Rise of the Federation: Live by the Code (20 page)

He pulled back to meet her gaze, frowning. “Then nothing’s been wrong on your end? Medically, I mean? Um, neurologically?”

Given her history with Pa’nar Syndrome and Trellium-D poisoning, his concern was understandable. She spoke calmingly. “I am in excellent physical health, Trip. I had been concerned for
your
welfare. Your reports, and Malcolm’s, indicated you were physically well, but I wondered if, perhaps, something was . . . preoccupying you unduly.”

“You mean, something upsetting me about the mission? No.” He chuckled. “Actually, bein’ back in the saddle again, bein’ an engineer . . . it feels great.”

She pulled back slightly. “Then perhaps that has been the issue. If you felt no need to reach out to me—”

Trip stared in disbelief. “Are you kidding? T’Pol, I’ve been missing you every day. Every chance I get, I’ve been trying to reach out to your mind, make contact. I miss it.”

He stroked her hair, and she raised her hand to touch his. “As do I. There have been times when your presence in my mind would have been most reassuring.”

He smiled. “Well, I’m here now. Maybe . . . maybe we’ve just been apart too long. Maybe we just need a jumpstart.” His fingers pressed a bit more firmly against her temple. “Know what I mean?”

She did. With both eagerness and trepidation, T’Pol raised her hands to his temples, found the neurological contact points, and opened herself to the meld.

Yet nothing happened. In the past, they had been so closely connected that their melds had begun almost effortlessly. Considering that they might be out of practice, she focused
her mind and attempted the standard mantra. “My mind to your mind. Your thoughts to my thoughts. Our minds are merging . . . our minds are becoming . . . one.”

Yet reality did not conform to the words. Try as she might, she was unable to engage the meld. “What could be wrong?” Trip asked. “Could it be something medical? Something wrong with one of us?”

“Difficult to say. Unfortunately, Phlox is not available to consult.”

“Yeah, and Doctor Lucas might recognize me from when we met on Sauria a while back.”

“Not to mention that we would need to explain the nature of our relationship. I assume the same goes for Doctor Liao.”

“Right. I guess we need to try to figure this out on our own.” He began to pace. “When did this start? When was the last time you sensed me in your mind?”

She thought back. “Over three and a half months ago. Late May, I would say.”

“Hmm, I can’t remember as well as you. I was kind of busy dealing with raiding Ware stations and such. But that seems about right. It took me a while to realize we weren’t connecting, though. It does come and go sometimes. What makes you so sure?”

T’Pol lowered her eyes. “I became acutely aware of your absence in my mind on the third of June. That was when Admiral Archer and I had been abducted by V’Las.”

He grimaced in sympathy. “That’s right. He was gonna force a meld on you, wasn’t he? Damn him . . . I was furious when I heard about it.”

She brushed her fingers across his in appreciation for his concern. “It was a traumatic moment for me,” she acknowledged. “I reached out to you for support . . . for comfort. I
hoped that . . . if the worst happened . . . I could take solace in your mental presence.”

“Oh, God . . . I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

She showed her appreciation with her eyes. “Fortunately, it proved unnecessary, for I was rescued soon thereafter. Still, my inability to reach you troubled me . . . especially when it continued thereafter.”

He furrowed his brow. “And that’s when it began?”

“To the best of my ability to determine.” She studied him. “You are suggesting that V’Las’s attack was the trigger. That my distress at the prospect of a forced meld caused me to erect some form of mental block.”

“Could that be it? That you raised some kind of psychic deflector shield and now you can’t turn it off?”

“I am not sure I would phrase it that way, but it is possible.”

He smiled. “The hell with phrasing. The point is, if it’s just a mental block, then it’s temporary! We just need to figure out how to lower your shields.”

Now she began to pace. “I am not so sure,” she said after several moments’ thought. “I admit, I had not given this adequate consideration . . . because I had been concerned that the problem originated on your end.”

“Like, you thought I wasn’t interested in you anymore? T’Pol, don’t be ridiculous!”

She looked at him sidelong. “Can you really say you had no such doubts about my loyalties?”

Trip blushed. “I guess . . . insecurity comes with the territory.”

“In any event, now that I consider the prospect that the problem originates in my mind . . . I am not convinced it is temporary.”

“Why not?”

She came close to him again, touching his hand. “Trip . . . what we have shared this past dozen years is far from typical. Normally, Vulcans require direct physical contact to join minds. Sensing a bondmate’s thoughts or reactions over a distance is not uncommon, but the kind of full sensory communication we have experienced is exceptional in the history of Vulcan telepathy. I did not know this at first, as the study of the telepathic sciences was suppressed under the High Command, and it has taken years for Vulcan scholarship to rediscover forgotten knowledge. My recent visit to Vulcan gave me the opportunity to review the latest literature, and it has made me aware of how anomalous our bond was.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “ ‘Was.’ Are you saying you don’t think it’s coming back?”

“I don’t know, Trip. I cannot be sure what made our bond possible in the first place. It may be that the Trellium-D damage I sustained to my mental barriers in the Delphic Expanse left my mind more open to a telepathic link. Or the spacetime anomalies in the Expanse may have enabled an atypically strong entanglement to form between us. Whatever the cause, it was the exception, not the norm. It may have been wrong to expect it to last forever. Trip . . . we must consider the possibility that our ability to communicate telepathically over a distance may never return.”

Tucker looked stunned as he absorbed her words. “Then . . . what does that mean for us?” he finally asked. “We spend so much time apart . . . we
have
to. Moments alone like this are so hard to arrange. I’ve depended so much on your voice in my head, your image and touch in my mind to keep me going. Without you as my anchor . . . I’m not sure I
can
keep going.”

T’Pol looked at him for several moments . . . then rose and began to disrobe efficiently. “That is something we will face in the future. For now, we are together. Nothing stands between us. Let us make the most of that opportunity.”

She was nude by the time she finished speaking. He gazed at her in admiration and longing, a gaze that brought her surprising comfort and pleasure. Though it brought her more pleasure when he began to remove his own clothing.

12

September 24, 2165

Morxin Prison Complex, Denobula

“I’
M GLAD YOU FINALLY
changed your mind, Dad,” Vaneel said as she and Phlox approached the prison where Mettus was currently confined. “I know it was hard for you.”

The doctor gave a rueful sigh. “Not nearly as hard as it must have been for you,” he admitted to his daughter. “To forgive the man who killed your father-in-law . . .” He shook his head. “I imagine it must have been difficult to persuade Pehle.”

“Pehle isn’t a vindictive man,” Vaneel said. “That’s part of why I love him. And he understood once he realized . . . I don’t forgive the act.” Her voice was more subdued, more bitter, than he could ever remember hearing it. “What Mettus did . . . it was something he can never truly make amends for.”

“But he is still family,” Phlox replied after a moment, reiterating the words she had spoken to him on so many occasions over the past few weeks, while the Curia and the judiciary had wrangled over how to deal with Mettus’s crimes against Denobulan nationals so as to clear the way for his extradition to Antar. “If we renounce that completely, we become no better than the person he has become.”

“Exactly,” Vaneel said. “In the hearing, even through my anger and pain . . . I couldn’t help feeling pity toward
Mettus when I heard how those monsters had twisted his mind. Yes, it was his choice to accept those lies. And it was his choice to pull the trigger, no matter what excuses he makes.” Mettus claimed that he had lost his nerve and pulled his aim away from Pehle at the last instant, not realizing that Sohon would leap into his redirected line of fire. In his version of events, Sohon’s own recklessness had gotten him killed and sabotaged Mettus’s attempt to show mercy. “He is guilty. But . . . he needs to accept his guilt before he can have a chance to heal. Those lunatics have spent years convincing him to blame everything on others. The government just wants to make an example of him to calm the Antarans.”

“Meaning that only his family has a chance to help him face his own guilt,” Phlox said, almost amused at her intensity. “I know. You don’t need to convince me again.”

Vaneel blushed. “I do let my passions run away with me, don’t I?”

“Never stop letting them, my dear. They’ve changed so many minds. They changed mine, or I would never have come here. So if anyone has a chance of getting through to that boy, it’s you.”

“I’ve tried, believe me. But I’m not at the root of his issues. Fathers . . . well. They shape us in ways we can’t escape, whether we admit it or not.”

Phlox cleared his throat. “Mettus rejected everything I ever tried to teach him.”

“Yes. And maybe if you and he can figure out
why
he felt that need—”

Vaneel didn’t get to complete her thought, for just then, a massive explosion blasted out a wall of the prison before them. Phlox reflexively pushed Vaneel to the ground and lay
atop her, though they were far enough away to avoid shrapnel. But he heard weapons fire and shouts emerging from the hole in the wall, so he kept her head down over her protests. “What’s going on? I want to see!”

It took some effort to draw her away from the scene and persuade her to return home. Once he’d done so, he headed back toward the prison, where numerous police skimmers and ambulances had descended on the grounds. He presented himself to the head of the police unit, a middle-aged male lieutenant named Deemal, and offered his medical services to assist with the wounded. “What happened here?” he asked as the lieutenant led him to the triage site.

“According to the prison guards,” Deemal said, “a band of Antarans fought their way in.”

“Antarans? Were they military?”

“From the descriptions, no, but we’re still assessing the situation.”

“Lieutenant, my son Mettus is in this prison for killing a prominent Antaran. This is surely some form of retaliation. I need to know if Mettus is all right.” As he said those words, he wasn’t entirely sure how much the answer mattered to him. He might find out when it came.

Deemal promised to look into it, but tending to the injured prison guards came first. Phlox worked with the emergency crews and the prison doctors for the next hour, stabilizing the few serious cases and treating the minor injuries of the remaining guards.

But when he was done, Deemal was there. “Come with me.”

He led Phlox toward the prison’s security office. “Doctor, the visual records confirm it: the raiders have taken your son with them.”

“But why? Where are they now?”

“Gone. We tracked their skimmer, but when we intercepted it, the craft was empty. Apparently a ship in orbit used a transporter device and went to warp before we could stop them.” Phlox could not formulate a response as he struggled to process the information. “As for the why,” the lieutenant went on, “well, we captured one of them. Let’s see what he can tell us.”

The captured Antaran was dressed in a drab green uniform different in detail but similar in effect to the outfits worn by Mettus’s hate group. The prison warden, a stocky, brown-skinned woman named Vunim, stepped away from her questioning of the man and approached Phlox as he entered with the lieutenant. “Doctor Phlox,” Vunim said. “I fear this is not the way I had wanted your visit to go.”

“Of course, Warden. Has this man told you anything about the raiders?”

“We can’t get him to stop,” Vunim replied. “He’s a proud fanatic, just like Mettus and his cronies. The Antarans have their own hate groups, which I suppose comes as no surprise.”

“Of course we hate you!” the captive cried. “Lying monsters, you talk of peace and then murder our leaders! You think we would trust you to punish Sohon Retab’s murderer? We have taken him to Antar for a
real
trial!”

Phlox stepped forward to face the Antaran. “You’re lying. I know the Antaran government would never sanction such an action.”

The raider scoffed. “You think we would get justice from the appeasers of the Reformist Party? No—the assassin Mettus will be tried by the True Sons of Antar. Only we can ensure that justice is done.”

Phlox stared at the man in dread. His throat was tight as he spoke. “And I suppose the verdict is already decided.”

“The only verdict there can be for any Denobulan!” The
raider grinned as if he were the captor and not the captive. “The sentence will be a very slow death.”

September 26, 2165

Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco

“. . . And the government refuses to take any action,”
Doctor Phlox said on Archer’s office monitor,
“either to mount a rescue mission or even apply diplomatic pressure. Relations with Antar are still tenuous after Sohon’s death, and they’re afraid that intervening on behalf of his murderer would send the wrong message.”
The physician grimaced.
“I tried to persuade them that exercising compassion on behalf of every individual without prejudice would send the best possible message about Denobula’s intentions, but they would hear none of it. I won’t be getting any assistance from the Curia.”

Archer met his old friend’s eyes regretfully. “I’m sorry, Phlox. I can only imagine what you must be going through. But I’m afraid there’s not much I can do either.”

“You’re an influential Federation official. If you spoke to the Antaran government—”

“It’s not my place. Antar isn’t a Federation member, and I don’t need to remind you, neither is Denobula.”

“You could still get involved as a negotiator.”

“If both sides wanted me to. And the only one who does, it seems, is you. As your friend, Phlox, I’d love to help. But as a Starfleet chief of staff, I just don’t have the luxury. We’re already stretched thin with everything that’s happening. I have a dozen things to juggle—I’m overdue for a Joint Chiefs meeting as it is.” At least Alrond was no longer a problem; the new governor had officially renewed the colony’s allegiance to the Andorian Empire and the Federation weeks ago, and efforts to rebuild the planet’s damaged cities and communities were proceeding apace.

Phlox nodded sadly.
“I understand. I’m grateful you made time for me at all, Admiral. Perhaps I shouldn’t have tried to impose on my relationship with you and Starfleet. I’m not technically in your service at the moment.”

Archer had a thought. “You know . . . we’re not the only interstellar organization you have a relationship with.”

A moment later, Phlox brightened.
“You’re quite right, Admiral. That might be exactly what I need.”

“Good luck, Phlox.”

He had to sign off quickly, gathering his data slates and rushing out of his office. Archer hoped no other crises would erupt between there and the meeting.

So naturally, Marcus Williams chose that moment to come up to him in the corridor and announce, “It’s finally happened.”

Studying his aide’s face, Archer wasn’t immediately sure what he was referring to. The Klingons were amassing troops on their near border; had they struck sooner than expected? Had the Partnership delivered a verdict against Captain sh’Prenni? Had T’Pol and Malcolm found a way to stop the Ware once and for all?

But Williams didn’t leave Archer hanging long. “Maltuvis has launched his conquest of Sauria,” the big man said. “He’s deployed a fleet of spacecraft around the planet to bombard the remaining holdouts. Demanded they surrender or he’ll blast them all from orbit.”

Archer stared. “A fleet of ships? Three years ago, the Saurians could barely launch a pressurized tin can into orbit.”

“Well, they are a very inventive people.”

“Not that inventive. I’ll bet you a month’s pay Maltuvis had Orion help.”

“No bet, Admiral. The question is, how to prove it?”

Archer sighed. “And what do we do about it if we can? We’ve got other things on our plate at the moment.”

“Don’t we always?”

Archer didn’t need to respond, since the very existence of this meeting was answer enough. As they entered the conference room, a bright, open chamber with a wall of windows looking out on San Francisco Bay, Archer saw he was the last chief of staff to arrive. Arrayed around the table were his fellow chiefs of Starfleet’s various divisions: Admiral Shran of Andoria; Fleet Commander T’Viri of Vulcan; Admiral Flar of Tellar; and Admiral Osman of Alpha Centauri. Defense Commissioner sh’Mirrin also sat in on the meeting.

Greeting his colleagues, Archer took a seat next to Shran. The windows were behind him, so he wouldn’t even have the view to cheer him up. And the news was indeed grim. “All our analysts agree,” Commissioner sh’Mirrin finished after she brought the gathered chiefs up to speed. “The Klingons aren’t waiting. Despite their internal strife, they’re readying for an attack on a Federation outpost. We don’t yet know which one, so we need ships in position to guard the whole border area.”

“I have assessed our fleet distribution,” T’Viri put in. She operated the table controls to put a tactical chart on the three-sided viewer in the table’s center. “This would be the most efficient reallocation of available vessels.” Archer noted that the plan included the approval of Admiral Narsu’s request to transfer
Essex
to his command out of Starbase 12—which meant that the mystery of Theta Cygni XII would have to go unsolved a while longer. No doubt Captain Shumar would be disappointed, but if any Theta Cygnian refugees had escaped the planet at all, their fate was not immediately at stake. Like any Starfleet officer—like Archer on that terrible day when the
Xindi weapon had burned a swath across the Earth—Shumar knew that exploration must be set aside when the defense of his home demanded it.

Shran frowned as he studied the display. “That would mean pulling ships away from the border of Ware space. We need those assets there if our task force requires assistance liberating Captain sh’Prenni and her crew.”

“We can’t just invade another nation if their verdict doesn’t go the way we want,” Archer protested. “I want sh’Prenni out as much as you do, but we have to do it the right way, or we’re no better than the Klingons.”

“And ‘the right way’ is just to let others carry out whatever injustices they want? I don’t hear you saying that where the Saurians are concerned.”

“I don’t want to invade them either. Not even now.” He filled the others in on Williams’s news. “Things only got that bad on Sauria
because
of our rush to make contact with a society that wasn’t ready for the impact we’d make.”

“Which has nothing to do with the Partnership!” Shran cried. “They’ve been spacegoing for centuries. They’ve interfered with plenty of other cultures. Now they’re messing with ours, and a friend of mine is about to pay the price!”

Archer held his tongue. This was not the place to rehash the argument they’d been having for weeks. Matters had not been this tense between Archer and Shran since before the Federation was founded. But Archer could hardly blame Shran for his concern for his protégée. It would be petty to remind him that sh’Prenni would never have been in this mess if she hadn’t recklessly interfered in a culture she didn’t understand.

Commissioner sh’Mirrin filled the silence. “No one here is happy about the Saurian situation, Jon. But we have our own invasion threat to consider. You know that if we need to ramp
up production to wartime levels, we’ll need Sauria’s resources, even if we have to hold our noses while shaking the hand of the person who provides them.”

“After all,” Admiral Flar put in, “if we stop buying Maltuvis’s dilithium, he’ll just sell it to the Klingons, and then where will we be?”

“These are matters for debate in the Commission and the Council,” said T’Viri. “We should focus our attention on matters of logistics and strategy.”

“Quite right,” sh’Mirrin said. “To that end, Alexis, how do we stand on new ship construction? Even with the reallocations T’Viri suggests, we’re thin on the Klingon front. And the grim reality is that we’re likely to become thinner if a war starts. We’ll need to ramp up production.”

The discussion turned to construction timetables and starship specifications for a while. The next new
Columbia
-class ship was still months from completion, but new waves of
Intrepid
-­class light cruisers and delta-shaped
Ganges
-class frigates were also under construction as part of Archer and Osman’s fleet modernization plan. While not the most cutting-­edge designs, they were more advanced and versatile than the favored wartime classes of Samuel Gardner, Archer’s predecessor as UESPA chief of staff. Gardner was the warhorse who’d pushed the mass manufacture of the old, basic
Daedalus-
and
Marshall
-class ships during the Earth-­Romulan War, favoring speed of construction and—frankly—­disposability over the innovation and flexibility of the multi­purpose vessels Archer preferred. Yet Archer now feared the looming Klingon conflict could scuttle his modernization plan and force the fleet back into Gardner’s military mode. There was already pressure to abandon the
Ceres
-class construction plans in favor of the more combat-oriented
Poseidon
class, and to reconvert the surviving
Daedalus
-class ships into troop transports if war broke out again. The Andorian Guard, meanwhile, seemed content to stick with its tried and true
Kumari
and
Sevaijen
classes.