Archer glanced at Soval beside him. The commissioner showed no reaction to the insinuation of treason, and Archer strove to follow his example. “None of these facts are in dispute, Councillor, and I see nothing to be gained in rehashing them. The Vulcan people are well aware of the events that transpired eleven years ago and the reasons why they were necessary.”
“The reasons as presented by the Syrannites and Starfleet after the fact.” The interruption came from Councillor T’Sess, a thin-faced older woman who, according to Archer’s briefing material, was as deep in the pocket of the Mental Integrity Coalition and its anti-melding prudes as Stom was in the pocket of Zadok and his High Command loyalists. “The only reason these claims were accepted was because they bore the weight of the mythical Kir’Shara behind them. Yet now we know that the Kir’Shara was a fabrication.”
On Archer’s right flank, opposite Soval, Captain T’Pol leaned forward. “All that is now known is that the artifact currently in the museum is a forgery. This does not erase the abundant evidence confirming that the artifact found eleven years ago was authentic.”
“But it does call the integrity of its sources into question.”
“The professors who discovered the current fraud have been affiliated with the Academy Museum for years. One of them is the bondmate of the security officer who oversaw the vault’s design. What reason would they have had to lie before, yet tell the truth now?”
“Professor Semet has only infrequently had opportunities to study the alleged Kir’Shara. It is possible that he never discovered the flaws in the forgery until his recent session—whereupon Professor Skon was obligated to cooperate lest his own complicity in the forgery be exposed.”
Archer seethed at the accusation, but kept it inward—mostly. “With respect, Councillor . . . it’s hardly fair to make such charges without evidence.”
“The evidence of the artifact’s falsehood is indisputable, Admiral. What is without evidence is your own assertion that an impenetrable security system was somehow undetectably penetrated by thieves who stole this hypothetical original in order to replace it with an identical copy.” T’Sess tilted her head back and peered at him down her long, thin nose. “Or do you suggest that the undetectable translocation of matter is one of the mystical psionic abilities alleged by the artifact’s text to be the birthright of all Vulcans?”
Archer didn’t take the bait. The maddening fact was that, until he and his allies could determine how the real Kir’Shara had been substituted, logic favored those who insisted the fake Kir’Shara must be the same one found eleven years ago.
There had certainly been no shortage of witnesses willing to testify in support of that notion. Prominent archaeologists had been brought in to discuss the total lack of reliable evidence for the Kir’Shara’s existence prior to its discovery at T’Karath in 2154. Unfortunately, the archaeological evidence from the time of Surak was muddled enough due to the wars raging in that era that the rival experts called in on Kuvak’s behalf were unable to provide a single, clear explanation for how the ark was lost in the first place or how it ended up in the sanctuary. The suggestions made by some that the High Command had deliberately expunged evidence to ensure the Kir’Shara was never found came off sounding more paranoid than persuasive. That was the problem with V’Las’s legacy: His crimes had been so extreme that an honest accounting of them sounded like a delusional rant. No wonder so many Vulcans were now receptive to the idea that his misdeeds had been exaggerated by his foes. Even to those who knew the truth about V’Las’s crimes, the motivation behind them remained elusive to this day. According to T’Pau, there had been some intimations that he had been colluding with Romulan agents as part of their efforts to soften up the sector for invasion. The former First Minister had suggested that V’Las’s unexplained disappearance during the Earth-Romulan War may have actually been a defection.
But even if that were so, V’Las was long gone, quite possibly dead, and the Romulans had been soundly beaten. The monitor outposts along the Neutral Zone had been in place for nearly five years and had detected no traffic of any kind, and intelligence reports of ship movements and intercepted communications within the Star Empire indicated they were shifting their resources and attention to rebuilding their own worlds rather than preparing a new invasion force. What was happening on Vulcan now seemed to arise within the Vulcan people themselves. No surprise there, really; movements like Terra Prime on Earth and the rabid Alrondian separatists in the Andorian system, even those that had been stirred up by the efforts of the Malurians and the Orion Syndicate, had still originated from the grass roots of their respective cultures, from the old guards resistant to change. Archer had hoped that purging those groups of Malurian and Orion influence would break their power. But instead it seemed to have made the surviving factions more entrenched.
Could it be, Archer wondered, that the Federation’s worst enemies come from within?
ShiKahr Residential District
“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” Hoshi Sato inquired of T’Rama as they set the table for the meal that Skon and Kimura were preparing in the kitchen. Apparently they’d missed the couple’s other houseguests, Pioneer’s former engineer Tobin Dax and a poet from a distant alien race, as the poet had persuaded Dax to accompany him to a recital. Sato had been sorry to hear that; the chance to hear poetry in an entirely new language was very enticing. She hoped she would have the chance to meet this Iloja of Prim before Endeavour left Vulcan.
“I permit the asking,” T’Rama replied, “though that in no way obligates me to answer.”
The human woman gave a small smile at the reply. “I know that Vulcans are usually betrothed in childhood,” she said. “Which means that spouses tend to be close to each other in age. But you’re much younger than Skon, aren’t you?”
“I am approximately fifty-five Earth years of age,” T’Rama confirmed, “while Skon is a hundred and seven. I was bonded to another in childhood, but on reaching sexual maturity, my intended bondmate determined that he had a clear and exclusive preference for males. Since Vulcan’s population is stable and there was no compelling societal obligation to procreate, the logical response was to release him from his commitment to me and allow him to seek a more compatible mate.”
“Very gracious of you.”
“Not at all. I did wish to have children, and thus it was logical to choose a partner with compatible interests.”
“So how did you meet Skon?”
“Our bonding was arranged by his clan’s matriarch. We were both in need of new bondmates, and our psychological profiles were deemed compatible.” She was quiet for a moment, projecting a cool Vulcan reserve that Sato had never sensed in T’Rama until now. “As for Skon’s eligibility, I ask you to understand that some matters are far more private.”
Skon was bringing a bowl of what looked like chopped peppers out to the table. “It is all right, my wife,” he said. “I do not mind discussing the fate of T’Melis. It is . . . relevant to our pursuits here.” Sato noted that Kimura had moved to stand in the doorway, listening in on the conversation.
“My first wife was an officer in the High Command,” Skon elaborated. “We deferred childbearing due to the demands of her career. She was then killed in an avoidable skirmish with the Andorians.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sato told him.
“The time for grieving is long past, but the respect you show her memory is appreciated, Commander. And it is true that her death was a lamentable waste, for it served no legitimate purpose. The High Command, principally in the person of then-Minister V’Las, needlessly provoked the Andorian conflict, choosing aggressive responses that seemed—and, in retrospect, most likely were—intentionally designed to antagonize the Andorians further. I frequently debated with T’Melis, exhorting her to see reason. But at the time, advocacy for peace was painted by the High Command as Syrannite propaganda border
ing on sedition. T’Melis would not hear my words and threatened to dissolve our marriage and have me investigated for subversive allegiances if I continued. Soon thereafter, her squadron was deployed to Gliese 229, where their confrontational response to a perceived Andorian incursion provoked retaliation. The incident gave V’Las and his hardliners the cause they had sought to advocate for a more aggressive response . . . at the cost of two hundred seventy-six Vulcan lives, including my wife’s.”
Sato had no words. Merely repeating her expression of sorrow would seem hollow. But Skon filled the silence himself after a moment. “This is why I am committed to the study and propagation of the Kir’Shara’s wisdom—and why I am strongly motivated to succeed in our mission to expose the fraud and prevent the resurgence of the High Command.”
Things were quiet for a few minutes after that, but once the four of them were seated at dinner, Kimura broke the ice. “Well, if you ask me, whoever arranged your betrothal picked well. You two are very different on the surface, but you mesh well.”
“Indeed,” Skon said. “I have found my marriage with T’Rama to be more harmonious than that with my previous mate. T’Melis was a combat specialist with whom I had little common ground. While T’Rama’s training is in security, her skills are more oriented toward detection and deduction. We share a fascination with the solving of conundrums.”
“In our own distinct ways, of course,” T’Rama added. “There is more pure logic and structure involved in his work than mine, a fact which I often find cause for envy.”
“Yet I,” Skon continued, “have often found it difficult to deal with the more chaotic business of sapient beings and their motivations. It was T’Rama who encouraged me to take up linguistics as a way of gaining new insights into the workings of the mind. Indeed, it even improved my abilities in software engineering, once I began to think of programming code in terms of language as well as mathematics.”
“Do not understate the benefits you have brought to my work, husband,” T’Rama said with what Sato dared to label privately as affection. “Your mathematical insights have assisted me in a number of investigations over the years.”
Hoshi chuckled. “You can use math to solve crimes?”
“Certainly,” Skon told her. “The principles of mathematical forensics were formulated over a thousand years ago by T’Kea of Mond—frankly, an underappreciated genius.”
“I advise you not to query further,” T’Rama said, “or we will be distracted from our investigation for most of the night. T’Kea is a favorite subject of his.”
“I had no intention of diverting our guests from their responsibilities,” Skon replied primly.
“You never intend to, my husband.”
“Well, anyway,” Sato said, hoping to head them off, “you do have a lovely home. It feels so welcoming. Peaceful. On Kreetassa, they say a harmonious home reflects a harmonious marriage.”
“We thank you for the respect you show our home,” Skon replied.
Kimura smiled. “Yeah, I think you two will provide your son with a good home,” he told them, nodding toward T’Rama’s ample belly. “Won’t be long now, will it?”
“We expect the birth in approximately four weeks,” Skon replied, “with a margin of error of approximately five days in either direction.”
“I would not mind,” T’Rama observed, “if the margin favors an earlier arrival. The fact that human gestation takes only nine months is a trait I have come to admire about your species.”
Hoshi chuckled. “Thanks—I think.”
May 24, 2165
Orion transport Rimula-Bero, on approach to Delta IV
Devna came to the bridge as ordered, along with Ziraine and Rilas, once the ship came into communication range with the planet the humans called Delta IV. The reports that a low-level intelligence asset in the Federation had relayed to the Orion Syndicate had spoken of the Deltans’ hedonistic ways, and thus Parrec-Sut had wanted to put the maximum amount of beauty on display for the eyes of whoever answered his hail.
That hail had drawn only a “stand by” response for several minutes, long enough for Devna and her slave-sisters to begin trading nervous looks. Finally, an elegant, hairless woman with bronze skin and vast dark eyes, her beauty undiminished by her age, appeared on the screen, instantly captivating Devna’s attention. “I am Mod’hira, Prime Minister of the Dhei Union. I bid you welcome to our star system, traveler.”
At the conn, Parrec-Sut gave his most charming smile in response. “My thanks to you, Madam Prime Minister. It is an unexpected honor to be greeted by one of your stature.”
“Visitors from other worlds are an uncommon occurrence for us—significant enough to warrant the highest attention. Your race is new to us. You said you are . . . Orion?”
“That name will do.” It was another human coinage, Devna knew, assigned decades ago by the first human freighter crews to encounter her people; apparently the humans placed her home sun in an arbitrary grouping of stars symbolizing a mythical giant, one whose name bore some resemblance to her race’s name in one of its major language families. The leaders of the Syndicate had appreciated the association with a figure of such predatory power, and had thus embraced the label for its intimidation value. Devna often wondered why they had done so, since few besides humans would understand the import; but she had long ago learned the folly of questioning the whims of her masters and mistresses. Sometimes, for those who relished wielding power over others, being arbitrary was the entire point.
The motives driving Parrec-Sut’s mission to Delta IV were much more straightforward, however. His own mistresses, the Three Sisters who ran the Syndicate, derived their power over other Orions from the exceptional potency of their sexual pheromones, just as most Orions could influence and manipulate other humanoids through their own more moderate pheromonal allure. The Sisters’ relative monopoly on that power was precious to them, so much so that Navaar, the senior of the Three, was still raging over the recent theft of an Orion hormone supplement by a narcotics syndicate that was now marketing it as a sexual enhancement drug in the human colonies. So Navaar had naturally been disturbed upon learning of a race whose pheromones rivaled the Sisters’ own in—potency—not merely in the females of certain elite lineages, but among the entire population. Even more disquieting was the Starfleet report that at least one human had been driven nearly insane and another placed in a coma from the sheer intensity of their sexual encounters with the Deltans. From any other source, these tales could be dismissed as lurid exaggerations; but Starfleet was known for its humorless rectitude. Thus, Navaar had been genuinely concerned that the Deltans might be able to compete with the Orion elites at their own game.
Fortunately, the damage inflicted upon the Starfleet officers had led the Federation to break off contact with Delta, leaving the world unprotected. Parrec-Sut’s mission, and that of his slaves, was to assess the Deltan race’s potential as a threat—and their potential for enslavement. The Sisters would not tolerate such a powerful competitor, but if they could break such a power to their will, it would be a major triumph.
Parrec-Sut continued. “We are traders, come from far away in search of new customers for our wares and services. I would be pleased to meet with you and discuss what we have to offer.”
Mod’hira gave an apologetic smile. “Ordinarily, I would be delighted. Sadly, a recent incident has forced us to adopt caution in our dealings with outsiders. Our people . . . emit pheromones that can compromise the judgment of other species. We have no wish to risk imposition upon the free choice or well-being of others.”
Devna wished she could take the beautiful prime minister’s sincerity at face value. Freedom was a fantasy she had let herself indulge at times in the past. But the lure of that fantasy had once led her into an error of judgment that had nearly ruined her career as an intelligence operative, and she had endured months of humiliation as the low
liest of sex slaves to atone for her failure. She now knew better than ever that no one who held power truly believed in the freedom of others.
Parrec-Sut himself had to struggle to keep the disbelief out of his voice as he said, “How commendable.” He gestured to the three slave women, who moved closer to the pickup in compliance. “But I can assure you, Madam Prime Minister . . . my people are accustomed to intense pheromones and the desires they can create. We’ve had our own problems dealing with more . . . susceptible races. Perhaps we could even give you some advice on how to manage your encounters with them.”
“Stand by.” Mod’hira turned to confer with her advisers for several moments. “Your offer is intriguing, but we are still wary from our previous encounter. Perhaps it is best if we ease into contact. I recommend you dock with the station orbiting the fifth planet, Iatu. It is a popular tourist site; the rings of Iatu iridesce magnificently under the periodic x-ray surges from our sun. The next maximum is just over a day from now. If you dock there, you can behold that wonder and meet many of our people.”
Parrec-Sut nodded. “While still limiting our mutual exposure. I understand. It’s a fair compromise. But I look forward to . . . establishing a closer relationship between our peoples,” he finished with an open leer.
“That is my hope as well,” the prime minister replied, without reciprocating his subtext. “Mod’hira out.”
Once the screen went dark, Parrec-Sut twisted his lip and made a snide grunt. “Pathetic. They should be easy marks.”
Devna hoped her master was right, for she was determined to prove her value to the Sisters once again. She owed a particular debt to the youngest Sister, Maras, who had taken pity on her and given her the means to redeem herself by exposing the traitor who had enabled the theft of the hormone supplement. Devna was still unclear on why Maras had helped her. She had always believed, along with everyone else, that Maras was quite stupid, surviving only through her exceptional sexual magnetism and the indulgent affection of Navaar. But Maras had allowed Devna to glimpse the sharper mind beneath the moronic façade. It was a secret Devna knew she must keep on pain of death, but would have been glad to keep in any case, for there were definite benefits to a Sister’s patronage, even—perhaps especially—a secret one. If nothing else, the sex was incredible, as one would expect from the Three Sisters’ most ravenous member. Devna had no illusions that she was anything but Maras’s slave, at best a pampered pet of whom she might one day grow weary. But few Orions could aspire to anything better in life, so Devna was grateful for what she had. And thus she was committed to earning the second chance Maras had arranged for her. If there were a way to bring the Deltan race under the yoke of slavery, she would move the very stars to find it. She knew the Deltans would surely suffer under Orion enslavement—but it would be preferable to the fate the Sisters would arrange for them if they should prove unsuitable for the whip.
Star Trek: Enterprise - 017 - Rise of the Federation: Uncertain Logic Page 15