Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War Read online

  “They’re not idiots, Malcolm,” Archer said. “I think their attack force will want to knock it out before they try to plunge into Coalition space.”

  “So if we find the listening post, we may find the Romulan attack force nearby,” Malcolm said.

  Archer nodded. “Assuming we find it sooner rather than later.”

  “It’s unfortunate that the Vissians chose not to disclose to us the precise coordinates of their listening post,” T’Pol said.

  Archer shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Agreed. So let’s keep our eyes open.”

  An alarm klaxon began to shriek, leaving Archer neither the time nor the energy for second guessing.

  Romulan Bird-of-Prey Terrh’Dhael

  “It is there, Commander!” Centurion R’Tal said, his voice tinged with something that reminded Commander T’Met of both excitement and fear.

  Hoping to set an example that would calm the excitable science specialist, T’Met remained seated and spoke in a loud but unemotional voice. “What precisely have you found, Centurion?”

  Apparently realizing he’d become overwrought, R’Tal ratcheted back his intensity as he turned from his console to face his commanding officer. “The Vis’amnaisu spy facility now stands revealed by our sensors.” Though partially obscured by his silver helmet, the young man’s countenance took on an almost apologetic cast. “But for the singularity, Commander, we might have discovered it much sooner.”

  T’Met flashed her carefully cultivated raptor smile. “Good work, Centurion.” The centurion had done far better than she had hoped. The commander had resigned herself to the possibility that the attack group would not only fail to find the alien listening post but would also cause it to activate and warn the so-called Coalition of Planets in time to allow the hevam to mount a successful defense against what should have been a swift and utterly devastating surprise attack.

  The commander turned her chair toward the tactical console that currently absorbed most of her executive officer’s attention. “Subcommander Genorex, alert the rest of the attack group. Dispatch the Grukhai and the Khuea to destroy the Vis’amnaisu espionage station.”

  “At once, Commander,” Genorex said, his large fingers almost a blur as they moved across the surface of the touch-sensitive console.

  The distinctive rising wail of a proximity alarm split the air. “Sensors have just picked up another set of signatures, Commander. Seven warp signatures. No, eight.”

  T’Met’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of ships?” “I read hevam vessels,” said Genorex, who was still staring intently down at his console displays.

  Humans, T’Met thought, astonished. What are humans doing so far from the homeworld where they should now be cowering and awaiting the end?

  “Perhaps the hevam have somehow received advance word of our offensive, Commander,” Genorex said. “They are nothing if not treacherous.”

  “Perhaps this is merely happenstance,” said Decurion Tomal, the young officer who was running the communications bank through which the attack fleet coordinated its complex web of activity. “Those ships may represent simply a patrol that happened to blunder into our path at precisely the wrong time.”

  “A patrol?” Genorex said, his words painting a vivid picture of disgust at the younger man’s apparent naïveté. “Consisting of at least eight ships? During a time of increasingly scarce hevam war matériel?” Dismissing Tomal with a sneer, Genorex fixed his gaze upon that of T’Met, his body language conveying an air of expectancy.

  Because of the hard lessons she had learned on the Haakonan front, T’Met was sorely tempted to abort the current mission, to withdraw and make another attempt to carry it out at a more opportune time. But she knew that tactical matters could not be her only consideration here. His family is a powerful one, she reminded herself. More prominent than her own, even considering her modest consanguinity with the Current Occupant of the Romulan Star Empire’s ever-volatile Praetorate.

  Taking everything into account, only one survivable course of action was available to her. “Continue the operation as planned, Genorex,” T’Met said. “Destroy the Vis’amnaisu listening post.

  “And take down the hevam vessels as well.”

  Enterprise NX-01

  Captain Archer watched helplessly as the spherical primary hulls of both the Okuda and the Jein erupted with the harsh pyrotechnics of molecular fire, then splintered into expanding clouds of fragments. A pair of the horseshoe crab–shaped Romulan vessels, the red raptor feathers painted across their bellies burned and scarred, met a similar fate moments later, but Archer could draw no comfort from it.

  The ferocity of the multivessel Romulan surprise attack made Archer wonder if they had known that his Starfleet flotilla was coming. Whether or not that was so, they’d been prepared—the Romulan attack group outnumbered Archer’s Starfleet contingent by more than two to one.

  “Hull plating is down to sixty-eight percent!” Malcolm cried as the bridge groaned and shuddered beneath the ceaseless Romulan onslaught.

  “Continue with evasive maneuvers!” Archer bellowed. “And keep firing the forward phase cannons on the lead ship. Plus a full spread of torpedoes, forward dorsal and ventral launchers!”

  “Aye, sir,” Malcolm said as he set about carrying out Archer’s orders.

  “The Gettysburg reports that the Nez Perce and the Cowpens have both been destroyed,” said Hoshi, who shouted to be heard above the din and clatter of klaxons and incoming fire. Overhead, a conduit split and its contents sprayed a foglike mist across the bridge. Almost simultaneously, a rain of sparks, smoke, and fire issued from the main engineering console.

  The bridge bucked, and the hull resonated with a distant, menacing whine. “Starboard nacelle’s venting plasma,” said Ensign Leydon, who was frantically working the helm console to compensate. She continued trying to evade the Romulan fleet’s fire, keeping the starship’s still robust ventral hull plating angled toward the hostile vessels. The effect of Enterprise’s injuries had her wallowing, sluggish as a delirious and punch-drunk boxer who could barely remain vertical on the canvas.

  The ship rocked again. “Sorry, sir,” Leydon said.

  “Forward dorsal hull plating is down,” Malcolm reported in his gratingly matter-of-fact fashion. “The Gettysburg is crippled, and the Clark has just suffered a reactor breach. The Lovell has given as good as she’s gotten, but she’s still taking the beating of her life. We’ve taken down as many of their ships as they have of ours, but they still have a good half dozen left that haven’t yet suffered so much as a scratch.”

  Damn, Archer thought, this isn’t how things were supposed to go.

  “Keep firing, Malcolm,” Archer heard himself shouting. “Hoshi, prepare to launch the log buoy, and—”

  “More incoming ships,” Malcolm shouted.

  “Confirmed,” said T’Pol. “I read nine—correction, ten—vessels, all dropping out of warp simultaneously, close enough to us to pose a possible danger of collision.”

  Perfect, Archer thought. “Romulan reinforcements?”

  Malcolm paused, a guarded expression on his normally taciturn face as he manipulated his console for several seconds.

  The tactical officer’s eyes suddenly grew wide, as though he’d just received an unexpected but thoroughly welcome gift.

  “Well?” Archer demanded.

  On the main viewer, a handful of shapes began to resolve themselves into alien ships. They were long and roughly rectangular, their amber-colored hulls forming a mass of compound curves on what seemed to be their dorsal sides. Their sterns and ventral hulls appeared flattened, while the section that Archer identified as the bow gently tapered into a narrow forward area. On the nearest of the alien ships, a recessed oval that looked very much like a weapons tube was beginning to glow an angry red.

  The captain realized that he had seen these ships before.

  An unaccustomed grin split Malcolm’s craggy features. “They’re Vissians, sir! And
they’re opening fire on the Romulans!”

  Archer returned his armory officer’s grin. “Then let’s help ’em out as much as we can.”

  Bird-of-Prey Terrh’Dhael

  T’Met watched in both horror and disbelief as the Grukhai and the Khuea, both freshly returned from the task of eradicating the Vis’amnaisu espionage station, were rent and shattered by weapons fire from without and explosive emissions of burning, escaping atmosphere from within.

  In the fleeting span of two siure, the fleet’s numerical advantage had vanished. “We are outnumbered,” T’Met said as the grim realization set in.

  “Commander!” Genorex shouted in a fashion T’Met found insubordinate. “If we do not press the attack immediately, these new hostiles may overwhelm us.”

  T’Met felt the weight of certainty settle upon her bones. They will overwhelm us, she thought. No matter the tactics we bring to bear against them.

  “Decurion Tomal, inform the fleet that we are withdrawing,” T’Met said.

  “Commander?” Genorex took a menacing step toward her. “We can still beat them!”

  T’Met dropped her hand to the handle of her dathe’anofvsen and favored her XO with a hard glare. Genorex’s family might be more powerful than hers, but that would count for nothing if the Terrh’Dhael were captured or destroyed out in this savage, hevam-infested wilderness.

  Genorex backed away, allowing her to turn her full attention to the helm. “Decurion Makar, bring us about. Return us to Romulan space, maximum warp.”

  Enterprise NX-01

  “I think it might be fair to say they’ve had enough,” Archer said as he watched the scarred, scorched remnants of the Romulan attack group shift into the red portion of the visual spectrum before vanishing entirely from the main viewer. Only a pair of apparently spotless bargelike Vissian vessels and a single battered Daedalus-class ship now lay in Enterprise’s forward line of sight.

  “Apparently, so have we,” Malcolm said. “I hope you’re not expecting to chase them, sir.”

  “I’m content to leave that task to the Vissians for the moment, if they’re up for it.” Archer shook his head. “First things first. Damage report.”

  “Our weapons stores are badly depleted. The hull plating has taken a serious pounding virtually everywhere, but particularly in the forward dorsal areas. The starboard nacelle has sustained serious damage, and the warp drive is down. All other systems are on secondary or tertiary backups, including life support.”

  Archer looked to T’Pol. “Is anything aboard still working right?”

  She nodded. “We have partial impulse power, and the batteries are keeping all basic systems operating. Obviously, the situation is not sustainable for more than, perhaps, a week.”

  “A week might even be a touch optimistic,” Malcolm said. “I’m no engineer, but it seems clear that Enterprise will need to spend a good deal of time in drydock before we can put everything right. Several weeks at least, unless Mister Burch can discover some extremely clever workarounds.

  “Without an operational warp drive, however, reaching an appropriate repair facility will be effectively impossible.”

  Damn, Archer thought, though he wasn’t surprised. The captain tried to remind himself that things would have been worse had the Vissians not arrived when they did.

  “What’s the condition of the flotilla?” he said, though he was reasonably certain he wouldn’t like the answer.

  Malcolm’s complexion seemed to go several shades lighter than usual, and his mien was grim. “The Gettysburg and the Lovell are in worse shape than we are, sir. And it appears that Captain Duvall and three of his senior officers were blown out into space when a Romulan torpedo breached the Gettysburg’s bridge.”

  Archer gripped the arms of his command chair, but otherwise suppressed his gut-punched reaction. Duvall had been a good captain, well respected by his crew and his superiors alike. His most serious flaw had always been his tendency to introduce too many last-minute changes to already well-rehearsed tactical plans.

  “And the other vessels?” Archer asked.

  Malcolm slowly shook his head.

  Archer struggled to grasp the cost of today’s engagement but failed to get his mind completely around it. He wondered if some historian would someday describe it in overly grandiose terms, like the Battle of Gamma Hydra. Or the Triumph at Gamma Hydra, or maybe even Victory at Gamma Hydra.

  With victories like this one, who needs defeats?

  Hoshi interrupted Archer’s unpleasant reverie. “Captain, one of the Vissian vessels has just hailed us.”

  “On the screen.”

  A moment later an unexpectedly familiar face appeared before him. “Captain Drennik,” Archer said. “It’s good to see you again.” After the acrimony that had arisen because of the circumstances surrounding their first meeting three years earlier, the captain was surprised.

  “Archer,” Drennik said, his demeanor cool, his expression neutral. “Once we confirmed the Romulan presence here, we came as quickly as we could.”

  “We’re grateful for that, Captain,” Archer said. “Thank you.”

  “We didn’t come specifically to rescue you, Captain. We came to protect our listening post in this sector.”

  “I assume the listening post was what allowed you to discover the Romulan incursion here and react to it so quickly.”

  Drennik nodded. “Of course.”

  “We’d hoped to surprise the Romulans before they had the opportunity to attack your facility.”

  Drennik’s countenance grew glum, his tone regretful. “Unfortunately, we arrived too late to prevent that very occurrence.”

  “They destroyed it?”

  “Utterly. We may be deaf and blind in this sector for upwards of a year until we can replace it. Of course, the personnel who operated the facility can never be replaced.”

  “No, they can’t,” Archer said, molten sorrow welling up from within. “Neither can five Starfleet crews. Perhaps if your government had given us your listening post’s precise location, we might have kept the Romulans distracted long enough to prevent some of what happened here today.”

  Drennik’s eyes blazed with restrained fury. “Perhaps you are right, Captain Archer. Neither of us can recover what has been lost today. But, together, we can undo a small portion of the damage.”

  “How?” Archer said, not yet daring to raise his hopes.

  “By allowing us to tow Enterprise to a repair station in Vissian space. To return some of the kindness you have shown during your many passages through this region of space.”

  It took Archer a moment to decide that he’d heard Drennik correctly. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “You should reserve some of your thanks for the Vissia’s Grand Moot.”

  Archer was downright perplexed. “The Grand Moot? When I was on your homeworld, your government’s ministers weren’t exactly clamoring to join the Jonathan Archer fan club.” After Drennik answered with a blank stare, Archer appended, “They weren’t very sympathetic toward me, my planet, or the Coalition’s struggle against the Romulans.”

  “Ah,” Drennik said, apparently understanding more clearly after Archer’s explanation. “You’re right. However, Science Minister Bote J’Ref is highly influential.”

  Archer nodded. “I met J’Ref. He seemed like a good man.”

  “J’Ref believes he is in your debt. And I certainly don’t mind putting him in my debt by assisting you—my personal feelings notwithstanding.” Drennik’s manner suddenly grew distant and cool, suggesting to Archer that Vissia wasn’t about to reverse its formal decision not to enter the war, despite the Romulans’ actions today.

  Drennik signed off without another word, his image abruptly replaced by the field of distant, lonely fires that illuminated tiny portions of the infinite darkness that surrounded them.

  I suppose it counts as a victory, Archer thought, if you get to live to fight another day.

  TWELVE

  Wednesd
ay, May 18, 2157

  Romulan Scout Ship Kilhra’en

  83 Leonis B V

  PROTECTED FROM THE VACUUM of space and the hard radiation of the system’s orange-dwarf primary star only by the thin polyplas skin of his environmental suit and the upper reaches of a planetary magnetic field, Charles Tucker III dangled from his tether and cursed his lack of options. A dizzying blue-brown planetary expanse turned vertiginously some three hundred klicks below, making the Romulan military base no more visible than the tumbledown, burned-out cityscapes of this world’s long-extinct civilization. Trip tried to put those distracting images out of his mind as he wrestled with the unaccustomed sensation of weightlessness; he couldn’t allow it to distract him from his present task—even though he would have far preferred to be undertaking it on solid ground.

  But the damage recently taken by this small Romulan military vessel—a ship that had, courtesy of Minister Silok, head of the Vulcan Security Directorate, been his home for the past nine months—would not let him reach the ground in one piece.

  Trip used his suit’s tiny thrusters to achieve a narrow, parabolic path around his vessel, Kilhra’en. In spite of the ship’s alienness, the scout’s speedy, aggressive lines appealed to his engineering aesthetics. The Kilhra’en measured just shy of thirteen meters long from her narrow, gently rounded bow to the exhaust nozzles of the twin impulse engines recessed into her broad delta-winged stern section. The scout’s swooping wings terminated in a pair of cylindrical nacelles, each of which curled slightly downward past the aft portion of the little ship’s ventral hull—the section that bore an elaborate rendering of a scarlet-feathered predatory bird, claws extended as if in the act of pouncing upon unsuspecting prey.

  Trip began a visual inspection of the hull’s ventral and dorsal sections, carefully studying the externally accessible portions of the warp and impulse engines as well.

  Though he wanted to do as thorough a job as possible, Trip was the only soul aboard the Kilhra’en. It wouldn’t do for an incoming hostile to arrive and challenge him while he was in the midst of extravehicular activity, effectively catching him with his figurative pants down. And since 83 Leonis B V—a remote world that the Romulans called Cheron—was this sector’s home to the Romulan Star Empire’s Rhi Rei’Karan, or Fifth Legion, such an eventuality was an ever-present possibility.