Nevertheless, both logic and simple decency dictated that war could never be a first option.
“Even the Andorian and Tellarite governments must engage in a deliberative process of sorts before going to war independently of the will of the Coalition,” Soval said, intent on offering his human colleagues at least some small degree of comfort.
Samuels and al-Rashid both nodded in agreement. “We’ll stand adjourned until tomorrow,” Samuels said, finally rising from behind the table.
“I suppose we ought to be thankful that Gral and Thoris aren’t the final decision-makers on their respective homeworlds,” al-Rashid said.
Soval rose from his seat, thereby signaling his aides that it was time to leave the chamber. Addressing the humans, he said, “We must maintain hope that—how do the humans put it?—cooler heads will prevail on both Andoria and Tellar.”
But that hope felt nearly as forced as Thoris’s smiles, or Gral’s table manners.
Sunday, July 20, 2155, 7:22 A.M.
Montgomery, Alabama
When Charles Anthony Tucker II saw what he had just finished downloading onto the e-paper, he nearly spit his morning orange juice across the kitchen.
“Elaine!” he shouted when he’d finally managed to stop sputtering.
His wife emerged from the hallway into the kitchen nearly at a run, pulling her bathrobe sash tightly about her slim waist. Wet hair framed her face, which was a study in concern at the moment, as though she’d half expected to find him dying on the kitchen floor. Considering everything the Tucker family had endured over the past few years—the loss of their two adult children still felt like an open wound to Charles, and probably would continue to feel that way for whatever span of time remained to him—he could hardly blame her for believing the worst.
“What’s wrong, Charles?” Elaine said.
He held up the e-paper and coughed again before croaking out a single syllable. “Look,” he said.
Maybe Trip and Lizzie were the lucky ones, he thought. They never saw things come to this.
Charles watched Elaine’s eyes widen even further as she silently absorbed the bold, thumb-high morning headlines:
COALITION COUNCIL DEBATES WAR RESOLUTION AGAINST KLINGON EMPIRE ANDORIAN AND TELLARITE FLEETS MOBILIZING FOR BATTLE
TWENTY
Sunday, July 20, 2155
Enterprise NX-01, near Draylax
“DOCTOR PHLOX TO THE TRANSPORTER,” Archer said, turning away from the viewscreen to regard Enterprise’s beta-watch commander, Lieutenant Commander Mack McCall, with a half smile. “Good job, Commander.”
McCall grinned under his graying close-cropped mustache and goatee. “The credit really belongs to several members of the bridge crew, sir. The lifesigns were so faint that it took eight sensor sweeps to zero in on the Klingon’s escape pod. I’m not even sure how she stayed alive out there, given that the atmosphere in the escape pod had almost completely vented by the time we located it.”
“Well, let’s hope our Klingon castaway can shed some light on what the hell those battle cruisers were really up to at Draylax,” Archer said, turning to exit the bridge. “Have Sergeant McKenzie and two of her MACO troopers meet me in sickbay immediately. And call over to Columbia; let Captain Hernandez know what we’ve found.”
“I’ve already notified Captain Hernandez,” McCall said. “She’ll be coming aboard Enterprise as soon as she can.”
Archer let out a sigh as the turbolift doors slid closed behind him and the car began to descend. He reflected on the fact that he still hadn’t told anyone other than Phlox about T’Pol and Reed’s abandonment of their posts, or their unauthorized departure in Shuttlepod Two, predominantly out of a desire to avoid further exacerbating Trip’s predicament.
A question flitted across his mind regarding T’Pol and Malcolm’s dereliction of duty: Are their actions really any worse than my own? He knew that his hands weren’t entirely clean, and that made condemning the actions of his officers even more difficult. How many times had he disobeyed orders himself, stretched the limits of a mission, disregarded Starfleet’s code of honor, engaged in some deception all in pursuit of a higher goal?
The turbolift arrived at E deck, and Archer exited, feeling glum as he stalked into sickbay. Seeing that the MACOs had beaten him there cheered him somewhat, as did the fact that one of the troopers was already deployed outside the doors of Phlox’s sickbay, his pulse rifle at the ready.
Inside, Phlox was moving quickly around the biobed on which lay a Klingon woman, her body—still inside a battered pressure suit—twisted into an almost fetal position, probably as a consequence of the decompression injuries she had suffered. Phlox strapped a mask to her face, and the warrior woman offered no resistance.
With a nod, Archer acknowledged Sergeant McKenzie and another MACO trooper nearby, then spoke up. “Does it look like she’ll pull through, Doctor?”
Phlox barely spared him a glance, his orange-hued fingers tapping on some of the medical controls. “Hello, Captain. I’m not certain yet. She has been breathing intermittently on her own for some time now. But it is likely that she will not regain consciousness.”
Archer moved closer to Phlox. “Do everything you can for her, Doctor, but understand this: the Klingons may have struck the first blow in a war against the Coalition, and we need to know why. Do whatever you have to—whatever the cost—to get her back to consciousness.”
Phlox regarded him with a curious expression. “I imagine you must consider her a prisoner of war then, Captain. I hope you’re not suggesting that I take any measures to awaken her that might further jeopardize her life?”
Archer clenched his jaw for a moment, letting out a heavy breath through his nose. “We don’t know if she’s a prisoner of war or not because we do not know if we are at war. What I am suggesting, Doctor, is that we need to question her. That is your imperative, beyond doing everything in your power to save her life.”
Phlox nodded noncommittally. “I will do my best to accommodate you, Captain. So long as doing so does not threaten the life of my patient.”
The doors to sickbay whisked open, and Archer turned to see Hernandez, escorted by another MACO, enter the room.
“Will she make it?” Hernandez asked.
Archer pulled her aside and updated her, explaining the instructions that he had just given Phlox.
“It’s understandable that Phlox might question the ethics of your order, Jon,” Hernandez said, “but these are extraordinary circumstances. If you need my CMO to take over, I can arrange that. Doctor Metzger will have the same concerns, but she will act as ordered.”
“That’s a tempting offer, Erika,” Archer said, his voice low. “There’s been a bit too much free thinking among my command staff lately.”
Hernandez gave him a puzzled look, but before she could question him further, the wall-mounted com unit beeped, and McCall’s voice promptly issued forth. “Bridge to Captain Archer. We’ve received a Priority One communiqué from Starfleet for you and Captain Hernandez.”
“We’ll take it in my ready room,” Archer said. “Thanks, Mack.”
As he moved toward the door, he looked back in Phlox’s direction. “Interrupt me the moment you have her stabilized enough to answer some questions, Doctor,” Archer said.
Phlox affirmed the command, but did not look up from his work.
As Archer and Hernandez strode across the few meters that separated sickbay from the central turboshaft, Hernandez spoke quietly. “You can discuss with me what that ‘free thinking’ comment meant whenever you’re ready, Jon. No pressure, though. I have a feeling you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders right now.”
“Worlds, plural,” Archer said with a small smile.
As the turbolift doors closed around them, Hernandez put her hand in the center of Archer’s back.
For the moment, he was grateful to have received even that modest gesture of human contact.
“So you’re letting t
hem off with a slap on the wrist?” Archer said to his ready-room viewscreen, his words charged with far more anger than Hernandez thought was wise to display before a Starfleet admiral.
Hernandez watched as Gardner leaned forward slightly in his chair. “Archer, you and I have been through a lot together, and you know that while I disagree with you from time to time, I still respect you. That’s why I’m not shouting my strong suggestion that you adjust your tone.”
Hernandez nudged Archer gently aside, effectively pushing him out of Gardner’s line of sight. Whatever’s bothering Jon has to be immense, she thought. And a lot bigger than what just happened at Draylax.
As if anything could be bigger than the brink of war.
“Admiral, does the Coalition Council realize that the Klingon ships not only opened fire on Draylax,” Hernandez said, “but that they also engaged both Columbia and Enterprise in battle, refusing to explain their actions or even answer our hails?”
Gardner nodded, settling back again. “The Coalition Security Council has resolved that we are to give the Klingon Empire one final warning. They are to cease hostilities against all Coalition worlds and/or their allies. If they cross this line again, or engage any Coalition or allied vessel in battle, the Coalition will issue a formal declaration of war.”
“You know that the Klingons will be honor bound to return that declaration tenfold,” Archer said, stepping back into Gardner’s field of view. “Hell, they’ll probably welcome it. And you don’t even know half of the savagery that the Klingons are capable of.”
“The Council hopes that this resolution will broker a truce, however tenuous, and thus stave off a war.”
Archer sighed heavily. “And of course, nobody is paying attention to what the Romulans might be doing while we’re all distracted by this Klingon business.”
Gardner’s expression turned to one of angry incredulity. “Unless I’m missing something here, Captain, the Romulans had nothing to do with this attack. And no evidence has turned up yet linking them to the other recent—”
“Except for Coridan,” Archer said, interrupting.
Gardner closed his mouth, and Hernandez thought she could hear the grinding of his teeth across the gulf of light-years that separated them. “There are some on the Council and in Starfleet who agree that your warnings were vindicated by the attack on Coridan. But at this time, the Council has voted that the most clear and present threat currently emanates from the Klingon Empire. That is where the Council feels our priorities should lie, and for eminently understandable reasons.”
The room’s intercom let out a bosun’s whistle a moment before Phlox’s voice announced, “Sickbay to Captain Archer. My patient is regaining consciousness, but I can’t guarantee how long it will last.”
Archer leaned in toward the viewscreen. “That’s the sole survivor from the destroyed Klingon battle cruisers, Admiral. She might be our only chance to get to the bottom of what’s really been going on here.”
“Go,” Gardner said, testiness still slightly audible in his voice. “And good luck, Archer.”
Before they exited the room, Archer tapped the com panel once more. “Ensign Sato, meet me in sickbay. On the double.”
Moving quickly to follow Archer out of the ready room and into the turbolift, Hernandez spoke in low tones. “I don’t get why you set out to antagonize the admiral, Jon. He’s not an idiot, and he’s probably trapped by the politics of the situation. And as my father used to say, you catch more flies with honey.”
As the turbolift doors opened onto E deck, Archer grinned humorlessly. “I’m not interested in catching flies, Erika. And duty or not, the things my dad used to say about the top brass in Starfleet would have made an Andorian blush.”
“Admiral Krell is lying. Captain Vesh’tk was…neither a traitor nor a rogue,” the Klingon woman said, her words rendered into standard English by one of Lieutenant Sato’s pleasant-voiced universal translator units. The Klingon’s natural voice came as a kindling-dry rasp that Archer found painful to hear. Every word she uttered had to be causing her excruciating pain.
“She says that Admiral Krell is lying,” Hoshi said, listening directly to the woman’s Klingon speech in order to confirm the accuracy of the electronic translation. Archer didn’t want to leave any of the Klingon survivor’s inflections or half utterances to chance. “She says that her commanding officer, Captain Vesh’tk, was not a traitor, and that he wasn’t operating as a rogue agent.”
“Then why did they attack Draylax without any official authorization?” Archer asked, waiting anxiously for Hoshi to translate his question for the woman. Nearby, Phlox frowned, tapping away at his monitor consoles. Archer saw that he was pumping sizable quantities of painkillers into the woman’s system.
As before, the electronic translation device spoke on behalf of the Klingon woman before Hoshi did. “We were on patrol…and something seized control of our ship. Our guidance systems…our gravity, even our life-support systems…nothing would respond to us. I barely got into…a pressure suit in time. The others were still alive, but barely…and we were unable to do anything but…float in the air while our ship acted as though…it had a mind of its own.”
“She claims that something remotely gained control of their ship while they were on patrol,” Hoshi said. “It took over their guidance systems, artificial gravity, and even the life-support systems. This woman was able to don an environment suit, but the others were kept just barely alive. Apparently the artificial gravity system remained disabled while the ship was being controlled.”
“How could something like that happen?” Erika asked after Hoshi had confirmed the machine translation.
The Klingon woman responded to Erika’s question with a series of halting rasps that Hoshi’s equipment quickly transformed into English. “The first thing they did was…to use some remote means of seizing and deactivating each of our systems, one by one. They started with life-support…”
“Who seized control of your ship?” Archer asked. “Was it someone aboard one of the other two Klingon vessels that attacked Draylax?”
The woman moaned loudly, coughing up purple-hued bloody mucus as Hoshi questioned her in the Klingon tongue. But the look on the patient’s face—even through her pain—was one of surprise.
“I was not even aware of the other ships until…the battle began. The screens on our ships…showed me the carnage. I tried to return your hails…or stop the weapons from firing, but I…was unable. The others on the crew were…too far gone.”
“Does she have any idea who it was that took over her ship?” Archer asked.
The woman’s body suddenly began to jerk, her back arching up off the bed as her hands clawed feebly at the air. Purple blood spouted from her nose, and she coughed up a darker fluid.
“Move back, Captain,” Phlox said, his manner grim and urgent. He punched a few buttons, and the movements of the woman lessened somewhat, though the blood still flowed. For a moment, her gaze seemed to focus on something distant, then moved back toward Hoshi and Archer.
“RomuluSngan.”
The word was clear, but final. The woman’s eyes rolled back in her head, and her body fell limp.
Phlox lowered his head. “She’s gone, Captain.”
“You did what you could to ease her pain,” Archer said softly. “You didn’t do anything to contribute to her death.”
Phlox stared at him, but Archer couldn’t quite read the tightly coiled emotion that showed in the Denobulan physician’s blue, recessed eyes. “No, I did not. Her survival until now was, frankly, a miracle. She might have lived longer had I not…induced consciousness…but probably not for more than another day or two.”
Hernandez stepped forward, looking toward Hoshi. “Was her last word what I thought it was?”
Hoshi nodded, her expression glum. “RomuluSngan. It’s the Klingon word for—”
“Romulan,” Archer said, interrupting her.
Archer reached down to scratch Portho
s between the ears, then took a sip of the Skagaran Lone Star tequila he had poured for himself and Erika from the bottle Trip had left behind. He had brought Hernandez back to his quarters, rather than to his ready room, to discuss what to do next. “I’m just sick of sitting behind that ready-room desk and waiting for more orders and more news that I know will take us down the wrong path,” he said before taking another swallow.
Hernandez stopped pacing and sat on the edge of the small desk across from Archer’s bunk, where she stared contemplatively at the amber fluid that covered the bottom of her own glass. “So what do we do now? The only proof we have that the Romulans may have been involved with this is the dying declaration of a Klingon who had enough morphine in her to tranquilize an elephant.”
“If the Romulans are somehow behind the attack on Draylax…if they’ve managed to gain control of at least these three Klingon ships, then who knows what other surprises they might have in store for us?” Archer said, trying not to let the despair he was feeling creep into his voice. “If we’re being tricked into going to war against the Klingons, then the Coalition may be about to pick a fight with the wrong enemy. That would leave us vulnerable to ambush from the real enemy. We might even find ourselves surprised by another Coridan-style sneak attack….”
“Or the Romulans might just wait until the Klingon and Coalition forces have worn each other down in battle,” Hernandez said. “They could swoop in then and start picking up the pieces while nobody’s fleets are in any shape to do much to stop them.”
“But you already know what the higher-ups will say about that theory,” Archer said. “‘Where’s your proof?’ We can’t change our entire defense posture based on nothing but assumptions and speculations.”
Hernandez set her glass on the desktop, then moved to sit down next to Archer, who was perched on his bed. “If you were in Admiral Gardner’s shoes, would you have it any other way, Jon? It seems we’re rushing headlong toward an interstellar war, and we’ve only just started getting out into the galaxy in the first place.”
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