Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War Page 4

  “It could be the same thing that’s tearing up this ship,” Burch said as he studied his own scanner. “This vessel’s experiencing a lot of gravitational shear.”

  T’Pol frowned. “What’s the source?”

  Despite the bulk of his environmental suit, Burch made a fully intelligible shrug. “There could be a hidden Romulan minefield out here. Or it might be that the ship isn’t far enough away from the Mu Arae magnetar to escape its effects.”

  T’Pol quietly took it all in. A relatively new phenomenon—it had come into existence less than a century ago—the extremely dense and massive Mu Arae magnetar was an extraordinarily active celestial body. Over the next billion years or more it would probably settle down and become an ordinary, relatively quiescent neutron star for the remainder of its existence. In the meantime, it would give off youthful bursts of multiple forms of energetic radiation, including colossal gravity waves—phenomena that could cause serious damage, even many light-years away.

  “So all we really know for certain,” Reed said, “is that Enterprise is in serious danger of falling into whatever trap snared the M’klexa.”

  T’Pol began to notice a vibration rattling up from beneath the deck, into her boots, and through her environmental suit. Thanks to the vibration’s strength and her suit’s sound conductivity, she could actually hear its reverberations in her helmet.

  The vibration became an audible groan, immediately calling to mind some of the Earth horror movies she had viewed with Trip, as well as Mister Burch’s unfortunate “haunted house” reference.

  “Whatever we’re going to do, we’d better get it done quickly.” Burch gestured toward the jagged rips in the hull metal and the hard vacuum beyond. “This ship’s entire skin is going to look like that in under an hour. The cumulative damage will probably blow out a lot of the internal bulkheads as well as whatever’s left of her life-support system and antimatter containment safeguards.”

  T’Pol’s helmet communicator chirped, and she touched its external controls.

  “Enterprise to boarding party,” said Lieutenant Commander Donna “D.O.” O’Neill.

  “T’Pol here. Go ahead.”

  “We’re having a pretty rough ride here, Commander T’Pol. We may have to move beyond the transporter’s range.”

  “Noted.” T’Pol considered her options.

  “Commander?” O’Neill’s voice was tinged with apprehension.

  “Get the grappler ready, Commander O’Neill,” T’Pol said with her typical crisp, confident Vulcan authority. “We’re going to tow the M’klexa vessel to a safe distance from this region of gravimetric shear. Let me know when you’re ready.”

  “Aye, Commander,” O’Neill said.

  “It’s a risky plan,” Burch said. “If this ship’s inertial dampers fail during a high-acceleration tow, then she could shatter like an eggshell.”

  “It could kill anyone who survived,” Phlox added.

  “Mister Burch, I want you and Mister Reed to find and access all critical systems. Make certain this vessel is safe for towing as soon as possible.”

  “That could take a fair amount of time, Commander,” Burch said.

  “Noted. I will assist Doctor Phlox, Sergeant Guitierrez, and Corporal O’Malley in establishing a transport point inside this ship’s nearest pressurized compartment. While this vessel is being rigged for towing, we will begin transporting every survivor we can find to Enterprise.”

  T’Pol’s communicator chirped again, heralding the return of O’Neill’s voice. “Grappler is aimed and ready, Commander. Firing Grappler One. Firing Grappler Two.”

  Several seconds later, the M’klexa vessel shuddered slightly, and O’Neill confirmed a successful contact with both of Enterprise’s hypertensile towing cables.

  Before any of the boarding party members could begin their assignments, the deck plating beneath T’Pol’s feet shuddered and groaned again. She felt all sensation of weight abruptly vanish, and she reacted by willing her voluntary muscles to a state of utter stillness. With a touch of a switch near her suit’s neck ring, she activated the small magnetic field generators in her boots.

  “The gravity plating is failing,” she said. “I advise all of you to refrain from moving until after you’ve activated your magnetic boots.”

  Unlike T’Pol and the two MACOs, who stood immobile, their boots affixed firmly to the deck plates, the abrupt departure of the M’klexa vessel’s artificial gravity had evidently caught Burch, Reed, and Phlox sufficiently by surprise to send them all tumbling clumsily toward what moments before had been the “upward” direction.

  “Urgh,” Reed said as he yawed and rolled, his arms and legs pinwheeling wildly despite the mobility limitations imposed by his environmental suit. His complexion appeared to have changed abruptly to a healthy Vulcan green. T’Pol doubted this was a trick of the dim light. “Bollocks! I bloody hate microgravity.”

  An abrupt failure of a ship’s artificial gravity—particularly a temporary or intermittent one—was one of the most pernicious hazards a boarding team might encounter; if the gravity returned suddenly, the unwary could suffer grave injuries from falls, or even die because of critical damage sustained by their environmental suits.

  “Commander T’Pol,” Burch said as he grabbed an overhead conduit, thereby arresting his own inadvertent motion. “About that time estimate I just gave you—I think it might be prudent to cut it in half. In fact, it might be a good idea to quit while we’re ahead. Get the boarding team back to Enterprise while we still can. And remember, this all still might have been caused by Romulans. They might be back any second to land the killing blow.”

  T’Pol looked at the MACOs. Their faces were expressionless masks of grim determination. She turned toward Phlox, who had just pushed himself back to the deck, his equilibrium and dignity both evidently restored. She saw twin fires of defiance burning in the Denobulan’s icy blue eyes.

  “I’m not leaving the survivors behind, Commander,” he said.

  She decided right then not to waste what little time remained in some pointless argument.

  “Then I suggest, Mister Burch,” T’Pol said as she began moving down the corridor toward the nearest M’klexa life sign, “that you work at least twice as quickly as you had originally planned.”

  Tuesday, August 17, 2156

  Enterprise NX-01, near Mu Arae (outbound)

  Ever since the start of her tenure as Enterprise’s first officer, T’Pol had hoped that she would outgrow the need for the nasal numbing agents that had made life bearable in some of the ship’s more…fragrant areas. Learning to live among humans, after all, meant developing a tolerance for their sometimes rather powerful aromas—if not achieving a Syrrannite’s celebratory regard for all life. T’Pol found that she no longer needed to use chemicals to blunt the sensitivity of her olfactory system when she was with Charles Tucker, Enterprise’s former chief engineer.

  But she still faced significant aroma-related challenges.

  For one, Porthos, the captain’s canine, smelled no more pleasant these days. Fortunately, the animal was padding quietly along the corridor several meters ahead of her at the moment, wagging its tail and sniffing but keeping its distance. And Captain Archer himself still tended to exude an uncomfortably powerful musk, particularly on those thankfully rare occasions when he neglected to shower following his morning workout routine.

  As T’Pol walked beside Archer along the empty E Deck corridor that gently wound along Enterprise’s starboard side, it quickly became evident that the captain had not assigned a particularly high priority this morning to hygiene. Instead of his customary crisp blue duty uniform, Archer was clad in the baggy, dull gray garments that humans, appropriately enough, called “sweats.” His short brown hair was in disarray, alternately flattened and spiked by perspiration. A Starfleet-issue padd was tucked under his left arm.

  “I ran a little late this morning talking to Admiral Gardner at Starfleet Command,” Archer said as he p
aused to adjust the white gym towel that was draped across his shoulders before resuming his brisk walk toward the captain’s mess. “Had to skip the shower before our breakfast briefing. Hope it doesn’t bother you, Commander.”

  “Of course not, Captain,” T’Pol lied, willing her nostrils not to flare with distaste.

  “I heard you had a little excitement last night.”

  Carefully keeping her face impassive, T’Pol said, “I wouldn’t describe the encounter in such grandiose terms.”

  “Maybe not,” he said with a shrug. “But however you describe it, you found an unknown vessel that easily could have been another Romulan trap. In spite of that, you approached and investigated—and verified that the ship was a local civilian freighter in distress.”

  T’Pol nodded. “I was merely following your standing orders, Captain.”

  “Oh, I’m not criticizing, Commander. You did everything by the numbers.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will file a more thorough report on the M’klexa vessel and its crew later today.”

  “M’klexa. I don’t think Earth has ever made contact with them.”

  “Vulcan has, but only very recently,” she said.

  “What sort of damage had they taken?” Archer asked. “Did the Romulans attack them?”

  “No, sir. They appear to have encountered extreme shearing forces caused by some of the very gravimetric anomalies and subspace distortions we’ve been mapping throughout this sector and beyond.”

  Archer came to a stop outside the sealed hatch of the captain’s mess and depressed a button on the wall panel as he took out his padd. The hatch slid open obediently and he moved across the threshold, a moment after Porthos did. Glancing down at his padd’s display, the captain said, “Mister Burch tells me that his repair team had the radiation leaks sealed and the engines back online in under four hours.”

  T’Pol followed him inside, and the gamy smell of thermopolymerized avian embryos nearly caused her nose to wrinkle involuntarily. A junior crewman, a human male named Stephens, was still present, evidently having just set the table and delivered the breakfast Chef had made. Once both T’Pol and Archer had assured him that they had no further needs, Stephens nodded and exited through the hatchway.

  “Again, my actions regarding the freighter were per your standing orders,” she said, returning her full attention to the captain. “The M’klexa are fortunate that you took the precaution of carrying additional supplies of platinum-cobalt alloy.” Not to mention all the extra food, medicine, and other stores Enterprise had taken on at Delta Pavonis. Some of those provisions had gone to the M’klexa as well.

  “You never know when we might need to rebuild our antimatter relays with a fresh supply of platinum-cobalt,” he said. “Besides, the stuff came in pretty handy a few years back when we discovered we had to trade a lot of it for the trellium-D shielding we needed to carry out our Xindi hunt in the Delphic Expanse.”

  Archer took his customary seat at the head of the dining table and gestured toward the chair opposite. She sat and lifted the tureen Chef had left beside the water pitcher and drinking glasses, trying all the while to avoid seeing or even contemplating the horrors that lay on the captain’s platter; she concentrated instead on her own breakfast plate, upon which lay a fair approximation of a sliced gespar fruit and a pair of small Amonak flatcakes, just as she had expected. In the corner, Porthos was already busy consuming something meaty. T’Pol averted her gaze, hoping that the captain hadn’t given the animal anything containing cheese, which caused canine flatulence.

  “The M’klexa seemed to be in an awful hurry to get under way once their repairs were done,” Archer said, speaking around a mouthful of bird blastula, Terran tuber, and what appeared to be some other type of seared animal flesh.

  “The M’klexa captain said that his engines had been down for too long. He needed to make up for lost time and went to warp as soon as our repair crews had departed.”

  “Well, as much I would have enjoyed meeting the M’klexa, I hope they don’t get taken by surprise by any more shearing forces.”

  “I tried to lower the likelihood of that eventuality as much as possible by giving their captain the latest maps we’ve compiled of this sector’s gravimetric anomalies and subspace distortions.”

  “Good. Good.”

  Something in Archer’s tone made T’Pol’s right eyebrow rise. “I was merely acting on your standing orders, Captain. Yet you sound…disappointed.”

  A wry smile crossed his face. “You’re getting better all the time at reading human emotion, T’Pol. Maybe I am a little disappointed.”

  Now her left eyebrow rose. “In how I have carried out my duties during your sleep intervals?”

  “No, T’Pol. It’s just that it would have been nice to have been included in some of the fun.”

  “Fun?”

  “You know. Assisting the other ship. Doing some hands-on exploration and cultural exchange. I’m Enterprise’s captain, for crying out loud. I ought to at least put in an appearance whenever we encounter a new and potentially friendly warp-capable civilization out here.”

  “Not if they’re in a hurry to depart,” T’Pol said. “And certainly not if said encounter occurs in the midst of the captain’s scheduled sleep interval. I’m sure Admiral Gardner would agree.”

  Archer chuckled as he took another bite of his breakfast, washing it down with black coffee. “He wrote the regulation. ‘An exhausted CO is a damned worthless CO,’ he’d always say. It’s probably his revenge for Starfleet Command giving Enterprise to me instead of him.”

  After finishing half of her gespar and one flatcake, T’Pol folded her hands in her lap. “That seems unworthy of a Starfleet flag officer. Not to mention highly unlikely.”

  Archer pushed his empty plate toward the table’s center. “You’re right, T’Pol. It’s this…picket duty we’ve been assigned to. This endless patrolling of the same three sectors of space, while the actual Romulan combat front is just out of our reach. That’s Sam Gardner’s revenge.”

  “You said you spoke with Admiral Gardner earlier today,” T’Pol said. “May I presume you raised these issues with him?”

  “I did. And he’s not changing his mind. Enterprise is not to get directly into harm’s way until further notice. And Starfleet Command evidently still agrees with his assessment that it’s just too risky to send Earth’s NX-class flagship into a situation that might end with the Romulans capturing her by remote control. So we effectively sit out the war and keep ourselves nominally busy running overlapping, redundant scans of the same region of space for God only knows how long.”

  T’Pol finished eating and took a long swallow of cold water as she silently contemplated the captain’s words. Finally, she pushed her plate aside and said, “There is a certain logic to Starfleet’s actions.”

  “Sure,” he said. “The logic of playing it safe. How does it make sense to use my crew to scan for gravimetric anomalies and subspace distortions? Automated probes can handle that.”

  “Permission to speak freely, Captain?” she said.

  He grinned. “I’ve never had much luck trying to stop you in the past. Go right ahead.”

  “Perhaps you should also consider the logic of patience. I will concede that automated probes might be adequate for handling the more prosaic aspects of this mission, such as charting gravimetric anomalies. However, machines can never supply nuanced judgment when it is called for. Nor can they be perspicacious enough to recognize and exploit any Romulan-pertinent intelligence we might find out here among the trade routes of dozens of heretofore unknown starfaring cultures.”

  The captain stood, appearing at least mildly encouraged. “You might have trouble believing this, T’Pol, but sometimes your pep talks make all the difference.” He moved toward the hatch. Porthos jumped up and hastened to follow.

  T’Pol rose, paused to smooth a wrinkle from her otherwise immaculate blue Starfleet uniform, and followed the captain out into the corr
idor. Moments later, they reached the central turbolift together. After the doors hissed open, she stepped inside, following Porthos. When Archer tried to follow her, she extended a restraining arm across the hatchway, which made him take a reflexive step backward.

  “My shift on the bridge is about to start, Commander,” he said.

  “You have more urgent business here on E Deck, Captain,” she said.

  “More urgent?” He grabbed at the sweaty towel around his neck. “I don’t think so.”

  “In your quarters, sir,” she said as the hatch began to close on his confused countenance. “The shower.”

  Archer sighed, then stopped the moving hatch with his hand; he called to Porthos, who ran out. The door then closed, granting T’Pol a precious moment of solitude as she pressed the activation button and directed the lift toward the upper decks. The lingering scent of human perspiration and beagle dander made her think that it might be a good idea to stop off briefly at her quarters on B Deck before taking her post on the bridge.

  Perhaps there was a vial of olfactory-numbing compound there that she had overlooked.

  FIVE

  Tuesday, August 17, 2156

  Late in the Month of et’khior, YS 8765

  Central ShiKahr, Vulcan

  “THANK YOU FOR COMING to my office, Mister Sodok,” Security Minister Silok offered from behind a sleek, ultramodern desk that appeared out of place in the high stone tower that looked out over the ancient sprawl of Vulcan’s capital city.

  “You do not need to thank me,” said Trip, who sat on the low couch that fronted the desk and maintained a Vulcan’s appearance of emotionlessness only with the greatest expenditure of effort. After all, he had asked Silok, Vulcan’s top-ranking law enforcement officer, for this meeting, and had received nothing in response for weeks but an extended bureaucratic runaround. “But I could use information about the whereabouts and condition of my missing business associate, Tevik. As well as that of our colleagues, Ych’a and Denak.”