by Various
T’Pol noticed the distracted look on the face of the taller, pudgier Tellarite seated next to the general. This one had been introduced to her as Rog, the commander of the Moedigesnuit, the frigate currently holding station off the bow of the Ni’Var. At the moment, his attention was focused on the two Orion sisters seated to T’Pol’s left, as if locked in a hypnotic trance with one of them.
The olive-skinned females were clad in wisps of ragged, strategically placed pieces of fabric—oddly, their attire actually revealed more flesh than it covered. One of the women returned Rog’s gaze, tracing a finger along a corner of her sly smile. The Orion’s sister, Commander Navaar, ignored the stare of the corpulent alien.
“What ‘rebellion’ do you speak of, General?” Navaar asked him sharply. “Your ships haven’t engaged the Terran fleet for months.”
Commander Navaar had accelerated her own raids since the rebels’ victory at Tau Ceti, claiming responsibility for numerous attacks along the Empire’s periphery. During her time on Enterprise, T’Pol had personally witnessed Navaar’s handiwork. Captain Forrest had responded to a distress call from a Terran outpost that had been decimated by the Orions. The casualties were more than Phlox’s sickbay could handle—broken bodies overflowed into the corridor. Navaar was ruthless but efficient—she delegated many responsibilities to members of her extended family, including the sister at her side, who at the moment was taking delight in the exquisite torment she was inflicting on Rog.
Gral was about to reply to Navaar’s challenge when he noticed his colleague’s distraction, and nudged him hard with his elbow. Rog snapped out of his reverie, somewhat annoyed. “I told you to take the pheromone suppressant,” the general growled at Rog under his breath.
“It must have slipped my mind.” Rog’s tone suggested to T’Pol that his omission was no accident. She knew it was dangerous for males to remain in close proximity to Orion women—as pleasurable as Rog may have found the experience, the airborne biochemicals the females were secreting made him susceptible to even the slightest suggestion. No doubt Rog would walk into an airlock and begin the depressurization sequence if one of the Orion women commanded it.
Gral turned back to Navaar, his ire rising. “If I reveal the location of my forces, the Empress’s new battleship will blast us out of the sky.”
“Your forces aren’t in hiding,” Navaar shot back, “they’re making preparations to flee the quadrant. You’ve already abandoned our cause.”
The Orion woman struck a nerve with Gral. “I wouldn’t expect a former slave to understand the meaning of the term, ‘strategic redeployment.’”
“In my language: kohl’ash,” Navaar replied with an edge.
Gral was incensed. “Retreat? The Andorians are on my border, not yours, and now the Empire has allied themselves with those blue-skinned demons. My men can’t wage a war on two fronts!”
“Then I suggest a new strategy, General—surrender. Your men would do more damage to the Empire by crowding their prisons and consuming their food.”
The Tellarite started to rise. “You promiscuous little…”
“Kroyka!”
T’Pau had gotten to her feet at the head of the table—T’Pol noticed that even at her full height, the minister was barely taller than those seated around her. Behind T’Pau, an Orion corsair and a Tellarite warship could be glimpsed through the window, the view of the ships partially obstructed by tendrils of gas and dust from the nebula the ships were using to conceal themselves.
“We have allowed ourselves to be intimidated by the Empire and their new vessel,” T’Pau said, lowering her voice. “The time has come for unified action.”
Gral shook his head. “That flagship of theirs is more powerful than anything in the quadrant! Starfleet’s begun refitting their entire fleet with its weapons.”
“Then logic dictates we strike now before the upgrades can be completed. For that, we will need all of our forces.”
The general scoffed at T’Pau. “It’s common knowledge that the Vulcans have been planning an exodus out of the quadrant for months. Your people gave up on this rebellion long before anyone else.”
T’Pau didn’t flinch at the accusation. “That is a factual statement. However, our plans have changed. We are not leaving.”
“Then you’re a fool, T’Pau. This war is lost.”
“Come with me.”
In the center of the Ni’Var’s launch bay, the Federation shuttlecraft McCool sat in stark contrast to the utilitarian Vulcan craft surrounding it. Gral and Navaar entered with the two Vulcans, and moved cautiously toward the vessel as if it were an object of reverence. The Terran media had broadcast holographic images of the Defiant in action—this auxiliary craft obviously shared the same slate-gray hull and clean lines of its mothership.
“Is this thing real?” Gral asked, almost afraid to believe it.
Minister T’Pau nodded.
Navaar ran her fingers along one of the nacelle support struts, as if needing physical confirmation of what her eyes told her. “How did you get your hands on this?”
“It is a long story,” T’Pol said simply as the Tellarite began to trace a path around the shuttlecraft. Access panels on the aft section of the McCool had been opened; several engine components had been removed for examination by Vulcan engineers. On a workbench nearby, one of the shuttlecraft’s computer modules was being disassembled by technicians. The computer interface was blinking and flashing, obviously still active—a network of cables snaked their way from the computer to the McCool’s cabin, providing power to the component.
“Is this warp capable?” Gral asked, as Rog peered into access ports and ran his short, fat fingers along the cool surface, marveling at its features.
The minister nodded. “Yes. Its speed is comparable to your merchant vessels.”
T’Pol had allowed herself a small measure of satisfaction for her decision to present the McCool to the minister as a gesture of trust and goodwill. It had taken somewhat longer for T’Pau to extend that appreciation to the former Starfleet officer, but in the months since joining the resistance cell, T’Pol had become intimately involved in the group’s strategic planning, leveraging her in-depth knowledge of Imperial protocols and military capabilities. T’Pol was careful to share her expertise on a “need to know” basis, making her all the more valuable to the minister.
“Wait,” Gral said, examining the unfamiliar Starfleet pennant on the side of the craft. “Where is the Imperial emblem?” He stepped closer, reading the name emblazoned on the hull: “This should read I.S.S. Defiant—not U.S.S.” Gral looked to the Vulcans, expecting some sort of acknowledgment that their ruse had been uncovered. “It’s a fake!”
“You’re mistaken, General,” T’Pol told him calmly. “This vessel is not from our future. It comes from a reality where the Empire does not exist—where it never existed.”
As the general absorbed this new revelation, Navaar shook her head, unable to resist a clever smile. “Sato lies better than any privateer I’ve ever known.”
Gral had apparently accepted the Vulcan’s explanation. “Well, then, what about weapons?”
“It is unarmed,” T’Pau replied, “but my engineers are gaining valuable insight into the Defiant’s technology.”
Gral had heard enough. “This is all very impressive, but we’re going to need much more than ‘Vulcan insight’ to destroy Sato’s flagship.”
T’Pol stepped toward the workbench. “We have an additional resource.” She removed the data card Tucker had generously given her and inserted it into the slot under the monitor. The screen flared to life, displaying a rapidly scrolling series of technical images and diagrams.
“Detailed schematics of the Defiant,” she said.
Gral tried to take in the moving images all at once. “Slow it down, I can’t read it!”
“There will be ample time to examine the data,” T’Pau said. “Before I give it to you, I require a commitment—from both of you.”
Now it was Navaar’s turn to look skeptical. “What sort of commitment?”
6
T ravis Mayweather caught sight of his bodyguard in the corridor outside his quarters—lying dead in an expanding pool of his own blood. The image registered in his mind a heartbeat before light glinted off the polished steel of the stained blade that had taken his loyal servant’s life.
It came from his right and just behind him, the attacker having pressed himself against the bulkhead near Mayweather’s door. Training and instinct took over, and the captain ducked, pivoting until he was inside the arc of his assailant’s swing. He threw up his right arm and blocked the strike, connecting with the other man’s wrist and eliciting a grunt of surprise. Not bothering to wrest the knife from his opponent’s grasp, Mayweather instead drove his elbow toward his assailant’s face. He felt the satisfying crack of cartilage as the man’s nose broke from the impact—Mayweather received a cry of pain as reward for his effort.
Pulling away and giving himself some maneuvering room, Mayweather got his first good look at his enemy: human male, bald but sporting a thin black mustache that drooped over his mouth and a well-groomed goatee. He was wearing a dark blue Starfleet uniform with insignia identifying him as an enlisted member of the ship’s security force. That made him one of Malcolm Reed’s men, but whether that indicted the good major himself was a matter for another time, once Mayweather had dispensed with the shortsighted fool now standing before him.
To his credit, the man said nothing as he faced off against Mayweather, moving to his left and studying the captain as he searched for a new opening. His movements indicated that he was well trained, and the fact that he hadn’t used the phase pistol holstered at his waist signaled his apparent awareness of the defensive measures currently active aboard Defiant, particularly in the vicinity of Mayweather’s quarters. Were the man to use the weapon, the starship’s computer would immediately detect the energy release and seal the entire deck.
Such measures, however, did not rule out the possibility that the man might do something rash or simply stupid. Mayweather saw no reason to give him that opportunity.
The assailant lunged forward in a renewed attack. Mayweather was ready for him and lashed out with a savage kick that caught the man in the throat, knowing as his boot made contact that the blow was a lethal strike. His opponent staggered backward, eyes wide with panic and agony as he reached both hands to his crushed windpipe and fought for breath. Tortured wheezing echoed in the confines of the corridor as the man sank to his knees, suffocating with every passing second.
Mayweather considered taking pity on the man and ending his suffering by way of his phaser, but the errant thought evaporated as the captain noted the arrival of other crew members, watching from a discreet distance at opposite ends of the passageway. His gaze fixed on his opponent as he slumped to the deck, the crewman’s body racked by a last string of violent spasms. No, he decided. His attacker’s slow and excruciating death would serve as a warning to anyone who might be contemplating similiar action.
Looking up from the still-dying man, the captain caught sight of Sergeant Hayes and Corporal Madden, two members of his own trusted security contingent—both human males with weapons drawn—approaching at a rapid clip up the passageway. Madden stopped to inspect the body of Sergeant McCain, who had fallen near the door to Mayweather’s quarters. Hayes stood before the captain, snapping to attention and offering the traditional imperial salute. “Are you all right, sir?” he asked. “We came as soon as we were alerted to the emergency.”
“I’m fine,” Mayweather replied. With a small smile, he added, “I figured it was about time somebody tried to take me out.” He indicated the dead assailant. “I don’t recognize him. Who was he?”
“Sergeant Haffley, sir,” the MACO replied. “He was only with the crew a week or so. Major Reed approved his transfer from the Invincible.” Looking around as though to ensure they were not being overheard, he added, “Rumors are he’s one of a small group the major’s putting together—loyal officers he’s served with.”
Obviously not loyal to me. Mayweather considered what that might mean for him. Was Reed already positioning key personnel among Defiant’s crew? Even if that were the case, the major was no fool; he would not strike here and now, with Defiant so far from home and without the protection of the many friends Reed had made at Starfleet Command—few of whom were truly loyal to the Empress.
No, Mayweather decided. Instinct told him this attack was the result of one man’s enthusiasm getting the best of him, but the captain had no intention of again being the victim of such zeal. He was not about to write off the possibility that Reed—or someone else with a similar agenda—might take advantage of any random opportunity that presented itself.
He indicated his slain bodyguard with a nod of his chin. “McCain was a fine soldier, but he was careless. Tell your people to remain alert. I want security doubled in the armory, engineering, and auxiliary control. No one steps onto the bridge without my authorization.” Indeed, Mayweather was more than irritated with himself for not taking such precautions sooner.
I’d better get the hang of this job, he said to himself, and pretty damned fast. His path to command was atypical, to say the least. Only eight months ago, Mayweather was a lowly sergeant attached to the MACO detail aboard the ill-fated Enterprise. His startling advancement was a result of his decision to betray Captain Archer and ally himself with the woman who would soon become the first-ever Empress of the Terran Empire. Had Mayweather remained loyal to his former commander, at this moment he would probably be serving as Emperor Jonathan’s personal guard—an assignment he hardly coveted, but one he would not be at liberty to turn down. Those men unfortunate enough to be selected for that “honored” position had a notoriously short life expectancy.
Mayweather had agreed to help Sato ascend to the throne. In return, all he had asked for was “a tall ship,” as one lesser poet had once put it. The new Empress had been true to her word—Mayweather was now a man to be feared, the commander of the most lethal weapon in the known galaxy, as well as the youngest captain in the history of the Terran Starfleet.
And don’t forget, the dumbest one, too, he often reminded himself.
Since being appointed captain, Mayweather had enrolled in an unofficial crash course in starship command, reading everything he could about naval history, battle theory, and the essentials of combat tactics. Every spare moment was devoted to earning the job he had already been given. Mayweather was determined to become not merely a competent officer—but the best captain in the fleet. Otherwise the Empress would be forced to replace him. After all, her promise said nothing about how long he would remain Defiant’s commander.
In his position, a sudden and violent death could come at any moment, from anywhere. The average captain only had to keep a watchful eye on his own crew—but Mayweather had to pay attention to the officers above him as well. The recently demoted fleet captain made no secret of the fact that he desired this command for himself. Rumors had even reached Mayweather’s ears, alleging that Robinson had openly boasted of the “personal assurance” he had received from the Empress that Defiant would eventually be his.
The captain wasn’t concerned—Robinson was probably lying. If he wasn’t? Mayweather would see to it that his current mission was such a success that Sato couldn’t replace him.
A troubling thought then occurred to him. Robinson was Invincible’s executive officer eight years ago—perhaps this assailant wasn’t working on his own, as Mayweather’s instincts told him. The two men may have known each other. If the theory was correct, the fleet captain may have decided to make a preemptive move against Mayweather—Robinson must be aware that if Defiant’s current mission is a success, it will be much more difficult to eliminate its captain.
Mayweather smiled inwardly at the paranoid conspiracy he had plotted in a matter of seconds. You’re not paranoid if they really are out to get you, he thought.
Mayweather heard a new chorus of running footfalls echoing in the corridor behind him, and turned to see Major Reed sprinting toward him, phase pistol at the ready, leading a contingent of three security guards. Though the security chief’s expression was one of concern, Mayweather thought he detected a hint of displeasure in Reed’s good eye as the chief of security analyzed the scene before them.
“Captain,” the major said as he approached, lowering his phase pistol. “What happened here?” Did Mayweather detect disappointment in Reed’s voice?
Mayweather almost laughed at the near-sincerity lacing the major’s words. Indicating the dead man with a nod, he said, “Someone looking for a promotion. One of yours, I understand.”
“Yes, we served together previously.” Reed’s lips pressed tightly together as he holstered his sidearm. “Captain, I assure you, I had no inkling that he was planning something like this.”
For once, Mayweather thought , I believe you.
Practically everyone on the ship believed he had made a catastrophic mistake by asking his former superior to become Defiant’s security chief. Reed’s ambitions were evident—he practically wore them on his sleeve, next to the skull and crossbones MACO patch. Mayweather had to admit Reed was an excellent tactician and a superb officer, even if he wasn’t particularly popular among the crew. If he were to make an attempt on his life, Mayweather hoped it would be more competently executed—or else he really had made a mistake. The ship’s security could not be entrusted to an officer so inept.