Chapter Two
There's one thing you can guarantee about life on the Moon, John Frederick Paxton told himself as he rounded a corner in the underground corridor. Everything exists in shades of gray.
All around him—which consisted of a rough-hewn passageway carved in the rock of the Moon's crust—was gray bedrock, a colorless and nondescript tunnel just like so many others that cut and bent their way through the endless substratum of the mining colony. Lined with undifferentiated bioluminescent strips and undergirded with graviton-enhanced metal plating, there was little indication of where the tunnel led, or where it had been; only the experienced miner would know that this tunnel, of all the warrens of the colony, led to Paxton's biggest secret.
"How serious?" Paxton asked his companion as the two men rounded another corner, twisting and curving their way deeper into the rock. Paxton's voice was dry, as befit the environment; a lean and angular man, with hard features on his face and a tall widow's-peak for a hairline, he seemed to be very much a product of the uncaring environment that was his home.
The second man, shorter by a head, jogged slightly to keep up. "If the swelling gets worse," he said, "it could inhabit her breathing." Dressed in a doctor's white laboratory coat, complete with an old-fashioned stethoscope around his neck, the second man was clearly a physician of some sort. His hair was short and dark, and he was breathing heavily as he sought to keep pace.
"I told you to notify me if there was any trouble," Paxton replied, his voice harboring a scolding tone; unhappy with the news, he was making this unscheduled trip deep into the catacombs of the colony, down to the lowest recesses of the mining tunnels. "And now you say this has been going on for days?"
Mercer nodded slightly. "The monitoring equipment didn't detect the symptoms until this morning," he answered. The two men came to an abrupt stop as they arrived at a sheet-metal hatchway, and the doctor punched the control panel with his fingers, keying in the appropriate access code; what lay behind was very intentionally hidden from the other miners, kept on a limited need-to-know basis, the proprietary knowledge of only a handful of the colony's staff.
The hatchway grudgingly clanked open, and the two men stepped in; an overhead bank of lights sprang into existence, augmenting the low-light glow strips that illuminated the exterior. Within, banks of machinery glowed with red and green lights, giving a slightly festive air to the otherwise-gray room.
"It isn't calibrated for this type of patient," Mercer explained as he crossed the small room. Stepping up to an infant's incubator, he checked the readout on the monitor affixed to the side, and tapped in several notes. "That is, nothing is calibrated for this type of patient," the doctor continued, somewhat absent-mindedly as he focused on his work. "The specifications are completely unique."
For his part, Paxton slowly entered the room, as if hesitant to get close to the patient inhabiting the incubator. "Well?" he demanded, coming to a halt next to the doctor. "How is she?"
"The fever has diminished," Mercer answered, reading data off the rolling display. "Her temperature has returned to normal—at least, what we believe is normal. She's fighting it off."
"That's good news," Paxton retorted dryly, "for both of you." Hovering over the incubator, he looked inside and tilted his head.
"Intravascular pressure has stabilized," Mercer continued. He tapped the monitor to bring up a new set of readings. "Blood oxygenation is good."
Paxton harrumphed quietly. "She looks so innocent," he said, taking a long look at the infant within the incubator. "It's almost possible to forget what she represents."
The doctor tapped the monitor again to set it into standby mode. "We don't want to disturb her," he said, looking back up at his taller companion; motioning for Paxton to withdraw, Mercer took a step back as well.
"No, of course not," Paxton answered, his voice dripping in dryness. "As long as she's healthy."
"She's recovering nicely," Mercer replied, gesturing towards the hatchway. Paxton gave the infant one last, hard look before turning to follow out the door.
Inside the incubator, the infant gurgled softly; laying on her back, her hands and feet were held up the air, stretching for the plasticine shield above. Barely a month old, her eyes were quite clearly blue, and in all respects, appeared to be a healthy human child.
With pointed ears.
Captain's Log, January 19, 2155. The Enterprise has been called home for what could prove to a pivotal moment in human history; for the first time, Earth is hosting a peace conference of the local alien races to form what is being called a "Coalition of Planets." The Vulcans, Andorians, and Tellarites have all been invited to the conference. If this works—and I hope it does—it represents an unprecendented coming-together of our galactic neighbors in peace and friendship. I only regret that it has taken the threat of the "Romulan Star Empire" to bring this conference about.
It's been a long road, Jonathan Archer thought to himself, the words springing to mind unbidden as if from half-remembered song lyrics. Getting from there to here…
For the previous four years, from the first moments of the Enterprise's maiden launch, they had been engaged on an extraordinary mission; first of exploration, then of defense, and finally of peace, the Enterprise and her crew had time and again sailed into the great unknown, forging ahead in the name of a united humanity with an extended hand of friendship. From the Klingon homeworld to the Delphic Expanse, and across vast territories in between, Earth's first warp-five starship had sailed the stars, making friends and converting enemies; and the captain of the Enterprise considered himself to be the luckiest person ever born, for he had the opportunity to lead their intrepid crew forward on their unprecedented mission. From the first days of their spaceflight, when he was so eager to see what was past the next horizon, to the depths of the Expanse, when he was pushed further than humans are designed to go, to brokering treaties and averting war between the Vulcans, Andorians, and Tellarites…their amazing journey had led the crew of the Enterprise back here, to Earth, to Starfleet Command, to witness the opening ceremonies of the Coalition talks.
Jonathan Archer could never have imagined that the road would ultimately lead them here.
In the center of the large room lay an elongated horseshoe-shaped table, capable of comfortably seating all of the delegates and their immediate aides. Here, representatives from five different worlds—one-time foes, and still harboring reservations about the proposed new alliance—sat in silence, each one listening carefully to the human male who stood at the base of the horseshoe. In the middle stood a half-dozen reporters, each one following the man with their recorders.
"Having endured a catastrophic World War, Earth's people came to this city for the purpose of creating a just and lasting peace among nations," the man—Earth's prime minister, Nathan Samuels—was saying, as he rotated slightly to give every delegate eye contact. He was a middle-aged man, possessing curly brown hair, and dressed in a simple gray suit; his voice was even, but spoke of promise and hope. "Today, we have assembled here again, representatives of numerous worlds, to forge an unprecedented alliance."
Archer risked a glance at his senior staff, who had been invited to join him in the standing gallery. Five of them were in attendance—his first officer and science chief, T'Pol of Vulcan; his chief engineer, Charles "Trip" Tucker; his navigator, Travis Mayweather; his communications chief extraordinaire, Hoshi Sato; and finally, his doctor, Phlox of Denobula. Each of them was listening carefully, appreciating the words of covenant that were being spoken below.
Only one member of his staff—a former member of his staff—was missing, and Archer frowned slightly as he recalled the pain of Malcolm Reed's betrayal. Following Reed's actions during their recent headlong flight to recover Phlox from the Klingons, Archer had ordered Reed off the Enterprise and out of his sight.
But it was still with sorrow that Archer noted Reed's absence.
"With this Coalition of Planets, we seek to strengthen our bonds of friendship, render permanent the peace that now exists among us for the ongoing exploration of our galaxy," Samuels continued. His hands were spread wide, as if expressing the inclusive of the proposed coalition, inviting all of the delegates and their worlds to take part in the promise. "Let us dedicate ourselves to these worthy goals so that future generations can look back upon this moment with pride and eternal gratitude." Samuels pulled his hands together and bowed slightly as the speech wrapped up. "Thank you."
The room—the delegates, their aides, and the collection of invited spectators—broke into sustained applause, the aliens doing so in conscious imitation of the human custom. Glancing back at his crew, Archer noted that only Trip Tucker seemed to be less than enthusiastic.
"People are watching," Archer commented from the side of his mouth, barely moving his lips as he spoke. And, indeed, one of the reporters was surveying the spectators with a camera; the heroic crew of the Enterprise was in her sights, and the captain intended to show his support for the prime minister and the coalition talks.
"Nobody knows that better than him," Trip retorted softly, referring to Samuels.
"Clap louder," Archer stated flatly, being in little mood for the engineer's saltiness. "That's an order."
From the end of the row, Phlox turned to face his colleagues. "I thought it was a fine speech," the Denobulan added, commenting with his characteristic smile.
Travis snorted lightly. "Just missing a few names," the navigator replied as he kept up manufactured clapping. "You'd think this was all his idea."
"It's not about who gets the credit," Hoshi answered, injecting herself into the conversation.
"He could've at least mentioned the Enterprise," Trip countered. "Who does he think got the Andorians and Tellarites talking?"
"I'm sure history will reflect our contribution," T'Pol interjected with a murmur.
"Not if he's writing it," Trip shot back.
Archer let his head sink for a moment before he carefully eyed his crew. "That's enough," he said with a steely expression. "We're happy to be here. That's it."
Snaking his way through the milling dignitaries and observers, nodding to acquaintances old and new as he passed by, Archer made his path towards Samuels; T'Pol and Hoshi followed alertly behind their captain, deftly maneuvering their way through the growing thicket of bodies. Though the Starfleet conference room was spacious and airy, there were over a hundred members of various races all congregating around the horseshoe table; and Archer's target, the prime minister, was at the center of it all, holding court with the Coridanite ambassador.
"Prime Minister," Archer said loudly, timing his approach to coincide with the ambassador's leave.
Samuels, hearing the captain's voice through the growing noise, turned about; and upon seeing Archer split his face into a friendly grin. "Captain!" Samuels said in welcome, extending his right hand outward. Archer reciprocated, and the two men shook hands firmly as Samuels stepped closer; the better to hear, and hold a private conversation. "I hope I didn't embarrass myself too much."
"Far from it, Minister," Archer replied graciously. "It was a moving speech."
"Call me Nathan," Samuels answered quickly. Nodding to Hoshi, he raised his hand and split his fingers in the traditional Vulcan greeting for T'Pol. "I want to thank you again for attending."
"It's our pleasure, Minister," Hoshi said warmly, sticking with the formal title; she would let the captain be the first to address the most powerful man on Earth by his given name. "We wouldn't have missed it for anything." Left unmentioned was the fact that, due to their recent headfirst mission into Klingon space, the Enterprise had nearly missed the opening of the conference.
"Well, we're all happy you could make it," Samuels replied. "Having the Enterprise here seems to put everyone at ease. People feel comfortable in your presence." He shrugged his shoulders. "I must say, you have become heroes of mine."
Archer couldn't help but smile. "Whatever we can do to help," he answered. "We're as interested in the success of this conference as you are."
"Well, it certainly helps that the delegates can understand each other." Samuels fingered a small, box-like device that was attached to his lapel. "These universal translators work perfectly, thanks to you," he added, directing the final part to Hoshi.
"I just updated them with a few things we picked up along the way," Hoshi answered. Feeling a little uncomfortable with the attention, she took a slight step back.
"Whatever you did, they're extremely precise," Samuels replied. He turned slightly and leaned in to the captain, as if ready to share a secret. "Though, when I'm listening to the Tellarite ambassador, I wish they were just a little less precise," he added with a grin. The Tellarite ambassador, like his people, was well-known for his lengthy erudition and a bluntness that set new standards of rudeness.
"You've set a formidable goal," T'Pol commented, moving the conversation along to a weightier topic. "The drafting of a charter in six weeks?"
Samuels nodded his head soberly, but his voice spoke of hope. "I've always believed that formidable goals produce formidable results," he answered. "And formidable results will be needed, if we're to handle the challenges that confront us. Alone, I'm not sure who can stop the Romulans, and who knows how many other hostile species we'll encounter out there."
"It won't stop us from exploring," Archer answered with a broad grin. "If we can bring peace to our corner of the galaxy, imagine what else we're capable of."
"You didn't chime in," Trip observed to Travis as the two men stood in the back, watching as the captain slowly made his way about the crowded conference room; Archer was busy shaking hands with the delegates, a task that the two other men were more than happy to leave to the captain. "What did you think of the minister's speech? Did he—omit a few key characters?" Trip added with a trademarked crooked grin.
Travis' face split into a wide smile. "You're not going to catch me that easily, Commander," he answered lightly, giving no indication of his feelings on the subject. "I'm happy to leave the politics to the prime minister."
"But we don't, Travis," Trip rejoined; his mien was light-hearted, but the words bespoke a serious topic. "We're as involved in this as anyone. We've been involved in this since—since the very beginning, back when we were brokering ceasefires between the Vulcans and the Andorians."
Travis shook his head. "I'm just—" he broke off as he noticed a young woman approaching them; with a small camera fastened on her head, she was clearly a member of the press pool. "If you don't mind, Commander?" he asked, pointing his head toward the newcomer. It was clear that Travis recognized her.
"Ah, of course, Lieutenant," Trip responded with a smile. "I'll be—" he pointed in a random direction. "Over there."
The newcomer gave Trip a friendly smile as the engineer departed, and then turned her attention directly to Travis. "I decided to stop waiting," she said coyly. Her press badge read Gannet Brooks.
"Waiting for what?" Travis answered diplomatically. A polite half-smile was plastered on his face, but his eyes showed little joy.
"For you to come over and say hello," Gannet replied with a teasing grin.
"You were busy working," Travis countered, refusing to engage in the frivolity.
"We've never had a problem mixing work and pleasure," Gannet responded, the grin disappearing from her face; the air between the two was growing distinctly chilly. "Can you smile, Travis?" she asked, directing the camera unit at his face.
Travis' semi-smile dropped into a stony mien.
"I could never get you to smile for the camera," Gannet answered.
The two stood in uncomfortable silence for an extended moment. "How have you been, Gannet?" Travis said finally, breaking into the pregnant pause.
"Busy," she replied. "There haven't been many slow news days since the Xindi attack."
"I don't imagine so," Travis allowed, though he was only guessing; he had not spent much time on Earth since the initial Xindi probe had struck, some year and a half previously.
"I hear you're going to be in the neighborhood awhile?" Gannet ventured, her tone taking on a slight degree of hopefulness.
Travis nodded firmly. "At least until the conference is over," he answered.
"We should get together," Gannet replied. "Just for a cup of coffee or something, Travis, nothing to serious. But if we wait another four years, we're going to have too much catching up to do, you know?"
"Can't argue with that," Travis responded evenly.
Gannet broke into a teasing smile. "I'll pretend that was an enthusiastic yes," she answered. She glanced back at the conference room, where the delegates were continuing to mingle. "Back to work!"
"Commander Tucker does have a point," T'Pol allowed quietly as she and the captain stepped aside, allowing the prime minister to return to the other delegates. It was difficult to find a quiet location in the buzzing conference room, but the captain and the Vulcan science officer found themselves located nearby a booming Tellarite aide; their soft conversation would be drowned out by the blustery alien.
Nonetheless, Archer glanced around to ensure their privacy before he spoke. "What do you mean, T'Pol?" he asked softly, taking care that none of the cameras were trained on them from across the room. Satisfied, he turned his attention back to her.
"The Enterprise laid the foundation for this event," T'Pol replied, her voice possessing a degree of firmness; it was clear to the captain that, despite her diplomatic tone earlier, his first officer felt strongly about giving credit where it was due. "It's you that they should be photographing," T'Pol continued, still speaking almost inaudibly.
Archer let out a light laugh. "That's kind, T'Pol, but I'll pass on the attention," he answered. "Samuels likes the spotlight, and he's welcome to it." As they continued to speak, a slight commotion arose from the direction of the Tellarite aide. Breaking off in mid-sentence, captain and first officer turned their attention to see the cause of the small furor.
Pushing through the milling crowd, on a direct line for Archer and T'Pol, was a short woman; pale of skin, dressed in a beaten jacket, she did not have the requisite security badge from her neck. She looked worn down and tired, unlike the upbeat and hopeful attendees of the conference, and she was staggering slightly, as if walking under great labor.
How did she get past security? Archer wondered, the first thought coming to his mind; the second was, what does she want with us? Indeed, two Starfleet security officers were a few paces behind, brusquely pushing their way through the crowded conference room.
But they were a step too late, as the woman pulled up in front of T'Pol; it clearly took great effort for her to stop her forward momentum, and Archer wondered if the woman was injured somehow.
"They're going to kill her!" the woman blurted out. She was looking straight at T'Pol, and ignoring the captain completely.
T'Pol, for her part, sought to keep her face even as she struggled with bafflement; she had never met this woman before, nor even seen her image, and she had not an idea of what the intruder was speaking of. "Excuse me?" T'Pol replied at last, hoping the woman would clarify her cryptic warning. Around them, a circle was starting to gather, as the diplomats became aware of the disturbance in their midst.
"Don't let them kill her!" the woman said; her voice was rising into a fevered pitch as she spoke, just as the din about them was silencing. "Don't let them!" Reaching out for T'Pol, the woman grabbed the Vulcan's hands and pressed a small object into them.
The two security guards arrived at that moment, but as they grabbed the arms of the strange woman, she fell backward, collapsing to the floor; one of the guards was forced to cradle her head as she fell, and they eased her down gently.
"I'm sorry!" The woman's voice was already growing faint, such that only T'Pol's sensitive Vulcan hearing could make out the apology. In the arms of the guards, the woman sprawled out on the floor, and her coat spilled open. Her abdomen bore a bloody wound, ripped open, with the viscera visible inside of it. Ringed around the edge was charred flesh.
"I'm a doctor!" Phlox shouted out from the closest ring of spectators, and he rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside his new patient. Pulling out a handheld medi-scanner, he rapidly ran it over the woman's body, but his eyes told him everything. "It's a phase pistol wound!" He gestured for the two guards to lay the woman flat on the floor. "She's going into shock!" Phlox called out, completing his diagnosis. "Get me a med kit!"
Perturbed by what she was witnessing, T'Pol took a half-step back from the woman and looked into her hands; the woman had given her a simple medical vial.
In the vial were several strands of hair.
Phlox was a doctor extraordinaire.
Trained across several star systems, coached in a dozen or more forms of alien anatomy, and beyond proficient in genetics and neurology, the good doctor had rarely met with a medical mystery that baffled him.
And baffled—Phlox quibbled with the word, for he wasn't certain that he was truly baffled. He knew, after all, what he was staring at on this late night, alone in the Enterprise's sickbay; he knew what it was.
He just couldn't explain how it had come to be.
And so, there he was, staring at the large overhead monitor and sipping on a half-cooled cup of Tarkalean tea, when the sickbay doors hissed open behind him.
"Doctor?" Archer's voice intruded upon the doctor's solitude.
Phlox, who had been expecting the interruption, turned about to see the captain, T'Pol, and Trip Tucker entering his warren. "Ah, Captain!" he exclaimed, greeting first his commanding officer; then, turning to T'Pol and Trip: "Commanders! I expect you're here for some answers?" Nonetheless, despite his cheery voice, the doctor's voice fell slightly as he addressed the Vulcan; he had little idea of how she would take the news.
Archer stepped forward first. "Any word on the woman?" he asked.
Phlox nodded soberly. "I just received word from Starfleet Medical," he reported. "The wound was too severe. She didn't survive," he finished unhappily. "Has Starfleet Security provided you with a name?"
Stepping fully into sickbay, T'Pol nodded affirmatively. "Her name was Susan Khouri," she answered. Her diction, though mostly precise, wavered slightly; and Phlox made a mental note of it. T'Pol had struggled to regain her full control following the Enterprise's ten-month mission to the Delphic Expanse, and her ensuing use of—and addiction to—an alien substance known as Trellium-D.
"She was a medical technician," T'Pol continued. "She'd been having some emotional trouble. She took a leave from work over a month ago, and disappeared thereafter. Starfleet Security is having problems piecing together her last few days, or identifying who may have shot her."
"Security is feeling very embarrassed," Archer added. "They can't explain how she managed to penetrate so many levels of protection."
For his part, Trip was staring at the overhead monitor, with a mostly-blank look on his face; he was an engineer, after all, and the fine points of genetic analysis escaped him. "Any idea who the hair belonged to?" he asked, pulling the conversation back to the central point.
Phlox let loose a small sigh. "I have a very good idea," the doctor replied. He cued up a different chart, one that was more accessible to the lay person. "It was from a child no more than six months old."
T'Pol raised a solitary eyebrow. "A child?" she asked quietly. "Were you able to identify it? Can we find its parents?"
Phlox pointed up at the screen. "I used every DNA identification protocol I'm aware of," he replied, temporarily avoiding the question. "I even used a Klingon procedure," he added with a faint snort.
When the doctor fell silent, Archer spoke up. "Go ahead," he said, prompting Phlox to continue.
Phlox looked directly at the captain. "It contains Vulcan and human DNA," he reported. "I had the computer search for any matches in the Starfleet database." He paused to take a deep breath. "When I got the results, I ran the search three more times just to be certain."
"Who are the parents, Doctor?" Archer's voice took on a firm tone as Phlox faltered.
Phlox finally glanced back at Trip and T'Pol. "According to every analysis," he replied, "this child is the offspring of Commander Tucker and Commander T'Pol."
In the center of the darkness flickered a solitary flame, dancing back and forth, weaving an intricate pattern above the wick that never repeated itself, always changing, always unforeseen. The flame cut thru the surrounding black, radiating heat outwards, casting shadows into the oppressive void, shining, shimmering splendor.
T'Pol saw the flame, watching as it leapt back and forth, its chaotic dance tracing new patterns in her mind's eye. As she focused, staring at the candle, the flame grew, leapt higher, spread broader, and she began to see the individual currents dancing within the flame, shades of yellow twisting together to form the flickering light.
The flame grew until she saw nothing else, the darkness around her vanishing from her mind. The flame, the primordial source of life, spread throughout her mind until it touched upon every corner of her consciousness, and dived, plunging, into the unseen recesses of her katra, purging her of active awareness, subconsciously reflecting the rhythms of her inner being.
"Maybe you're tired and broken," she murmured to herself, her voice lilting with the musical tones of High Vulcan. The words were from a human mantra, long since adapted to the ancient Vulcan tongue. "Your tongue is twisted with words half-spoken and thoughts unclear." The words came from her, bidden only by the flame that now pierced every corner of her being, chasing the darkness away, and filling her with the warmth of the flickering light. "There is no road, no simple highway," she whispered, her lips barely moving, "Between the dawn and the dark of night."
The flame grew taller in front of her, and the dance slowed, as it leapt first one way, then another, the currents within the fire coursing ever upwards, consuming all that it encountered.
Behind her, the door chimes sounded.
"Come in," T'Pol responded, allowing her self-control to reassert itself. Behind her, the door hissed open, and Trip entered the room briskly.
"We got to talk about this," he said abruptly, forgoing any pleasantries. Staring daggers at his Vulcan colleague, the engineer took a seat on an austere bench.
T'Pol stood up from her meditation pillow and joined him. "It's difficult to talk about something that doesn't make sense," she posited with equanimity.
"Phlox said DNA doesn't lie," Trip replied angrily.
"Neither do I," T'Pol interjected. "I've never been pregnant, Trip."
Tucker stared at T'Pol. While their relationship had once flickered into a heated romance, the two officers had long since agreed that it had been a mistake, and the embers between them cooled into a strong, but platonic, friendship. But what if something had transpired during those fiery moments?
"Then how do you explain all this?" Trip challenged his Vulcan comrade. "I may not be a doctor, but I do understand the birds and the bees, and there's only one logical conclusion!"
"I cannot explain it," T'Pol responded, refusing to take the impassioned bait. Her mien, fortified by the interrupted meditation session, kept her own emotions in check. "However, I have never been pregnant. Do you believe me?"
"Yeah," Tucker answered ruefully. "Phlox must be wrong, that's all there is to it. If you've never been pregnant, then you can't have a baby."
"Trip," T'Pol replied softly, "the moment Phlox said that the child was ours, I knew it was true."
Tucker was perplexed. "But you said you'd never been—"
T'Pol broke in, cutting off Trip's thought. "I haven't," she finished for him.
"Then what are you saying?" Trip asked irately.
"I can't explain how it exists, but I know it does," T'Pol replied calmly. "The hair is positive proof of that. There's a child out there, and it is ours. Thus, logically, there must be an explanation that fits the facts, even if we haven't found it yet."
"How do you know that this child actually exists?" Trip parried. "One strand of hair is pretty thin evidence, pardon the pun. Doesn't it make more sense to say that it's a fake?"
"Trip, listen to me." T'Pol placed a lithesome hand on Tucker's shoulder. "I know the child exists. I'm Vulcan."
Night fell fast in the depths of winter, and a cold wind whipped thru the nearby buildings and across the expanse of Trafalgar Square. Rebuilt after the opening salvos of World War Three blasted London into a nuclear wasteland, the central plaza was bordered on two sides with artfully-sculpted water fountains, and, at the center, Nelson's Column stood strong, soaring 150 feet into the air. At the base of the granite column, a speaking dais had been erected. Trafalgar Square had long been a venue for political rallies, and this evening was no exception.
The evening's main speaker, a man named David Buchanan, looked out across the Square, taking in the site of the rally participants. Filling every corner of the Square, the night's attendance was estimated to be twenty thousand; he had seen larger, but it was still a powerful turnout, particularly for a harsh, January night. The majority were young, but older participants could be seen, interspersed in the crowd. The movement's colors of green and black were prevalent, and numerous flags were waving in the air, bearing the movement's emblem, a standard map of Earth with the oceans colored black and the continents blazing green.
The crowd roared its approval as the introductory speaker finished, and Buchanan took in a deep breath, preparing himself for his address. Giving a little jump to warm himself up, Buchanan took off his heavy overcoat, and stepped up to the podium.
"Citizens of Earth!" he bellowed to a hearty roar, and he motioned for the crowd to quiet down, so he could speak. "After the Final World War, humanity began to recover, and it was thought that better times were coming, but as time went by, we found ourselves burdened by our debts and entanglements to our galactic neighbors. The product of our labor was carted away, commandeered by the Vulcans, and now offered on a platter to the Andorians, the Tellarites, and the Coridans. What will the end result be?"
Buchanan waited as the crowd stilled, envisioning the thousands of people leaning forward, waiting to hear his next words.
"The answer to that question is 'the pledging of our land, and the enslavement of our beings' in the name of galactic cooperation and supra-planetary authority. Thus, first contact with the Vulcans was no advancement, but rather was the beginning of Earth's collapse. In the proposed Coalition of Planets, we will first lose our military prerogatives, and with that the sovereignty of our planet; we will become nothing more than a colony of the outside powers!" The rally participants screamed in anger, sending a delightful chill down Buchanan's spine.
"We have stood by for far too long, passive in the face of these attacks! We have allowed ourselves to be humiliated morally, treated as a child race, subjected to the suzerainty of the Vulcans! In our timidity, we have destroyed our own honor and helped to befoul, to besmirch, and to deny everything which we previously held as sacred!" Buchanan no longer felt the chilled night air as the warmth of his blood heated his veins.
"The Xindi attack us, taking seven million human lives, and what do we do? Do we strike back? No! Do we stand up and fight? No! Instead, we're told that they're simply 'misled' and 'misguided,' that we should seek to understand them! What is there to understand, other than that they want to kill us? Is it enough that our so-called friends refused to help us defend ourselves? No! Our own Earth government tells us that it's wrong to fight fire with fire! They embrace the Xindi terrorists, while their Starfleet goons spy on us!" In the back of the crowd, observers from Starfleet Intelligence glanced around warily.
"Some will say, 'The people govern!' Strange! For who has asked us our opinion? Treaties have been, and are being, signed, treaties which will hold us down for centuries, and who has signed them? The people? No! And if we ask who was responsible for our misfortune, then we must inquire who has profited from our subjugation. And the answer to that is the Vulcans, and their alien friends, who have robbed Earth of its strength in the name of friendship." A hearty chorus of boos rumbled thru the crowd, echoing Buchanan's scornful accusation.
"They ought day by day to hear the cries of the masses: We want to bury all the petty differences and to bring out into the light the big things, the things we have in common which bind us to one another. That should weld and fuse together those who have still a human heart and a love for their people in the fight against the foes of human civilization!
"It is clear that this view is based on an impulse which springs from our race and from our blood! It is beside the point whether an individual alien is 'decent' or not—for every alien brings with him those characteristics which nature has given him, to subvert, to destroy, to subjugate the human spirit!" Buchanan had hit his stride, and forged on.
"The preservation of our people, our culture, our society, is inseparable from our galactic independence, and thus the house of lies—intergalacticism—must immediately collapse! And finally we must point out to the people the danger which has insinuated itself into our midst—the wholesale importation of aliens into our society, polluting our very existence. If we must stand alone, so be it: my feelings as a right-thinking human points me to those who have gone before us, who stood in the wilderness, surrounded only by a few followers, summoning men to the ramparts to fight for God's truth! We have a duty to fight for the purity of the human soul! And we have a duty to see that human civilization does not suffer the same catastrophic collapses of past, when barbarians, from inside and out, sought to drive ruin into our sacred inheritance."
Buchanan paused, drawing out the moment of anticipation, and then plunged into his finale. "Here," he screamed, "there can be no compromise – there are only two possibilities: either the victory of Man, or annihilation of Man and the victory of the Alien. Long live humanity!"
The crowd roared in a fevered pitch, signaling their agreement and willingness to carry on the necessary fight.