
Friday, February 21, 2155
Enterprise NX-01
SHRAN STOOD AT THE FOOT of the biobed, feeling an overwhelming sense of familiarity as he watched Jhamel sleep. Other Aenar were resting throughout sickbay, while some recuperated in the makeshift medical facilities in Enterprise’s two shuttlepod launch bays, or in hastily rearranged crew quarters; the ship’s guest cabins were still uninhabitable because of the hull breach sustained during the recent battle.
Enterprise was currently hurtling toward Earth at top speed, so repairs, and a return to Andoria for the Aenar, would have to wait. Archer had apparently already jeopardized his command by undertaking the mission to rescue the Aenar, but Shran felt sure that the compassionate human leaders would forgive him.
He studied the face of the beautiful zhen who lay on the biobed, heartened to see her condition had visibly improved, even in the last six hours. With the nutrients and medications Jhamel and the other Aenar had taken in since their rescue by Enterprise, they were beginning to lose their color once again. Excepting the bluish highlights she normally had, the only rose-colored portions visible on Jhamel’s skin were the fatigue-generated wrinkles and pouches around her eyes.
He looked over to the neighboring beds, where Shenar and Vishri both slumbered, thanks to some sedatives and dream suppressants provided by Doctor Phlox. He wondered idly how the three surviving bondmates of Jhamel’s shelthreth group would get along in life now. Without Theras, the thaan of the group, they would be unable to reproduce. Given the declining population on Andoria, and the even sharper decline of the Aenar people’s numbers, the loss of any member of a potentially fertile shelthreth quad was unutterably horrible and tragic.
Because of that tragedy, he took small comfort in the fact that nearly every one of the other Aenar had been rescued, with the exception of the one who had run afoul of a transporter malfunction…and, of course, Theras.
He realized only now how completely he had misjudged Theras. I was as blind as he was, Shran thought, but in a completely different way. The gentle Theras, who had seemed to be such a melting icicle throughout the entire abduction ordeal, had instead shown himself to be the furthest thing from a coward that Shran had encountered among the Aenar. He had overcome his very nature, the pacifistic ideals by which he had always lived, in order to help free his fellow Aenar.
Shran had never enjoyed apologizing, but he sincerely wished for a chance to do so to Theras. He’d treated Theras abominably; he’d acted like a bully, intimidating a mild, gentle being every chance he’d gotten. He was trained to be a warrior, and was therefore used to putting himself into harm’s way. There was no heroism to much of what he did; it was mostly done out of duty, or a love of the accompanying adrenaline rush, or perhaps just plain orneriness.
“You’re wrong, Shran.”
Jhamel’s voice was speaking inside his mind. He turned to see her looking toward him, her sightless eyes now open, but as blind as always. “You can be a hero when you want to be. It wasn’t that long ago that you helped me defeat the Romulans that first time. As well as my grief over Gareb’s death.”
“Just as you helped me lay the ghost of Talas to rest,” Shran thought back to her.
But he wasn’t interested at the moment in rehashing the past; he was already far too focused on the future. He moved closer to the bed, and took her pale hand in his. “How are you feeling?” he asked aloud.
She smiled weakly, and spoke aloud as well in a voice that was hoarse from disuse. “Tired. Hungry. Relieved. Sad.” She turned her face toward his. “We have to stop meeting when one or the other of us is confined to a bed.”
Shran allowed a short laugh to escape his lips. Their attraction to each other had first sparked when she’d visited him while he’d been recovering from being impaled on an icicle and was troubled by the death of his beloved Talas, and she was still hoping beyond hope for the rescue of her doomed brother, Gareb. He had been lying in bed, and awakened to see her then. Later, when Jhamel was recuperating after having used the telepresence helmet in an effort to help her brother, he had watched over her as she slumbered in a different biobed, and had held her hand, just as he was doing now.
“I’m glad you’re well,” Shran said.
A troubled look crossed her face. “And Vishri and Shenar? How are th
ey?”
“Resting comfortably,” Shran said, casting another glance in the direction of Jhamel’s bondmates.
“They’re only resting because their minds aren’t linked with yours,” Jhamel said inside his mind. “Lucky for them: the agitated state of your mind could wake a hibernating frost boar!”
“I’m sorry,” Shran said, even though he saw her smile, and felt her affectionate, unvocalized laughter. “I can leave if it will help you rest.” He started to pull his hand away.
“No, stay!” Jhamel said aloud, pulling his hand back to hers, though weakly. “I was only teasing.”
“I liked what you were thinking about Theras a few moments ago,” she told him with her mind. “Please forgive me for eavesdropping.”
He smiled gently. “I have no secrets from you, Jhamel,” he thought in reply. At least, he didn’t want to keep any secrets from her. How she felt, of course, would have to remain to be seen.
“The path Theras chose was agony for him,” Jhamel thought. “But he did it to save us, and ultimately, to preserve the essence of himself.”
“I think I understand that now,” Shran said aloud, his voice soft.
“I’m not certain you do,” Jhamel thought. “Even I don’t think I understood it until the very end. He provided a future for me…for us.”
“What do you mean?” Shran thought back to her.
“We spoke aboard the transport ship, Theras and I, mind to mind. He said that during the entire time of our…captivity, he studied you quite closely. Mentally, physically, emotionally.”
Shran was alarmed, and lapsed back into speaking aloud. “Why? For what purpose?”
“It is possible that he had some inkling of what was to come,” Jhamel said, opting to use her voice again, perhaps in an effort to calm Shran. “He sometimes had premonitions. Perhaps he even saw his own death coming.”
Shran shuddered. He’d certainly stared death in the face many times, and had come away stronger each time. But he didn’t know the hour of his death, and would never want to.