Author's Note: This marks the beginning of my own personal spin-off of Enterprise. Featuring captain Charles Tucker III and his crew of misfits, oddballs and Vulcan renegades, breaking speed limits, tampering with things beyond human ken and serving as the Help Desk for Starfleet.
Spoilers: for all canon seasons of ENT will be plentiful, though my interpretations may differ greatly from published Killer Bee opinion.
Spoilers For The Lazy: Here's the "Previously, on Enterprise" summary of my season finale fix.
Early 2155: In a brutal slave raid among the Andorian Aenar, former captain Shran is captured alongside several others, including his betrothed. The Enterprise is asked to investigate a mysterious distress call coming from Andoria, one not going through any regular channels. They quickly find the trail of an Orion slaver headed for Romulan territory. Enterprise follows.
T'Pol and Trip are still grieving but seemingly getting better, she wants to pursue the relationship but is unable to tell him, and he's the uncertain one for once.
The ship exits warp in an unknown system, Enterprise disables the slaver ship's engines and moves to beam aboard captives when the cliffhanger kicks in: three seemingly Andorian ships warp into striking range and barrage the Enterprise! Also, someone aboard the slaver ship is sending coded transmissions to Andorian space.
While Malcolm and the MACOs go on the disabled slaver ship to rescue the taken Aenar (as well as Shran, but they don't know that until he angrily pops up among the albinos and tells them to get a move on). The rescue goes fairly well with only one dead, but while they go there, it seems as if the unknown enemy send encounter-suited commandos on board the Enterprise! They go for the engine room where T'Pol and Trip are keeping things running, and in the chaos Trip pushes T'Pol out of the way of a disruptor blast. He's vaporized, sending T'Pol catatonic.
At this point the real Andorians arrive following Shran's message for help earlier, along with the Columbia. The fake Andorians are taken out, but all attacking ships self destruct before being captured. In the end, the Enterprise limps home towards Earth, escorted by the Columbia. T'Pol is in a biobed, unresponsive, Malcolm has lost an eye in the fighting, Jonathan is grieving the death of his best friend and everything seems dark.
A month later the Romulans strike the dilithium mines on Coridan Prime, and in the ensuing battle the Columbia and Enterprise make the first human acts of aggression (in defense of another species) against a foe unlike they have ever faced. After several human colonies are attacked at seeming random by ships that appear out of nowhere, war is declared.
...
...
"The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned"
-WB Yeats, "Second Coming"
...
More Than One Year Ago.
"Starfleet needs you."
Harris stared at his future operative. It was almost embarrassingly easy to convince the man what had to be done, and in his defense he did feel horrible about manipulating a grieving man. But feelings didn't get things done.
"I need you. You're the best we have in the area, and you're the only one who can do this." He paused for effect. "But...you're going to have to die first."
The man looked up, surprised. Harris nodded, affecting a sad expression. Careful. He's smarter than most think. Don't overdo it. "Let me introduce you to agent Phuong..."
...
...
Ten Months Later.
The rain drizzled down on the jungle of Gormax II much like the gods themselves had decided today was a good day to empty their bathwater. It was much the same color, too, gray and dull and sucking the color out of the foliage. The only sound that could be heard, far in the distance, was that of some avian calling out to any of its species of the opposite gender.
Doctor Ehrehin stumbled through the muddy dirt road rather than on it, trying not to glance back at the shadow he knew he always carried with him. The Tal Shiar never let him out of sight. He was too important.
May the gods piss on their graves as they piss on me. He belched. That last batch of sad'veh soup had not been properly aged. But then, getting anything halfway decent on this humid, rain-soaked urinal of a planet was beyond hoping. All you could expect here was fungus in the shower and mold on your feet. Well, that and those damn blood-colored native simians stealing anything not nailed down or locked up.
...
He pushed open the door, reveling in the gust of warm, dry air coming from within. Now this was a place he could get lost in. On a raised dais a Caitian was dancing some intricate, supposedly erotic dance from their home world far beyond the borders of the Empire, in a corner sat half the night shift of the cruiser always guarding, always orbiting high above, and as for the rest of the clientèle, you would meet more trustworthy people at an Orion slave auction.
He grinned. Good, that means I fit right in.
The barkeep looked up, an old half-breed whose brow ridges suggested a parent or grandparent had had disgraceful relations with a Klingon at some point (which explained why he had a disgusting job in the toilet end of the Empire), and nodded. "The usual?"
"Yes. And lots of it. I'm starting to sober up." Ehrehin staggered over to his usual place, seating himself, putting his elbows on the counter and then burying his face in his arms. His head was pounding, now, and his stomach was quickly souring.
A tall glass of pure blue liquid landed on the counter near his head, and he took a deep, ragged breath before sinking more than half of its contents. It burned like blue fire in his throat and made a molten copper thunderball in his gut, but it took the edge off of both headache and sobriety. Now that he was starting to feel somewhat Rihannsu again, he took a more serious look at the people in the bar. His shadow, seated by the door looking as inconspicuous as a Tellarite at a seminar on beauty. An Orion, discussing business with a diverse, barely Romuloid crew. Prostitutes plying their trade, not very well, but then, this wasn't the best place for that. Or much of anything.
His eyes landed on a fellow seated a bit down the bar, staring morosely at his drink. A Romulan, like he and his shadow, young, good-looking if you were into that sort of thing, hair unkempt and brow ridges slightly swollen from some local infectious disease, dressed in civilian clothes. At least once one of the working girls attempted to engage him in a little negotiable affection, but he waved them off with a frown, nursing his single drink.
Ehrehin pursed his lips. The young man reminded him of himself, to be truthful.
Apparently the fellow noticed that he was being watched, because he suddenly spoke up, his voice soft but carrying easily across the bar, carrying an odd lilt to his accent that reminded the doctor of more rural areas of Romulus. "Does it ever stop hurting?"
Ehrehin blinked. Ah. Female troubles. That explained the disinclination towards the services of the professionals plying the bar. "Depends on the reason."
The young man glanced over and gave a feeble smile. "I had to leave her. Duty. Honor. Orders."
The doctor pondered this. He certainly knew what that was like. He'd had two wives in his long life, both of whom were gone. One had left him while he was still a young engineer serving the then-Praetor, and the other...no.
He didn't like thinking about that.
Not if he was to keep alive long enough to see his life's work completed.
"She finally told me how she felt, too. You know how rare that is? We'd played this crazy game of back and forth for years, and when she finally..." The youth looked down, then took a deep swig from his glass. Whatever was in the beverage, it smelled strongly from all the way over there and was likely more harmful than the ale Ehrehin was drinking. Possibly it was reactor coolant. "But then there was...a death."
The elder man remained silent.
"In the family. We were... And then my new orders came through, and-" He finished the drink, and coughed into his sleeve. Then he looked at Ehrehin and nodded, once, in polite greeting. "Cunaehr."
"Ehrehin."
Cunaehr frowned. "Ehrehin? Huh. What's the Empire's lead expert on warp theory doing in this charming little outpost? I thought I had it bad, but..."
It felt surprisingly good to be recognized, if only by name. Few of the citizenry knew even that much. "Oh, I live here. It's not so bad, really."
That elicited a sardonic smirk and raised eyebrow. "Right. You're here for the beautiful weather, I presume."
"Well, that and my laboratory. You're interested in warp theory?"
Cunaehr nodded, smiling. "Definitely. I'm an engineer. Been working on older things, and the things we've borrowed from...outside sources. Amazing what they can dream up."
Ehrehin glanced nervously towards the door, but his shadow seemed to have found a new purpose in life, staring at the rear end of the Caitian dancing girl. This was good, since his new friend was talking about things one simply did not talk about. He was likely more drunk than he appeared.
Apparently the boy realized this himself, because his eyes widened and he glanced about twice before speaking again, this time more quietly. "Not that, ah, we don't innovate in the Empire. We're quite skilled."
"Long live the Empire."
"Long live the Empire." Cunaehr sighed, pushed the glass aside, then stood up, checking a communicator that was chirping. "Well, I'd better get back. Maybe we'll meet again some day.
"...I'd like that. It's good to have someone to talk to again."
The younger man gave him an odd look. "I...suppose so." Then he nodded, and went on his way.
…
...
The next time he saw Cunaehr was less than a single planetary rotation (calling them 'days' failed to describe the way daylight failed to ever truly penetrate the cloud cover, the most you got was shades of paler gray) later, the day after he solved the containment field issue on the singularity. So simple! It had been staring him in the face all this time, and now...well, now all he had was the long, painstaking process of documenting everything, reporting to the Ministry of Technology and solving the actual equations necessary for higher warp. Months of work to come. Possibly somewhere dry.
The bar didn't feel quite so bad tonight. Possibly it was just his mood brightening things, but he really truly felt as if the place was less smelly, more inviting. And at the bar sat Cunaehr, discussing quietly with another fellow in the same civilian uniform. The young man lit up when Ehrehin approached, waving for him to be seated nearby.
"Please, I insist! I've ordered a bowl of plovaka nuts, they should balance out the drink somewhat. Have one on me."
Something was tickling his paranoia gene the wrong way. Wasn't the man too friendly, too open? Maybe he was another shadow sent to lure incriminating foolishness out of his mouth, sent to make sure he would never think of leaving the employ of the Praetor, maybe...
Ehrehin, you old drunk, you're getting paranoid. The Tal Shiar are quite happy just keeping you here. If they want you gone, you'll just be gone. They're not that subtle. "Don't mind if I do," he said out loud and sat down heavily, trying not to wince at the pains his weary old bones supplied. He picked up a large, spherical nut, cracked the shell with his fingers and emptied out the content in his hand. The naturally salty, protein-rich nut melted in his mouth, sweet and salt and slightly smoky in the aftertaste.
Cunaehr grinned at him. "Watch this." He then took out one of the larger nuts, hefted it twice in his hands, then suddenly slammed it hard into his own forehead. The shell cracked, and the contents were eaten in a single bite. The huge grin was infectious.
"What in the...that's not good for the ridges, you know that."
The young man grinned even wider, chuckling. "Mother? Why are you dressed as an old warp theorist?" He inclined his head to show he meant no real disrespect, then passed the bowl back again.
"So why are you so cheerful today, young man?"
"Because my orders have changed. I'm to finish up here and go back home. Barkeep! A round of drinks for me and my friend here."
Ah, youth.
…
"...you know, you, you know..." Ehrehin frowned. His eyesight was getting bloody. Blurry. Blue. Bland. No, blurry. Because, because, because. Something. Wossname.
"...you know I never really understood why they call it god-fearing. Gods are to be, to be, to be revered and sacrificed to and worshiped...but feared? If you, if you feel...fear your gods, isn't that a sigh-sign that they're not...where was I?"
Cunaehr frowned. "No idea. Maybe we should...oh. I think...I think we're drank. Drunk."
Ehrehin followed the young engineer's gaze onto the bar counter and realized it was filled with bottle after bottle after bottle, and twice that amount in empty glasses. He had no idea what that milky red substance was, but he had a feeling it was why he had trouble focusing his eyes. "You know, you know, you...might be right. Did we eat all that?" He barked a laugh. "Eat? Drink! Did we drink all that?"
The engineer leaned toward him, conspiratorially. "Maybe it was the little goblins who live in the engines."
They both chortled at this amazing display of wit and humor. "Maybe it was!" Ehrehin turned around and pointed at his Tal Shiar shadow. "And there's one now!"
The following laughter woke up the body guard, who glared at them both suspiciously, checking to see if his many hidden weapons were still there...and hidden. Well, maybe it was time to call it a night. "What, what time is it. Sit? Pit. It."
Cunaehr frowned, glancing at his chronometer. "Early morning. Sun'll be up soon. Along with the little goblins."
They chuckled, but not quite as much at first. When the two realized the Tal Shiar agent was still glaring, the dry chuckling turned into belly laughter, and they staggered to their feet, green in the face with mirth.
They parted ways, and Ehrehin stumbled slowly back towards the compound, his bodyguard-slash-handler dutifully trundling on behind him.
...
The man known as Cunaehr watched them pass the nearby curve in the road, then straightened up, eyes clearing, face sobering. He frowned. At this hour, only two-three guards and the Tal Shiar liaison would still be at the compound. The only one actually living at the facilities was Ehrehin, and that was because he was more or less a prisoner. But even so, the deaths of four people would forever be on his conscience. If this worked, five. Hopefully he'd be able to keep the casualties that low.
War is war. Never forget that.
He pushed the button on his chronometer.
…
…
The world was shaking. Roaring. Ehrehin tried to open his eyes, finding only darkness.
He remembered turning to say something to his handler when the sky had lit up like the sun had broken through the eternal clouds. The shockwave had knocked him over, followed by the thunderous roar of a massive explosion that reached from one end of the horizon to the other. The containment field. But that was impossible. He had solved it, it was secure!
Wasn't it?
Wait...if Cunaehr was civilian, who would he be getting orders from?
He opened his eyes, and regretted it. He was lying on a rough bed in what appeared to be an interrogation chamber, and a tall, imposing man in admiral's regalia looked down on him from above, sneering coldly. "Doctor Ehrehin. Your project is an abject failure. Again." The man pulled out his honor blade. "We have tolerated your drunken ineptitude and self-sabotage for the last time."
The very last thought of the man who would have won the war for the Empire was that his killer seemed less annoyed by the deed than someone killing an insect.
…
...
"Well?"
"Yeah." The man known as Cunaehr sighed, rubbing his eyes. Though whether it was weariness from fatigue or from the things he had done was up for grabs. "You cut it a little close to morning. I had to keep him drinking all night."
The other man shrugged. "Security was good. No wonder they only had three guards, they barely needed even that much. I tampered with the field harmonics like you said, worked like a charm."
"Doesn't make me feel any better about killing four people. Five if you count poor Ehrehin."
"No. Knowing the Romulans won't be going into battle with singularity-powered Warp 7 battlecruisers should, though. We saved a lot of lives here, today."
Cunaehr looked at the still burning rain forest and frowned. "Did we?" He reached up and pulled off the black wig, revealing golden blond hair the likes of which no Romulan had ever possessed. He scratched his head. The things I've done. "Feels like we just postponed it."
The other man, who also appeared Romulan, shrugged again. "Maybe so. But at least we're going to have enough time to catch up, now." He picked up his duffel from the bushes, shouldering it. "Come on. The sooner we get to Adigeon Prime and get this crap off ourselves, the sooner we can go home."
Cunaehr nodded, taking out his own gear. They had been a good team. He was the technical expertise, the one who figured out how to make it look like a technical failure, like the theory wasn't working. His partner did the wetworks and the actual physical deeds. But the mission was complete now. Over and done with. After a whole year getting redesigned from the DNA up, infiltrating the Romulan underground on Vulcan and then spending the better part of a year in most insular star nation in the quadrant, he was finally going home. He smiled softly.
She's gonna hate me for this.
...
TBC