Enterprise 12 - The Good That Men Do

by Star Trek

  He imagined that Trip, who’d risked more than anyone else to try to prevent what happened on Coridan, must also be tying himself into knots of misplaced guilt and self-recrimination at this very moment. That is, if he’s even still alive.

  The only consolation Archer could find for any of them—Gardner, Trip, or himself—was his own bedrock certainty that the enormity of the Coridan catastrophe, as terrible as it was, would have been far worse had Trip not gotten his warning through, and had Archer failed to relay that warning to the Coridanites as quickly as he did.

  “I can’t believe that Chancellor Kalev really thinks that withdrawing from the Coalition is a good idea,” said Malcolm Reed, who stood beside Hoshi Sato and Travis Mayweather on the steps immediately behind and above Phlox.

  “Kalev has more to face than a planetary disaster,” Travis said. “His people have also been in a low-grade civil war for years.”

  “Maybe the disaster they’re dealing with will help them pull together,” Hoshi said. “Unite them politically, as one people. Maybe then they’ll be ready to enter long-term alliances with other worlds.”

  Watching the ongoing and still quite loud squabble on the debate floor, Archer wondered what that “readiness” really consisted of—and if it was really possible to maintain it. Even Soval seemed downright furious, and T’Pau appeared to be considering breaking someone’s neck with her bare hands. Right now, none of the usually dignified, patrician Vulcans appeared particularly ready for—or deserving of—interstellar goodwill, even though they had achieved domestic political unity centuries ago.

  And on that score, what are we compared to them? Archer thought, dispirited. Earth’s political unity was only around fifteen years old, dating from the time that Earth’s last holdout, the Independent Republic of Australia, grudgingly and belatedly followed the rest of the planet’s nation-states in joining Earth’s global federated government.

  “Let’s just hope that the Coridanites eventually decide that cooperation means strength and not weakness,” Reed said. “Maybe then they’ll finally join us. If they don’t get co-opted in the meantime by the Klingons, or the Romulans.”

  Reed’s last comment sent a slow shiver down Archer’s spine. He hated to think about it, but he knew that Coridan’s conquest by either the Klingons or the Romulans—who would end up controlling what still had to be the largest known dilithium reserves in several sectors of space—would mean certain disaster for every planet represented here today, including Earth. And the effect of that disaster would be multiplied by orders of magnitude should the representatives of the remaining worlds of the still-unformed Coalition of Planets—which now seemed to be fracturing before his eyes like an over-stressed dilithium crystal—were to succumb to the fear engendered by Coridan’s abrupt withdrawal by failing to sign the official Coalition Compact document.

  And that signing was scheduled for a mere two days from today. If this thing falls apart now, the Klingons and the Romulans will find us all pretty easy pickings, Archer thought.

  He realized then that Phlox had been absolutely right. He couldn’t simply stand by and watch this happen. He had to do something, regardless of what he thought of his own diplomatic skills. Even if he were to fall flat on his face, no one could possibly be any worse off for his efforts.

  Archer turned to face his crew. “Wait here,” he said, raising his voice so he could be heard above the shouts reverberating across the chamber and beyond.

  Then he turned again and strode purposefully down the stairs and straight into the center of the bedlam that reigned below.

  Nathan Samuels was happy about only one thing: that he wasn’t carrying a phase pistol at the moment. With the Coalition literally falling apart before his very eyes, he was certain that he wouldn’t have hesitated to use the weapon on himself, and at its most lethal setting.

  Once again, he vainly banged his gavel on his lectern. But no one was listening, or could even hear above the tumult.

  Then he heard a high-pitched whistle that pierced the wall of noise, startling every raised voice in the room into silence. The Vulcans, whose hearing was no doubt more acute than that of anyone else present, all appeared to be in some real physical pain as a result of the sound.

  Samuels was only slightly surprised to note that it was an extremely grim and resolute-looking Jonathan Archer who had stepped into the wide breach that his whistle had torn in the curtain of dismay and raised voices.

  “The chair recognizes Captain Jonathan Archer,” Samuels said with a slowly spreading smile. He hadn’t forgotten the words of encouragement Archer had delivered the last time the Coalition of Planets’ debating practices had nearly become lethally contentious, in the wake of John Frederick Paxton’s recent acts of terrorism.

  Archer took several more steps into the chamber, stopping when he reached the center, around which were arranged the long, semicircular tables occupied by the delegates.

  “Thank you, Minister,” he said, nodding respectfully toward Samuels before returning his steely gaze to the assembled delegates, who had nigh miraculously remained quiet but for a few murmurs. Everyone present evidently had respect for this man—even the argumentative Tellarites, apparently—and seemed genuinely curious about what he intended to say.

  “In spite of what’s happened here today, I still believe this Coalition is going to work,” Archer said, addressing the room in a strong, resounding voice.

  Respect or no, the senior Tellarite delegate Gral rose to his feet, clearly unable to contain his reaction. “Hah! How can you be so certain of that, human?”

  Archer displayed his even, white teeth. Following Tellarite etiquette to the letter, he said, “Because, Ambassador Gral, not even one so socially maladapted as yourself is stupid enough to allow this Coalition to fail.”

  The Vulcans raised surprised eyebrows while Minister Haroun al-Rashid grinned and Ambassador Thoris glowered. Gral folded his arms before him and nodded, but hurled no invective in the captain’s direction. Samuels breathed a quiet sigh of relief when Gral quietly took his seat again, evidently having taken Archer’s Tellarite-style harangue as amicable, and not ironic or hostile.

  “All of you are probably far better equipped than I am to imagine the consequences to all of us should this Coalition fail,” Archer continued. “And nothing illustrates that better than what has just happened on Coridan Prime.”

  Archer began pacing slowly across the room’s center, gesturing broadly with his hands as he spoke. “When I first took command of Enterprise, I expected to be surprised by whatever we might find out there. I also expected that we would make some new friends. I knew that we probably wouldn’t be able to avoid making a few new adversaries as well. So far, we’ve encountered more than our share of the latter. The Suliban. The Klingons. The Tandarans. The Xindi.

  “Now we face the Romulans, who have already done more damage than all of the others combined. And we don’t even know what they look like yet. Like the Klingons, they can bring each of our worlds to its knees if they manage to prevent us from trading with the Coridanites for what’s left of their energy reserves. Of course, that trade will be damned tough to manage without the common purpose of a broad interstellar alliance.

  “And what happens next, with no Coalition for any of us to lean on? I’ll tell you what.” Archer pointed toward Gral as he continued to pace. “You Tellarites will start squabbling again with the Coridanites over trade issues, and that’ll mean war. It won’t be long before the Andorians get dragged into it.” He glowered at Thoris, then faced Soval and T’Pau with a very hard stare. “Maybe the Vulcans will have to send ships and troops at that point, too, since the Andorians have been your main competitors for dilithium for a long time, and since neither of you has ever had much reason to trust the other.”

  Still pacing, Archer turned to face both Samuels and al-Rashid, the latter having taken a seat near the chairman’s podium at one of the curved tables. “Earth will probably get swept into it by then, t
oo.”

  Archer paused as he made his way back to the exact geographical center of the room, from which he addressed everyone present. Samuels heard not a murmur from any of the delegates nor from their aides. The captain commanded everyone’s full attention in a way that Samuels couldn’t help but envy.

  “But I don’t think you need any of this explained to you by an explorer—or by the soldier I’ll be forced to become if you lose your nerve and make the wrong decision here today. All of you know there’s only one way the Romulans can succeed. Each one of our worlds has had to learn the painful lesson that united we stand, divided we fall. Let us all stand together.” Archer walked back toward the spiral stairs at the chamber’s edge.

  Gral slowly rose again from his seat and began applauding, establishing a slow, steady rhythm that echoed across the chamber. The echo intensified, and it took Samuels a moment to realize that Soval and T’Pau had joined him, followed by al-Rashid and Thoris, a few moments later. Samuels himself added to the rising wall of noise, a sense of relief flooding him as he realized that the cause might not be entirely lost after all.

  Samuels banged his gavel on his lectern and declared a brief recess.

  “How do you do that, sir?” Travis asked as he prepped Shuttlepod One for launch from the landing pad on the council building’s roof.

  “I was just thinking the very same thing,” said Malcolm, who had just finished strapping into one of the seats positioned slightly aft of the cockpit, near those occupied by Hoshi and Phlox. “I have to assume that the Academy offers special command-track speech courses.”

  Archer grinned over his shoulder at Malcolm from the copilot’s seat beside Travis. “What exactly are you talking about, Malcolm?”

  “I’m referring to that rousing little gem of extemporaneous persuasive oratory you just delivered to the delegates, sir,” Malcolm said, returning Archer’s grin.

  “You don’t need to push so hard to get that promotion, Malcolm,” Archer said in a bantering tone. “What’s important is that everybody has agreed to go ahead and sign the Coalition Compact on Wednesday, just as originally scheduled.”

  Everybody except the Coridanites, that is, Archer thought sadly, though he still hoped that Coridan’s chancellor would reconsider her decision sooner or later; Kalev would have to realize at some point that the Romulan Star Empire probably wasn’t finished taking shots at her homeworld.

  “I’m sure T’Pol is going to be sorry she missed your speech when we get back aboard Enterprise and tell her all about it,” Malcolm said.

  Archer snorted dismissively. “You know how much T’Pol hates listening to speeches. She’s probably thanking her lucky stars that she drew bridge duty instead. Besides, all I did was say what I’m sure Samuels and al-Rashid were both already thinking. If I hadn’t said it then, one or the other of them probably would have eventually.”

  “You needn’t be so coy, sir,” said Malcolm, his words dripping with a degree of admiration that went way past Archer’s threshold of tolerance. “You were bloody brilliant.”

  Archer tried to summon a stern frown, but found that it wouldn’t quite fit over his smile. “All right, Malcolm. Belay that, or you can forget about promotions altogether. One more word of hero-worship and I might even consider busting you down to bilge cleaner.”

  “If you ask me, the delegates were way overdue to have somebody read them the riot act,” Hoshi said. “None of the Coalition worlds can afford to have them squabbling. Not with the Romulans on the move.”

  Archer nodded silently in Hoshi’s direction. They know they’d better hang together. Unless they want to hang separately.

  “What about the Romulans, Captain?” Travis said as he brought the antigrav thrusters on line and gently raised the shuttlepod into the cloud-scudded, late-afternoon sky. A heavy fog appeared to be rolling in from the bay.

  Archer wasn’t quite sure what to make of the question. “They’re still out there, Travis. And if we’re not extremely careful, they’ll be here sooner or later.”

  “That’s exactly my point, sir. All the delegates are well aware of what the Romulans did to Coridan Prime—so why haven’t they discussed making a formal declaration of war against the Romulans?”

  Archer sighed wearily. During the short recess in the proceedings just before he had returned to the shuttlepod with his officers, he had privately posed that very question directly to Prime Minister Samuels.

  “They can’t,” Archer said, shaking his head in frustration. “Their hands are tied by the language of the Coalition Compact itself.”

  “But I thought the Compact contained a clause that says an attack against one Coalition member is the same as an attack against all the Coalition members,” Malcolm said in unconcealed bemusement. “Just like the old NATO agreements from a couple of hundred years ago.”

  “The Compact does say that, Malcolm,” Archer said. “But Coridan won’t be signing the Compact on Wednesday, remember? They’ve dropped out. Therefore, the Coalition Council won’t be able to invoke that clause on their behalf.”

  “There must be something they can do, Captain,” Travis said, sounding as frustrated as Archer felt. “After all, we all know that the Romulans represent a clear threat.”

  “Knowing something and proving it aren’t quite the same thing, Travis,” Archer said as he stared through the front windows, beyond which the cobalt sky had already given way to a deep purple, which in turn was quickly yielding to the blackness of space. “As far as we can tell, the projectile ship that wiped out half of Coridan didn’t leave a trace of itself behind. And even if it did, the Coridanites aren’t likely to let us turn what’s left of their home planet upside down searching for it. Besides, several parties other than the Romulans are claiming ‘credit’ for what happened on Coridan. And the Romulans themselves, of course, aren’t talking.”

  A bright pinpoint of light hung over the Earth’s nightward terminator. Archer watched as it grew swiftly in brightness until it became recognizable as something far closer to Earth than any of the distant, fixed stars behind it. Its familiar saucer-and-twin-nacelle shape continued growing steadily in the window.

  Enterprise. Home.

  While Travis continued making his characteristically graceful approach to the ship, Hoshi spoke in incredulous tones. “So without hard evidence that the Romulans were actually behind the Coridan Prime attack…”

  Archer completed the thought for her, though he realized that everyone present had probably already done the geopolitical math. “The Coalition Council would be debating a preemptive war declaration.”

  Preemptive war, of course, was strictly forbidden by the Compact. Given the terrible consequences such wars had wrought upon Earth during the previous century—particularly during the Eugenics Wars—Archer saw this prohibition as a wise policy, at least in the abstract. He disagreed vehemently, however, with its present application to the Romulans, whose responsibility for the Coridan attack was really beyond doubt, at least so far as Archer was concerned.

  On the one hand, he could certainly understand why the Coalition delegations from both Earth and Vulcan would be loath even to appear to be in violation of the charter before its ink was dry. On the other, he hoped he could count on the Andorians and the Tellarites to have the great good sense to stand on ceremony less than the rest of the Coalition would.

  Like Section 31? Archer asked himself, not liking the answer in the least. But he had to face the sad truth of the matter, which was that another Coridan-like disaster might strike anywhere within the Coalition, and at any time. Perhaps even right here on Earth, whose wounds from the horrendous Xindi attack of not quite two years earlier still had yet to fully heal.

  As Mayweather adroitly maneuvered Shuttlepod One back into its launch bay, Archer thought, If the Romulans ever hit Earth as hard as they did Coridan, at least we’ll have the support of the other Coalition worlds.

  Forty-Eight

  Tuesday, March 4, 2155

  San Fr
ancisco

  DRAWING THE HOOD of his dark traveler’s robe up so that it covered most of his head, Charles Tucker rounded the damp and deserted street corner, hugging the shadows of two of Grant Avenue’s most venerable brick buildings as he entered an even darker alley. Since this particular crevice between ancient pre-Third World War structures was located just off Greenwich Street, Trip had expected to catch at least a glimpse of historic Coit Tower looming overhead; however, the evening fog’s omnipresence and the Moon’s utter absence conspired to render the familiar landmark effectively invisible.

  A perfect night for a spy to be out and about, Trip thought, suppressing an absurd urge to giggle.

  The all but impenetrable gloom all around made Trip distinctly uncomfortable, to say nothing of the ripe-garbage smell that must have originated inside one of the local restaurants’ large, back-alley trash bins. He smiled as he reminded himself that he had survived encounters with any number of far more dangerous things, particularly over the course of the past couple of weeks. Still, he couldn’t avoid considering how ironic it would be if he were to get killed by a street criminal—or maybe even by some nut-job Terra Prime-loyal Vulcan basher—in some dark and stinking alley on his own home planet, fresh from having survived a harrowing sojourn deep inside Romulan territory.

  “Good evening, Commander,” intoned a quiet, even voice shrouded in darkness. The voice, which sounded uncomfortably close, made Trip jump involuntarily, though he recognized it immediately.

  “Let’s meet in your office next time,” Trip said. “I’m not a big fan of these film noir locations. I want a bigger ship. And a pony.”

  Harris stepped closer, chuckling as Trip finally glimpsed his silhouette. The other man’s unassuming shape seemed to devour whatever scant illumination was present; Trip decided this was because he was clad in the same dark, leatherlike garment he’d been wearing the last time they had communicated. According to Malcolm, it was almost a required uniform for bureau insiders.