Thanien stepped in front of her. “They have no trouble composing ultimatums from our own words. If we speak, they will understand.”
“Some of them might, but we don’t know if these two will,” Sato replied. “And they don’t seem to want to talk back. Until they do, I won’t have enough of a baseline to build a translation from.” She shook her head. “If I even can, with something so alien.”
“Then we must make them talk,” Thanien said. “Stop trying to make them comfortable. Brighten the lights. Thin out the atmosphere. Deafen them with intense magnetic fields. Force them to ask for mercy.”
His antennae were swept back, T’Pol noted. He was not merely being emphatic, but barely controlling his rage. “Commander. The Federation does not engage in torture.”
“Even if it’s the only way to find their homeworld before they destroy more of our ships, invade our worlds?”
“Your premise is flawed, Commander. Torture has never been a reliable means of extracting accurate information. Countless studies over the centuries have shown that it actually works against that goal. Either the victims lie to give the torturers what they want, or the neurological stress actually impairs the accuracy of their recall.”
“Besides, Thanien,” Sato said, “if you were tortured for the location of your homeworld, wouldn’t you die before giving it up? What makes you think they’d react any differently?”
“You keep telling us how profoundly alien these beings are,” the first officer riposted. “How do we know how they would react until we try? The Andorian Guard has used coercive methods before with some efficacy.”
T’Pol moved in, her face close to his. “I remember their methods quite well, Commander,” she declared, recalling how Shran’s men had beaten Jonathan Archer and threatened her sexually at the P’Jem monastery a dozen years before. “I do not recall them being particularly efficacious.”
“In any case,” Phlox interposed at volume, “this is a moot discussion. As long as I have any medical authority on this ship, there will be no torture of anyone in my care!”
T’Pol watched Thanien closely, hoping that he would relent and accept his place in the chain of command.
However, her hopes were not fulfilled. “Fortunately,” the Andorian said, “those aboard this ship are not the highest authorities in this task force.”
Rigel V
Archer arrived in the middle of a lively debate over the disposition of the prisoners. Shran and Commissioner Noar were with him in the Rigel command center, while attending via the multiple screens on the wall were T’Pol and Thanien aboard Endeavour, th’Menchal on Vinakthen, and Garos aboard Rivgor. To Archer’s dismay, just about everyone was backing Commander Thanien’s proposal to “coerce” the prisoners into talking—all except T’Pol, who spoke against it, and Shran, who’d offered no comment so far, just hearing out the arguments. “You all make good points,” Shran finally said. “Commander, Commodore, I understand how deeply the loss of Thejal enrages you both. I agree the Mutes must be made to pay.”
Alarmed, Archer moved up to speak in Shran’s ear. “Admiral, if I could have a word with you?”
“Not now, Jonathan,” Shran hissed.
“I’d just like to offer an opinion—”
“That’s not your place.”
After a tense moment, Archer subsided. Shran turned back to the monitors. “However,” he went on more loudly, making Archer’s ears perk up, “I’ve seen what Lieutenant Commander Sato is capable of when it comes to deciphering alien languages. We’d be fools not to take advantage of that resource when we have it. We’ll consider more extreme methods if they become necessary, but for now, we’re going with Captain T’Pol’s recommendation.”
“Yes, Admiral,” an unhappy th’Menchal conceded.
“Admiral,” Garos interposed, “I admire your discretion, but given the time factor involved—”
“I have made my decision, Mister Garos. Your crews agreed to abide by Starfleet authority while they’re part of this task force.”
“Understood,” Garos said after a moment, not hiding his irritation as well as he probably thought he was.
“You have your orders, all of you. Shran out.”
The screens went dark, and Noar stepped forward. “You may command the task force, Admiral, but remember, you still answer to the Federation. If this . . . diplomatic venture doesn’t work, I expect you to pursue more forceful methods, is that clear?”
“Commissioner,” Archer began.
But Shran interrupted, keeping the Tellarite’s attention firmly on him. “I don’t need you to remind me of my responsibilities, Commissioner. I will do whatever the situation demands, and I don’t need a civilian kibitzing my every move.”
Noar stared down the shorter Andorian for a moment, but his body language was much less dominating than Shran’s. The commissioner huffed and said, “Very well. As long as I’ve made myself clear.” He retreated as hastily as decorum allowed.
Shran whirled on Archer, not relaxing his belligerence. “And you! You were the one who talked me into coming out of retirement again. You said I was the person you trusted most to represent the Guard within Starfleet, to be the bridge between Andorians and other races.”
“I . . . do remember saying that.”
“Then why are you trying to second-guess my authority? Those are my ships out there, my colleagues, my friends. Their safety and their success are my responsibility, not yours. Or are those lunatics on Alrond right after all? Is the Federation really just a front for a pink-skin empire?”
Archer held up his hands. “You’re right, Shran. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to undermine your authority. And I should’ve trusted you to make the right decision.”
“Yes, well . . .” He looked away, abashed. “I’m not as comfortable with torture as I used to be. I’ve found it . . . unnecessary and regrettable too often after the fact. If I can’t make up for those mistakes, at least I can try to spare others from having to make the same ones.”
Archer smiled and clasped his friend on the shoulder. After a moment, he went on. “It’s just . . . I’m worried about what’s going on out there. If we get too . . . aggressive . . . toward the Mutes, we may end up starting a war we could’ve avoided.”
Shran stared at him. “You don’t think the war’s already begun?”
“I don’t think we know enough about the Mutes to understand the purpose behind their attacks. Maybe these ships are pirates or renegades, did you consider that? Maybe, if we can locate their home government, they might even be willing to help us stop the raids.”
Shran’s antennae curled down as he contemplated his old friend’s words. It was a few moments before he replied. “It’s a constant source of amazement to me that you humans ever managed to survive being so relentlessly optimistic.”
“Look at our history, Shran. The only reason we survived our own darker side is because we learned to be optimistic. To believe in a better world and work hard to make it happen.”
“All right, all right, I’ve heard the speeches.” Shran crossed the room, coming to a pause before the monitor that showed the current deployment of the task force ships. “I’m not looking for a fight, Jonathan. I’m not that man anymore.”
“I know.”
“But if there’s one thing that hasn’t changed—that will never change—it’s my determination to protect the lives I’m responsible for by whatever means necessary. And now I’m responsible for the defense of the entire Federation.” He let out a self-deprecating huff of breath. “It’s a big responsibility.”
“I can only imagine.”
“I hope there is a way to protect all those lives without having to sacrifice more of my officers. But if war is the only way, I won’t hesitate to do what must be done.”
Archer was silent for a time, reflecting on the grim necessities of war. But after a moment, Shran punched him in the shoulder. “Where’s that optimism you were just talking about, Jonathan? Endeavour’s
still out there. I may not be convinced there’s a peaceful way out of this, but your crew has a history of finding ways to make peace when nobody else thought it was possible. If anyone can pull it off, they can.” He leaned forward. “And they can do it without you second-guessing their every move. You taught them well.”
Archer gave a sighing laugh of resignation. “You’re right. It’s just . . . I don’t have much else to do around here.”
Shran tilted his head. “There’s a very good Xarantine restaurant a couple of blocks from here. Dinner?”
“If you’re buying.” They headed for the door.
“Are you kidding? By my count, you still owe me at least three favors. . . .”
April 3, 2163
“It’s that T’Pol,” Commissioner Noar groused as he lay in bed with Devna. “I knew it was a mistake to let Archer put her on the task force. She has Syrannite leanings—practically a pacifist! No surprise she doesn’t have the guts to do what has to be done.”
Devna sat up and positioned herself to face him, making sure to give him a good view of her slender body as she stroked his chest. “But she’s not in command of the task force, is she? The Andorian fleet commander can override her.”
“If Shran lets him! The problem is that she carries Archer’s mystique with her. They all bend over backward for him. And he’s grown complacent! Thinks that just because the Romulans are beaten, we can relax and go back to exploring like a bunch of inquisitive children.”
“I see,” Devna replied. “Well, Admiral Shran is the ranking military officer. I guess there’s not much you can do to override him.”
Noar harrumphed loudly, propping himself up on his elbows. “That shows how much you understand about how the Federation is organized, you silly creature. This is not a military dictatorship. I’m the voice of the Federation government here, and if Shran misbehaves, it’s well within my power to put him in his place!” He glanced ceilingward. “That is, once I convince the ministers to join me in forming a united bloc.”
She leaned forward, letting her chest brush ever so gently against the coarse hairs of his. She sped her breathing by just the right amount, willed herself to become more aroused so as to secrete more pheromones. “I’ve never been with a man so powerful,” she lied. “A man whose word could shape the destiny of armies, of whole worlds. It’s intoxicating.”
“Now, now, Devna. It’s . . . a grave responsibility . . . on behalf of my people.” She leaned in closer. “I take that very . . . very seriously. But . . . I’ll grant, it does come with . . . considerable rewards.”
He pulled her against him, and Devna let her body function on autopilot, withdrawing to a quieter place within herself. She’d been trained in the erotic arts for nearly half her life now, had put that training into practice for more than a third of it, and the moves came to her effortlessly, by reflex, like a dance. Sometimes she enjoyed it, with a desirable enough mark or with a friend, but this was strictly work. She found little worth desiring in Tellarites as a rule, either in their porcine bodies or their blustering personalities. She’d been with enough of their kind to know that the bombast and aggression were usually just a cover for insecurity and fear. Why else would such a confrontational people have been willing to subsume themselves within the Federation—and be such a minor participant in Starfleet? They put up a tough front, but ultimately they were happier to have others protecting them.
Granted, she’d been with one or two Tellarites who were self-assured and generous of spirit, who only played at the customary arguments of their people to be sociable and didn’t mind letting others win. But as a rule, it was the more insecure, defensive ones who felt driven to compensate by pursuing power and authority. And of course it was the ones in power that Devna and her slave sisters got assigned to most of the time: the ones who held valuable secrets that they could be coaxed into boasting about to a helpless slave girl; the ones who would agree to anything to keep their illicit dalliances from being exposed to their spouses or their constituents; or the ones who could be sweet-talked into policy choices that helped the Orion Syndicate, with some subtle assistance from the moderately potent pheromones that rank-and-file slave women were purported not to have.
Min glasch Noar was a classic example of that kind of Tellarite, and it was pathetically easy to play on his fears to goad him into favoring a more aggressive military policy, whether it was his fear of monstrous alien invaders or his fear of irrelevancy. If anything, she felt a little sorry for him. In the middle of the night as they lay together, when he lowered his guard as he would with no one else and professed his undying love for her, she sometimes felt like she was taking advantage of a frightened child. That, far more than his physical ugliness or his ham-fisted lovemaking, was what drove her to withdraw inside her quiet place at times like this. Sometimes she wished she could find a quiet, peaceful place for real, a place far away from the intrigues and appetites and aggressions of the universe, and live out her life there, free to be who she chose to be.
But that would never be. No Orion was truly free; there were only layers upon layers of ownership and submission. Noar was in her thrall, just as she was enthralled to her slavemaster Parrec-Sut, who in turn was chattel to the Three Sisters. Devna sometimes mused that even that powerful triumfeminate were trapped by their own overwhelming chemistry, never able to bond with anyone outside their own family, always having to battle for dominance with other elite lineages. But maybe that was just an attempt to delude herself, to assuage her envy at those females whom biology had blessed with greater pheromonal power and the higher status that came with it.
Such envy was fleeting, however, and it embarrassed Devna to feel it, as much as it embarrassed her to feel pity for marks like Noar. This was the role she had been born into, the role imposed on her by biology, tradition, and fate. This was her life, and the best she could achieve in that life came from serving her masters and mistresses well and taking pride in the quality of her service.
So if the Three Sisters wanted a war, Devna would use all her wiles to ensure they got one.
11
April 4, 2163
Vega Colony, Alpha Lyrae IX
CAPTAIN BRYCE SHUMAR and Commander Caroline Paris stood together in the Vega Museum of Antiquities, examining the twisted, pitted shapes of metal and composite that filled its atrium. Through the skylight overhead, Vega was a blinding white dot, its light casting strange, stark shadows on the artifacts and making it harder to discern their purpose. “Does that look like a tractor beam generator to you?” Paris asked, gesturing at one blackened piece.
“It could be a waste reclamator for all I can tell,” Shumar replied. “Hardly any of these fragments are intact enough to let us do more than guess.”
Paris gave a cocky grin. “Oh, but that’s the fun of it! It’s like those old Rorschach tests. Or looking at clouds.”
Vega was one of Earth’s oldest successful colonies, founded around the turn of the century, not long after the Alpha Centauri settlements had proven viable. It was also one of the most unlikely places imaginable for a colony. Vega was a hot, short-lived star; by all rights it shouldn’t even possess habitable planets at its tender age of less than half a billion years. Yet its ninth planet, a watery world in the heart of the habitable zone at seven AU, was home to an unlikely Minshara-class biosphere. The Vulcans who had first surveyed the system a century before had determined that the planet had been terraformed by an advanced civilization, one that had evidently been wiped out centuries earlier in a civil war so devastating that it had torn apart dwarf planets in the system’s outer reaches, creating the enormous debris disk that now surrounded the star. The mass extinction had affected most of Vega IX’s biosphere, not just its sentient inhabitants; but the plants and small animal forms had since recovered, and the lack of larger fauna made it an amiable world for human settlement. The Vulcans had been satisfied with a cursory survey of the ruins, finding no immediate practical interest in them. But humans had
been irresistibly drawn to the mystery of the Vegans—and to the hope that they might have left some caches of advanced technology behind when they were destroyed. Nothing had yet been found beyond these bits of wreckage, but Vega Colony had thrived and become one of Earth’s most important outposts.
It also happened to be the closest Federation world to Sauria, so it was here that the summit meeting between President Vanderbilt, Presider Moxat, and the Basileus of M’Tezir was taking place—the final step, so Shumar hoped, in the long negotiations for a trade agreement with the Saurians. But as usual, it was proving difficult to get the Global League and the Basileus to agree on anything more than where to hold the next round of their ongoing argument. “I’m glad you talked me into taking a break from all the bickering,” Shumar told his first officer.
“Yeah,” Paris said. “I figured the ruins of a cataclysmic, world-destroying civil war would be a refreshing change.” Shumar rolled his eyes.
Unfortunately, the change of pace didn’t last long. Shumar was surprised to see the Basileus himself approaching the two officers, accompanied by a pair of royal guards, their skin much the same lavender hue as his own. They all wore bulbous, somewhat comical dark goggles to shield their sensitive eyes from Vega’s actinic light. “Captain Shumar,” the Basileus said. “And Commander Paris. I have decided to take Governor Maggin up on his invitation to experience the culture of his colony.”
“Good, good,” Shumar said noncommittally. “What’s your impression of it so far?”
“It is . . . a quaint achievement. Rather unambitious in size and scale.”
Paris threw him a glare. “Well, considering we’ve only had sixty-some years to work on it, I’d say we’ve done pretty well.”
“You may be right,” the monarch conceded. “Perhaps it only seems minor in comparison to the achievements of the civilization that preceded it.”
Paris glanced over at the remains. “You know, we don’t really know that much about what they actually did achieve.”
Star Trek: Enterprise - 015 - Rise of the Federation: A Choice of Futures Page 17