It occurred to him that at least one of them would have left him a note before doing something so damned stupid. Taking a seat before T’Pol’s monitor, he started searching the com logs.
The desktop terminal brightened a few moments later, then suddenly displayed the serious-miened faces of Enterprise’s exec and weapons officer. They were standing awkwardly side-by-side in a cramped, dimly illuminated cabin that Archer immediately recognized as the interior of his missing shuttlepod. Both were out of uniform, clad instead in dark, nondescript clothing devoid of any visible insignia linking them to Starfleet, Earth, or the Coalition.
“Captain Archer, by the time you view this recording, Lieutenant Reed and I will probably be deep inside Romulan territory,” T’Pol began without preamble. “Please accept my apologies for the rather…unorthodox actions we have taken. However, our mission is one of the utmost importance. And not merely for the safety of the man we both know as ‘Lazarus.’”
Lazarus, Archer repeated silently, recalling the code name Trip had used when he had delivered his last-minute warning about the attack on Coridan.
“I must also protect the vital work that Lazarus is performing inside the Romulan sphere of influence,” T’Pol continued. “Should we fail, the repercussions will be incalculably larger than the life of any one person.”
“Or even our lives, I suppose,” Malcolm said.
Something written millennia ago by the Vulcan philosopher Surak, a long-dead man whose living spirit had nonetheless once briefly shared the space inside his skull, sprang unbidden into Archer’s head, soothing his roiling emotions: The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.
Reed added, “I know I once promised you that I was finished with this kind of subterfuge, Captain, and that my first loyalty was to you and to Enterprise…I understand the consequences of my actions. But I wouldn’t be doing this if I thought we had a better alternative.”
As he listened, Archer felt a renewed surge of anger begin to sweep away the calming memory of once having been in close proximity to Surak’s peaceful, orderly mind. How could the two of them leave Enterprise at a time like this? he thought. Regardless of T’Pol’s vehement certainty that Trip was in mortal danger, her actions were a far cry from what he’d come to expect from his logical first officer. Reed, yes. Trip, certainly. But not T’Pol.
“If it is at all possible,” T’Pol’s image said, “we will return to Enterprise at our earliest opportunity, to take responsibility for our unauthorized actions. And to face whatever disciplinary consequences await us.”
She raised her right hand in a familiar split-fingered gesture. “Live long, and prosper.”
The message abruptly ended.
Slumping backward into T’Pol’s chair, Archer sighed into the semidarkness that surrounded him. Whatever qualms he had about what his subordinates had just done, he knew there could be no changing any of it now. The die was cast. Railing against what was done would do absolutely no good.
“Godspeed,” he whispered to the blank screen.
Even before he’d heard the recording, the main reason behind T’Pol and Malcolm’s clandestine stunt had been glaringly obvious to him.
Trip.
And because this entire business revolved around a man believed dead by all but a handful of people, there was only one person currently aboard Enterprise with whom Archer could speak freely about what T’Pol and Malcolm were trying to do.
His frustration welled up again, and he slammed his fist down on another com button, striking the console nearly hard enough to shatter it. He found the pain that shot through his hand strangely calming.
“Archer to Phlox,” he said, addressing the one crew member who would be awake regardless of the lateness of the hour. “Doctor, I have a huge problem on my hands.”
SEVENTEEN
Friday, July 18, 2155
83 Leonis V
TRIP FOUND HIMSELF adrift in a borderless white nothingness that seemed to stretch out into infinity.
He tried to calm the terror that clawed his guts. I must be dreaming, he thought, though the vivid clarity of his senses argued otherwise. As did the fact that he had been to this very same nonplace before.
A familiar voice behind him spoke urgently. “Trip.”
Though he didn’t understand how his feet were able to find purchase in this insubstantial netherworld, he nevertheless planted them solidly and turned toward the sound.
T’Pol stood before him, attired in a Starfleet uniform. “Are you safe at the moment?”
He chuckled and waggled his hand back and forth. “Safe enough to fall asleep about a sword’s length away from a Romulan soldier who thinks I’m a Vulcan spy. Or maybe I’m just tired enough to hallucinate.”
“You’re not asleep, Trip. And you’re not hallucinating or dreaming.”
He shrugged. “Then I guess I’m as safe as safe gets here in the belly of the beast. Unless my watchdog decides to turn on me, that is.”
The only thing he felt fairly certain about was that Admiral Valdore wasn’t deliberately feeding him disinformation. At least not since he’d received independent confirmation from Captain Stillwell that an Earth Cargo Service freighter had indeed gone missing from its pre-filed course, a fact that was consistent with the Klingon attack that a Romulan outpost had reported having witnessed in the Gamma Hydra sector.
T’Pol nodded, a look of concern threatening to overwhelm her usual Vulcan stoicism. “Help is coming, Trip. In the meantime, please be careful.”
He smiled at the dream-image of the woman with whom he’d once thought he might build a future. But he knew enough about nostalgia and wish-fulfillment fantasies to resist believing that she was really communicating with him telepathically and in real time across all the boundless light-years that separated them.
And he knew enough about life not to expect any hairbreadth rescues or other miracles to intervene on his behalf.
“I promise to wear my mittens until the cavalry comes,” he said, not quite suppressing an ironic smile.
She raised an eyebrow in a classic expression of Vulcan perplexity. “Stay safe, Trip,” she said after a seemingly uncertain pause. “And remain vigilant.”
I know, Trip thought wistfully. I guess I still love you, too.
The real world returned to Trip in a disorienting rush of sensation. “Cunaehr!” a stern male was shouting into his ear, startling him back into wakefulness. The fathomless white expanse around him vanished like fog, taking T’Pol with it. The face of Centurion Terix, whose aquiline features were creased with both concern and frustration, now nearly filled his vision.
“I had feared you dead for a moment,” Terix said, releasing his grip on Trip’s bulky Romulan travel robes and backing away to his own nearby barstool.
Trip allowed his gaze to drift momentarily around the crowded, noisy, and dimly illuminated gambling establishment that surrounded them both as he regained his psychological bearings. The barstool that had somehow kept him from tipping over backward during his apparently brief episode—he no longer felt entirely certain that it had been a mere dream or hallucination—reminded him that the seat hadn’t been designed with the Terran backside in mind. That single tangible reality jolted him the rest of the way back into the real world.
“I’m fine, Terix,” Trip said. “Just a little tired, that’s all. It was a long flight out here.”
“Sleep during the flight next time, Cunaehr,” the centurion said in a low growl. “I didn’t bring you all the way to the Empire’s southern galactic limits for you to doze off while so much work still lies ahead of us.”
Right, Trip thought as he discreetly eyed the telltale bulge beneath Terix’s otherwise unassuming dark travel robes. I should just take a catnap right next to a man who’s convinced that I’m a Vulcan spy. He knew that the centurion’s deliberately nonmartial garment was intended to conceal both a disruptor pistol and a razor-sharp military Honor Blade, though he didn’t think it was accomplishing
that objective particularly well with regard to either weapon—and that was to say nothing about Terix’s aggressive stance.
He wondered which Terix would grab first, the gun or the blade, once he decided that he finally had an adequate excuse to follow his instincts.
“I’d be happy to get started, Terix,” Trip said. “I’m just hoping not to die of sheer boredom while we’re sitting around waiting for our contact to turn up.”
Terix’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Be patient, Cunaehr. And remain alert.”
Trip nodded as he reached toward the bar on which he’d set his now half-empty mug. His first impression of the surprisingly potent blue ale had been that it probably ought to be illegal. The sip he took now only confirmed that initial opinion.
Several more minutes passed, during which Trip ever so slowly drained his glass. “What makes you so sure we’re even waiting in the right place, Terix?” he said as he contemplated whether or not ordering a refill would make him more or less likely to experience another vivid hallucination.
“This place is more a frontier outpost than an established colony, Cunaehr. Therefore relatively few places like this exist on all of Cheron, since the Rihannsu population here numbers only a few thousand at most.”
Cheron, Trip thought, reminding himself yet again that it would be a bad idea to slip up and call the place by its Earth astronomical designation, 83 Leonis V.
Aloud, he said, “But I saw huge cities when we were making our approach from orbit.”
Terix shook his head. “No. You saw but the skeletons of those cities. Their builders preceded the Rihannsu presence on this world by many millennia. They died out before our people arrived and gained a toehold here, perhaps centuries before. If they died by their own hands, they did quite a thorough job of destroying themselves.”
Terix’s statement roused Trip’s curiosity. “What do you mean?”
Terix paused to quaff some of his own drink. “I take it you’ve never wandered about in the unexplored sectors of this city.”
“No. I’ve never been here before. And I didn’t think you wanted to take the time for a sightseeing tour today.”
“Well, I have been here before, Cunaehr, when time was not so pressing. I have seen the results of whatever plague felled these people, whether it came from happenstance or biological warfare. Whatever the cause, it killed all but a few of the hardier lower species of plants and animals. Even most of the natural microbiological processes that should have rotted away the remains of the dead eons ago have been crippled, or even stopped altogether.”
The centurion’s eyes grew distant and haunted. “This world is like an unburied corpse, mummifying alone and forgotten in an uncaring desert.”
Trip shivered inwardly. “Then why would anyone want to come to this planet, much less establish a permanent outpost here?”
“For the strategic value of the place, of course,” Terix said, studying him as though he were an exotic butterfly awaiting an unpleasant end in some oversize killing jar. “This system provides an almost completely unobstructed view of the world of our most remote ancestors.” He paused, cranking up the amperage of his already accusing stare. “As well as those of their degenerate allies.”
A beachhead, Trip thought. The beginning of an invasion route that’ll take bastards like this straight on to Vulcan.
And then Earth.
A hand gripped his shoulder, startling him into nearly falling off the awkwardly contoured barstool. He turned and dismounted clumsily from the seat, expecting combat.
Instead Trip stood facing a smiling Romulan woman who appeared to be about his age. She was dressed much as both he and Terix were, in simple, dark traveler’s robes.
“Who’s your new friend, Terix?” the woman said to the centurion, her eyes moving appraisingly up and down Trip’s body in a manner that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. No wonder Vulcans are so hard to get along with, he thought. I’d be cranky, too, if I had to try to keep a libido like theirs reined in all the time.
“His name is Cunaehr,” Terix said in a tone that implied that he still wasn’t absolutely convinced of that fact.
“Cunaehr. Good, solid name,” the woman said, her dark eyes now fixed on Trip’s, although she was still pointedly addressing the centurion. “And does he know how to talk?”
“Ma’am—” Trip began.
“It’s not his job to talk, T’Luadh,” Terix said, interrupting. “We came to this necropolis of a world to hear what you have to say.”
“So much for formal introductions,” the woman said, looking disappointed. “It’s always right down to business with you, isn’t it, Terix? Perhaps you should have another round of kheh’irho brews before we proceed.” She raised a clear glass full of a sapphire-blue liquid, which she seemed to have conjured out of thin air. Trip wondered if he was drinking the same stuff she was.
“Do not play games with us, T’Luadh,” the centurion said. “The Ejhoi Ormiin cell we seek could be putting many liorae-eisae of distance between themselves and lawful pursuit even as we speak.” He reached into his robe, and Trip feared for a moment he might draw one of his weapons.
Instead, Terix pulled out a small cloth sack and gave it a gentle toss. The little bag jingled as it landed heavily on the bar, and the woman wasted no time snapping it up, hefting it, and tucking it inside her own robe.
“Aren’t you going to count it?” Trip asked.
She displayed an ironic half-smile. “The centurion knows better than to cheat his prime intelligence sources. After all, the last thing he wants is to cause them to dry up. Or give them a reason to send him off hunting mogai in downtown Dartha.”
Even without prompting from his translation gear, Trip recognized the Romulan idiom for “wild goose chase.” Despite the fact that the Romulan equivalent of wild geese were as large as people, on top of being rather nasty carnivores.
“Where are the Ejhoi Ormiin we’re pursuing?” Terix said, his right hand straying again toward the robe-shrouded shape of his Honor Blade.
The centurion’s less-than-subtle movement had obviously not escaped T’Luadh’s notice, any more than it had Trip’s. “Kroiha,” she said in a tone that contained both fear and warning. “They were seen on Taugus III as recently as yesterday morning, Dartha ch’Rihan Standard Time.”
Drawing on his recent studies of the Romulan star charts he’d obtained from Ehrehin, Trip tried to get a fix on the location of the new Romulan place name in relation to their present position. Unless he was very much mistaken, Taugus—known on UESPA star charts as Gamma Equulei—was probably at least several weeks away from Cheron. Trip could only hope that he and Terix would have a reasonable chance of running the dissident technology thieves to ground during that time, reaching them before they vanished into the woodwork permanently and put their ill-gotten gains to the worst possible use.
“And what is the name of their present leader?” Terix asked.
The woman took a short swallow from her glass, then looked quickly around the bar as though she feared she might be overheard. None of the other carousers or gamblers present appeared to have taken any particular notice of her.
“They answer to a man named Ch’uihv,” she said at length, speaking in a voice so quiet that Trip had to lean toward her to hear her words clearly.
Trip barely managed to avoid knocking over his drink when he recognized the name she’d just dropped.
“You’ve dealt with this Ch’uihv before, Cunaehr?” Terix asked, his curiosity clearly piqued.
Trip nodded, not seeing any point in trying to paper over his initial reaction. “Yes, in a way.”
Terix scowled at Trip’s uncertain pause. “Out with it, Cunaehr.”
After taking a moment to decide just how much to reveal, Trip said, “He was the leader of the Ejhoi Ormiin group that captured me and Ehrehin a few khaidoa ago. The doctor and I both barely managed to escape from them with our lives.”
He restrained himself from blu
rting out the additional fact that Ch’uihv was known to have worked on both sides of the Romulan territorial border, having once been Captain Sopek, the commander of the Vulcan Starship Ni’Var. But how could I know anything about that, he thought, unless I really am the Vulcan spy that Terix already suspects I am?
Still holding her drink, the woman used her free hand to toss a small object toward Trip. He instinctively caught it a split second before he managed to identify it as a standard Romulan data module.
“You need to learn not to be so trusting, Cunaehr,” she said around another appraising leer. Then she nodded toward the finger-sized bit of plastic in Trip’s hand. “For all you knew, that might have been something dangerous.”
I’m sure it is, he thought. Aloud, he said, “Thanks for the advice.” He did his best not to sound sullen and resentful, even though he couldn’t help but remember how angry he’d felt whenever his older brother Bert would aim a finger at his chest, then flick Trip’s nose when he’d look down to see what he was pointing at.
“Are you going to tell us what’s on this thing,” he said, “or am I going to have to see for myself?”
“The module contains the precise coordinates of Ch’uihv’s base in the Taugus system,” she said. “Hand delivered to you rather than transmitted in order to maintain your element of surprise.”
Unless you’re as trustworthy as Ch’uihv and have already warned him that we’re coming, Trip thought as he pocketed the chip.
Terix rose from his stool and tightened his cloak about him. “Let’s waste no more time, Cunaehr,” he said. “We must make haste to Taugus.”
“You’re welcome,” T’Luadh said with what Trip thought was an overly theatrical pout.
Terix exited the saloon without so much as a backward glance, and Trip followed a short distance behind him. As they wended their way through the rough and shopworn spaceport district toward the austere launch pad where they had left their small scoutship, Trip considered what might await them in the Taugus system. They would either root out the thieves who had raided Ehrehin’s lab, or else walk right into a trap set for them by T’Luadh and the Ejhoi Ormiin dissidents.
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