PROLOGUE
I.K.S. Ba'Sugh
Somewhere
Space.
The final frontier.
Even in the deepest voids of unfathomable empty skies can one find the opalescent shimmer of phosphorescent dust, a gossamer pinprick miniature, which en masse forms a mystical ocean of angelic glow; with no beginning and no end, it waxes and wanes across the universe, but never quite vanishes.
Amid the jet-black stygian gloom of the darkest barrens, untouched by the subtle hints of stellar age, an echo of light emerges as one draws close, as though a candle across a vast sea. Here, as one slips into the depths of the midnight zone, immersed within the preternatural chill of incorporeal mist and the creep of necrosis, the echo begins to grow, casting about a solitary brilliance.
The abyss of space, upon closer inspection, is not empty at all; and in these pockets, these long-forgotten reaches where no stars shine, one can find the sparkling wonder of wintry grace. For in these bodiless realms of somber cold reside vast seas of Achlysian ice, the unused reservoirs of ice and snow. Dewdrops and prisms, and crystals and mist, the frozen debris of eons long past; the aureolic glitter, the rarefied chill of ether, a veritable starfield of infinitesimal sublimity.
Here and there, in unmeasured intervals of unexpressed time, the endless sea of crystalline light would be disturbed; the passage of a glacial cleft, perhaps, the solemn journey of a lone chunk of rock, collecting molecules of matter on its lonely journey. Empires would rise and fall, species would grow and thrive and drift away, and even the stars would live out a lifetime; the ocean outlived them all, unyielding, unchanging, eternal.
Space.
The infinite frontier.
Not quite infinite, but essentially so; a single ray of light sent from one end of the universe would never quite reach the other—ever. And in that chasm, it would likely never hit a single speck of matter. It would witness the formation and collapse of galaxies, passing by far beyond the nearest black holes, never once twisted nor turned nor bent by the gravitational effects of those solitary bodies, themselves but mere stragglers lost amid the syncope of amaranthine sea.
In other words, not the place for a Klingon warrior. Nach'um snarled fiercely, pounding the arm of his command chair with a heavy fist; but the well-built seat, designed to endure precisely such abuse, gave him no quarter. It infuriated the bored Klingon, the inability to impose his will upon even the most mundane of inanimate objects, but he held back a new growl and instead spat out a chunk of acidic phlegm, enjoying the sound of it sizzling atop the hot, metal deckplates.
He fumed angrily, struggling to recall the disciplines of the mok'bara; the cleansing art would help clear his mind, help him master and channel his fury, as the Great Kahless had once taught. Klingon-hood was about struggle; but the true struggle was to command one's internal enemies was a higher calling, the struggle to harmonize passion and anger with honor and discipline.
It helped little, and Nach'um cursed loudly, calling the wrath of the Black Fleet upon those who stood in his way. It had been a pointless mission from the start, but he was duty-bound to obey the commands of his liege lord; and no doubt, upon his return, he would be held responsible for the lack of spoils.
It was a dead region of space. Over fifty light-years from the homeworld, far from the ill-defined boundaries of the Empire; the shipping lanes of the Rigelian corridor were but a phantom. These were desolate reaches, mired in the vast borderlands which dwarfed the RomuluSngan on one side and the Orions on another.
But any qoH would recognize why, Nach'um fumed—there was nothing in the borderlands worth taking. But here he was, a loyal vassal of Tir'aH, joH'a of the House NuVagh—counting dust particles.
"Commander!" K'tahk barked. "We have a contact!"
Nach'um snarled again, but this time with delight; it had been too long since his crew had seen combat. He weighed his options for a moment before rising from his chair, taking care to maintain command dignity even as he noted the ripple of blubber about his midsection. It has been too long, he knew.
"Alter course!" he ordered sharply, ignoring the confirmation from the helm attendant. The small bird-of-prey swiftly pivoted and dove forward, isolating a still-distant target ahead.
Nach'um could only hope that they had found worthwhile prey.
Earth
"Atten—HUT!" The booming voice of the honorary sergeant-at-arms was clear and strong, commanding a stringent respect amid the assorted guests and dignitaries. As it settled upon the assembled personages, the air of polite chatter slowed, coming to a quiet halt; none quite dared to incur the wrath of General Casey, the commandant of Starfleet's Marine Assault division.
Jonathan Archer, standing on the dais, could almost visualize the ripple as the crowded room fell silent. While not inordinately large, the reception hall was by no means small, holding upwards of five hundred people; and as he swept his eyes over the expectant faces, Archer realized, to some surprise, that he recognized most of them.
Starfleet officers comprised the bulk of the evening's ensemble; that much had been an unyielding requirement on the part of Admiral Forrest, Starfleet's Chief-of-Staff. But the high-wattage event was the must-attend banquet-of-the-week among the prominent citizens of Earth; even the Prime Minister of the United Earth Parliament was in attendance, albeit with a subdued presence.
Forrest stepped to the podium first. "Good evening, everyone," he began, adjusting the microphone as he spoke. It was an unnecessary affectation; but in a day of wireless pick-ups and acoustic engineering, the physical presence of a microphone still conveyed a certain gravitas for the speaker.
"We're pleased all of you could join us," the admiral continued, smiling at the sideways joke; no one would have dared miss. A soft current of laughter echoed back, indicating that the audience grasped the allusion. "It is our great honor and pleasure tonight to come together and recognize the service and devotion of our brethren."
Archer, a step behind and to the right of the admiral, gave a quick glance at the three officers lined up onstage: Malcolm Reed, Travis Mayweather, and Hoshi Sato, his comrades in duty and sacrifice. He felt a sense of pride, warring with a sense of sadness; Charles Tucker and Phlox were present as well, in the front row of guests, but the final member of his command crew was absent. Still reeling from the psychiatric trauma incurred in the Delphinic Expanse, T'Pol remained on Vulcan, under medical care.
And the posthumous commendations had required several grueling ceremonies.
"I am also pleased," Forrest continued, "to welcome Captain Jonathan Archer, commander of the Earth starship Enterprise."
Having nearly missed his cue, Archer whipped his head forward with a slight twinge, taking a half step forward. A chorus of applause sounded from the audience, echoing within the artfully-designed curvature of the arching ceiling above. He cringed slightly as the wave of attention and lights poured over him; in the months following their return, he had grown quite weary of the accolades.
Under the baleful stare of General Casey, the cheering drew to a stuttering halt as the reception hall fell silent once again.
"Attention to orders!" Forrest called out sharply. The room stiffened with an audible snap. "The Prime Minister of the Unified Earth Parliament, acting upon the recommendation of the Chief-of-Staff of Starfleet Command, and having placed special trust and confidence in the loyalty, integrity, and abilities of Lieutenant Malcolm Edward Reed; Ensign Travis Eugene Mayweather; and Ensign Hoshi Nakahara Sato—"
Eugene? Archer thought inwardly.
"And in recognition of their service, above and beyond the call of duty," Forrest continued, his stern voice cracking slightly with a hint of esteem, "the Prime Minister has hereby issued the following the orders, effective this, the eleventh day of May, two thousand one hundred and fifty-four."
Allowing the final echoes to reverberate through the hall, Forrest now turned to the three officers; and Archer, taking his cue, stepped up to face Malcolm.
"Lieutenant Malcolm Edward Reed," Forrest proclaimed firmly, "you are hereby promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Commander, with all of the rights and privileges thereto!"
The audience broke into applause as Archer reached up to Malcolm's chest, and palming an emblem, pinned the rank insignia to Malcolm's uniform. "Congratulations, Malcolm," the captain whispered softly, feeling inordinately moved; and Malcolm replied with a reserved nod, visible only to Archer.
"Ensign Travis Eugene Mayweather," Forrest proclaimed next, as Archer obediently shifted to the next officer. "You are hereby promoted to the rank of Lieutenant, with all of the rights and privileges thereto!"
As Archer pinned on the insignia, Travis' stern face broke into a broad grin, and the captain did not resist. "Congratulations, Travis," he murmured, his face split open as well.
"And Ensign Hoshi Nakahara Sato!" Forrest announced, gently prodding Archer along. "You are hereby promoted to the rank of Lieutenant, with all of the rights and privileges thereto!"
Try as he might, Archer felt as though this one, this promotion, meant the most. "Congratulations, Hoshi," he whispered. The sense of disbelief and wonder on Hoshi's face swept away the last thoughts of doubt in the captain's mind.
I.K.S. Ba'Sugh
Somewhere
Bregit lung.
Leg of targ.
Rokeg blood pie, still warm.
Gagh: lots of gagh, still alive.
Those were things to whet a warrior's appetite.
The chase was short; too short, too easy. Nach'um snarled again in frustration as the Ba'Sugh overtook their prey, shooting past before coming about in a slow, languid arc. It was a simple maneuver, designed to strike terror in the still-beating hearts of their enemies.
However, Nach'um observed morosely, it was completely unnecessary.
The ship appearing on the viewscreen was no foe at all, not even a challenge to stoke the lust of the chase. Scarcely half their size and little more than a derelict, its hull streaked brown and gray, the crude shell battered and beaten, it was barely suitable for training a child.
"Sir! No armaments!" K'tahk reported sharply, his voice bitten with its own dissatisfaction. The younger warrior felt the absence of battle more keenly. "Its systems are failing!"
Nach'um barely moved as he snapped back. "Anything alive?"
"Two lifeforms," K'tahk replied a moment later, not quite masking the surprise in his own voice. It didn't seem quite possible for anything to survive within the wrecked hulk.
"Bah!" Nach'um growled angrily, pounding his fist in frustration. The arm of his chair cracked slightly, giving the captain an inordinate sense of satisfaction. But what could he do about their target? It wasn't honorable to destroy something that could not fight back. "Order them to heave to!" he commanded, gritting his teeth in fulmination. "Send a squad to the docking port!"
" 'oH ghaH vaj!" Several guttural sounds redounded across the bridge as warriors answered the command, but Nach'um paid them little heed; it was K'tahk's responsibility to ensure that the crew obeyed the captain's commands. It was Nach'um's responsibility to make sure those commands were worthwhile.
Nach'um continued to watch, glumly, as the Ba'Sugh drifted into docking position above the forlorn shuttle. Perhaps, he mused, they would find some cargo hidden aboard, something to justify the hassle.
But then again, he brooded, sometimes a wreck is just a wreck.
Earth
Jonathan Archer leaned forward on the railings, appreciating the persistent ocean spray gusting across San Francisco Bay. It was cold, it was wet, it stung a little against uncovered skin; but it also drove the dignitaries away, giving the captain a respite from the crowded, overheated reception hall.
Night had fallen across the Bay, but from his vantage point on Alameda Point, the skyline of the city was brilliantly lit; soaring buildings scratching the low-hanging clouds, their lights reflected amid the nimbo-stratus strands and the rippling surface of the harbor waters. It wasn't dark, not in the least; and rarely was, Archer knew, recognizing the irony of locating Starfleet Headquarters in a city where you couldn't easily see the stars.
But the city was alive and vibrant; the region around the Bay and the Golden Gate had, as the decades passed, become the focal point of the Unified Earth, always looking onward and upward in trajectory. Starfleet Command was here, as was Parliament; the parliamentary ministries were based in the area, and the diplomatic district was just to the south, on Bay Farm Island. Several leading universities ringed the harbor, and the rebuilt Smithsonian complex filled an entire portion of Berkeley.
"Evening, Jonathan." The words flowed, leisurely, from Admiral Forrest.
Lost in thought, Archer jumped slightly at the voice. "Good evening, Admiral," he replied automatically.
"Mind if I join you?" Forrest's easy smile indicated that acquiescence was not required.
"No, sir," Archer replied unhurriedly, gesturing towards the railing. "As long as you promise not to ask me any questions about the Expanse."
"I'm holding you to the same," Forrest replied, giving a light-hearted grunt. "It's a little crazy, isn't it?"
"It's been three months," Archer observed, giving some voice to his weariness. Three months in front of cameras, in front of journalists asking the same questions, at countless ribbon-cutting ceremonies, several speeches a week…he had finally rigged his communicator to block incoming calls from Starfleet's press secretary. "Phlox would love it, but…" Archer trailed off, unwilling to complete the thought.
"I know," Forrest answered tersely, his own displeasure clear. "There was another attack yesterday."
"The cab driver?" Archer bit his lower lip, turning it white. The Tellarite was projected to recover in due time, largely because his massive girth had foiled the knife attack.
Now shivering in the face of the cold spray, the two men stood in silence for an extended moment, watching the movement of lights; from far off to their right, where the new Bay Bridge began in Oakland, to its terminus just past the Embarcado, a constant wave flowed in both directions. It was still early in the night, but the stream of traffic would let up only slightly before the morning hours.
"Anything about T'Pol?" Archer asked at last, turning his head slightly to the side.
Forrest turned as well, giving the two men a bubble of space protected from the wind. "I spoke with Ambassador Soval earlier today," he replied slowly. His hesitation projected the lack of good news.
"What is it?" Archer pressed after a moment, steeling himself for a punch to the gut.
"The Vulcan High Command is charging her with being absent without leave." Forrest's voice was curt as he tried to soften the impact. "She's not allowed to leave Vulcan, pending disposition."
"I see." Archer let the words hang in the air.
"You knew this was coming, Jon," Forrest replied gently. "She disobeyed their orders when she followed you into the Expanse. And Vulcans—" he winced slightly with remembered pain. "They are fastidious about the chain of authority."
It was—had to be—his imagination, but it seemed to Archer as though the cloud cover had grown a shade darker. "Is she still—"
"She's still in medical care," Forrest finished. "It's not the worst circumstances for her, Jonathan. She may be confined to Vulcan…but that's where she needs to be anyway. The neuro-psychiatrists aren't sure if she'll ever be functionally able to return to duty."
I.K.S. Ba'Sugh
Somewhere
It was even easier than docking with a true derelict.
As the bird-of-prey settled over its target, the beaten shuttle made no attempt to escape; it hung, still and silent, in the hardness of space as the final meters of separation slowly disappeared. A nondescript bang indicated that the two vessels had made physical contact; and moments later, the airlock shaft fastened on, beginning its binge-and-purge cycle.
K'tahk clicked the handle of his d'k'tahg blade, opening and closing it repeatedly as he strove to channel his irritation and frustration. When combat beckoned, these long seconds of wait only heightened his battle senses, preparing him for the fast, furious onslaught as he carved his way through foe and prey. But now…the wait served only to accent the powerlessness he felt, the discomfiture of involuntary inaction, the striving of his passions against the trained barrier of inhibition.
At last, the airlock door opened, and K'tahk let loose a growl of relief; the prolonged seconds grated upon his nerves in unimagined ways. Oddly enough, the two inhabitants of the target vessel were already crossing the threshold, willingly handing themselves over as they cleared the vestibule and entered the engineering compartment.
K'tahk eyed the two beings suspiciously. They were either a threat, or he was so thirsty for battle that he was imagining it, and the latter was more likely. They were both…Earthers, he identified promptly, although they didn't quite match the description of their race; they were taller, both coming up to his chest, and their skin wasn't actually pink.
Both possessed lean faces and chiseled features, evidence of an unpampered life. Their manes were both nearly Klingon; long and bedraggled, one almost jet black and the other a shade of brown. Tattered, tight-fitting shirts revealed well-built torsos, muscular and trim. Well-fed, K'tahk decided, but accustomed to a hard lifestyle.
"Move!" he barked at the duo, pointing into the ship with the tip of his knife. Two of his warriors were sliding into escort positions behind the Earthers, and the third moved to one side, opening a walking path through the cramped compartment. "Move!" K'tahk barked again, irritated by their slowness.
The two Earthers glanced at each other, as though experiencing a moment of tova'Daq: a moment of battlefield clarity between two warriors. It made K'tahk's heart beat a little harder: did these Earthers intend to put up a fight?
The first Earther, the taller of the pair, slowly turned about to face the guard behind him, and the Klingon ran out of patience; the barrel of a disruptor rifle punched the Earther in the gut with enough force to stagger most beings. "Walk, human!" the guard bellowed, using his height to tower over the victim.
K'tahk barely saw the movement.
With stunning speed, the two Earthers struck.
The first, the taller Earther, lashed out with a lightning-fast round kick, striking the unsuspecting guard in the center of the chest. The impact drove the Klingon from his feet, tossing him backward into the airlock before hitting the deck with bone-rattling force. Without a pause, the Earther continued his movement, intercepting the swinging arc of a second disruptor rifle with his hands. A precision twist ripped the weapon away from the guard and brought it about in an arc, crashing into the side of the Klingon's head.
K'tahk bared his teeth with delight as his battle senses came alive, accelerating his perceptions and instincts to keep pace with these freakishly-fast Earthers. It was never wise to assault a bored Klingon, and he was ready to—
K'tahk barely felt the jolt as his body crashed to the deck, his legs flying out before him. Instead, rage tore through his body, and he was on his feet as the second Earther—the one who had undercut him—rolled past the guard of the remaining warrior, delivering a precision blow to the warrior's throat; the stricken Klingon staggered backwards, gasping for air as he scratched at his smashed larynx.
Bringing his d'k'tahg up into attack posture, K'tahk charged at the Earther, bellowing a battle-cry through his—he heard the cracking of his bones as he smashed into a bulkhead, unbelievable force encountering unmovable object, enough to overcome even the hardened build of a Klingon. Pink blood flowed before his eyes as he saw the Earther come about, finishing the roundhouse kick that had so violently struck the warrior.
Somewhere in the background, the first guard was now staggering forward from the airlock, his balance shaky but his rage intact; he lashed out fiercely with a fist, but the first Earther dodged the blow. With a swift pirouette past the teetering Klingon, the Earther leapt on the warrior's back and contracted his own torso with sufficient force to toss the heavy warrior backward in a bicycle-kick motion. The guard crashed into a bulkhead headfirst and slumped against it, held up only by a handful of unsevered tendons in his neck.
That left K'tahk, who staggered across the compartment, shaking his head to clear the viscera swimming in his eyes as he lashed out, randomly, with his knife. Within a moment, he felt a rending pain tear through his gut, followed by acute agony as the twin side-blades of his own knife opened, and the world went from pink to red to violet before fading into nothingness.
Feeling the death throes of the last Klingon, the second Earther didn't bother withdrawing the knife he had driven into the being. Although he would retrieve it later, he had no need for the blade at the moment. Instead, the humans each picked up a disruptor rifle, and made their way up the corridor.
Earth
"There's something else I thought you might be interested in," Forrest said slowly, after waiting for a gust of wind to howl past them. As it shrieked on by, the admiral raised a hand to wipe the excess spray from his face. "We're sending the Enterprise back out."
Archer turned about in startled alarm, gritting his teeth against sudden ire. "With all due respect, Admiral, the repairs aren't nearly complete! We need at least another three weeks—"
"Trust me, Jonathan, I know the repair status," Forrest replied. His own acerbic irritation cut into Archer. "But the Enterprise is closer to launch than the Columbia."
"Maybe," Archer allowed, his thoughts running furiously. "But I need time to assemble a crew."
Forrest cracked a wry smile. "You're off the hook, Jon. Captain Hernandez has a fully trained crew, ready to go. It'll only be temporary."
The cold harbor air was little compared to the rising temperature of Archer's ire. "She's my ship, Admiral," he replied tightly. "If the Enterprise is going out, then I'm taking her."
Forrest paused a moment, watching the city lights ripple over the Bay waters. "You said it yourself, Captain," he replied quietly. "Your first officer—who doubles as your science officer—isn't even able to leave Vulcan. Your second officer—who doubles as your chief engineer—is still up before a hearing committee, and no one there can decide whether to court-martial him or promote him. Your weapons officer and helmsman barely escaped civilian charges for knocking out a loud-mouthed idiot. Half of your registered crew hasn't been cleared by Medical to return to duty. Need I go on?"
"To be fair, Admiral…" Archer spat out an unwelcome mouthful of salt water. "You put Malcolm and Travis up for their promotions."
Forrest's eye began to twinkle. "It seemed the least I could for them," he answered.
The captain's ire evaporated into a broad chuckle. "I never figured you for a sly one, sir."
"My office, first thing in the morning." The twinkle vanished behind a somber expression. "I want my best people on this one, Captain, and that's still you."
I.K.S. Ba'Sugh
Somewhere
The commotion was…odd.
"Bah!" Nach'um snarled again, pushing himself upward from the command chair; his lips curled for a moment as one foot nearly buckled beneath him, the ankle still recovering from a sparring mishap three days earlier. There was a time…
"Bah!" Nach'um snarled again, banishing the thoughts of his youth from his mind. The youthful warrior he had once been would never have tolerated such banal work; the aging captain he now was had to sort out building bedlam.
Echoing up the neck of the ship, the racket was clearly heard on the bridge; peeking his ears, Nach'um took a moment to digest it, teasing out the different sounds of melee and clattering bulkheads, the oomphs of deflated torsos, the unmistakable crunch of bones. Something was clearly going wrong, but for the moment, Nach'um cared little: there was a battle taking place, and now his lips curled in delight.
Later, he would punish the guards for their incompetence.
Stepping eagerly now, Nach'um barely cleared the angled control consoles behind his own post before the rear doors clanged open, giving the Klingon captain pause in mid-step; two Earthers stood framed in the threshold, bearing Klingon disruptor rifles.
A wave of rage roared through Nach'um's body as his battle senses came alive, heightening his speed and turning to his instincts for command. The distance between him and the Earthers was less than the length of one man, and he charged forward with a bulrush, crossing the gap before the intruders could ready their weapons—
Nach'um hit the deckplates between the two Earthers, every nerve in his body crying with eternal pain, and the world turned mercifully black.
Earth
It was, some might say, an anomaly; others would blame it on the odds, and still others would point out that weather patterns are never truly static.
Whichever way you look at it, Archer reflected, taking in the view beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, it's sunny in San Francisco.
The northern tip of the southern promontory of the twin peninsulas that flank the Bay, the Presidio of San Francisco was an old, converted naval base, dating back to the days when the first Spanish forts were built on the Golden Gate. In the years since, through wars and interim peace, the Presidio remained; serving as a fortress on the Bay, as a naval transshipment point, as the base of operations during the Great Fire of 1906, as a tourist attraction and—at one point—a prison, and perhaps most famously as a refugee camp during the Final World War, it had been gifted to Starfleet some twenty years before.
And the view is amazing, Archer noted, watching the white dots that populated the blue waters of the Bay. The chief-of-staff's office was located, quite precisely, on the bluffs overlooking Marine Drive, with a line-of-sight angling northeast and into the heart of the Bay; framing one side of the vista were the towering struts of the Golden Gate Bridge, and on the other the sprawling docks of the Marina District.
Archer stifled a sigh as the windows grew smoky and opaque.
"Have a seat, gentlemen." Forrest's tone was somewhere between a suggestion and a command as he waved Archer and Reed to the utilitarian seats before the admiral's desk. "I don't think either of you know our guest," he added, giving a nod towards the fourth occupant of the room. "This Alan Spearson, of the Intelligence Division of the Foreign Ministry."
Archer extended a polite handshake as he sat down, settling into the rigid chair. Spearson was an older man; thinning hair combed back with a distinct widow's peak, more pepper than coal, and more salt than pepper. His skin was a soft brown, bespeaking mixed ancestry, and he wore an impeccably-tailored suit.
"It's our pleasure to be here, sir," Archer replied guardedly, withholding genuine judgment until he learned the purpose of their meeting. If it was, say, to discuss a First Contact opportunity, then he was truly pleased; but whereas a mission summons had once always excited the captain, experience had tempered the enthusiasm.
"Very well." Forrest cleared his throat. "May I safely assume that the two of you are familiar with the Chrysalis Project?" he asked. Forrest leaned across his desk, hands clasped before him.
"I think so, sir," Malcolm replied, giving a nod. "Isn't that the one which gave rise to Khan Singh?"
"That's correct," Forrest affirmed. "Around the turn of the twenty-first century, the Chrysalis Project tried to use genetic resequencing to jumpstart a 'master' human race."
"They didn't get very far," Archer commented, joining the discussion. "Their offspring wiped each other out, as I recall."
Spearson leaned inward as well. "And how many of these super-genetic offspring were there?" he asked. His voice was gravelly, as if aged and weary.
Malcolm closed one eye as he thought. "I want to say a hundred sixty, sir."
"You're right on, Commander," Spearson confirmed. "But those did not account for all of the viable fetuses."
"I remember something about that," Archer replied slowly. His mind clouded momentarily as he sought distant recollections in his memory. "It was one of the last areas of cooperation before the War, wasn't it? I mean, the effort to secure the remaining fetuses."
"Yes, Captain," Spearson answered, and he glanced about quickly, as if concerned about eavesdroppers. "But no disposition for them was ever released."
"Of course." A grade-school history lesson was clearing up in Archer's mind. "No one could agree. Do you terminate the fetuses? Bring them to term, and then incarcerate the children? Bring them to term, and let them go?"
"I think I saw a file on them once," Malcolm chipped in, choosing his words carefully. "Weren't they put into a secured storage facility in the interim."
"What does this have to do with us, Admiral?" Archer prodded along; the history lesson was nice…but what did it have to do with their mission?
Spearson and Forrest exchanged a look. "The V'Shar passed along some information to us," Spearson admitted finally, referring to the Vulcan intelligence bureau. "Over the past month or so, they've collected scattered reports of a small crew of humans pirating ships along the Rigelian Corridor."
Tapping several commands into the desk's control panel, Forrest called up a three-dimensional starmap. "The reported attacks have taken place in this region," he added, highlighting a bubble of roughly five cubic light-years; almost entirely within sector zero-one-one, with the Orion Hegemony on one side and the Rigelian Corridor on the other, it encompassed the bright stars of Pollux, Sigma Ceti, and Tellun.
"That's no surprise," Malcolm observed. His voice harbored a degree of suspicion. "Orion pirates have operated along there for—well, for as long as we know," he added wryly. "Attack the shipping in the Corridor, and escape across the Orion border."
"These attacks have been a little different." Forrest's voice was grim. "They've allegedly been carried out by a crew of humans."
Archer sat back, stunned, while Malcolm followed along the thread. "I'm still not sure why you're attaching such importance to these pirates, sir," he added, carefully voicing his suspicion. "There are—still—any number of wildcat humans out there."
"This particular band tried to hijack a Vulcan freighter," Spearson countered. "The Vulcans held off the pirates—at considerable cost, I'm told. However, in the process, they came by some organic samples from the attackers."
Cold realization swept over Malcolm's face. "They were Augments," he whispered.
Archer darted a look at his tactical officer. "Am I the only person here who doesn't know something?" he queried, eyes darting back to Spearson and Forrest.
"Apparently so, Captain," Forrest replied, giving Malcolm a hard look. "I'm curious as to how you know, Commander Reed."
"I'm sure the Commander is sworn to secrecy," Spearson grunted nonchalantly as he turned towards Archer. "And to answer your other question, Captain: over the years, several of the Augment fetuses have…gone missing."