Star Trek®: Mirror Universe: Shards and Shadows

by Marco Palmieri

  He was not sure he understood them well enough to replicate them.

  He said as much.

  “We can replicate the weaponry—the torpedoes.” T’Pol spoke for the first time. Her expression was unreadable. “But the warp engines—”

  “We require your assistance in this matter, Commander. This ship must be built. We must show all that the way forward—the way toward lasting peace—is under our dominion.” Hoshi leaned forward. “Do you not agree, Commander?”

  It was as if she were daring him to mention the rebels. Or the man who led them.

  He lowered his head. “I am yours, as always, Empress.”

  “Of course you are.” Her smile was dazzling. “Who else’s would you be?”

  The Empress left, vowing to return. Empty words; Tucker knew it, and she knew he knew it. She would never be back.

  He managed to stay on his feet long enough for her to depart. Then he lay down on his bed and waited for the pounding in his head to stop.

  Nobunaga.

  How had he forgotten? That ship had been as much a part of his life for the last five years as Defiant. Even when he wasn’t in Spacedock, overseeing her construction, he was on the subspace to Hess, or another of his subordinates, making sure things were done the right way. And they had been. The ship was a masterpiece. The ship was…

  He frowned. He could remember virtually nothing to do with the ship since it had been constructed. The last he could recall of Nobunaga was months ago.

  He went and got the guard. The guard went and got Phlox.

  The doctor didn’t even need to unpack his machines. “Memory loss is not surprising. Neural tissue is particularly sensitive toward delta radiation.”

  “Yeah. I know that.” It was delta radiation, after all, that had scarred Jonathan Archer’s mind, as it had scarred Tucker’s face. “But this seems like a pretty specific set of memories being affected.”

  “Ah.” Phlox smiled. “Memory. A fascinating phenomenon. Its acquisition, its retention…the mechanisms are still so poorly understood. How are specific memories grouped within the brain? How are they linked? Recalled? How—”

  “I get the point.”

  “I am conducting experiments. Some show great promise. Perhaps you would like to participate?” Phlox’s eyes glittered with pleasure. “The remunerative value is relatively small, but consider the legacy you would be leaving to—”

  “No, thanks.” Tucker knew a little too much about how Phlox conducted his laboratory ever to enter it voluntarily.

  The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, I will have to notify the Empress of this latest development, Commander.”

  “Of course you will.”

  “There can be no question of your returning to duty now. What other portions of your memory have been affected? Your knowledge of warp systems? Proper intermix procedures?” Phlox almost smiled. “It would be irresponsible to allow you anywhere near such valuable machines. You understand.”

  “Sure.” Tucker managed a smile himself. Ha-ha. Funny joke. “I understand.”

  Phlox bowed and left the room.

  Tucker stood there a moment, arms folded across his chest.

  Dying was one thing, but to go out a drooling, raving mess, who couldn’t even remember his own name—

  He looked across the room at his image in the mirror. The image stared back.

  It was as if it spoke to him.

  You’re going to die here, it said.

  You’re going to die all alone.

  An overwhelming wave of despair washed over him.

  No one would mourn his passing. No one would remember him when he was gone. No one, more than likely, would even come to say good-bye. And he would never be allowed to leave. Mixed up as it was, the knowledge in his head was too valuable to the Empire to risk losing it to…

  He stared into the mirror, and an idea came to him.

  An idea, he realized, that had been drifting around in his mind for a long time. Years, even. Twenty years. Ever since he and Jonathan Archer had first met.

  The mirror.

  The Tucker who could have been. The Tucker who was, in some alternate place, somewhere. The universe that was. Not an Empire but…

  He shook his head. It was a stupid idea, all things considered. It was a dangerous idea.

  But it was his only chance, he realized. To leave a legacy of some kind.

  To live before he died.

  He bided his time.

  He ate the hospital food. He did his exercises. He contacted Defiant daily, spoke to those who had been his staff, when they could spare the time. Which was less and less often. He was irrelevant. Which was no more than he expected.

  He read his journals, and in between, he read the news reports. They were unfailingly optimistic. Inevitably censored. The war was going well. The rebellion was doomed to fail. Same old story; for a while it had even been true. Those first few years following the Vulcans’ about-face, their leaving the rebellion to ally themselves with the Empress, had been hard ones for the rebels. Their cause had seemed defeated.

  And then came Archer.

  And now the tide had turned again; reading between the lines of the news stories, he could sense it. The rebellion was growing, spreading. More systems, more races joining with the Tellarites, the Andorians, the Klingons…

  Of course, there was nothing in the news reports about that. Or his old friend, for that matter. That was to be expected as well.

  A week passed.

  Mornings he spent dealing with the pain, the pounding in his skull, which came with renewed vigor. Days he spent reading and thinking. About the past and the present and the future. What had been, what could yet still be. He continued to dream at night and to work at the bed railing the Empress had snapped.

  On the seventh day, he managed to break it at the other end. Ended up with a metal rod about a foot long, jagged edges. He hid it in the sleeve of his gown.

  He went out into the hall.

  “What?” the guard asked.

  “I want out,” he said. “I want to smell some fresh air.”

  The guard sneered and stepped closer. “Get back in there. Before I—”

  Tucker drove the metal rod into his throat.

  Blood gushed everywhere. The guard gagged and tried to pull the rod free. Tucker drove forward with his legs, slamming the guard up against the wall. The man gagged some more. Hospital white, on the walls, on Tucker’s gown, blended with sticky red. The guard reached for his communicator and then his weapon. Tucker slapped his hands away each time.

  The man gagged one final time and went stiff.

  Tucker let go of the rod; the body slumped to the floor. The guard’s uniform was soaked with blood, stained. That wasn’t part of the plan. The plan was to put on the big guy’s uniform, walk out the front door. What was the plan now?

  Improvise.

  He stole the guard’s weapon, stole the guard’s money. He found a laundry room, the door half open, beckoning him inside. A spare medical uniform—pale green jumpsuit, white coat. A stairway that took him out to a lobby and out onto the street.

  He recognized the skyline immediately. Kyoto. The Empire’s capital, the Empress’s home turf. No big surprise; Hoshi was keeping him close. He was surprised she hadn’t chained him to the bed.

  They’d be looking for him by now, have all the spaceports locked down. Have all the harbor facilities and rail stations watched. There was only one way out for him, one way to get off this planet, out of the Empress’s clutches, live the last few weeks of his life in peace. Go to his grave knowing he’d done something to justify his forty-odd years of existence.

  He made his way to the seediest part of town he could find and went into the seediest-looking bar. He sat on a stool and ordered a beer.

  Time passed; the bar filled up.

  He started conversations, started asking questions. Leading questions, questions designed to lead him to a particular kind of person. He got a few nibbl
es, no bites. He finished his first beer and nursed a second. He kept asking questions.

  He decided the plan wasn’t working; he needed to improvise again. He finished his beer and went out onto the street.

  He sensed movement behind him and turned.

  Everything went dark.

  When he woke, he was in a small, windowless room. Two men were leaning over him.

  One was hawk-nosed, unshaven, dark-haired; the other was squat, balding, sallow-eyed. Robin Hood and Friar Tuck.

  “You’ve been asking a lot of questions,” the thin one said. “Why?”

  Tucker hesitated.

  They could be spies; the Empress had scores. Or they could be exactly what he was looking for.

  If he was wrong, he was screwed. Of course, if he was wrong, he was screwed anyway.

  He took a deep breath. “My name’s Tucker. Archer is a friend of mine.”

  The two men looked at each other.

  “Archer who?” the thin one asked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about the rebellion,” Tucker said. “I want to join it.”

  They asked more questions. They left the room for a good five minutes. Only the fat man came back.

  “My friend has gone to check out your story,” he said, sitting. “If you’re lying, you’re a dead man.”

  “I’m not lying.”

  “We’ll see, won’t we?” he said, and that was the last either of them said for the next hour or so.

  Finally, the thin man returned. Robin. He handed Tuck a sheet of paper.

  The fat man read it, looked at Tucker, and nodded.

  “We have to hurry,” he said, standing.

  They blindfolded him. They bound his arms behind his back. Shoved him into a surface vehicle. A bumpy road, a long ride—several hours. Tucker’s bladder almost burst. Finally, a stop. Tucker heard noises around him, familiar noises. Machinery. A spaceport.

  He was pulled from the vehicle. Marched up a ramp, down a curving corridor, into a room. A metal door slammed shut. The blindfold, and then the ropes, came off.

  Tucker was looking at a stranger. A woman. In the blue dress from his dream, the one that T’Pol had worn, a lifetime ago.

  The rebel uniform. The uniforms they’d found aboard Defiant. Uniforms from a mirror universe, symbols not of Empire but Federation. The world that could be. Uniforms Archer had made his own.

  “Commander Tucker,” she said. “I’m Leandra. Welcome aboard.”

  He looked around the room. It was a metal box, six by six. No windows. A cot, a sink, a toilet.

  “Aboard what?”

  “The Ulysses. You’re safe. In good hands.”

  “That’s good to hear. We’re going to see Archer?”

  She smiled. “I’ll be back soon. We can talk more then.”

  “All right.” He smiled back. They weren’t telling him. They still didn’t trust him completely. He found that reassuringly familiar.

  He lay down on his bed. The stress of the last few hours suddenly caught up with him.

  He closed his eyes. He was too keyed up to sleep. Instead, he let his mind wander. To the past, recent and not so. Phlox, Robinson, T’Pol, Archer. The world as it had been before Hoshi became Empress. How she came to power, which had all started with Jonathan Archer and Enterprise.

  Archer had been first officer; he’d picked up message traffic from Tholian space, images of a ship the Tholians had captured. An Earth ship but unlike any anyone had ever seen before. A ship from a mirror universe, a ship from a mirror future, Defiant. A starship somehow catapulted into the past, a starship so powerful it could render the entire Imperial fleet obsolescent. Archer had mutinied, led Enterprise and her crew into Tholian space to capture that ship, which eventually they accomplished. Enterprise had been destroyed, most of its crew killed in the process. Returning to Earth, a second mutiny, this one led by Hoshi with Mayweather’s assistance, had resulted in her seizing control of first Defiant and then the Empire itself.

  She used the ship—its weapons, its power—to cow those opposed to her into submission. The forces loyal to Cochrane, the forces intent on liberty. A relative calm descended on the quadrant. The calm before the storm.

  Before the rebellion began growing in strength again. Before—

  “I want you to build me a ship,” the Empress had said. “A sister to Defiant.”

  Nobunaga.

  Tucker’s head pounded.

  Nobunaga.

  He blinked, and suddenly he was there. At the engineering console, on her bridge. Reed stood next to him; stood over him. Malcolm Reed, chief of the Imperial Guard. The most feared man in the Empire.

  “Explain this to me again,” he said.

  “It’s called a prefix code,” Tucker said. “Think of it like a last line of defense, for the Empress. It enables her to take personal control of this vessel, anytime she likes. From anywhere within subspace range.”

  “And who else besides the Empress will know this code?”

  “No one.”

  “That’s not exactly true, is it?” Reed smiled. Not a pleasant smile. “You’ll know it, won’t you?” He leaned closer. His features morphed into T’Pol’s. “Won’t you?”

  Her hands reached for his forehead.

  Tucker screamed out loud and shot awake.

  He was back in his bed, on Ulysses.

  The door to his room was open. A man stood in the light from the hall.

  He moved into the room; his features came into focus.

  “Trip,” he said. “You all right?”

  Trip. No one had called him Trip in twenty years.

  Tucker looked at the man.

  The rebellion’s new leader.

  His old friend.

  Jonathan Archer.

  Hoshi killed him and took his command. Took Defiant and, with it, the Empire.

  And then she changed her mind. She decided she needed Archer alive, needed his expertise, his skills, to further her goals. Phlox had done the medical work, the cloning. T’Pol had done the dirty work. Gone into Archer’s mind, once the man was healthy enough, and conditioned him to obey the Empress’s orders.

  Phlox’s work took; T’Pol’s didn’t.

  Two years into his service to the Empire, Archer turned. Went over to the rebellion. Became the bane of the Empress’s existence.

  “Find him.” Trip remembered her image on Defiant’s main viewscreen, spitting at Mayweather. Spitting at Robinson. “Catch him. Kill him.”

  Neither man had been able to do it. And now—

  “A nightmare.” Tucker swung his legs over onto the floor and stood. “Been having a lot of those lately.”

  “Haven’t we all.”

  Archer looked thinner than Tucker remembered; his golden uniform shirt hung off his body. He had a full beard, shot through with gray. He had a long scar running across his temple, at the hairline, courtesy of Dr. Phlox’s tender ministrations, no doubt.

  The two men shook hands.

  “It’s good to see you again, Trip.”

  “You, too, sir.”

  “Even better to have you here. With us.”

  “I didn’t want to die in Kyoto. I didn’t want to die without doing something about the way things are.”

  “Good,” Archer said. “You’ve come at a very opportune time.”

  “Oh?”

  “We’re in the middle of an operation. A plan that—if we can pull it off—will make things a lot harder for the Empress. For the Empire.”

  “I’ll do what I can to help.”

  “I have the feeling you can do a lot.”

  “Really?”

  The captain nodded. “Let’s get you something to eat. Then we’ll talk.”

  They went to the ship’s mess—a second windowless room, half again as big as Tucker’s quarters. Three tables, twelve chairs, dehydrated rations, purified, lukewarm water. Tucker wasn’t hungry; his head was still pounding. Continuous, low-level pounding. />
  “You’re not eating,” Archer said.

  “I’m getting my sea legs.” Tucker forced a smile; Archer returned it.

  They weren’t alone in the mess; Robin, the thin man from the bar who’d brought him there, was at the next table, along with Leandra. They were talking. They were also watching him and Archer. Probably making sure he didn’t harm the captain.

  “So, you gonna tell me about this mysterious plan of yours?” Tucker asked. “What I can do to help?”

  “Sure. It’s a pretty simple one, actually.”

  “Simpler ones always work the best. Less to go wrong.”

  “My feelings exactly.”

  “Go on.”

  Archer smiled. “Nobunaga.”

  The pounding in Tucker’s head grew louder.

  The room around him blurred.

  “He was a visionary.”

  That was Hoshi’s voice. The Empress’s voice.

  He was no longer aboard Ulysses.

  He stood in an observation lounge, looking on the skeleton of a huge starship.

  Hoshi stood next to him.

  “He brought muskets to the army. Western trade to the empire. He sought to open Japan to the world. To open the empire to a better future. What better name for our vessel? What better way to represent the future we desire?”

  She placed a hand on his arm, smiled her dazzling smile. Tucker inhaled her scent.

  “Trip?”

  Tucker blinked.

  He was back on Ulysses. Back in the mess hall.

  Archer was standing. Leandra was standing, too, just behind him. Staring.

  “You all right?” the captain asked.

  “Fine.”

  “You went away there for a minute.”

  “Sorry. It’s been a helluva couple days.” He willed the memory—and the pain—away. “What about Nobunaga? What’s your plan?”

  The captain smiled.

  “We’re going to steal it.”

  Tucker let out a long, slow whistle. “Steal Nobunaga?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Steal a whole starship?”

  Archer’s smile grew broader.