Chapter Six
Two years previous
Jonathan Archer felt his hopes crashing into so many small, shattered pieces.
A year ago, the Enterprise had left spacedock on Earth's maiden warp-five journey of exploration; and Archer, having charged through the ranks of Starfleet on a quest of his own, was granted command for the extraordinary mission. His entire life, he had pressed at the restraints, chafing at the unseemly restrictions placed upon humanity by the Vulcans; he had watched his father design the great warp engine, and then die in drawn-out sorrow as it sat on a drawing board, the victim of Starfleet caution and an unwillingness to press into the great unknown.
The young captain had but one goal in life: he wanted to be an explorer, known among the likes of Leif Eriksson, Roald Amundsen, and Neil Armstrong. To be the first out there, to traverse interstellar space, ever eager to see just what lies past the next star and in the heart of the next nebula, the wonders of the cosmos his for the taking. It drove him forward, never content to stand still, leaving Earth far behind as he pushed the outer limits of human technology and capability. Upon each planetfall, he was already looking forward to the next, dreaming of what unseen wonders lay beyond.
And for a year, he had lived that dream. Until today. Today, it was all falling apart; today, he saw the ugly hesitation that humanity had to offer.
The Enterprise, on its voyages across space, had stopped at a common planet at the invitation of the Paraagan mining facility, eager to meet a new people. It had been going well; the Paraagans were friendly hosts, the planet had a plethora of natural marvels to witness, and his thoughts were starting to turn to their next destination.
And, in a moment, calamity struck. As Shuttlepod One lifted off from the surface, reaching higher through the planetary troposphere, an engineering mishap occurred; the shuttlepod ejected a plume of plasma, which reacted with the dense concentrations of tetrazine in the atmosphere, and caused a planet-wide fireball, snuffing out the 3600 Paraagans and all other life on the colony world.
And back at Starfleet Command, under the ever-watchful presence of the Vulcans, the admirals were planning to recall the Enterprise and end the historic mission.
Archer was doing what he could, having revealed the presence of a Suliban device on the shuttlepod hull that had trigged the plasma release; his crew, unwilling to accept the determination of the admirals, was assembling their case that the disaster had been created by a Suliban plot to frame the Enterprise. But, nonetheless, the admirals were reluctant to continue; the Enterprise was already overdue to depart the now-dead world and return, in shameful failure, to spacedock, there to remain.
With a deep, reluctant sigh, realizing that the moment had arrived to give the final order, Jonathan Archer stood up from his desk chair and crossed the tight confines of his ready room. Steeling himself, wishing he could postpone the instant of time into indefinite expansion, he stepped forward, triggering the door mechanism and stepping onto the Enterprise bridge.
He was confused.
He emerged into a tangled mess of broken girders, a shattered, planet-bound building in which thick layers of dust lay undisturbed. With a pause, unable to ascertain his surroundings, he stepped carefully, navigating the wreckage that covered the floor and the beams that threatened his head; and a minute later, he approached a window frame, the contents long since gone and lost to unknown history. Beyond, the story remained the same: a vast cityscape lay outside, disappearing into the distance of dust and haze. Wrecked skyscrapers of varying origins spanned the horizon, great towering buildings of old that now were little more than broken skeletons, bent beneath a sullen, gray sky.
"Ten minutes ago, that vista was more beautiful than anything you could imagine."
As the voice disturbed the heavy stillness, Archer turned slightly to view his new companion, who had appeared uniquely from nowhere. Younger than the captain, with a head of short, dark hair, the newcomer wore black clothing, almost a uniform of sorts, though nothing familiar from Earth history; the man was indisputably human, but from a far-different era than Jonathan Archer.
"Where am I?" Archer asked, addressing his time-traveling companion with a hint of demand.
Still distracted by the bereft sight, temporarily lost in the despondency, Daniels pointed off to a neighboring building and spoke, largely to himself. "I had breakfast in that room less than half an hour ago." Dropping his hand, Daniels went on, seemingly absent from reality. "Then I was instructed to bring you here. They told me that the timeline wouldn't be safe if you boarded that Suliban ship."
Time travel. Archer resisted the urge to groan, the urge to voice his frustration at having been yanked from his own reality into a far-distant one. He had never appreciated being treated like a pawn in the wars of time; yet here he was, again, not the master of his own destiny. "Where is here?" he asked quietly, dangerously, unwilling to accept the unsteady drip of information that Daniels typically provided.
Daniels turned about, facing the captain directly. "You're in the thirty-first century, Captain," he stated, hesitant in his delivery. The master of time had met his match, and now was just as much a victim of events. "Or, at least, what's left of it."
Archer's thoughts turned as he pieced together the implications of the time agent's comments. "So you're telling me that this just happened?" he pressed, trying to pull Daniels out of his melancholic reverie. "It doesn't look like it just happened." By all appearance, the once-great city had been destroyed some generations previous, and now was simply waiting out an entropic final breath.
"No," Daniels acknowledged, the daze finally clearing from his eyes as he voiced it. "No, this happened a long time ago."
"So, if—" Archer struggled as he tried to reason with the convoluted relationships of time travel. "You brought me forward in time, and this was the result. If bringing me here caused this, then send me back." It did seem simple, somehow, obvious and clear, but he felt as though it would be anything but elementary.
Daniels shook his head in confirmation of the unspoken fear. "You don't understand, Jonathan," he replied. "The future is changed. All of our equipment, the time portals, have been lost. Everything's been lost. There's no way to send you back," he finished, airing his sense of powerless desperation. "I can't do it." He didn't know where to turn, what to try, what options may still be available; everything he knew had disappeared, gone as if having never existed.
Eight hundred years in the future
Time seemed meaningless in the still remnants of the city as the twosome made their way down unswept stairs, descending through the skeletal remnants of the skyscraper and down into the wrecked plaza below. Each step of the way, Archer kept his eyes open, awaiting the ever-shrinking possibility of discovering some hint, some clue, some tool that may help address their predicament; but nothing existed, save the crumbling remains of a society long dead.
As they stepped outside, emerging onto the plaza, Archer finally pieced his thoughts together. "If this place was destroyed as long ago as it seems to have been, then what are you doing here?" he asked the time agent, recognizing the irreconcilable inconsistency of Daniels' continued existence. "You and your watchdog buddies don't exactly fit in with all—this."
"You're thinking of time travel like we're in some H.G. Wells novel," Daniels countered. The plaza was strewn with debris, small and large, and he made his way carefully; but he seemed to have a destination in mind. "We're not. It's far more complicated."
Archer had to repress his frustration. "Try me," he pressed, wanting—needing—an explanation for what was taking place. "Listen, I realize that your little utopia is gone, and I sympathize," he added, hoping that the encouragement would help to push Daniels forward. "But if you're telling me the truth, if you've brought me eight hundred years into the future, I think I deserve some answers."
Daniels continued snaking his way through the rubble. "I don't have any answers for you, Jonathan," he admitted, profoundly uncomfortable with having nothing left at his disposal. "And you're right, I shouldn't even be here. Which means that you shouldn't be here either, but here you are." The illogic of time travel could give even a veteran agent a splitting headache; the only conclusion that Daniels could draw was that, somehow, somewhere, there was a greater force at work preserving his existence. "I brought you here to protect the timeline, not destroy it." Reaching the center of the plaza, he drifted to a stop, looking before them at a great empty space. "It's gone," he stated with dismay, finding nothing to fill the location before them.
"What's gone?" Archer responded immediately, finding only questions whenever he looked for answers.
"The monument," Daniels replied, his voice wavering. "It was right here, on the same street of the library. It's not destroyed, either," he added, noting no indication that the obelisk had ever stood. "It was never built."
"Why is that a problem?" Archer asked. "Who did it commemorate?"
Daniels shook his head. "Not who, Jonathan. An organization. The United Federation of Planets."
The United Federation of Planets? The phrase teased at Archer. "I've never heard of it," he responded, wondering at its significance.
"It doesn't exist in your time," Daniels clarified, realizing as he spoke that he was sharing too much. "At least, not yet."
"But it will?" Archer wanted to know more, but he knew that his companion would not be forthcoming. "Fine, keep your missing monument to yourself." There was another, perhaps more immediate, perhaps more helpful, possibility to follow up on. "Where's this library that you mentioned?"
Daniels pointed a short distance down the street. "It should be right down there, if it was ever built," he stated, trying to discern if the remnants of the city included the shell of the library that he remembered. "But even if it's there, it won't be much help. All the data is stored electronically."
Archer followed Daniels' gaze, eventually settling on the remains of a large, neo-classical building; still unmistakable was a low central dome atop on the building, with a triangular portico, and large, multi-story windows that were missing any glass. The stonework was still impressive; in its day, Archer knew, the library had been a source of pride for the city, a home for education, and a repository of humanity's knowledge.
Faint light streamed inward through the broken dome, illuminating the central interior of the building. Multiple stories tall, framed by balconies on every level, the main room was still inspiring; and the twosome made their way inside, navigating to the bookshelves the ringed the exterior walls of the room.
"Books made with paper," Daniels noted, the astonishment evident in his voice. "There aren't supposed to be actual books here. The entire collection was on data nodes and tablets."
Growing tired of his companion's struggle to acclimate to the changed reality, Archer spoke a bit more forcefully. "Well, they are here," he stated firmly. He looked about, wondering where they could even start. "So I suggest that we use some of them to figure out what went wrong in the last eight hundred years."
There were thousands—tens of thousands, maybe more—volumes spread across the great library, far more than Jonathan Archer could ever hope to read. Instead, as he went down the rows of books, he did his best to read the titles on the dusty spines, searching for any hint of useful material; all the while realizing that, even with his best speed, he would never ben able to complete his survey. It was mere hope that, perhaps, he would stumble across something that could shed light on the decay of the future.
"I haven't found a single reference to this Federation you mentioned," Archer said at last, interrupting the silence that hung between the two men. Try as he might, he couldn't get the tantalizing phrase out of his mind; and he couldn't help but think, without much evidence, that understanding this Federation of Planets may explain what had transpired in Daniels' thwarted history.
"I doubt you will," the time agent answered. His was a couple paces away, his survey progressing slightly faster than the captain's.
"Because that monument wasn't there?" Archer asked, still searching for answers.
Daniels was not immediately forthcoming, but finally responded. "Because you weren't there, Captain," he answered, his response simply raising more questions. Everything that he said seemed to be cloaked in mystery, alluding to events that had yet to transpire in Archer's time.
Unable to make sense of it all, searching for some thread of continuity in the scarce implications, Archer was unwilling to accept the murkiness fostered by Daniels' comments. "So I disappear one day," he stated, pressing forward as best he could, "and all of history changes?"
Daniels shrugged as he pulled one volume from the shelf and blew the coating of dust from it. "I've looked through books on the twenty-first and twenty-second centuries," he replied, referencing Archer's era. "Everything looks right up until the Enterprise's maiden voyage. After that, everything changes."
Archer tried, but he found it hard to accept the suggestion that he alone could have had such an impact. "There were a lot of things going on," he replied, thinking about events on Earth that he played little role in. Those events—the dawn of a United Earth, humanity's struggles with the Vulcans, and the development of Starfleet, all seemed far more consequential.
"We didn't bring a lot of people here this morning," Daniels retorted immediately. "We just brought you. And then everything changed."
Archer's eyes settled on an intriguing title, and he tilted the book forward on the shelf. "The Romulan Star Empire," he mused, reading the name of the volume. "What's that?"
Daniels looked over sharply. "Maybe you shouldn't be reading that."
Pausing for a second, the captain chose to listen to Daniels' warning; he shifted the book back into its ranks, and continued on the conversation. "I don't get it," he confessed, the situation still obscure to him. "What could I have done that could have been so important?"
"It wasn't just you," Daniels countered. He, too, tilted a book forward, read the title, and pushed it back in. "But you set the events in motion."
Archer glazed for a lengthy moment at the next title, his thoughts running as best they could. "This timeline," he answered, starting to see a connection forming, "the one that you say no longer exists. If the Enterprise's mission continues—if we keep going, even after the Paraagan tragedy—what can you tell me?"
"It would have continued." The answer was bland, even for the time agent.
"And?" Archer's pressure was met by tight silence. "Okay," he went on, "what about this Federation of Planets?" The phrase still teased him, sparking an unknown curiosity. "Was Earth part of it? Was I part of it?"
"Silik wanted you, not the data disks." Daniels avoided the direct question. "The people he answers to are more interested in removing you from the timeline than in blaming the Enterprise for the destruction of the colony."
Archer furrowed his brow, struggling with the notion that his presence in the twenty-second century could impact eight hundred years of future history. "Why me?" he demanded, daring Daniels to avoid the question again.
"Jonathan, do you really think that the Enterprise's voyage is just about exploring space?" Daniels countered, a strength growing in his voice. "Your journey is about far more than charting the next sector of the galaxy."
Back to the present
"I'd like to welcome our viewers to this special edition of Political Currents. I'm your host, Bertrand Hobbs." Hobbs' face filled the monitor screen. "In the aftermath of Terra Prime's seizure of the Martian Asteroid Array, and their twenty-four ultimatum for the expulsion of all resident aliens, nationalist riots have broken out across the world. We take you first to Jim Schille, reporting from Budapest, Hungary."
The monitor cut away to the program's correspondent. "Thank you, Bertrand. With the coming of night, the rioters hit the streets in this scenic city." The camera angle spread to take in the scene behind Schille. It was clearly nighttime, although the blaze of lights lit up the street almost as brightly as the daytime sun. Clusters of rioters, none larger than a dozen, were running back and forth across the antique cobble-stone streets, their members clad in camouflage from head to foot, balaclavas masking their faces. Many carried laden backpacks, and several held torches high, adding the glow of flames to that of the streetlights. The lights glittered off the wet pavement, testament to an earlier, failed attempt to subdue the rioters with water cannons.
"Send-them-home! Send-them-home!" The rioters chanted, the mass of protestors slowing moving down the city block. The camera zoomed in on one group of five rioters, and the viewers watched as one rioter reached into a backpack and pulled out what was unmistakably a glass bottle with a foot-long strip of cloth hanging out the top. Another rioter quickly doused the cloth with a liquid, and another stepped forward with a flaming torch. Touching the flame to the bottle's homemade wick, the cloth leapt with fire, and the rioter holding the cocktail reached his arm back and hurled it forward, the flaming bottle smashing thru the glass window of a street-level storefront. Seconds later, the flame reached the main fuel inside the bottle, and the cocktail exploded in fury, sending the store up in flames.
The view shifted again, this time to another camera, located at the forward edge of the riot. The beleaguered peace officers could clearly be seen, retreating slowly down the street, trying to maintain an unbroken façade of riot shields. Missiles rained down from the approaching protestors. Cobblestones, bricks, chunks of cement, anything that could be thrown was hurtling at the officers. Errant shots smashed into the buildings lining the street, shattering windows and spraying glass overhead, the shards plummeting downward with a fury of their own.
The camera caught a thumping sound a second before a canister arched from behind the officers, tumbling downward into the ranks of the rioters. As it crashed into the ground, a scream could be clearly heard, and a dense fog of gas erupted from the terminus point, billowing outward along the ground. Undeterred, the marchers advanced forward, and several metal rods appeared in their hands.
Another thump was followed by the impact of another tear-gas canister, striking the pavement and exploding with a shower of fog. Through the mist, the rioters came, flaming torches held high, sending flickers of fire through the green gas.
Several flaming cocktails emerged from the ranks of the rioters, plunging into the peace officers, the flammable fuel spraying outwards and spreading its deadly fire. Seconds later, the front line broke, and the officers ran down the street, pursued closely by hundreds of masked protestors, using their metallic batons as bludgeons.
From behind the fleeing officers, a full platoon of heavy assault vehicles surged forward, their armored hulls shedding the flaming missiles. The volatile fuels splashed across the pavement, starting dozens of hotly-burning pyres, but the vehicles brushed off the flames, and the pursuing mob started to turn back, fighting a rear-guard action against the assault vehicles.
Progress slowed, then crept to a halt, when the vehicles encountered the main body of rioters. Spread across the street, the mob was too numerous, and too densely packed, to push forward any further, and another volley of teargas canisters failed to dislodge the rioters, only adding to the surreal glow. The crowd continued its chant—"Send-them-home! Send-them-home!"—and a roar arose as the shattering of glass announced that the rioters had broken into the main building lining the street, the Tellarite consulate.
Sharp bursts rattled the air as miniature rockets exploded, and with a sharp whoosh, the windows of the consulate blew out, raining the mob below with slivers of transparent aluminum. Flames soared thru the openings, ripping higher and higher as fuel was added, and the rioters inside smashed the fire-suppression systems with sledge-hammers. In minutes, the protestors retreated from the building, and the super-hearted flames leapt outwards, consuming the consulate in fury.
"That's the view from Budapest," Bertrand Hobbs said as the broadcast switched back to the studio. "And next, reporting from Minsk…"
With Captain Archer summoned back to Starfleet Command, the Conference chambers were falling into bedlam; security had locked down the complex, and the ambassadorial staffs found themselves scurrying about, frantically trying to contact their various embassies and consulates across the planet. Everywhere, it seemed, the news was bad; and unable to respond, unable to aid their besieged staff and threatened nationals, the ambassadors were losing their ability to maintain calm.
In the center of the din, unwilling to leave the delegates behind, Nathan Samuels felt similarly powerless; his own staff was back in his office, the Interior Minister coordinating the response of the civil police, his press staff trying to spread a message of calm. He, too, had taken from the airwaves, albeit via a transmitted message from the Conference press room, but there seemed to be little he could do to counter the wave of fury descending on his homeworld.
As he spoke with an aide, Samuels noticed a flurry of brown robes descending down a rear staircase, and he had to glance twice to confirm it: the human had never seen a Vulcan move with such deliberate speed, pushing brusquely through the excited crowd without regard to physical niceties. Soval was on an unmistakable path straight to the Prime Minister; and, with a momentary breath to steel himself, Samuels resigned himself to the inevitable confrontation. "Ambassador," Sameuls said, greeting the Vulcan has politely as the exploding tension would allow.
Soval's straight-faced mien nearly broke into a furious scowl before recovering. "Demonstrators have surrounded the Vulcan compound," Soval launched in, as if accusing the Minister directly for the eruption of violence. "My staff has had to barricade themselves inside."
"Ambassador, these are momentary incidents," Samuels replied, uncertain if he could placate the ambassador. His words sounded weak, even to his own ears, and Samuels struggled for anything truly reassuring to say.
Soval was undeterred. "I've been voicing my concerns about this for some time, Minister," he countered, carrying the indignation of someone proved correct. "Your rallies have been spreading for weeks now, but I've taken your word that they are insignificant, and stood by while you allowed them to proceed. But now Vulcan lives are in danger, Minister, and you've clearly lost control of the situation."
Samuels couldn't admit, at least not to Soval, that he may have underestimated the strength of Earth's opposition to the Babel Conference. "Ambassdor," he began, speaking even as he tried to find the words, "I assure you—"
From nowhere, appearing as if summoned by the Furies themselves, Ambassador Thanashal ch'Thoris of Andor materialized at Soval's side; whereas the Vulcan ambassador, his stony expression only giving a hint as to the anger beneath, was maintaining a level of stoic equanimity, the Andorian was nearly shaking with vehement displeasure. "There are rioters outside the Andorian Embassy!" Thoris exclaimed, launching an accusation directly at the human minister. He held up his communicator, thrusting it directly in Samuels' face; and the Prime Minister could clearly here the ugly chant that had taken hold. "And they're using words that aren't even in the translator!"
Samuels was willing to take it; in the midst of calamity, Starfleet's discretion in programming the translator was a small, but welcome, reprieve.
To a trained eye, accustomed to dealing with Vulcans, Soval stirred slightly, reinforced by his adversary's anger. "It's obvious that this ultimatum is part of a larger, coordinated plan," the ambassador bore on. "It is not logical to believe that these riots are a coincidence."
"Then why are we still here?" Thoris demanded; the ying-and-yang, the tag-team of the two ambassadors, was becoming unrelenting. "It's clear that the Earth government cannot guarantee our safety!"
"Paxton's a fanatic, but he's a man of his word," Samuels broke in, needing to retake control of the conversation; he had never met Paxton, had never even heard of Paxton until now, but he needed to give some kind of reassurance. "He won't act before his deadline is up."
Soval shook his head, an acquired imitation of the human gesture of doubt. "The deadline aside," he replied, "the fact that Paxton has the support of so many of your people is more troubling." The other shoe was dropped; and Samuels could find no quick response. "This is more than just a… 'fringe movement,' as I believe you described it, Minister."
"I agree." Thoris' acrimony had begun to dissipate as he reached a conclusion. "Earthmen talk about uniting worlds, but your own planet is deeply divided. Perhaps your people are not ready for an interstellar alliance." His words spoken, the Andorian did not linger; he turned and departed, giving orders into his communicator.
Samuels could still find nothing to say; he merely looked at Soval, hoping that the Vulcan could throw him some promise. The ambassador, however, refused to return Samuels' gaze; and looking downward, Soval spoke softly. "Minister, you know that my impression of humanity has…changed…over the last several months," he said, acknowledging his experiences with the recent change in Vulcan's regime, and his reassessment of Starfleet following the Enterprise's success in thwarting the second Xindi weapon. "You have encouraged me to view your disagreements as an asset, rather than a liability. But this—how can I believe that humankind is ready for the stars, when you cannot even agree to disagree amongst yourselves?"
"Ambassador, I understand your concerns," Samuels began, hoping the words would come to him.
Soval granted him little opportunity. "Minister, I have observed your people for many years," the Vulcan went on. "Too often, I have expressed concern that humans are too emotional, too immature, and too quarrelsome to join the interstellar community. I thought I had seen you grow, but perhaps I was right from the beginning." His indictment of Earth was clear; his conclusion was firm and unyielding. "Vulcan cannot enter into a coalition of equals with Earth at this time."
Pivoting on one heel, Soval turned and walked off, leaving Nathan Samuels standing alone.
Today, there were few miners left in the Orpheus facility; today, there was little of the usual trickle of workers, earning a motley collection of bruises, scrapes, and cuts as they delved deeper into the bedrock. Far from the Moon, reduced to a hardened crew of Terra Prime adherents, the medical ward was largely empty. The overhead lighting subdued, the monitors in the room glowed dimly, placed into standby mode, giving only a faint hum of ongoing activity.
In the quiet, a faint cry could be heard; and, moved by overwhelming emotion, the two Starfleet officers quickly covered the short distance from the main doorway to the makeshift crib. In it, the young infant lay on her back, wrapped loosely in blankets, displeased by her isolation and the lack of a living touch.
"It's unharmed, just as I said," Paxton commented roughly, crossing the room behind the two commanders. He considered himself to be an honorable man, a man of his word; and the child, an abomination though it was, had not been injured.
As Trip Tucker leaned over the crib, reaching down with one hand to stroke the check of his newfound daughter, T'Pol looked at the readouts scrolling across the attached monitor. "Her medical readings appear normal," she observed gratefully. She did not trust Paxton's assurances, not even for a scant moment; and now, as she looked upon her child for the first time, she felt an unparalleled wave of relief descend upon her.
"There's nothing normal about it," Paxton retorted, standing off a short distance. He felt uncomfortable around the infant, and his distant gaze fell upon it with disgust.
"She's not an it," Trip snapped back. Turning, he surged momentarily, as if winding up his body for a forceful blow to the lean man; but hovering behind Paxton, shooting a piercing gaze at Tucker, was the larger form of Josiah Greaves. Unwillingly, a little disappointed with himself, Trip stopped his movement and unclenched his tightened fist.
Unaware of the miniature drama T'Pol hovered over the crib, one eye on her child and the other continuing to scan the medical readouts as the mother and the scientist both struggled to assert themselves. "How did you obtain our genetic material?" she asked at last. The answer was, perhaps, unimportant at this advanced stage; but she was nonetheless curious.
"You'd need cells from both of us," Trip added. His ire calmed as his companion's inquiry gave him another focus.
"Starfleet Medical has thorough medical data for all of its officers," Paxton replied gravelly. "It surprises me that a supposedly-intelligent being would ever willingly hand over that level of private information."
"Starfleet Medical?" The shock was clear on Tucker's face; those records were highly protected and inaccessible.
A slight smile flashed across Paxton's face. "Terra Prime has supporters everywhere." Satisfied with Tucker's disbelief, Paxton ground on, lowering the boom on the engineer. "I've let you see your daughter," he stated. "That's my half of the bargain. Now it's your turn." With a sharp pivot upon one foot, Paxton turned his back on Trip; without a pause, he stepped away, heading out of the medical ward.
With an unmistakable gesture, Greaves indicated that it was time for Trip to follow; and with a slight nod from T'Pol, he chased after the retreating miner. "What do you need me for?" Trip demanded of Paxton, but lean man gave no response; instead, he led Trip out of the ward entirely, and waited for the hatchway to clank shut.
Trip gave a hesitant look backward, still uncertain if he should be leaving T'Pol behind. "What do you want me to do?" he demanded again, running through options to deny Paxton's unknown request.
Paxton drifted to a stop, and turned back to Trip, just an arm's-length away. "I need you to make some modifications to the Orpheus."
It could mean any number of things. "What kind of modifications?" Tucker asked carefully, not committing to any sort of agreement.
Paxton flashed another brief smile. "I need you to refine my targeting system."
"The—targeting system?" The crescendo hit Trip hard. "You're turning the array into a weapon." And, the engineer knew, it could make an extremely destructive weapon. "You really think I'm going to help you?"
"You really think I'm going to give you a choice?" Paxton retorted evenly, unflustered by the commander's resistance. "If you want to see your child and your little lover again, you'll need to do what I say. And don't doubt me, Commander," he added, quashing the ray of hope in Tucker's eyes. "Blood has been shed to get us this far. And more blood will be shed before this is all done."
It took some doing, but everyone was assembled.
Deep beneath Starfleet Command, in a hardened room of the sub-basement, forethought had constructed an emergency command chamber. Replete with the best technology that Earth could offer, sealed off from the outside by multiple reinforced floors and rings of security, it was here that they had regrouped, putting the best minds together to find a solution for the looming danger posed by John Frederick Paxton.
Admiral Williams, having been summoned from a quiet evening at home, found himself wishing that he could be somewhere else. "We can't simply attack the array, Prime Minister," he stated, trying to stem his own wave of frustration. "Paxton's holding two of my officers hostage up there."
"The Executive Council is aware of that," Samuels answered a little heatedly. He stood on the opposite side of the console; between the two men, it projected a holographic display of Mars, showing the red planet in fine detail. "But we're not going to allow Paxton to fire on Earth!"
"It's not just the hostages!" Archer added in, struggling to step the Minister back from a cataclysmic decision. "The array is hard-wired into the power grid for the Utopia Planitia Colony. If the array goes up, the feedback could kill thousands of colonists!"
"This wasn't an easy decision for the Council!" Samuels responded fiercely. "Do you think that we don't understand the danger of blowing up the array? But Paxton's attack on Earth could kill far more! We need to act, Captain!"
Archer closed his eyes, trying to consciously force back the ire within. "We have another idea, Minister," he countered, bringing himself to an icy calm. "We can stop Paxton without destroying the array."
Samuels raised an eyebrow. "This better be promising, Captain," he responded quietly. "We have twenty hours left. We can't afford to take a chance on something that may or may not work."
"It is promising, Minister," Williams added in, trying his best to be reassuring. "Lieutenant?"
Three heads turned to the fourth person present. "Yes, sirs," Travis Mayweather answered. Taking a deep breath, he tapped the controls of the console, and the holographic image pulled out, until it showed a dirty ball of ice and rock hurtling on a course towards Mars. "This is Comet Burke."
Samuels was clearly skeptical, but he said nothing.
"The problem is, if we get close enough to Mars to insert a strike team, Paxton will blow the Enterprise up," Travis explained. He pointed to the comet. "We're going to use the comet as a trojan horse instead."
Samuels nodded slightly.
"We need to keep the Enterprise away from Mars," Travis went on, and he pulled the image out further, showing a scaled model of the inner solar system. "So we'll take a circular route, around the Sun, and intercept the comet—here." Telemetry scrolled across the monitor beneath, showing the meeting location. "We insert a shuttlepod into the comet's tail, and use it to mask our entry."
"You can't be serious," Samuels answered in disbelief, staring at the simulation.
"I have experience with comets, sir," Travis confirmed. "I can keep a shuttlepod hidden in the tail."
"Compared to penetrating Xindi defenses, this'll be a walk in the park," Archer added. "They won't have any idea that we're coming."
"How does that get you to Mars?" Samuels asked, still unwilling to accept the developing proposal.
"Burke makes its closest approach to Mars at about T minus four hours," Travis answered. When you need a stroke of luck, the Great Bird delivers. "Less than a light-second away. We make a quick jump and hit the deck on Mars. From there, it's a little under a four hour flight to the array."
Samuels let out a whistle. "That's cutting it tight," he countered, and that wasn't his only concern. "But Starfleet's own report said that Paxton has tapped into the Martian sensor net. How are you going to avoid being seen?"
"We've already taken care of that," Archer replied, unwilling to say more.
Malcolm could be forgiven, if just for a moment, he couldn't feel the tension that had descended over Earth.
Sitting in the heart of San Francisco—not far from the Presidio, but far enough to feel distance—he reclined on the park bench, looking out from the western end of Golden Gate Park and across the ocean beachfront. Beyond the sand below, waves lapped at the shoreline, the January waters turning an inky blue as the sun slowly receded past the vast horizon. Sitting half-submerged, giving way beneath the briny deep, the half-orb burned with a furious glow; around it, the brilliant yellows gave way to apricots and coral, themselves giving way to lavenders as the whispery clouds blew overhead. Above that, the evening sky was already descending into shades of indigo.
At peace, if just for a moment, Malcolm was unaware that another had joined him; but true to his training, he did not startle at the sounds of the words.
"Malcolm Reed, as I shit and bleed." The newcomer uttered the words with the light greeting of an old friend, expressing the comfort of a shared bond of old.
Malcolm groaned slightly as he unwillingly shook off his trance. "You just keep coming back," he replied. "Remember that time that I killed you?"
"How can I forget?" It was a barbed retort, the man's easygoing nature temporarily showing ire. "But you know how it goes."
"So who are you today?" Malcolm asked. Resigning himself, he turned sideways; his companion looked as similar as always. A thinly-built man of intermediate age, with blue eyes and dirty blonde hair, his image was hard to remember. He could disappear in a crowd of one, never seen, moving with the ease of perfect anonymity.
The man smiled. "Frank Jones," he replied. "It's not my best," he added with a shrug. "But no one's keeping track today."
"What do you want?" Malcolm's voice issued a faint warning; he was not in the mood for Jones' usual banter.
Jones shook his head. "Same as always, Malcolm," he answered softly. "I'm here for you."
Malcolm's retort shot out quickly. "I'm not returning to the organization."
"But you already have, my friend." Jones gave a broad smile as he looked at his old colleague. "You came to us. Again."
"How many times do I have to tell you?" Malcolm replied, his tone terse. "I'm not interested. I serve with Jonathan Archer."
"Who threw you off his ship for betraying him, as I recall," Jones countered nonchalantly. He took a moment to gaze off at the sunset. "Nonetheless, Malcolm, you keep coming to us for assistance. It's not a one-way street." He shifted his gaze downward to the beach below them. "It is quiet out here today," Jones continued, showing just a hint of sorrow. "It's a beautiful evening, but no one is out and about."
"I noticed that," Malcolm answered tightly. It had struck him, too, that the park was unusually empty; too many residents were at home, wondering what disaster awaited them the following day.
Malcolm, too, gazed outward for a moment, striving to rediscover his inner solitude. "You know the situation," he said finally, trying to get to the point; the man currently known as Jones had a habit of talking much while saying little. "You have a stake in this as well."
"I believe I'm aware of the broad strokes," Jones acknowledged, his words seemingly lax against his growing tone of solemnity. "Paxton has seized control of the Martian Asteroid Array. He's demanded that all non-humans leave the planet in…twenty or so hours, I believe. And if a single one remains past his deadline, he's threatened to use the array to destroy Starfleet Headquarters." He paused, as if thinking for a moment. "He hasn't said what would happen after that."
"That sums in up rather precisely," Malcolm replied. He took a second to watch a lonesome jogger pass by below them. "The Enterprise is planning an assault operation on the Orpheus."
"Yes, we know," Jones stated rather blandly. "Unfortunately, it seems doomed to failure. As I understand it, Paxton as tapped into the Martian sensor net. Your courageous assault team won't be able to get within a thousand kilometers of the Orpheus without being detected." He paused as he passed a hand through his ruffled hair. "Leaves the Enterprise in a bit of a quandary, doesn't it?"
Malcolm gave his one-time partner a broad grin. "Not really," he responded. "The shuttle will make it safely to the Orpheus."
Jones scoffed lightly. "What makes you think that, Malcolm?" he asked, showing no faith in Reed's conviction.
Malcolm didn't stop smiling. "Because you're going to tell me how to evade the sensor net."
"What makes you think I have that information?" Jones replied sharply, glancing away as he spoke. "That's quite an expectation, Malcolm."
"Not really," Malcolm countered. "I know you, and I know the organization. You routinely catalogue methods to circumvent every security network you could encounter. And," he added, not being able to resist the jab, "you'll give me the information because Harris would never miss an opportunity to put me in his debt."
"Well reasoned, Malcolm," Jones replied appreciatively. "I see that Starfleet hasn't dulled your instincts."
"Jones." Malcolm spoke more forcefully as he pressed forward. "Time matters here. How do we get in?"
The agent waved his hand flippantly. "If I had to guess…I'd start by recognizing that the sensor net was designed to function in the planet's original atmosphere, and hasn't been thoroughly updated to reflect the terraforming advances. Down by the surface, the air has become much thicker."
Malcolm waited a beat. "And how does that help us?" he asked at last; his voice was growing sharper, conveying his impatience and a warning to hurry.
Casually, Jones reached into his pocket and pulled out a data disk. Holding it up in one hand, he toyed with it, flipping it in his fingers and snatching it back. "Some the air currents are thick enough to cause false signals," he commented, catching the disk and holding it out before him. "If you know those spots, you can nestle a small craft in them. If you really know your air currents, you can even plot a course from, say, beneath Burke's nearest approach, all the way to the array."
Reaching out, Malcolm plucked the disk from Jones' loose grip. "Thank you," he replied tersely. He shifted his body, as if to leave.
"You know, Malcolm," Jones continued, "there's still a place for you to come back and work with us. It's not like you'll be returning to the Enterprise, after all."
Standing upright, Malcolm looked down to address the intelligence operative. "No," he answered. "Actually, I hope this is the last time we ever meet. I have to say, that thought doesn't bring me to tears."
"You know better," Jones replied reassuringly, standing up next to the defrocked Starfleeter. "And Malcolm, as hard as it may be for you to believe, we're on the same side here." He held out his hand, offering it to Malcolm. "Godspeed to you and the Enterprise, Malcolm Reed."
After a pause, Malcolm accepted the proffered hand and shook it; and then the two men each turned and departed, their conversation on that park bench having passed unseen by any curious eyes.
"We can do this, Minister," Jonathan Archer forged on, placing his conviction in Travis' plan. "Once we reach the array, we can gain access to Orpheus, seize control, and stop Paxton." The holographic display flickered, pulling up an image of the Orpheus facility; green lights indicated the prime entry points, and the display changed again to reveal the inner floorplan. The green lights continued in a path, showing the way to the primary control room. "The Enterprise's sensor data showed that Paxton only has a skeleton crew, no more than a half-dozen."
Samuels shook his head. "And if he detects you coming in, Captain, what then? Does he trigger the array early? And you're cutting the time extremely close. What if the shuttle encounters unforeseen flight difficulties?"
"Then we resort to Plan B," Williams interjected, cutting off the minister's growing concern. "The Enterprise can detect the activity in the array's pre-fire chamber. If they see the array charging up, the Enterprise will make a warp jump to Mars. They'll have to drop out of warp perfectly, but they can come out and fire before Paxton can recalibrate."
"So you're willing to destroy the array and Orpheus?" Samuels pressed, still sold on his original scheme. It carried far more risk of death and destruction than the Starfleet plan; but it also carried far more certainty of stopping Paxton before he could fire on Earth.
"Yes, Minister," Williams confirmed. "The Enterprise will destroy Orpheus, as ordered. We have no intention of allowing Paxton to fire the array, even if we have to sacrifice our officers—and the colonists—to stop him."
Samuels stood silent for a long minute. "All right," he said finally, ready to issue his decision, "launch your assault. But I expect the Enterprise to fire, as ordered."
John Frederick Paxton is not a monster. Or, at least, he told himself that, safely convinced of his own sincerity; and so, despite his feelings towards the half-breed child and its mother, he was still reluctant to enter the medical ward abruptly. Instead, he lingered in the doorway; he knew that the Vulcan was aware of his presence, but he gave her a few moments to respond, as he contemplated whether the alien race felt the same maternal instincts as his own human mother.
At last, as T'Pol looked up at him, Paxton entered the chamber. "All the rocking in the world will not make that child Vulcan," he commented dryly. The child, still a tender infant, was wrapped in cloth, cooing softly in its sleep; T'Pol held it securely in her arms as she rocked gently back and forth, from side to side, soothing the child as it dreamed in slumber. "Or human," Paxton added a moment later.
"Human and Vulcan genes were capable of uniting and producing this child," T'Pol countered. She spoke in a low voice, her tone possessing the flatness of the Vulcan race; and Paxton wondered, again, if she even felt emotions like him. "It appears that our two species have more similarities than differences."
Paxton snorted roughly. "Don't get too excited, Vulcan," he snapped back. Her mindless comment bothered him, necessitating that he correct her immediately. "It took considerable gene therapy. There was nothing natural about it." It had, in fact, required the best reproductive medicine that he could discreetly find, followed by months of intensive research and painstaking genetic splicing.
"Nonetheless, she is here," T'Pol replied. "There were not insurmountable differences."
Paxton could feel the irritation rising in him as he spoke quickly. "Don't you realize that the child is—" He caught himself, wanting to maintain his composure; and he pointed a finger at the infant as he collected his next words. "That child is as much a threat to your species as mine?" he finished, not quite understanding how the Vulcan could fail to see the danger.
"She's not a threat," T'Pol retorted. Her calm momentarily vanished as a spark of ire flashed across her face.
"That child is a cross-breed freak!" Paxton shot back, doing his best to impress the truth of the matter. "It is a danger to the survival of the human race! How few generations will it take before our genome is so diluted, so perverted by alien blood, that the word human will be nothing more than a footnote in an archaic medical text?"
The infant stirred slightly, disturbed by the increased noise, and T'Pol adjusted the swaddling cloth to better shield her daughter's hearing. "The human race will survive," she countered quietly, her voice barely heard in the ward.
Paxton shook his head. "Once we've been stripped of our DNA, what will we have left?"
"Being human is about more than just a chain of DNA molecules," T'Pol replied.
Unwilling to walk away, Paxton pressed on, searching for an argument that would penetrate the Vulcan's resistance. "The same thing could happen to your people," he continued. "Vulcan's heritage could just as easily be destroyed. Or don't you care about that?" He stepped forward, leaning slightly over the diminutive woman and her bastard offspring. "Are you so stripped of feelings that you don't even care about the survival of your own race?"
T'Pol looked upward at him. "Neither of our species is what it was a million years ago," she replied evenly, not yielding to the physical pressure. "Nor are we what we will become in the future."
"A million years ago, the human family was still clearly human," Paxton countered in disbelief. "In a single child, the human genome has changed more than it has in the last million years!"
"Life exists in a constant state of change," T'Pol stated, as if repeating a mantra. "Life exists and prospers in diversity, not uniformity."
"In this case, change means extinction." His tone was mordant, as he reflected on the death of the human race. "I, for one, will not let that baby—" he pointed at the child again as he peaked in exasperation; and, unbidden, his hand began to shake. He lowered it quickly, as T'Pol watched with well-disguised curiosity; and he clasped his hands together, steadying them both. "I will not let that baby bring humanity to the point of extinction."
"Species never truly die," T'Pol parried, resorting to the scientist in her. "They evolve."
"Perhaps," Paxton acknowledged. "But it is a natural evolution, not one brought about artificially. For humanity to survive, it must remain pure. We cannot tolerate cross-breeds in the human race."
Gripping her daughter tightly, T'Pol spoke in alarm. "I won't let you hurt her," she answered, the panic clear, as her emotional control gave way.
Paxton smiled, content that he had finally gained the upper hand. "I won't have to." Satisfied with his words, he promptly turned about; showing his back to the Vulcan, he strode to the doorway, his steps firm and confident.
As T'Pol watched him leave, she snatched up the medical scanner she had been using for her daughter; and from a distance, hoping the device could still read him, she waved it in the air. As the data scrolled across the screen, she read it carefully, finding great interest in the peculiar results.
Cold winds whipped across the open landing pad, adding a wintry chill to the ocean spray blowing in from the evening ocean. Shivering slightly, more accustomed to the temperature controls of artificial life support, Travis Mayweather applied his signature to the data padd; and, handing it to the Starfleet ensign standing beside him, Travis officially acknowledged the transfer and receipt of the shuttlepod's cargo. With a nod, the supply officer accepted padd; and, departing, he left Travis standing alone with Jonathan Archer.
"We're all set, Captain," Travis confirmed. The small vessel was full of gear for the upcoming mission on Mars; cold-weather clothing and oxygen tanks were necessities for the red planet. Despite the advances made in terraforming, the surface atmosphere was still cold, and the thin air provided little life-sustaining oxygen in the vast reaches outside the sheltered colonies.
"Let's get going," Archer answered curtly. They had a lengthy trip ahead of them, as the Enterprise was restricted to a wide, circular route before it could rendezvous with the comet, and they had little time to spend in idle activity. The whole mission rested on precise timing, and it served to exacerbate the captain's desire for action. He gestured for Travis to climb in the side hatch of the shuttlepod, intending to follow immediately behind.
Archer's actions were halted by a voice that materialized behind him, appearing from nowhere, despite the flow of the surface floodlights. "Captain," the newcomer said, stepping forward to address the two men. "Captain, I need to talk to you."
Groaning inwardly, Archer dropped his head to collect his thoughts. He knew the voice, and it was the last person he wanted to speak to. "What do you want, Malcolm?" he asked roughly, looking back up to eye his banished officer. "We're in a hurry."
"I understand that, Captain," Malcolm spoke hurriedly, tripping over words as he went. "It's that—well, before you leave, I…I'm asking you, please let me come."
"You're not allowed on the Enterprise," Archer replied. He didn't want to have this conversation; not ever, but particularly not now, when he had a critical mission to prepare for. "I haven't changed my mind."
"Captain, you need me on this assault," Malcolm responded, finding his groove as he settled into a rehearsed argument. "I know I can contribute to it."
"I have other officers." Archer shook his head to emphasize his point. "Other officers who I can trust. With you, Malcolm, I don't know where your loyalties are anymore."
Malcolm licked his lips as he thought. "I failed Phlox," he answered, deeply uncomfortable at the personal admission; but he saw little option for persuading the captain. "I can't fail Trip and T'Pol as well. You question my loyalties…they are my friends, Captain, and my comrades. I have to do right by them."
I really don't want to deal with this. But it was here, now, in Archer's face, and he couldn't avoid it. Could he count on Malcolm to follow his orders, and protect his crew? Or was this another scheme, another guise cooked up by Harris' organization, with Malcolm following a different set of commands on a contradictory mission? Would he again endanger the Enterprise and its crew? I really don't want to deal with this, Archer repeated, feeling the misery in his head.
"Please, Captain," Malcolm stressed, seeing the conflict in Archer's face. "I need to do this. I have to do this."
Skeptical as he was, Jonathan Archer could understand the need to redeem oneself; and the ties that bound the Enterprise crew together ran deep. Malcolm had, his betrayal aside, been a valued officer, and had defended his—friends, yes, Archer acknowledged—in the darkest of days in the Expanse. That, the captain knew, still counts for something.
But can I trust him? Time was slipping away, and he needed to make a decision. "All right," he uttered at last, uncertain to the last. "You can come, Malcolm, but here's the deal: you strictly obey every order given to you. You don't think, you don't freelance, you simply obey."
"Yes, Captain," Malcolm replied with obvious relief. "I can do that. I won't let you down. I won't let Trip and T'Pol down."
I may regret this, Archer understood. But hopefully we're alive to regret it.
It was a fossil, a relic of a bygone era, formed in a cloud of stardust when the solar system was in its infancy. Spending most of its life in the frozen wastelands far beyond the Kuiper Belt, in the vast expanse of leftover debris barely touched by the warmth of the Sun, it remained, unchanged, unaltered, the remnant of a prehistoric dawn. Left in solitude, untouched even by its millions of distant neighbors, the comet simply existed, an unknown body hidden by the great depths and farthest reaches of the solar system.
And then, disturbed in its serenity, moved by some unknown force, it had been dislodged from its archaic home, beginning the long journey inward to the Sun. Moving through the solar system, not yet visible to the unaided eye, it took a looping path that it would not complete for many thousands of years. Picking up the slightest hint of speed as it traveled, lured inward by the forces of the star's gravity, it passed the orbit of Neptune; and many years later, it flew past the path of Uranus, still little more than an unseen cosmic voyager, alone in its passage through the planets.
As a comet, it was singularly unremarkable: an odd-shaped conglomeration of dust, rock, and ice, fused together into a compact body, it was no different from the millions of its brethren. And as it strove nearer and nearer to the burning glow of the Sun, the comet responded in the method of time immemorial. Under the growing influence of warmth and radiation, flowing outward in the solar wind, the frozen ice began to sublimate into gas. As the vapors blew loose, they carried with them particles of matter, and the combination formed a lengthening tail emerging behind the comet.
The mixture of gases and rubble, nestled in magnetic field lines created by the ionizing effect of radiation playing upon the comet's iron core, created a growing sensor shadow in the wake of the comet; and as it neared on its final approach, set to fly past a close-encounter with Mars, the Enterprise was readying itself to glide by. From a distance, it would appear as little more than a momentary concurrence, the starship and the comet as little more than strangers overlapping for a unique second in time.
But it would be sufficient, in that transitory window, for the Enterprise to insert a shuttlepod into the comet's tail, to take up a hidden residence for the last stretches of space as it prepared to brush past the red planet. And from there, a mission would be born, a plan executed, and a struggle for humanity continued.
Trip Tucker leaned back, half-seated on the waist-high console behind him. His muscles were starting to ache, his fingers were growing weary, and a powerful, spasmatic pain was developing in his head; but he had a long path before him, much work to still accomplish, and a hidden plot to carry out if he was to save thousands of lives on Earth and thwart Paxton's plans to derail the Babel Conference.
With a sigh, Trip bent over, unwilling to give too far as his fingers touched the magnetic inducer resting on the floor. Straightening back up, he took a moment to arch backward; and he was rewarded by a light cracking sound in his back as stiffened muscles stretched back out. "You know, I never liked Vulcans all that much myself," he mentioned, his tone jarringly conversational, as he addressed the unmoving form of Josiah Greaves. The large man was standing, silently, several paces away, watching the engineer intently.
"They've always seemed so smug, so self-righteous, making us jump through hoops for every little advance in our own technology," Trip continued. He watched with a disguised gaze, looking for some indication that he was piercing the outer shell of the Terra Prime acolyte.
Greaves made no move, granted no facial gesture, so Trip rambled on. "And it's not just the technology," he added, trying another direction to sway the other man. "It's their insistence that humans aren't ready for interstellar flight. They treat us like we're some kind of dangerous, savage child race. They're worse than parents—at least parents let their kids leave the nest!"
Greaves shifted his eyes away, only for a moment, but it was enough to give Trip encouragement. "What was it for you?" he asked, trying to spark the guard. "The ears? The logic? The fact that they're vegetarian?" Tucker threw out several possibilities, some less serious than others, searching for his path in.
At last, Josiah gave a firm grunt. "They're not human," he answered, simply and boldly. His expression, an air of confusion, said it all: as if to say, what else do you need?
Trip raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement. "Well, you can't deny that," he agreed, unable to counter the sentiment. "They're definitely not human." But they're not so different, once you get to know them, he reminded himself silently. It had taken him several years to overcome his distrust and distaste of the alien race, but prolonged exposure to T'Pol, and the unique intimacy they had shared, had shown him an almost—human—nature inherent in the Vulcans.
Greaves finally shifted his bulk. "And they sat by while millions—hundreds of millions—of our people died," he added, his revulsion clear. "The Final World War. They could have intervened, but they didn't care. You need humans to care about humans. The Vulcans demonstrated that they won't lift a finger to protect us."
A brief look of confusion passed over Trip's face. "We didn't make contact with the Vulcans until ten years after the end of the wars."
Josiah shook his head firmly. "But they were up there the entire time," he responded unflinchingly. "With their superior technology. They could have stopped it, but they didn't. They just stood by and watched while mankind nearly died." The condemnation was clear; but if that wasn't enough, Greaves continued on. "I think it suited their plans," he added, his voice dropping slightly. "A devastated Earth was much easier for them to control. They came in and took over without having to fire a shot."
I can't do this, Trip realized, his patience rapidly eroding. "Is that the kind of paranoid crap that Paxton's been feeding you?" he retorted, his attempt at conversation disappearing beneath his rising ire. The combination of weariness, mental and physical, the ongoing stress and worry, and the surreptitious need to sabotage the targeting system, was all coming together in final exasperation.
"You tell me!" Greaves shot back. "When was the last time that Starfleet launched a mission without seeking the approval of its Vulcan advisors?"
Touché, Trip thought wryly, recalling his own past arguments in the same vein; and, indeed, it had only been in recent years—in very recent years—that Starfleet had stepped out on its own, launching deep space missions without seeking the explicit approval of the Vulcan contingent in San Francisco. "You ever actually met a Vulcan?" Trip asked instead, changing his direction, searching for a chink in the acolyte's resistance.
"Your little friend," Greaves retorted, snorting derisively. "She's the first. And, hopefully, the last."
Trip reclined his head slightly, closing his eyes to steady his thoughts. "If you got to know some," he countered, "actually took the time to talk with one, you might learn—"
"You obviously did more than talk," Greaves snapped, cutting the engineer off. "You let her capture you, Starfleet. You let her seduce you with her Vulcan mind control. She got inside your head, twisted you inside out to serve her needs. And look at what you got for it," he went on, his voice building up in derision. "Some…half-human freak."
Anger overcoming him, Trip pushed himself forward, shoulders squared firmly as he stepped in front of the guard. The top of Tucker's head only reached the man's chin, but he shot an iron glare upward, unwilling to give, unshakeable in his determianation.
"Go ahead," Greaves responded, encouraging the engineer on. He knew that he couldn't strike the first blow, not with Paxton to answer to; but he was ready for combat, ready to smash the human traitor to the deck.
Twisting the entire core of his body, Trip launched a blunt right uppercut, landing it on the underside of Greaves' jaw; the force spun the larger man around, not quite taking him from his feet, but sending him staggering for a couple paces as he sought to regain his balance. It was Trip's best blow, the best strike he had ever landed, but it was not nearly enough.
Recovering his footing, Greaves struck next with a powerful kick; it flung Tucker backward, onto the deck plating, and he curled up involuntarily as he grimaced with pain. His breaths came spasmodically, the effort sending streaks of agony deep into his chest.
"You're a traitor!" Greaves hissed as he spit, landing blood on Trip's throbbing body. "A traitor to humanity." The Terra Prime adherent finished his assault with a powerful kick to Tucker's kidneys, and he calmly resumed his post, watching the Starfleeter with careful suspicion.
Unable to respond, Trip rolled over on the deck, oblivious to everything except the pain.
Travis straightened his shoulders and tapped the door control, signaling to the occupant that he was requesting entry.
It wasn't a task that he looked forward to—or, maybe, he reflected, I do. He had news to share, news critical to the success of their assault on the Orpheus facility. But, nonetheless, he felt an unusual concern about the whole affair, a degree of wariness that he couldn't quite pin down. It rattled him, left him feeling a sense of discomfort and unease.
The door chimed back, and with a soft hiss, it opened before him; and as Travis stepped inward, he was momentarily caught by the darkness in the captain's ready room. From the bright lights of the bridge, it was like entering a claustrophobic cave, only a fair degree cooler.
The hatch hissed shut, and Travis kept his eyes open wide, willing them to adapt to the darkness. Soon, in moments that seemed to take forever, the starlight coming through the viewport began to cast shadows in the small room, illuminating the interior in faint streaming light.
Having been watching out the port, Jonathan Archer slowly spun his chair around. "What is it, Travis?" the captain asked, his own voice weary and tired. Reclined in the chair, he rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, trying to ease the stress before he looked up at his navigator and stand-in first officer. "How long until we depart?"
"A half hour, Captain," Travis answered carefully, reading the worry in his captain's nonverbal language. Mayweather's own trepidation, it conveyed, was a shared condition; and he had noted, as he readied the Enterprise and its crew for the mission ahead, that everyone seemed a little on edge. The usual energy that foretold a mission—or, in the Expanse, the resolute determination—was somehow tempered across the ship, people moving a touch slowly and speaking a touch softly.
"Malcolm received a communication, sir," Travis added. With an outstretched hand, he held out a padd for the captain.
Archer's face flashed with irritation. "I didn't receive any notice of an incoming communication."
"Yes, sir," Travis replied. "Hoshi says that there's no record of it coming into her station." Both men, familiar with the shady world of Malcolm's former mentor, understood the implication.
Archer sighed deeply as he reached forward, taking the padd from Travis. "Summarize it for me," the captain ordered.
"Security override codes and an updated deck schematic for Orpheus," Travis answered. He shifted his feet; the intelligence they had received was remarkable, and would greatly assist their mission, but he, too, questioned the integrity of the source. Dealing with Harris—even to receive such valuable information—left the navigator feeling like he had cast doubt on his own values.
Archer glanced at the padd, but set it aside, trusting that Travis was making the necessary arrangements to upload the information. "Have you chosen the assault team?" he asked, looking upward at the young man; the young man who, Archer realized, was no longer a youth.
"You and I, of course," Travis confirmed, nodding in the shallow light of the room. "Kosieradski and Enki from security." The two men, both ensigns, were veterans of the Enterprise; they knew their job, and did it well. "I asked Phlox to come along as well. He won't be much use if we have to fight," Travis noted, as the good doctor had refused to carry a weapon. "But we don't know how Commander Tucker or Commander T'Pol are, and I'm presuming that their child is in the facility as well. I want Phlox to attend to all three immediately."
"A wise choice," Archer replied. "That's five, Travis. Who's the sixth?"
Travis shifted his feet again, feeling the quicksand before him. "You know, sir," he answered slowly. "Commander Reed."
Archer glanced away. "Yes, I did tell him that he could come along."
"Captain…" Travis paused before pressing onward. "Despite everything that has gone down…I believe Malcolm's motives are sincere. And, frankly," he added, understanding the reality of the upcoming assault, "we need him."
Archer nodded in unwilling agreement. "Just keep an eye on him, Travis," the captain replied. "I'm not convinced that Malcolm's not running a parallel mission."
"I will, sir," Travis agreed; though he was more willing to trust the erstwhile tactical officer, the straightforward caution was—responsible, Travis thought. "Captain, if I may," Travis paused as he debated the wisdom of his coming words, and his role in voicing them. "Captain, you seem…dispirited." Archer's apparent mood was in jarring contradiction to the captain's usual energy when departing on a mission, and after four years of shared camaraderie—and with so many lives riding on us—Travis felt that he could express his concern.
Archer's mouth flinched upward in an involuntary smile. "You've been up on the Enterprise for much of the past week, Travis," he answered. He rubbed his chin, showing the rare nervous tic. "I've barely been able to leave the surface."
"I've been reading the news reports," Travis replied, carefully navigating his words. "Though I'm sure it's not the same as being there." The news nets had been filled with reports and imagery of the building protests and riots spread across the planet; but he understood that, in a visceral sense, it was not the same as being there, inundated in the wave of nihilistic uprising.
"Up here…" Archer gestured loosely at the bulkheads around them. "We're so isolated, Travis, cut off from what's really happening down below. We've been so busy focused on the stars…we didn't realize that Earth was slipping away from us." The captain leaned forward slightly. "Paxton has a lot of support on Earth. Up here, what we're doing, is merely a sideshow to the real danger. Paxton isn't the disease, Travis, he's a symptom. And even if we stop him, the disease will go merrily on. We can't make the mistake, Travis, of thinking that Paxton and Terra Prime are an isolated anomaly. They may be the vanguard, but their movement is far larger."
Travis could find nothing to say; the captain's words spoke with accuracy.
"I feel like we're in a battle for the soul of humanity," Archer continued, almost to himself, as he voiced the worries that weighed him down with so much despondency. "Only I never knew that a war was coming."
In the shallow darkness of the room, Travis glanced over the captain's head, struggling to meet his commander's gaze. "Do you think they'll win?" he asked at last.
"I don't know, Travis," Archer answered, the admission simple and clear. "I don't know." He slumped back, the momentary surge of energy exhausted. "We've spent a century now, trying to—not rebuild a failed past, but build a new world and a true future for humanity. But the whole time, others have been plotting to take us right back to the point of inevitable annihilation. They're willing to betray everything we've accomplished, all the dreams of our ancestors, and for what? For what?" The captain had no answer to his own question.
Travis searched his mind for something to say, something that would counter the captain's despair; and from somewhere, unknown, unbidden, a simple phrase came to mind. "I have faith, Captain," the navigator replied firmly. "I have faith in humanity."
Archer nodded slowly. "Sometimes, it's hard," he admitted. He straightened his back. "But I'll tell you this, Travis: if a dark night is truly coming, then I will not go gently into it. If there remains only one last outpost for the human beam of light, it will be the Enterprise. Let that be our legacy."
"Captain…" Travis shifted his feet again before continuing. "If we fail to stop Paxton…"
Archer shrugged his shoulders, but his words countered the nonchalance. "Then a lot of people will die."
The rocking chair was, in many ways, an odd item to find in the Orpheus medical ward; it served little therapeutic purpose, and its simple wood design stood out in contrast to the technology surrounding it. But, alone in the room with her daughter, T'Pol had made ready use of the chair. Sitting at a slight recline, she swayed slowly backward and forward, the infant nestled gently in her arms.
"Hello," T'Pol said softly. As a Vulcan, her latent telepathic abilities—undeveloped under the recent neurotic regime, and battered by her life experiences, the raw ability was nonetheless still present—gave her feedback from the child, her daughter's emotional calm and sense of security somehow contagious for the stressed mother. "I'm your mother," T'Pol went on as she sought to control her own emotional state, using her words to calm her own temperament. She lifted the child slightly, pulling it inward to her chest, bringing its head up to her own; and the infant's soft breath grazed across T'Pol's neck, tickling ever so slightly.
"You're going to need a name," T'Pol continued, as she rocked slightly. "But we can wait and discuss that with your father." Continuing to grasp the infant with one hand, she reached the other for her medical scanner; and she gave a distinct, emotional frown of worry as she reviewed the scrolling data. The child's health was continuing to deteriorate; that much was clear, but the cause was uncertain, the treatment unknown.
The child let out a soft cry of discomfort as she felt her mother's concern, and T'Pol set the scanner back down; she rocked gently, sensitive hearing designed for the thinner atmosphere of Vulcan easily able to discern the steady rhythm of her child breathing. "Look out of any window, any morning, any day," T'Pol sang tenderly, recalling a song she had learned from Trip in their many months out there, in the depths of the Expanse. "What do you want me to do, to do for you, to see you through? A box of rain, will ease the pain, and love will see you through…"
Calmly, as if he wasn't about to take the shuttlepod into a one-way trip in the tail of a comet, Travis Mayweather ran a final check of the small craft, walking around the exterior of the shuttle to ensure that every port, every panel, every suspect stem bolt was firmly secured. In the chaos of the comet's wake, and then the burning pressure of a fiery atmospheric entry, even the slightest flaw could be fatal to the team inside; it was going to take all of the navigator's skill, and no small amount of good fortunate, to bring the craft to a successful landing on the Martian surface.
Nearby, sitting on the deck plating of the launch bay, Phlox was hand-checking each piece of every oxygen tank and breathing mask that the team would need in the thin, frozen air; and as Travis noted the doctor's care, he found himself chuckling inwardly. Not only was the Denobulan physician risking his life to preserve humans, including a large contingent that was vehemently anti-alien; but the Enterprise crew didn't even see anything unusual or unexpected in the doctor's participation. Phlox's continuing role on the Starfleet ship, from his willingness to follow the captain into the Delphic Expanse to his tolerance of xenophobia he had encountered on Earth, was too often taken for granted.
"Keep the sensors locked on the array." Travis glanced over to the entryway, where Captain Archer stood with Hoshi, handing her a padd; the linguist, as the senior remaining officer on the Enterprise, would be commanding the starship for its portion of the upcoming mission. "The moment it powers up—"
"I know, sir," Hoshi replied firmly. She spoke resolutely, and Travis couldn't help but wonder whatever had happened to the timid young officer who had originally joined the crew. "I won't hesitate to fire."
Behind them, the hatchway slid open, revealing Malcolm Reed; he was flanked by Ensigns Kosieradski and Enki, both assigned to the security contingent of the Enterprise. Together, the three tactical officers, the captain, the doctor, and Travis would make up the assault team. "Captain," Malcolm said tersely, his discomfort at being back onboard quite clear. "We need to get moving."
Travis spoke up, his voice carrying across the compartment. "Shuttlepod One checks out ready for launch, Captain," he called out. He wanted to run additional checks, but he knew that it was merely his anxiety talking; the shuttle was ready, as ready as it could be, to run the gauntlet upcoming.
Archer glanced over. "On my way, Travis," he answered. "Don't get too used to that chair, Hoshi," he added, turning back to his comm officer. "I'm going to want it back," he finished, gifting a friendly grin.
"You can try, sir," Hoshi responded, her levity masking her own concern. She knew that the assault team had a dangerous road ahead, and that her role—her resolution—would be critical in stopping Paxton's threatened attack on the same people he was claiming to save. "And good luck." With a firm nod, she turned and left, leaving the assault team to climb into the side hatch of the shuttle.
From here, there was no return; there was no savior waiting to extract them; as a pinball in the aftermath of the comet's passage, and then a ballistic meteor plummeting through the Martian atmosphere, there would only be their own skill, the fragile hull of the shuttle, and the Great Bird of the Galaxy to protect them all.
Seen from outside, the launch bay doors on the underbelly of the Enterprise slid open, depositing Shuttlepod One beneath the hull; and as its maneuvering thrusters powered up, the small auxiliary craft came about, scarce kilometers away from the far-larger rock that was sailing through the inner solar system. Behind it, in the growing tail of the tumbling comet, magnetic wavelines and rocky debris extended far beyond, disturbing the sedateness of space with violence, and it was here, into this chaos, that Travis piloted the shuttle.
Deep within, directly at the base of the cone-shaped umbra, right behind the body of the comet itself, the wake was the least; but the shuttle rocked and rolled, the victim of great arcs of magnetic energy and rocky collisions, as Travis flew in. He cringed every time that he heard a pounding collision; he knew that the hull was taking a beating, great divots and dents being imparted in the tritanium. He could only hope that none of the collisions was fracturing the sheeting. A microfracture, undetected by the craft's instrumentation, could nonetheless be fatal in their atmospheric plunge.
"Hull plating's holding at ninety-four percent," Malcolm reported from his side console. An alarm rang out over his head, and he reached up to shut it off; it mattered little what the scream was for, as there was nothing the crew could do about it. They were in, for better or worse, and they would do or die.
A forceful collision struck the shuttle from above, sending the craft dropping several meters straight down on the z-axis, and Travis felt the familiar sensation of his internal organs rising against his body as the inertial dampeners failed to fully compensate. "We're approaching the nucleus!" the pilot called out, raising his voice over the noise sheering along the hull. "It's going to get rougher!"
As the turbulence increased, and the small vessel shook even more fiercely, Malcolm flinched backward as a fist-sized chunk of rock collided with his viewport. "Rougher?" he called out, trying his best to brace himself against the angry gyrations of the shuttle.
"Would you like me to give you something?" Phlox leaned forward, speaking over Malcolm's shoulder. The physician was, surprisingly, his normal implacable self, as if the shuttle was on a milk run through a country meadow.
"I've already had the maximum dosage!" Malcolm shouted back, his voice barely audible over the screaming rattles.
Phlox, not missing a beat, handed a biohazard bag to Reed. "Here you go," he replied. Malcolm grabbed it quickly and held it up to his mouth, ready to disgorge the contents of his stomach.
Around them, finally, the shaking eased; not letting up completely, but it subsided, as the shuttle settled in directly behind the rocky bulk of the comet. The magnetic winds flew by on either side, coalescing bare meters behind the craft, but Travis nestled them into the lee of the rock. "Thirty minutes to the jump point," he called out, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
They had survived the first feat.
Hoshi Sato decided that she liked the command chair. At least, she liked sitting in it; recalling Captain Archer's four-year on-and-off battle for an ergonomic chair, she couldn't help but wonder if her commanding officer simply didn't like sitting down.
Around her, the main bridge buzzed with activity. In the absence of the senior command staff, the consoles were staffed by supplementary crew, but they were all trusted veterans of the Enterprise. Hoshi's finely-tuned ears detected no dissonance in the rhythm and flow of the staff, a testament to the training and professionalism of the Starfleet crew.
As Hoshi watched the counter on the viewscreen tick down, reeling off the minutes and seconds, the forced somnambulance finally overwhelmed her tolerance, and the slim officer stood up in exasperation. Performing a quick check of Ensign Anzel Stali at communications and Christine York at science, she brought herself to a halt beside the tactical station; there, Ensign Perri O'Connell was busily running computer simulations of attack vectors. Engrossed in her work, Perri took a moment to respond to Hoshi's presence, but looked up with a nod; and Hoshi replied with a friendly smile, giving comfort and solace to the anxious officer.
Returning to the central command chair, Hoshi slowly eased herself back into a sitting position, and let out an internal sigh. She looked at the timer on the viewscreen. Not even five minutes had passed.
She steeled herself to continue waiting.