Chapter Five

The viewer came to life.

"Welcome back from our studio break," Bertrand Hobbs, the show's host, said with a telegenic smile. The small audience attending the taping clapped loudly. "At the beginning of our show, we promised that Political Currents would have a very special guest for you today, and I'd like to bring him out to speak with us. A long-time political activist, he was one of the youngest members of the Earth Parliament, where he served with distinction for three terms, before leaving to found his own public affairs institute, the Organization for Human Rights. Please join me in welcoming Roy Gilchrist."

Amid strong applause, a middle-aged man, trimly built with speckled hair, came on to the stage and joined Hobbs.

"Thank you, Bertrand," Gilchrist said pleasantly. "It's my pleasure to be here."

"Let's jump straight to the problem, Roy. Your organization has been one of the most vocal opponents of the proposed Coalition of Planets, which is currently being worked on at the Babel Conference in San Francisco. Why do you see this Coalition as a danger?"

"I'm glad you asked, Bertrand. You see, many people accuse the OHR as opposing cooperation with our galactic neighbors, and that couldn't be farther from the truth. However, Prime Minister Samuels is taking it a step further, and proposing that we sign away our sovereignty to the control of these aliens. The Coalition isn't about cooperation; it's about domination, the domination of Earth by the Vulcans."

"And why do you say that?" Hobbs asked, unperturbed.

"Under the Coalition, Earth would lose its independent control over our intergalactic affairs, Bertrand. We would be unable to fight wars or establish peace treaties without the approval of the Vulcans; we would be unable to forge new trade alliances—or cancel existing ones—without the approval of the Vulcans; and if our so-called 'partners' chose to start a war, as the Vulcans recently tried to do, we would be dragged along, forced to sacrifice human lives to defend alien interests. We would become little more than a Vulcan colony."

"And yet you still support cooperation with the Vulcans."

"Yes, we do, Bertrand, but it has to be on our own terms. It was your own George Washington who preached against the dangers of foreign entanglements, professing the need to have 'no permanent allies and no permanent enemies.' He recognized that, by entering a pact such as this Coalition of Planets, we sign away our independence, and thus our security. Right now, the government of Prime Minister Samuels is being influenced by a foreign power, a foreign power intent on embroiling us in its own conflicts. The Vulcans want to make us the foot soldiers of their wars. We must have the freedom of independent action in order to remain free and strong."

"What do you say to critics who suggest that, by entering into a mutual defense pact, we are ensuring our own freedom?"

"Freedom is a consequence of power, Bertrand. If we are to preserve Earth's liberty, we must have the upper hand over every potential enemy."

"Some people have suggested that, by treating other races as potential enemies, rather than potential friends, we would simply create a self-fulfilling prophecy."

"Bertrand, people who believe that are being naïve. It's a dangerous galaxy out there. By recognizing the threat posed by other races, we are simply recognizing the reality."

"And what do you propose we do, Roy?"

"Well, Bertrand, being strong out there starts with being strong at home, and that means our willingness to stand up for ourselves. Earth is at a crossroads, and we must decide what the future of humanity will be: will we allow our leaders to sit back impotently as humans gradually become a minority on our own planet? Or will we stand up and fight, while we still can, for our heritage, traditions, and values? Unless we take action now, our children and theirs will live on an Earth where alien cultures and values will not simply be present, but will dominate us."

"Roy, do you believe that the Samuels administration is capable of defending Earth's culture?"

"No, Bertrand, and the proposed Coalition is simply the latest evidence that Nathan Samuels has betrayed the human race. The change is going to have to come from the ordinary people—rank-and-file humans who wake up every morning, increasingly bewildered and confused at why it's 'improper' to stand up for our common heritage. They've been told that the Earth they were born into isn't good enough anymore, and they need to either get on board with the new order, or shut up. These ordinary humans are victims of a war, being waged against traditional human freedoms. They have been assaulted and robbed of their pride in who and what we are. And the worst part is that it's our fellow human beings who have formed the ground troops of the onslaught."

"Roy, how do you respond to critics who accuse you of being a racial supremacist?"

"Bertrand, many in the media have unfairly depicted me as a racist and a hater. I am neither. I do not seek to oppress the Vulcans and their alien brethren, nor do I hate them. I do, however, have an abiding love for the human race, and the civilization and values that it created. I want to preserve the unique character and beauty of my people.

"I only ask for what we call 'the five inalienable rights':

For the enrichment and purity of our heritage, and not its degradation;

For us to be free, and not constrained by tyranny;

For us to be safe and secure in our homes and when about in society;

For us to be happy and fulfilled, and not alienated on our own planet, to a culture foreign to us;

And for the liberty to achieve all that our talents and abilities allow.

"In order to do this, although, the human race must band together as a group, the same way the Vulcans do, and reject the presence of alien cultures in our midst. Otherwise, the human race will be lost as an entity, in the sea of alien 'multiculturalism.'"

"We're out of time for this evening. I'd like to thank our special guest, Roy Gilchrist, founder and head of the Organization for Human Rights. Please tune in tomorrow…"

With a firm hand propelling him from behind, striking sharply between his shoulders, Trip Tucker stumbled forward; not quite upright, he raised his arms with barely a quaint second to spare, catching himself against the far bulkhead. The small room was little more than a utility closet, vacated many turns ago, left collecting dust and pebble-sized rubble from the faint vibrations of the mining equipment echoing through the thick rock.

Lifting one hand, Tip let out a hacking cough, trying to clear the stirring gray powder from his lungs. Agitated by the recent incursion of the human body, the fine-grained particles seemed to cluster around him; resisting the urge to sweep it away, he closed his eyes tight, inhaling shallow breaths. After a minute, he wiped the grit from his face, and opened his eyes carefully, peering through the granular cloud.

In the dim lighting of the recessed room, it took the engineer a moment to realize that he was not alone; what appeared to be another miner, clad, like him, in dirty coveralls, lay on the floor. With an audible groan, disturbed by the sound of the newcomer, the miner rolled over, uncurling from a fetal position.

"T'Pol!" Trip gasped involuntarily, recognizing the delicate features of the woman laying before him. Not heeding the presence of his guard, Trip knelt down and reached out. "Are you alright?"

Slowly, shaking off an unmistakable daze, the Vulcan propped herself up. "Trip," she said, in slight confusion; then, her eyes focusing, she glanced around. "Where are we?"

Furious, Tucker thrust himself up to his feet, and closed the short distance to Josiah Greaves. "What did you do to her?" he bellowed, intent on wreaking havoc on the larger man.

Greaves, unmoved by the anger confronting him, stopped Trip with a muscular hand flat in the engineer's chest. "Not nearly enough," he answered. He smiled, menacingly, at his fellow human. "Perhaps you'd like to watch."

"That's enough," a new voice emerged, coming from behind Greaves. Disappointed, he pushed Trip back into the storage room, and stepped aside, nodding at the newcomer. "They're ready for you."

The light on his back, darkness upon his face, Trip struggled to make out the speaker. Taking a long look, information slowly flowed into his eyes; the man was slightly taller than Tucker, but lean, wearing a close-fitting gray suit. His face was harsh and angular, blue eyes piercing out, and a sharp widow's peak cut across his hairline.

"It's not worth it, Romeo," the man commented. His voice was gravelly. "Josiah can handle you easily. Besides, Juliet's in good hands. Ask her yourself, if you don't believe me."

Trip, frozen in the room, looked back down at T'Pol, who merely nodded; she had collected herself, and found little actual damage.

"Hunh," the man snorted, folding his arms. "The two star-crossed lovers themselves. I have to admit, I didn't expect that Archer would send the two of you. I thought he'd be smart enough to send someone else."

Trip centered his eyes on the man. "And who the hell are you?" he retorted angrily.

"John Frederick Paxton," the man answered with a light tone, as if pleased to make Tucker's acquaintance. "I run this facility."

"Not for long," Trip countered, shaking his head. "When Starfleet gets through with you—"

"Oh, yes, the almighty Starfleet," Paxton replied sharply. "They don't even know enough to come looking for me. You can always trust Starfleet to not see what's right before it."

"You're behind this," Trip replied, starting to see Paxton more clearly. "You're behind Terra Prime."

"Behind this?" Paxton responded, granting an easy chuckle. "No, Commander, you misunderstand me. I lead this, and proudly too. I've made a home up here for all right-thinking human beings, created a base of operations for all of our efforts, and soon enough, all of Earth will know the name of their savior."

Greaves gave an appreciative smile.

"Before you ask, my dear Starfleet commanders, your child is safe and sound. At least, as safe as any child can be, with that blood running through it."

Tucker straightened his back. "I want to see her," he stated firmly, trying to impress the older man.

"No," Paxton snapped back. "And 'no' is a word that Starfleet better get used to hearing from now on. Because up until today, it's always been 'yes,' hasn't it?" Paxton's voice peaked with sarcasm. "Yes, yes, go right ahead, roam the stars. Yes, inform potentially hostile species of the whereabouts of Earth. Yes, entrust the entire future of our world to non-human creatures who don't even feel like we do." He sneered pointedly at T'Pol.

"Yes, promote the total degradation of mankind by encouraging alien-human liaisons," he continued, unabated by any hesitation. "Yes, promote the end of our civilization on your all-holy altar of 'multi-culturalism' and 'diversity.' Yes, bring the terrorists back home with you, so they can attack us from afar and undermine us from next door. Well, 'yes' is a word that ends here and now."

Paxton shook his head. "I'm returning Earth to its rightful owners, Commander. I am giving Earth back to humanity, back to the honest human beings who form the backbone of our race. It is my life's work. It is what I was born to do, and there is no one, not an alien, not a human, that will stop me from achieving it."

He had been patient all day; unyielding, unrelenting patience, persistent in the face of belligerence and antagonism, maintaining an almost surreal aura of composure of poise as the various delegates bickered and squabbled over every minor point of negotiation, every minor point of compromise, and even some minor points of discussion protocol, unable to agree on even a method for having a conversation.

Now, as the hours ran long into the afternoon, the Babel Conference was in recess; which didn't mean much for Nathan Samuels, who was resolutely wishing that no, he was in fact not the Prime Minister of the rising United Earth; that he was not at the spearhead of diplomacy, trying to make potential allies out of suspicious foes, and most importantly, wishing that he could simply punch Ambassador Tekov glasch Gral, who seemed to take a supreme delight in the indelicate art of argument.

His mind tired from the long day at the conference table, Samuels had moved the meeting to recess, but he would receive no solace or refreshment; his aim, instead, was to separate Ambassador GraL from the posturing of the forum, and try a direct, conciliatory approach with the Tellarite. GraL, however, showed no such apparent weariness.

"Are you sure that we can't reach some sort of an accord on this matter?" Samuels asked the shorter ambassador; the squat being nonetheless significantly outweighed the human, and much of that mass was right up against the Prime Minister, invading his diminishing sense of protective space. "If we can't reach an agreement on what is, and forgive me, a minor matter—how are we ever going to come together on the central issues?"

"This is not a minor matter!" Grav huffed back, looking upward at Samuels. "The Vulcans are trying to trick us into surrendering a key strength, but they do it with—" his porcine face seemed to wrinkle even more. "Sophistry and linguistics. There claims are nothing more than sophisticated lies!"

Samuels' face twitched as a sharp streak of pain shot through his head, and he winced involuntarily, as the pain ricocheted around his skull. Of course, he realized, still steeling himself as he saw Soval step over; of course Soval heard that. Giving in, he reached up and rubbed his forehead, trying to find a moment of relief before the bickering started anew.

"I assure you, I am not lying," Soval countered dryly as he inserted himself into the once-private conversation. "But your position, illogical to begin with, has been constantly shifting. Each time we seem to reach a point of agreement, you raise a new objection. Vulcan's position has remained firm, consistent, and clear." The Vulcan ambassador stressed the final word.

"You're still hiding your meaning behind fancy words, Soval," Grav countered. "Just what are you so unwilling to say outright?"

"I am not trying to be circumspect, Ambassador," Soval replied. His own mien was slipping ever so slightly, allowing a hint of exasperation to slip out. "I am saying it flat out: your negotiating stance seems to be based solely on obstinacy."

"Would you prefer that we simply give Vulcan whatever you ask for?" Grav retorted. "Tellar has no interest in being a junior partner to you, Soval. We will stand up for ourselves."

Samuels brought both hands up and down in a chopping motion between the ambassadors. "That's enough!" he barked, unable to take another moment. "Grav, why don't you step out and take a breath. And Soval, you and I need to have a little word about arrogance."

With another huff, Grav turned about and left the makeshift discussion, gesturing to his aide to follow him. For his own part, Soval raised an eyebrow at Samuels, but said nothing; and he, too, turned and stepped away.

Samuels sighed deeply, dropping his face into his raised palms, less sure than ever that these quarreling adversaries would ever be able to look past their immediate differences and see a path for working together.

Some days, there is no use in fighting it, Paxton reflected inwardly as he shifted in his padded chair, trying to find a way to ease the discomfort that ate away at his mind. His muscles ached; his organs ached; his bones ached…and the heavy doses of treatment he took were simply no longer sufficient to ward off the deterioration in his genes. The only true comfort he received was he took off from the mining complex, donning an environmental suit, and taking a lengthy stroll outside across the crater floor, away from the gravity plating of the Orpheus edifice. Out there, unconstrainted by the light natural gravity, he could take unbounded steps; and with each landing, he would stir up a cloud of fine dust that floated upward, the gray particulates slowly drifting away in half and quarter time. And at the apogee of step, he could see for great distances across the cratered landscape, dark and light and every shade of gray imaginable.

Behind his desk was a large window of transparent aluminum, stretching from floor to ceiling and wall to wall, providing him with an uninterrupted view of Mare Crisium, the great impact crater that Orpheus was currently mining. Sometimes, sitting in his chair, he locked the door and turned off the communications beacons; squinting his eyes and gazing across the flattened moonscape, up the curved walls, and off into the dark, starry sky, he would contemplate leaving forever;a couple solid leaps, and he could bound across the desolate expanses, a renewed playfulness pulling him across the crevassed face of the man in the night sky. Sailing great distances in a moment, unfearful of leaving the world behind, unworried about ever returning…the dream was intoxicating.

And, somewhere out there, as my tanks slowly run out of air, I can die a gentle death, taking a final leap into space, drifting for thousands of years…perhaps he was being selfish, to leave his great cause behind, but Paxton could only dream of the freedom that came from the struggle to settle the Moon.

So many people have come and gone. In the early years, when the Paxton family had first traversed the great distance to the rocky satellite, it had taken fully a decade to set up the first mining colonies. Years of engineering and construction were required to build even the most basic of habitats, where airtight environments could be created; but the mined ore—primarily anorthositic—provided large quantities of silicon, magnesium, iron, titanium, and aluminum. With great effort, these goods were converted into the polymers and alloys for the settlement's construction teams.

Their faces fade as the years go by. Life was short. Human bodies, inculcated in the radioactive kiln of Earth, aged rapidly, and living conditions on the Moon were far from easy. A constant stream of laborers were needed for the backbreaking work of shovels and picks, and silicon dust frequently overwhelmed the best breathing equipment. Oxygen was prevalent in the anorthositic ore, but scarce hydrogen had to be filtered from the surface dust. Why did Kenneth Paxton think that they could survive in such a harsh place?

Yet I still recall as I wander on. And yet the miners clung to life, and day by day, the miniature settlement that Kenneth had founded came to resemble a functioning community. Driven by the growing mining operations that provided both a steady stream of raw material and new underground habitats, the miners dug in and spread out in great catacombs and warrens far beneath the surface of the high plains and deep craters. Rescuing as many survivors as they could from the planet below, with the transport craft running at near-constant capacity, resettling and providing for these thousands of shattered refugees had required dictatorial discipline. Acclimating the newcomers—many of them illiterate, unhealthy, and psychologically unstable—had taxed the exiles, but it had birthed a mission to preserve the human race.

As clear as the sun in the summer sky! Looking back on the old Earth, still cloaked in the darkened, dust-filled skies of the Final World War, Kenneth had believed that the homeworld was dead; beyond saving, a calamity building upon itself, set on a final spiral of inhospitality and decay. But up on the Moon, as the network of landing pads and drydocks grew, the exile community learned to thrive.

As they built, the new settlements began to send survey ships out into the distance, leaping out into the frozen darkness of interstellar space at four times the speed of light, these two-way rockets were crude but effective; they would arrive at their target system, spend a month surveying for readily-inhabitable planets, then make the light jump back. The first surveyors—gone to Alpha Centauri—would return in less than a year; the others, traveling farther to Epsilon Eridani and Tau Ceti—would not return for another four.

Behind Paxton, back in the interior of the room, the main door chimed once, then after a lengthy moment, chimed again; taking a breath, Paxon swung his chair around to his desk and sat up straight, using the brief interlude to assume the straight-laced face of the leader of traditional humanity. Pressing a control on the desktop panel, the hatchway slid open, a minor clang echoing across the open room. In walked the two Starfleeters, the traitorous human and the alien Vulcan; behind them stood the towering figure of Josiah Greaves, accompanied by the slighter form of Evan Rogers, who served Orpheus as the compound's main technician.

With an abrupt wave of his right hand, Paxton gestured for the party to enter, and the hatch slammed shut behind him. Greaves, a laser pistol extended, pushed the Starfleeters forward, in front of Paxton's desk; and Rogers turned about, stepping toward a waist-high collection of computer panels along the wall.

"My grandfather designed this facility," Paxton began, feeling sentimental as he faced the end of his grandfather's construction project, but the culmination of Kenneth's dream. "He knew that mining can be an unpredictable business." His tired body uncomfortable with the straight posture, he eased back slightly, trying to hide the cause of his movements. "Mines tap out, veins dry up, new finds flood the market; demand shifts and prices fluctuate. So he made a contingency plan."

From the side of the room, Rogers spoke up. "Everyone's aboard, sir," he reported, having verified the readouts on his monitors. "The outer hatches are all closed and sealed. We're ready," he added with clear anticipation.

Paxton's lean face creased with a thin smile. "Go to launch mode, Evan," he commanded. He kept his gaze on the Starfleeters. "You're an engineer, Commander Tucker. I think you'll appreciate this. Pay close attention." Around them, the structure began to shake and tremble, as powerful motors activated deep within; not yet understanding what was taking place, Trip looked around with concern, wondering if the complex was tearing itself apart.

"You'd better hang onto something," Paxton suggested coldly. "She gets a little rusty out of the gate." He swung back around, and watched out the viewport as the horizon started to shift, tilting slightly to the left, then drooping lower, the great walls of Mare Crisium starting to give way to an expansive tableau of battered mountains and valleys, interspersed by great plains of bedrock and the shattered remnants of great impacts.

In the distance, other compounds noticed the quaking movement, triggering more than a few anxious fears. From beyond, though, the situation was clear. In the shadows of the crater, the primary Orpheus complex—a large disk-shaped structure, unwittingly imitating the design aesthetics of imagined UFOs of old—was lifting off from the surface, great jets providing thrust from beneath.

Clamps locking the disk to a dozen meaty support structures puffed open with chemical explosions, freeing Orpheus from its fixed perch. Several seconds passed, with the facility struggling to clear its moorings and right itself, with one side dipping, then the other, as the disk unsteadily rose upward; but then it stabilized, and as upward momentum built, the complex surged upward, overcoming the weak gravity of the Moon.

Tucker watched out the viewport with a gaze of wonderment, his engineering curiosity temporarily overcoming his trepidation. "Where are we going?" he asked finally, addressing Paxton's back, as the Moon's surface started to recede in a distant horizon.

"For you, this will be like a walk across the street," Paxton answered evenly. His voice, always gravelly, perked up slightly from its usual air of gravitas. "Evan, lock us up."

As the technician entered the command, titanium sheeting descended from the ceiling, closing off the viewport; across the superstructure of Orpheus, similar viewports were sealed, locking down the disk for its coming transit.

Locked in geosynchronous orbit of Earth, high above over the skies of San Francisco, the Enterprise was down to a skeletal staff; many of the crew had opted to take extended shore leave, traveling back to their homes, and reuniting with families for the first time since the catastrophic battle with the Xindi weapon. Though they had returned home from the Expanse, many of the crew had struggled in the aftermath, and it was a delight to return to Earth shores in far better spirits.

With half the crew departed, the Enterprise itself was subdued; and this evening, in the muted lighting reflecting night on the surface below, Travis Mayweather and Gannet Brooks found themselves alone in the starship's mess room.

Reaching out with his fork, Travis snared a bite of the key lime pie sitting between the two young lovers, understanding that he needed assurances on a particular matter. "All that stuff I said about leaving the ship…" His voice drifted off; despite the relaxed ambience of the room, he felt uncomfortable broaching the topic.

Gannet smiled easily. "Of course it's off the record," she replied, understanding the unspoken question. "I wouldn't dream of publishing our pillow talk, Travis. You know that."

Travis grinned sheepishly. "Thanks, Gannet. I knew you wouldn't. I just thought…well…" Uncertain of where to turn, he filled his mouth with the forkful of pie, earning light laughter from his companion.

"Do you always eat this well?" she asked, rescuing the navigator from his awkwardness.

"Not usually," Travis admitted. "Back in the Expanse, we ate ration packs for several months straight. And when we did get food, well, I got to try an exotic version of squirrel!" Despite the bleak memories, that recall always perked him up. "And let me tell you about the steaks we got from Degra. Big, thick, juicy, and roughly the equivalent of an Earth—" An untimely hail from the ship's intercom cut him off, and Travis involuntarily glanced at the ceiling as a voice came through.

"Travis, it's Hoshi. We just got an emergency message relayed through Starfleet Command."

Travis set down his fork, shifting directly to business. With Captain Archer in San Francisco, Commanders T'Pol and Tucker on the Moon, and Malcolm Reed still excommunicated from the Enterprise, Travis was the ranking officer on the ship. "What's going on, Hoshi?" he asked, concern growing immediately. It was almost unheard of to have an emergency message while in orbit of Earth—what could go wrong with a half dozen Starfleet ships present? Another sneak attack?

"It's from the Moon, Travis. They're reporting that a large vessel is departing into space, from the Orpheus Mining Facility."

Trip and T'Pol are in the Orpheus complex. "Can they identify the ship, Hoshi?" he asked. Setting his napkin down, he rose halfway from his chair.

"They report that it is the mining facility," Hoshi answered bluntly. "They're not certain how, but apparently, it's rigged with rockets."

"On my way, Hoshi." He gave the reporter his best apologetic smile. "I gotta go, Gannet." Without a further look back, Travis turned and left the room, picking up to a firm trot down the corridor to the nearest turbolift.

Trip Tucker breathed a deep sigh as the rattling came to a stop, the mining facility-turned-starship having settled into a high Moon orbit; the take-off rockets ceased firing, and the battered inertial dampeners finally caught up, allowing his rolling stomach to finally rest back in his abdomen. It's amazing, the engineer thought, unable to resist the appreciation for the facility's construction. I can't believe we didn't shake apart.

"We're being hailed," Evan Rogers called out across the room; he appeared little disturbed by the rough liftoff, having kept his focus square on the readouts before him. "It's Starfleet Command."

Paxton steepled his fingers in front of his face, doing his best to hide the growing smile. Right on time. "Ignore them," he commanded, knowing that the Starfleeters would be of little consequence to him. His final mission had launched, and he was not going to back down in the face of pestering comm hails. "What's the reactor status?" he asked, ready to unveil the next phase, to spring his biggest surprise on the little gnats of Starfleet Command.

Rogers took a moment to double-check his readouts. "Everything reports ready," he answered. "We're a go!"

Trip's head ricocheted between the two men as he caught up with the implication. "You've got a warp reactor on here?" he exclaimed, finally settling his astonished gaze on Paxton. His estimation of the facility's construction increased by several factors, even as he realized the intense danger they were all in; the facility, after all, had quaked mightily with simple rockets. What will a warp reaction do to this place?

"Of course, Commander," Paxton replied dryly. "Prepare to initiate the warp field."

"On your command," Rogers answered immediately.

And Trip Tucker's fears were realized. "You're going to warp inside the system?" The sun's gravity well made even the most sophisticated warp fields notoriously unstable, threatening to blow the entire reactor and consume the mother ship in a massive fireball. Starfleet, no strangers to warp theory and engineering, customarily banned warp fields outright in such close proximity to a star.

Paxton tilted his head, satisfied to hear a slight crick come from his neck. I honestly thought this Starfleeter would be a little more…interesting, he reflected. Instead, the engineer's complete lack of imagination was wearing on him. "Evan, go."

"Ten seconds," Rogers responded, and around them, the flying disk began to shake even more vehemently than before, with rattles and the resounding echoes of stress fractures echoing from the corridors beyond Paxton's office. Despite the best rigging his father could offer, the disk was simply not designed for the sheer stress of warp flight; and the torque tearing at the frame threatened to rip the ship apart, piece by broken piece.

Trip felt the shuddering reach into a peaking crescendo, and at the height, as he started to say his final words, the violent quaking suddenly stilled; replaced by a variable hum, he knew that the mining facility had jumped to warp speed.

Travis Mayweather exited the turbolift as fast as decorum would allow him; right behind him, having caught a ride with the temporary commanding officer, was Perri O'Connell, who would be covering the tactical station. Glancing quickly around the ovoid room as he entered, Travis noted that Hoshi was at her usual communications station; the second on-duty bridge officer, Hutchinson, was moving rapidly to the pilot's chair.

"Hail them, Hoshi!" Mayweather issued his first command before he could even settle into the command chair, having taken quick stock and settled on his immediate course of action. "Hutch, pursuit course!"

"Aye, sir!" Hutchinson answered, feeling the urgency of the moment as he hunched over the console, not yet even taking a seat. "Lieutenant!" he added with alarm, feeling the dread flowing from his sensor readings. "The Orpheus went to warp!"

"Are they crazy?" Mayweather exclaimed involuntarily, but his senses quickly caught up. "Speed and destination, O'Connell?"

"Minimum warp," the petite red-head answered, checking her own readings as the Enterprise shifted from orbit. "Direct course to…Mars, sir!"

I hate not knowing what's going on, Travis admitted inwardly. Why Mars?

But there was little time to puzzle it out. "No response to hails, Travis!" Hoshi added to the reports ricocheting around the bridge. "They are receiving, but no answer!"

Travis' back finally settled into the chair. The gravity of the moment might've been unnerving, but the young officer felt perfectly natural as he assessed his options and settled on a plan. "Hutch, follow them, maximum impulse." A quick inquiry—confirming, not warp? —returned from the helm, and Travis smiled; it was the same question he would've asked. "Too dangerous, Hutch, but keep after them. Hoshi, hail the Dublin and the Theseus." The two other Starfleet ships, both second-rate delta designs of the Dublin and Culloden classes, respectively, were also stationed in Earth orbit for the duration of the Conference. "Tell them to set course and follow, but keep the other three on station!"

"Aye, sir!" Hoshi answered instantly.

"O'Connell!" Mayweather didn't turn his head from the viewscreen, even as he addressed the tactical officer. "Whatever you do, don't lose them!"

T'Pol, ever the Vulcan, kept a precise counter going in her head as the Orpheus warped across the inner solar system, threatening its own annihilation every second of the way.

Fifteen minutes and thirty-two seconds later—give or take a second, she allowed—the Orpheus slipped back to sub-light speeds, but the shielding was still descended over the viewport; all she knew, as she ran the calculations, is that the facility could not have traveled far.

"We're in Mars orbit," Rogers reported with satisfaction as he checked his readings, verifying that the Orpheus had exited its warp-speed run with precision. The facility, though old and barely designed for spaceflight, had served the cause flawlessly, a testament to Kenneth Paxton's foresight. "All systems report fully operational."

"That was a magnificent piece of flying, Evan," Paxton replied, albeit a bit less buoyant; he knew how far he still had to go, how many potential obstacles could derail his plan. Achieving the first step was an accomplishment, granted; but now he was committed to his course of action, and only steely resolve could carry it through. There will be no premature celebrations here. "Impress me again."

"Aye," Rogers confirmed, and the wiry flight engineer entered the next set of commands, activating a predetermined sequence of events.

T'Pol's ears were assaulted by the roar of retro rockets, the distinct shift in the sound telling her that the facility was starting a descent to the planet below; and again, under the powerful rattle of the engines, the Orpheus started to shudder.

"Lieutenant, the Orpheus dropped out of warp!" O'Connell reported a moment later, as the distanced sensor readings caught up with the facility's shift from superlight speeds. "They're in orbit of Mars!"

Got them, Travis thought, relieved that the Orpheus had not traveled any farther; relieved because the Enterprise could catch up, and relieved that it was no longer a warp-speed bomb. "Time to intercept?"

"On course, intercept in…forty-five minutes," Hutchinson reported, running quick calculations. "The Dublin and Theseus are approximately thirty seconds behind us."

As the disk came to a hovering stop scant meters above rock, massive metal legs emerged from the bottom of the Orpheus, extending downward to the ground beneath them. Finding purchase on the broken ground, resounding with the undeniable resonance of metal tearing and a final, bone-quaking thud, the mining facility came to its final resting stop. Trip Tucker—never a Vulcan, but ever an engineer—calmly noted to himself, with a passing touch of sorrow, that the Orpheus would never take to flight again; but the mining facility had performed valiantly, having achieved a feat that even first-rate Starfleet ships were unwilling to attempt.

Paxton, resting his head for a moment against the back of his chair, spun himself around to face the shielded viewport; unseen by the others, he allowed his face to relax into a carefree smile. "Let's see it," he ordered, sending the command over his shoulder; and the titanium sheeting split in half, upper and lower, to reveal a rocky, pale red landscape beneath a salmon-colored atmosphere. It's not quite the Moon, he thought, soaking in the view. It's even better. Mars was free; Mars was open; on Mars, a person could simply be a person.

The view was not wholly free, though, not wholly open across the alien horizon, unblemished by the touch of humanity. Ahead of him, not far away, was a giant tube pointed up at the sky; some eyes, more worldly than others, would compare the oversized construct with a howitzer of old-fashioned military issue. Larger by several magnitudes, it was, nonetheless, the same basic instrument of blunt offensive power.

"Tie us in," Paxton ordered. His gaze didn't shift from the viewport as he watched a half dozen muscular cables, powered by positioning rockets located at each terminus, emerged from the Orpheus; shooting forward in the thin Martian air, each latched on to an exterior data port on the Leviathan. Sparks flew as miniature saws cut into the metallic coverings.

"It's ours," Rogers confirmed a moment later, as the first row of data scrolled across his screen, coming to him from the hijacked weapon. Inputting several test commands, he was immediately rewarded by a change in the readouts.

Slowly, as if deliberately—as if making a statement, and not in submission to his aching body—Paxton stood up, and theatrically, he raised his hands outward. The tiny gathering in his office consisted only of himself, two acolytes, and the two Starfleeters, but he still felt compelled to recognize the import of the moment.

"This is where Earth's future begins."

"Lieutenant," O'Connell called out from behind. Travis, leaning forward in the captain's chair, powering the Enterprise onward with sheer will, eased back just slightly and tilted his head towards the tactical officer. "The Orpheus is descending. It looks like they're going to land on the surface.

Curious. Mayweather wasn't certain what to make of this newest twist; it seemed counterintuitive. Landing on the surface would effectively prevent the mining facility from fleeing further from Earth. There must be something special about their landing location. "Can you pinpoint them, Ensign?" he asked, following the thought.

"Yes…" Perri paused for a short moment as she checked her sensor readouts. "They've landed in the Arcadian highlands, near the Asteroid Array. From here, I can't tell exactly how close, but they might be right on top of it."

"The Asteroid Array?" Hoshi chimed in, curious herself. "I'm not familiar with it."

"I am," Travis replied, the implications sinking in quickly. The Martian Asteroid Array—essentially, a giant cannon—borrowed warp theory mechanics to launch missiles at near-light speeds. Still in the trial phase, the array was designed to either redirect or break up comets and asteroids in the inner solar system. And in the wrong hands, it can be one helluva powerful weapon. The rockets only carried meager explosive warheads, but the self-guiding rockets could do vast amounts of damage upon collision from the kinetic energy.

Before Mayweather could explain the implicit threat, though, a notification chimed on Hoshi's communications panel. "There's a message coming in on all subspace channels, Travis! It's everywhere!"

On the Enterprise viewscreen, the oversized image of a human male appeared. Tall, lean, and angular, his face bore the unmistakable ravages of someone who had lived a harsh life, aging before his time, and his hairline sloped back in a strong widow's peak. His finely-tailored suit gave him a veneer of refinement, but his expression was frozen in a permanent scowl, his pale blue eyes glaring outward, and when he spoke, it was with a dry ring of displeasure.

"My name is John Frederick Paxton," the man proclaimed flatly, carrying no hint of emotion in his gravelly voice. "I've just taken over the Asteroid Array on Mars. I can now destroy any spaceship or facility in the system." He was blunt, he was precise, he was steadfast.

Across the subspace channels, flowing into every receiver in Earth's solar system, the image of Paxton blinked out, and sensor imagery of the Moon appeared; and, just as wondering minds began to ask what the point was, a tremendous explosion erupted on the surface, sending dust and debris shooting upward and outward, rapidly spreading across the satellite's surface. Beneath the chaos and mayhem, as yet unseen, a new lunar crater had been created. Seismic counters across the Moon screamed as the reverberations rattled the mass of rock, trying to tally the destructive power of the rocket's collision.

"I have no desire to use this weapon again," Paxton said, his face displacing that of the Moon. "But every single non-human in Earth's solar system must leave immediately."

Shit. Mayweather could think of no better thought as the endgame became apparent.

"We have suffered under the shackles of alien domination for long enough," Paxton went on, uninterrupted, his voice picking up strength. "We say, no more. A new era is at hand, a new future for humanity." As he went on, unvarying in his grave tone, Travis forced himself to continue listening. "The concept of interspecies unity—the vision of Nathan Samuels and Starfleet—will be exposed for what it is, an absolute and vicious lie, designed to subjugate humanity at the feet of alien cultures."

Travis looked over at Hoshi, aware that she was trembling in anger. "Can you block that transmission?" he asked.

Her fingers dancing across the controls, Hoshi ultimately shook her head. "I can't," she replied, vexation evident. "He's routing the transmission through multiple transceivers. Somehow, he hacked into nearly every system on Mars!"

"Our new era will witness the advent of a human-centered consciousness, that will place our world before others, homo sapiens transcendent," Paxton continued, unaware of the frantic drama taking place on the Enterprise, unveiling his vision for the entirety of humanity to witness. "As of this moment, mankind casts off the constraints of alien interference and now determines its own fate. We will stand as a people united: one race, one planet, one people."

"Perri, how soon to firing range?" Travis knew that he was resorting to last measures, but he was determined to end the transmission. "Can you target his facility?"

"We're still five minutes from firing distance," O'Connell answered unhappily.

"I know that there will be questions," Paxton went on, unerring in his rehearsed delivery. He had waited a lifetime for this, and now, he was in full control of his own destiny. "Why now, you ask? After all, we've been dealing with non-humans for nearly a century. But the alien forces have now stepped up their plans, and revealed their designs to us."

The transmitted image blinked again, this time switching to a small infant, laying alone in a basket, sucking its thumb. Its eyes were bright blue, and its ears were pointed.

"They intend to drown out our own genome," Paxton announced, clarifying the picture on the screen. "Within a generation, a pure humanity will no longer exist, unless we act now."

Shit. The word repeated in Mayweather's mind as he realized that the Enterprise had only one option left. "Hutch, prepare for warp speed."

In the main room of the Babel Conference, the delegates were gathered, staring at the viewscreen overhead. Vulcans, Andorians, and Tellarites, they all watched with stunned expressions; their worst fears about the humans were coming true. Even Soval, with all of his Vulcan mastery, could not maintain a blank face; he gave way to shock, then, then indignation, and finally to fear.

"Do not be deceived," Paxton pressed on, unrelentingly. "This is no ordinary, innocent child. This hybrid is living proof of what will happen if we allow ourselves to be submerged in an interstellar coalition. The death of our heritage, and the end of humanity."

In the center of the horseshoe table, Jonathan Archer felt his stomach plummeting, as visions of the complete collapse of the conference—of his dreams, and of his hopes for humanity—flashed through his head. This was his fear; not the shadowy Romulans, not even a threat of Xindi recidivism, filled him with as much terror as humanity destroying itself at the hands of a false messiah.

Mayweather gripped the arms of the command chair as the Enterprise closed the remaining distance. "Terra Prime is dedicated to the protection of life in all its diversity," Paxton drolled on, his face returning to the viewscreen. "We have no desire to harm our alien visitors. So, for the next twenty-four hours, we guarantee the safe passage of aliens leaving our solar system. As long as non-humans keep to their own worlds, we will have no disagreement with them. But if any alien—if one single alien—remains after the deadline, Terra Prime will defend the sovereignty and birthright of every human being."

The transmission blinked again, and this time, Paxton was replaced by the overhead image of a sprawling, futuristic network of buildings. "We will begin by destroying the very institution whose blind arrogance and moral cowardice have put us all in danger—Starfleet Command."

His glower returned to the screen. "We do not seek war, but if the aliens do not leave, then we will not shy away from the fight." Paxton raised his hand, as if taking an oath. "I make this solemn promise to all of the sons and daughters of Earth: our future will be secure."

He shook his head slightly. "If we do not take these actions, Earth will never know itself again. We will decay and sink to ruin like a rotting corpse. But I say, here, today, that is not our destiny."

"Dropping out of warp, Lieutenant!" Hutchinson announced sharply, and as the starship dropped back to normal speeds, Travis let out the breath he had been holding.

"Scan for lifesigns, Perri!" Travis ordered quickly. "Try to get a lock on that child!"

"The scourge of today—of cultural contamination and genetic subversion—has awakened the true patriots of the human race," Paxton continued, unwavering in his delivery. "And together, we shall drive humanity to a new greatness!"

Finally, the image of Paxton disappeared. "That's it, Travis," Hoshi confirmed, watching her readouts. "He's quit transmitting."

Travis had little time to reflect.

"Incoming!" Perri shouted out from the rear of the bridge, and a short moment later, the starship shuddered mightily, rocking from the blast impact of a rocket's warhead, sending lights flickering and conduits exploding across the Enterprise. "Massive power surges, sir! We're blowing relays all over!"

"Weapons range?" Travis shouted back.

"Lieutenant!" Perri's voice carried a deep warning. "Sensors show that the rocket was detonated five hundred meters off our bow!"

If that had struck us, Travis realized, we wouldn't still be here. Feeling a wave of dejection, Mayweather slumped back in the command chair. "We'll consider ourselves warned. Hutch, get us out of here." Game, set, but not match.

1 More Than a Feeling, by Boston