Chapter Seven
A year previous (or four hundred years in the future)
Jonathan Archer's mind was set; his plan was firm, his intentions resolute.
The weapon—the weapon—that could destroy Earth was within sight; resting on the seafloor beneath the waves of Azati Prime, it was in striking distance. This was the goal of his mission, the culmination of his duty to humanity, and he would not hesitate. The sphere was in the final stages of construction, but there were gaps in its hardened shell, gaps large enough to slip in a couple photonic torpedoes. And, once inside, the explosion would set off a chain reaction, careening through the power matrix of the weapon, and bringing about its absolute and total destruction.
It would be a one-way mission for the pilot, flying in past the Xindi patrols in a stolen insectoid shuttle. Once the torpedoes were launched, there would be no chance to escape the concussive force of the weapon's immolation; submerged in the depths of the ocean, the vast fireball would super-heat the water, first sending out punishing waves of destructive energy that would rattle the seabed itself. Nothing with hundreds of kilometers would escape the shock. Then, as the weapon disappeared, a great influx of boiling water would flow back in, seeking to fill the vacuum created in the paroxysm of fury.
Jonathan knew that, as skilled as he was, he was not the best pilot on the Enterprise; that honor was reserved to Travis, the youthful navigator who could finesse even the most alien of craft. But it was Archer's responsibility to destroy the weapon; he could not ask another member of the crew to depart on a suicide mission while he, the captain, remained safely on the starship. No, he would pilot the instectoid craft himself, even though he would not—could not—return.
Down below, Travis waited for him in the launch bay; he would depart in little more than a half hour, giving him scant time for a flying lesson on the Xindi shuttle. He would do his best to learn, but when the time came, he would depart. This mission could not be postponed, could not be pushed off for a better moment or granted more preparation. The weapon was nearly ready; the Enterprise could not continue to remain undetected; the risk of delay was too great. It was time to act, and Archer had been ready for this moment since the test weapon had first appeared over the skies of Earth.
Walking down the corridor, Archer nodded firmly to a passing crewmember, realizing that he would not see that face again; he thought about offering a few words of solemn strength and encouragement, but then the moment had passed. As the crewmember disappeared behind him, Archer reached his temporary destination, and he paused in front of the turbolift doors, waiting for them to open.
Accustomed to the decorations of his ship, Archer didn't immediately notice the change as the lift doors hissed open; and he stepped inside, expecting to find himself in the cylindrical compartment. But as he stepped in, the doors closing behind him, he came to a quick halt, confused by his surroundings.
He found himself in a viewing room, the design unlike anything he had ever seen. All he could say for certainty was that he was on a starship, for the front wall of the room consisted of floor-to-ceiling windows, beyond which was outer space.
The floor of the alcove was a soft, charcoal carpet, unlike the rubber padding of the Enterprise; a red stripe ran along the center, arcing away in reflection of the curvature of the room. Overhead, soft tube lighting, nearly natural in effect, replaced the stringent light of bulbs; and the rear wall, across from the open ports, were sculpted of a plastoid substance crafted into a fluid array of geometric designs, interspersed with understated green monitors showing scrolling data that he could not begin to interpret. Several chairs occupied the room, each nearly plush in style; and small tables were spread out, each one decorated with colorful flowers.
As Archer's senses fought with him, trying to believe his surroundings, a man stood up from a chair. Turning to face the captain, he was immediately recognizable; dark of hair, with a distinct widow's peak, he wore a black reinforced jumpsuit, made of some unknown material. "Welcome aboard, Captain," he said, a noticeable hint of concern inflecting his voice.
Jonathan stood frozen for a second as he took it all in, his mind processing the abrupt change of events. "Daniels," he noted at last, addressing the other man; he was uncertain of what to say, and it came out flat, just a simple factual recognition of his companion. He closed his eyes, seeking to regain equilibrium; but when he reopened them, nothing had changed. "Where am I?" he asked at last, and then acknowledged the deeper question. "When am I?"
"You're on the Enterprise," Daniels answered, gesturing around them. "The Enterprise-J, to be exact. It's a distant descendant of your own ship. We're in the mid-twenty-sixth century."
Four hundred years. It wasn't the biggest time jump that Archer had ever taken; nonetheless, it was hard to take in, a stuggle to comprehend. He had walked through a turbolift door—something he had done hundreds of times. And, suddenly, he was here, a man out of his time and place, at the mercy of others to return him to his own home.
Daniels turned slightly, directing the captain's gaze to the windows. "There's something you need to see." His words were sober, a voice of solemnity and warning, but there was no option to not look outside the expansive portholes.
Glancing beyond, taking a moment to adjust to the scene before him, Archer saw a great combat taking place: more starships than he had ever seen assembled, more starships than he had ever seen, some bearing only a slight familiarity to his eyes but most unrecognizable to him, chased and harried one another in the compressed battlefield. Striking and engaging, veering off with plumes of venting atmosphere and fiery explosions, they fought as if no quarter would be given, as if the forces of Armageddon itself were emerging from a deep rupture in space.
And it was, indeed, a great rupture in space that was spewing forth the most unfamiliar of craft.
The backdrop of the heavens, the vast black firmament populated with the pinprick light of uncountable stars and galaxies, was no longer visible. Instead, the universe was awash in a murky, purple haze, replete with hues of violet and shades of lavender, mauve, lilac, and plum. It extended from one end of visible space to the other, extending far beyond the captain's vision, strange whispers of another realm intruding into his reality.
"Look out there," Daniels said, pointing outward and into the haze. "It extends for fifty thousand light-years, in all directions. And it is growing." He spoke with a hush, awed by the sight, as if overwhelmed by what was taking place.
Archer furrowed his brow. "I've seen it before," he commented at last, placing the vision in his memory. "It was much smaller, though. It was at a focal point between two Spheres. We pulled the alien ship out of it," he wrapped up, remembering the encounter many months earlier. That particular cloud of haze, small and weak, was nothing compared to the overflowing eruption taking place outside the Enterprise-J.
"I know," Daniels answered softly. He spoke as if the sound of his voice would disrupt the haze, swirling it up into a tempest. "And you were right. The alien you found was a test subject." Unwillingly, as if afraid that the haze would grow faster if he looked away, Daniels shifted his eyes to address the captain. "He belongs to the race that built the Spheres. They come from another dimension."
Archer watched as a beam of green energy lanced into a small fighter, causing it to explode in ball of fiery debris. "What are they doing here?" he asked. "What are they doing here now?"
"They can't exist in our realm," Daniels replied. "They have to alter the quantum fabric your dimension to make it habitable for their people. It takes time—they began many decades before you entered the Expanse, before humanity even had space flight. But when the alterations are complete, they'll come pouring through, an invasion unlike anything you've ever dreamt of."
"The Expanse," Archer stated, better understanding the threat it truly posed. "It's growing. It'll continue to grow, and the changes within will become more severe."
"Yes, Captain," Daniels answered. "The Sphere Builders are a vast civilization, but they occupy a pocket dimension. They are running out of space for their people. And their answer is to colonize your realm."
"And destroy us," Archer finished. "No being from my dimension will survive in that." He pointed to the haze in emphasis. In the foreground, another ship—this one a large cruiser, possessing a saucer-shaped primary hull—spun wildly before a series of explosions washed across the disc, culminating in the craft blowing violently apart. "You said that we're in the twenty-sixth century—is this the invasion?"
"You're getting better at this, Captain," Daniels replied, offering a faint lilt of praise. Around them, the Enterprise—J rocked, presumably the victim of weapons fire, and Daniels grabbed a chair to steady himself. "I've brought you to a monumental moment in history," he went on, his feet stabilizing as the starship recovered its equilibrium. "The Battle of Procyon, where the United Federation of Planets engaged the Sphere Builders."
The word caught Archer's curiosity, bringing to mind a brief conversation a year earlier—or many hundreds of years away. "The Federation," he commented, the words tickling at his mind. It seemed full of unknown promise, a potential greater than the stars themselves "You've mentioned them before. What is it?"
"I can't tell you," Daniels answered. As he watched the captain deflate, the temporal agent offered what he could. "But it will be amazing. The galaxy has never before seen anything like it—and perhaps never will again." A small fighter flew in front of the windows, seemingly close enough to touch, spitting out pulsating bursts of energy beams. "The Federation wins the battle," Daniels explained. "The cost was great, but they won, and drove the Sphere-Builders back into their own realm. In the generation that followed, Federation scientists repaired the damage done to the quantum fabric of space-time, and learned how to seal your dimension completely from future intrusions."
"That…sounds great," Archer acknowledged, uncertain of the next step. It was a story without a moral, a tale without a conclusion.
"It was," Daniels replied. "But, Captain, if the Federation had lost—the Sphere Builders would have spread throughout the galaxy, wiping out everything they encountered. No species in your realm can survive long in their altered space. Life, as you know it, would have been extinguished."
"But the Federation did win," Archer counterposed, "or, at least, will win. The way you describe it, it's already fated." He looked askance at the shorter man. "So what does this have to do with me?"
"Time is flexible," Daniels answered. "Never make the mistake, Jonathan, in assuming that the past is permanent. The Sphere Builders can't travel through time themselves—but they can see through time, and more importantly, they can see multiple timelines at once, many of which haven't even formed. They can see how tweaking one circumstance in one timeframe can radically alter events in another."
"There's a time line in which the Sphere Builders won the battle." It wasn't a question; Archer saw it firmly.
"Yes." Daniels nodded in confirmation. "In that timeline, humanity was wiped out in the mid-twenty-second century."
Archer had to close his eyes as the true scheme became evident. "They're manipulating the Xindi into destroying humanity in my time, so that we won't be there to stop the invasion later."
"They were able to contact the Xindi, and convinced the five races that humanity will destroy the Xindi in the future; and so the Xindi must destroy humanity in your time, while they still can."
"And like that," Jonathan reflected, "they remove a piece from the chessboard, before their game even starts. But can't the Federation defeat the Sphere Builders, even without humans present?"
Daniels' voice become stringent as he answered. "Jonathan, without humanity, the Federation will never be born. Without you, the Federation will never be born."
"I can't believe that," Archer answered, his mind swirling as it tried to comprehend the boundless implications of Daniels' words. "One man can't summon the future."
"No, Captain," Daniels agreed readily. "But one man can light a spark."
"So what do you want me to do?" Archer asked cautiously, far from convinced that he was destined—by choice, by fate, or by some entangling of the two—to make another man's history his own future.
"Contact the Xindi," Daniels replied. He was almost eager in his directive, a man buffeted by forces beyond his ken who finally saw an opportunity to act to preserve a great dream. "Tell them that they're being manipulated. You have to make the Xindi understand that humanity isn't the enemy."
"You may have missed this, but the Xindi are about to deploy their weapon!" Archer nearly snarled at the agent. "I don't have the time to waste talking to them, and we'll lose our ability to destroy the weapon if we reveal ourselves!"
"Don't you get it, Jonathan?" Daniels shot back, not yielding before the captain. "Hasn't millennia of human experience taught you anything? If you destroy that weapon, they will simply build another. And another, and another. You can't hope to destroy all of them. And each time, beliefs will harden, attitudes will sharpen, and the conflict will become more rigid." His voice rose as he pleaded with Archer. "Your chance to end that cycle is in front of you, the chance to prevent it from ever developing! But the only way to do that is to reach out, to find that common similarity in all life, and make a new friendship!"
"I can't do it, Daniels!" Archer retorted, growing hot under his collar. What the temporal agent was asking of him—it was far too much, far to dangerous of a road to walk. "I have to save the lives of billions of people. I can't afford to take chances on what you propose. I have to destroy that weapon, and if that's a problem for your history, then you deal with it! I'm not responsible for the future!"
Daniels paused, taking a deep breath as he reached into an inner pocket; and from it he withdrew a small, coin-sized disc of metal. "Take this," he said softly, holding it up before the captain. "It's Xindi. It's a family medallion, passed on from generation to generation."
"How'd you get it?" Archer's voice was weaponized with verbal daggers.
"A crewmember on the Enterprise-J gave it to me," Daniels responded. He smiled slightly, as he was rewarded by a look of uncomprehending surprise on the captain's face. "Yes, Jonathan," he went on, offering up his trump card. "In this time, the Xindi have joined the Federation, and they stand tall and fast with humanity to fight off the Sphere Builders. One of them parted with this, as a gesture to you."
"Are you sure?" Archer gingerly.
"Yes, Captain," Daniels answered. "You speak of taking chances and running risks, but I have seen the dream: and it is real. It is real to me, to others, to the unknown trillions of beings who live and thrive across time in the United Federation of Planets. I know that your mission to the Xindi can succeed, because I have seen it succeed. But believe me, Captain, because this is critical: it has to start here. It has to start now. It has to start with you. Humanity can't afford to say, we'll do it next time, for there will be no next time."
Back to the present
"Welcome back to NABC's continuing coverage of the pro-Terran riots sweeping the planet; I'm your host, Bertrand Hobbs." Hobbs' face returned to the screen.
"In developments at the top of the hour, the twenty-four ultimatum issued by Terra Prime for the expulsion of all resident aliens is quickly ticking down, and is now nearly gone. Our reporters in the field have observed no large-scale efforts to evacuate the aliens, although several report that consulate staffs in several riot-stricken cities have been withdrawn to the main embassies in San Francisco."
The screen changed to show an overhead image of rioters swarming thru the streets. The tagline read "Bogotá, Colombia."
"Starfleet has appealed for calm, saying only that the situation on Mars is under control. Prime Minister Nathan Samuels, at a press conference we aired shortly before the break, elaborated by saying that Starfleet's Jonathan Archer and the Enterprise are personally attending to the threat posed by John Paxton's seizure of the Martian Asteroid Array, and that the United Earth government has no intention of submitting to a bunch of 'recidivist hoodlums.' Nonetheless, rioters now appear to have the upper hand in twenty-six major cities, spanning five continents, with Africa being the only sanctuary from the street violence."
The image returned to Hobbs. "With us in the studio is David Lieberman, a spokesman for the pro-Terran 'Earth Civil Rights Organization.' Welcome to Political Affairs, Mr. Lieberman."
The view shifted to include a dapper young man, dressed in an austere three-piece black suit. "Thank you, Bertrand. I'm glad to be here."
"David, let's start with the question that's on everyone's mind. We all know that Terra Prime itself is an underground organization, but it's widely alleged to be the driving force underlying dozens of 'surface' groups, many of which are involved in the current riots. Can you comment on the level of command and control that John Frederick Paxton has over the nativist rioters?"
"Bertrand, I can honestly say that I am aware of no 'command and control' between Terra Prime and the protective organizations pursuing legal methods of preserving Earth."
"David, I notice you mentioned only the groups working thru legal channels. What about the groups involved in the riots?"
"Bertrand, the demonstrations are taking place spontaneously. You're suggesting that there's a concerted, organized effort behind them, but there isn't. It's an unprompted expression of the mass of honest, hard-working humans who feel that their voices and their concerns have been ignored by politicians in San Francisco who are laboring to pursue an agenda written by and for the Vulcans and their alien brethren."
"Not to belabor a point, David, but is it your position then that Terra Prime is not involved, even peripherally, in organizing these—demonstrations?"
"It's not just my position, Bertrand, it's the truth. Now, I'm sure that if you look closely, you will find adherents of Terra Prime in the mass of demonstrators; but that's simple coincidence."
"David, the pro-Terran…demonstrators…represent only a minuscule fraction of Earth's population. What do you say to critics who claim that the pro-Terran movement is simply a fringe group of dead-enders, who should simply be ignored?"
"Bertrand, anyone watching the news at the moment will realize that the movement can't be ignored," Lieberman answered with a smile. "However, to answer your main question: the demonstrators represent a much larger movement that is fed up with alien intrusions, alien demands, and alien suzerainty over our planet. I do think it is true to say that the demonstrators themselves are only a small wing of our movement; even though we agree with their aims, the rank-and-file of the pro-Terran assembly are peaceful, non-violent people dedicated to finding a cooperative solution for cleansing our planet of the alien rot. When you look at our overall numbers, we represent a majority of right-thinking humans."
"David, how do you respond to accusations that, by purging Earth of its galactic friendships, you would isolate and weaken humanity—perhaps fatally?"
Lieberman leaned forward, as if to lecture a class. "Bertrand, it is of prime importance to recognize that humanity's destiny is not conditioned by galactic events, this misguided notion that humanity must betray its sovereignty in order to survive in the stars. The notion that life on Earth must be determined solely by the needs of our foreign policy is patently false. Our weaknesses are the work of men, men who agreed to the demilitarization of Earth, and sacrificed our security for the tidbits falling from Vulcan's table. But that means the Terran people have the capacity to reverse those conditions. Our foreign policy must be made to fit the needs of our people, not the other way around.
"It is therefore false," Lieberman continued, "to say that foreign politics shapes a race: rather, people order their relations to the world about them in correspondence with their inborn forces and according to the measure in which their education enables them to bring those forces into play. We are quite convinced that if in the place of the compromised Earth of today there had stood a different Earth, a stronger Earth, our attitude towards the rest of the galaxy would also be different, and then presumably the influences exercised by our race would have taken a different form. To deny this would mean that Earth's destiny can no longer be changed no matter what Government rules on Terra firma."
"David, isn't the proposed Coalition of Planets changing Earth's destiny for the better?"
"We can help make this world a better place, a safer place, and we can inspire greatness ONE WAY—by leading through example. First and foremost, we must lead with conviction–founded upon a most ethical government, dedicated to the sovereignty and freedom of the planet Earth."
"Thank you for joining us. Again, that was David Lieberman, the head of the Earth Civil Rights Organization. We take you now to Kyoto, where…"
Leaning up against the bulkhead, Trip Tucker closed his eyes as he felt a bone-tired weariness wash across him, willing to ignore the ever-watchful eyes of Josiah Greaves, who stood in silent observation of the engineer's labors. A response to the intense stress of the preceding days, and the lack of sleep as he twisted and turned at night, the exhaustion caught up with Trip in one sudden onslaught, reminding him that everyone had a limit—and he was approaching his. His eyes were starting to blur, his fingers fumbling, and he wondered how much more he could take before his reserves of perseverance gave out. It would either be a collapse or an explosion; he didn't know which, but he knew it was coming.
The sound of footsteps on the metal flooring sounded across the mechanics room, and unwillingly, Trip opened his eyes, certain that he would not welcome the intrusion; but there was little he could do, as a captive in the room, unable to leave or walk out on his captor.
"There's nothing aliens like better than to see us fighting one another," Paxton commented sardonically, making his disdain clear. He carried in his hands a thermos, and he held it out in offering to the engineer; but Trip made no move to accept it, and after a moment, Paxton pulled it back.
"Where's T'Pol and the baby?" Trip asked instead.
"They're together," Paxton replied, providing no detail. The Vulcan and her half-breed child were locked up in the medical ward, and he had no intention of reuniting the little family until the modifications were complete. "You'll eat as soon as you finish your work."
Trip offered a faint smile. "I am finished," he answered. "Just a few minutes ago."
Paxton's voice was as rough as gravel. "All you've done is try to sabotage the targeting system," he retorted, confident in his knowledge. "I scarcely call that finished."
From aside, Greaves gave a little chuckle of appreciation.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Trip answered, the words coming out slowly.
"Please, Commander," Paxton answered. He stood tall over Tucker, looking down on the resting engineer. "I've been monitoring your work. Do you really think I'd let you loose without supervision?" He shook his head, making clear his mastery over the situation. "To be honest, though, I'd have been disappointed if you hadn't at least tried to sabotage the array.
Glancing over the engineer's head, Paxton punched several commands into a control panel. "But you did try," he added, "which proves that you're a man of principle. A man interested in saving lives." The scrolling data flickered, accepting the input orders. "That's why I know you're going to refine the targeting system, just as you promised."
Paxton opened the thermos and took a sip of coffee. "In a few hours," he continued, "I'm going to fire a missile directly at Starfleet Command. No," he added, cutting off the expected retort. "I don't expect that Starfleet will comply with my ultimatum. Truth be told, I'd be a little disappointed in them if they did." He shrugged slightly. "With the targeting system the way it is, I will take out Starfleet, but I'll also take out half of San Francisco along with it."
Fighting the exhaustion, Trip spoke without moving. "I thought you were interested in preserving human life."
"Sacrifices have to be made," Paxton answered, offering no reservations. "Humanity needs to be cleansed of those who are selling out our heritage to alien powers. But you, on the other hand—are you willing to make that sacrifice? No," he continued, the words flowing out as he made his case. "You can give me a scalpel, not a bludgeon, and you can save thousands of lives."
Trip shifted his body, trying to rise to his feet; but he stopped after a moment, his muscles unwilling to answer. "I don't care what you need," he retorted. "I won't help you."
Greaves stirred, as if to come and strike Tucker, but a quick gesture from Paxton sent the large man back. "Starfleet's been warned, if that's what concerns you," Paxton retorted. "I've told them to evacuate. When I strike, I'll be destroying buildings, not people. But listen to me carefully, Commander," he went on, laden with gravity. "You're not going to stop me from firing the array, so face the reality of your choice: you can help me, and a few empty buildings will be destroyed; or you can refuse me, and cause the deaths of tens of thousands." He would not be denied, and he would be clear: he wanted the Starfleeter to feel the blame for the blood shed in Paxton's cause.
Slumping back down, Tucker gave a waning smile. "You told Starfleet that you're planning to fire the array," he countered, trying to disturb his opponent's confidence. "Don't you think that they're going to blast this facility off the face of the planet?"
"Don't be a fool, Commander," Paxton answered. His own smile, flashing by quickly, was little more than a facial twitch. "If any Starfleet vessel gets within spitting distance of the array, we'll fire on it. Besides," he added, leaning down slightly as he lorded his position over Tucker, "they know that destroying the array will take out the Utopia Planitia Colony. Starfleet won't bring themselves to fire, even to save human lives on Earth."
"And yet you're willing to take human lives," Trip spat back, looking upward at the harsh face; the engineer would not yield, not even in his supine position.
"You've spent so much time in the stars that you don't know the first thing about humans," Paxton replied. His voice ground on Tucker's ears. "The human race today consists of traitors and cowards—those who would surrender the freedom of our race, and those who refuse to stand up and take back control of our future. It is only a minority of us who are still true humans—true not just to our genetics, but true to our race, Commander, and those are the humans that I am concerned with saving. Those who don't value their heritage, those who aren't proud to be homo sapiens, I have nothing left for them."
Trip felt himself growing dizzy as he tried to formulate a response, but no words came out of his mouth.
"Our actions are justified by our conscience and before our God," Paxton stated, the assertions flowing with the powerful strength of true belief. "Humanity is at a crossroads; our day of reckoning has come. Either we stay silent, and the human race disappears into other-worldly tyranny, or we rise up and fight against the fate that others have planned for us. And I will be heard."
Paxton stepped back, no longer hovering over Tucker, and glanced at Greaves. "Put him in detention," Paxton ordered, gesturing to the Starfleeter. "And make sure he has a news screen. I want him to see the bodies when they start to pull them from the rubble."
As the asteroid made its final approach to Mars, slowly tumbling over itself in a majestic spin, the gravity of the red planet played upon the compact mixture of icy gases and rock, dislodging chunks of matter and adding a degree of disruptive chaos to the growing tail. Tucked within, its path beset by the magnetic winds and frozen debris, the shuttlepod jumped about in a tumultuous dance of self-preservation, but no amount of piloting skill and evasion could completely protect the fragile craft. It is, Travis recognized, the last flight of Shuttlepod One. With the damage being sustained by the small shuttle, the valiant vessel was giving its last reserves in service of their mission.
The jump was precisely calculated; the nearest approach had been vectored in, and as the cabin inhabitants strove to hear one another over the pounding noise, Travis announced their departure in heightened volume. "Nearing our jump point," he declared, and then, offering a five-second countdown, he turned the helm hard, sending the shuttlepod through a stream of turbulence. It was a quarter-light-second flight to the planet's surface, but the shuttle had to plummet at nearly-suicidal speeds to avoid being detected; as it began its rapid descent into the thin atmosphere, the debris of the comet was replaced by streaks of flame as molecules superheated and vaporized, scoring the hull of the shuttle with the blackened remnants of its fiery passage.
Buffeted by the atmospheric winds, powerful even in the whispery upper reaches of Mars, Travis fought with the controls to keep the shuttle on its course; high-speed insertion was a precise matter, a needle that had to be threaded just right. Relying on all of his skill and rapid piloting instincts, Travis held them on course, until suddenly, with a violent jolt, the pod jumped to one side.
"Travis, report!" Archer called out, trying to carry his voice over the roar of wind rushing past and the shuttle's fierce rattles.
"The starboard engine shut down!" Travis exclaimed, righting to restore the shuttle to its proper heading. The craft fought against him, veering off further, inertial dampeners unable to compensate any longer. "The console's locked up!" he added, getting no response from the controls.
Archer, seated in the co-pilot's seat, reached overhead to try the crash circuits; but they, too, were unresponsive. "All systems are down!" he reported, punching the controls again. "No response!"
"Hull temperature is rising quickly!" Phlox added to the ricochet of reports, as he, too, read telemetry readings. "We're coming in too hot!"
Plummeting without control, the shuttle tumbled in freeform movement, rolling end-over-end as it dove downward. In the intense heat, the outer hull began to crack, sending out a spiderweb of microfractures. Its remaining life measured in seconds, the craft on the verge of blowing apart and burning up, Archer shouted out again. "We need to pull up, Travis, it's now or never!"
"I'm trying to reboot the panel!" Travis bellowed in response. Reaching beneath his console, with a grimace and a prayer, he toggled three switches in turn and held his breath. He had no way of knowing if the circuitry itself was fried.
As the panel came back on, Travis let out a gust of air; and he frantically entered commands, stabilizing the shuttle's chaotic spin and activating the retrorockets. With a scream, the craft slowed its descent. "Five seconds to the deck!" he shouted out, alerting the rest of the occupants for the upcoming maneuver. "Brace yourselves!"
Hurtling downward, the Martian landscape now growing rapidly in the shuttle's front viewport, Travis pulled the nose of the pod up sharply. The inertial dampeners, brutalized and overwhelmed, did not fully compensate; and the crew was pushed back into their seats, struggling to stay conscious in the face of the high-g pressure. But the engines held their own; pulling up from the steep dive, the shuttle leveled off scarce meters above the planetary surface. As Travis brought the craft under his control, he bled off speed, and initiated the navigational commands supplied by Malcolm's shadowy friends.
And the shuttlepod was off, flying across the Martian plains, en route to its final destination.
In the firm grip of Josiah Greaves, Trip could offer little resistance as he was marched down the corridor, somewhere in the depths of the Orpheus facility; as they passed closed hatchways and open corridor junctions, the engineer did his best to map their progress, but his mind, fatigued and weakened over the previous days, was unable to keep pace as they moved around each corner in the winding complex.
His legs threatening to give out, Tucker almost felt a sense of relief as they arrived at their apparent conclusion. Tucked along one wall, with an open doorway, was a small room, nothing more than a storage room; and Greaves propelled the engineer inward, offering no condolences as the hatch slammed shut behind Trip.
Alone for the first time, he leaned against the wall, seeking any remaining reserve of strength that could still power him forward. Trip knew that time was running out, and if he was going to stop Paxton from destroying San Francisco—if he had any hope of stopping the slaughter—he had to keep moving, to find some ability to carry on.
The first step was obtaining his freedom from the make-shift cell, but there wasn't much to it: nothing more than a converted closet, the conversion process had been thorough. He checked the access hatches in the walls and ceiling, finding that they were all sealed shut, including the grate over the environmental duct. Not that I could fit in there anyway, he noted, unwilling to give in to dejection.
The hatchway, as well, was locked; his waning strength could not push it open. To the left side, he saw a control panel, but the inputs were dead, giving no response to his attempts to hijack command. Next, he tried to pry the panel itself from the wall, hoping to expose the circuitry underneath. It didn't pop off—but it moved by several millimeters.
I can do this, Trip realized. He patted his Starfleet coveralls, looking for anything that could be used as a tiny crowbar; and from one pocket, he pulled out a slender metal rod. Slipping one end under the panel, he placed a finger behind the bar to operate as a fulcrum; and as he applied pressure, the panel loosened more, and then come off completely.
Kneeling in front of the exposed circuitry, Trip inspected it, his engineer's brain running quickly as he found a new burst of energy. "A Mark-Three interlock," he whispered to himself, recognizing the mechanisms. It wasn't a complicated system, not for a Starfleet engineer.
He was in business.
The shuttlepod ate up the distance as it flew across the Martian surface, hugging the ground as Travis navigated in valleys and mountains, all of his senses dedicated to the precise flying required to evade the Martian sensor net. Time was running short, and he dared not slow down; having already crossed thousands of kilometers, they were making their final approach to the array at break-neck speed, the rust-colored ground passing beneath them in a blur.
"The closer we get, the more we risk being spotted by the array's sensors," Malcolm observed from the rear of the shuttle. As they neared the complex, he was scanning ahead, checking the remaining terrain for a safe place to set down.
"Yes," Archer noted, "but we need to be close enough to reach Orpheus in time." Leaning over Malcolm, a little uncomfortable with the proximity, the captain pointed to a feature on the topographic map. "We can set down behind that ridge line." It would shield them from the array's short-distance sensors, yet deposit them within reach of Orpheus.
"Aye, sir," Travis answered as the coordinates were fed to his console. They were getting very close; and the navigator brought the craft to a slowing stop, scrapping the top of the rocky ground as he settled into a bumpy landing.
Clad in cold-weather thermal clothing, with faceplates providing saturated oxygen from the small tanks strapped to their backs, the assault team exited the side hatch of the shuttle. Setting foot on the alien surface of Mars, each one took a moment to view their surroundings. The landscape around them was barren, as if they had landed in the middle of a high-altitude desert, with the rock and grit fading into massive mountain ranges far off in the distance. The sun shone brightly overhead, its ultraviolet radiation penetrating the weaker Martian atmosphere; but even after extensive terraforming efforts, the surface temperature—in the heat of the sun—was still nearly -50º C. The team took care to step lightly; Martian gravity was only ⅓ of Earth's, and a large thrusting step would send a human high above, there to float until landing in a slow descent. The sun cast long shadows behind the rocky outcroppings, and beyond the humans and Denobulan, no life was stirring.
"Thirty-two," Malcolm commented, his voice muffled by the breathing mask. He looked around, noticing the hazy, salmon-colored sky that stretched to the horizon.
"Hmm?" Travis asked, confused.
"This is the thirty-second planet I've set foot on," Reed explained.
Behind them, Phlox chuckled as he left the shuttlepod. "Two hundred and forty-eight," he responded, earning a wry grin from the former tactical officer.
"The array is on the other side of that rise," Archer broke in, pointing to a faint ridgeline a half-kilometer in the distance. Before them ran a shallow gulley, likely the remnant of an eons-old river. "We'll head through there."
The landing party started their hike across the Martian landscape.
The weight of worlds—of one particular world, at least—sat upon the shoulders of John Frederick Paxton.
His deadline was fast approaching; his network told him that very few of the aliens residing on the planet Earth had departed, nowhere near enough to keep him from carrying out his ultimatum. Truth be known, he reflected, I never expected otherwise. The demand was equally a means to place the blame squarely on Starfleet, to make clear his justification for striking at the heart of human corruption.
As he stared out his viewport, the expansive array in the foreground, he heard the hatchway clank open behind him; without turning, knowing who the newcomer was, he had no intention of dignifying the alien's presence. "I'm told you have something to say to me," he commented, lethargically, ready to be done at last. "Make it quick."
The alien paused, as if looking around before she spoke. "In private," T'Pol replied finally.
"I keep no secrets from my men," Paxton retorted dryly, knowing that Greaves had escorted the Vulcan in.
T'Pol's words were laden with hidden meaning. "You and I both know that's not true," she answered.
Finally intrigued, Paxton slowly spun his chair around. "Josiah, give us the room," he commanded, wondering at the Vulcan's implications.
Greaves nodded. "I'll be outside," he stated, and turning about, he left the room, with the hatch again clanking as it shut, leaving Paxton and T'Pol alone.
Paxton waited for her to speak first, and after a heavy pause, she broke the silence. "My daughter's ill," she stated, using the dry, emotionless tone of the alien beings. "You will arrange for medical care at once."
Paxton raised an eyebrow, unaware that he was imitating that most-Vulcan of responses. "No one leaves this facility," he countered. "Least of all you and your bastard child."
"You will provide immediate transport for my daughter, Commander Tucker, and myself," T'Pol continued firmly. "The hospital at Utopia Planitia will be suitable until the Enterprise arrives."
It's a bold attempt, Paxton admitted, his estimation of the alien rising slightly. He was uncertain why she was acting like she had the upper hand, but he was not going to surrender his position so easily. "Have you been inhaling the atmosphere?" his raspy tone stayed even. "What makes you think you can dictate terms to me? You're my prisoner. You're the alien intruder here."
T'Pol quickly closed the distance between them; and Paxton didn't flinch, unafraid by the petite Vulcan, as she grasped his left hand and held it up in the air. Unbidden, it began to twitch and quiver. "This," she stated. "You have Taggart's Syndrome. Since you obviously didn't die by the age of twenty, you've been receiving treatment." She released her grip as Paxton pulled his hand back, and he stood up, forcing the Vulcan back. "The only treatment for Taggart's Syndrome is Rigelian gene therapy."
"You're not a doctor," he snapped, feeling rattled for the first time.
"Your own Colonel Green said, to be human is to be pure." She stood fast, just out of his reach. "You have alien DNA in you, the very thing you're warning humans about." T'Pol watched with frank attention as Paxton gripped his hands together, trying to hold them steady. "You're not just a terrorist, you're a hypocrite."
"You will not make me second-guess myself," Paxton responded roughly, scrambling for his composure. He was greatly unaccustomed to being rattled in such a manner. "I will not doubt myself."
T'Pol pressed forward. "Under Green's rule, you would have been euthanized for having a genetic disorder," she retorted. Her advantage clear, she grew more forceful, expressing an implacable strength. "You are contributing to the weakness of the human race, kept alive by the charity of others. Of aliens," she added, understanding the anathema.
"For someone who tries to cite human history, you are woefully ill-informed," Paxton shot back. "Colonel Green recognized that the greatest of leaders are worth preserving. The strength of their contributions far outweighs their anomalies."
"You're not great!" T'Pol barked.
"History will determine that!" Paxton declared fervently. "Go ahead," he exclaimed, waving to the hatchway. "Tell the others what you wish. See if they take the word of an alien over mine. I have nothing to fear from you, Vulcan."
"My daughter needs proper medical care," T'Pol replied, her voice quieting back down.
Paxton sighed as he sought to recover his self-control. "What's wrong with your child?"
"Elevated white blood-cell count," T'Pol answered, lapsing back into scientific formality. "Low-grade fever."
"Its two halves are warring with one another," Paxton pronounced. "Vulcan and human. Did you really think that they could coexist? Conflict was inevitable." The child had already served its purpose; he cared little about its continued survival. "If you're lucky, the child will live. If not, well…" he offered a shrug. "We're better off without it."
Paxton pressed a control on his desk, and the hatchway clanked open. "Josiah!" he called out, and the guard, ready in the doorway, stepped inside. "Take the Vulcan back to the medical ward. We're done here."
With a pleased smile, Greaves grabbed T'Pol by the arm; and he pulled her away, escorting her out the door.
We're burning too much time, Travis realized as the assault team did its best to scramble up the ridge. It was flat and steep, and footing was difficult as they climbed the nearly fifty-meter slope; more than once, a foot slipped, and a body went sliding back down, trying to avoid taking out another climber on the unwanted descent. The cold-weather gear, while well-designed, was still bulkier than average duty coveralls, and it made the climb harder. The light gravity complicated it still further; Starfleet trained in low-gravity environments, but movements had to be slower and more deliberate, each shift thought out in advance and carefully executed.
The ridgeline, however, was in reach, a scarce meter above him, and Travis gratefully crested the top, followed by the others. Rounded off, he dared not stand in silhouette; he dropped down flat, hugging the rock as the captain appeared beside him. "Down there," Travis noted over the open comm channel linking the team together. His voice was muffled by his mask, but his outstretched arm indicated the direction to Archer.
Beyond them, the ridge sloped back down, and they could see that it was the ancient crest of a shoreline, the water having disappeared in geologic ages far past. The ancient lakebed, however, was still present, the floor worn smooth and expansive. In the middle, the barrel of the array stood tall, towering overhead, and around its base was the vast network of support mechanism.
Near the shoreline, within easy distance of the strike team, was a large disk-shaped construct, perched on the Martian surface with spider-like legs, and as Travis sucked the enriched oxygen into his laboring lungs, he quickly calculated the distance to the Orpheus facility.
"We're short on time," Mayweather noted grimly, and together, the strike team—as yet undetected by the mining facility—rose back to their feet, and began the scamper down the inward slope.
The mining facility, designed to be linked into a network of corridors and skyways on the surface of the Moon, had multiple hatches along its outer perimeter. Each one had been secured and locked prior to the facility's transit to Mars, but they had not been sealed shut; and in the low gravity, Malcolm was able to stand on the shoulders of Kosieradzki and Enki to reach the control panel alongside the hatch earmarked by his security overrides. Punching in the access code, he stayed to one side as the door blew open, equalizing the Earth-average air pressure within with the Martian pressure outside.
Waiting a moment, he pulled his scanner from its harness, and held it near the open access, but it indicated no lifeforms immediately within. He gave a quick gesture, and the two ensigns holding him up shuffled their feet, moving Malcolm into the doorway, and he climbed inside. Again, he scanned quickly; but there was no response forthcoming, no sign of guards, and no visible sign of triggered security alarms.
Working together, with no time left for delicacy, the team hoisted each other up to the hatchway and into the facility. As Phlox brought up the rear, lifted by the muscular arms of the security duo, Malcolm was already moving forward, scanning ahead in the corridor leading inward. "One guard!" he announced over the comm channel, detecting the lifesign in a branching alcove several meters forward; but the readings created more confusion than concern. The being was laying, unmoving, on the floor.
Carefully, his phase pistol drawn, Malcolm rounded the corner into the alcove. Perplexed by his discovery, he waved the captain forward. "Someone took him out, Captain," Malcolm explained. Indeed, the miner, guard, and Terra Prime adherent was unconscious, and as Malcolm rolled the man over, a thick, bulging lump became apparent on the back of the man's head.
Malcolm's scanner, set to silent, vibrated suddenly in his hand. "Someone's approaching!" he hissed to the others. As he checked the reading, Archer gestured hurriedly for the team to cluster in the large alcove, and they flattened against the wall just in time.
There was a single lifeform approaching, and as it neared the alcove, Malcolm used hand signals to direct Kosieradzki. Together, their phase pistols drawn, they moved out swiftly, ready to hold the guard at gunpoint.
Malcolm, the experienced agent and security officer, was still stunned. "Commander Tucker?" he whispered in disbelief.
Trip had nearly fallen backward in surprise, but as he recovered his footing, he peered through the breathing mask. "Malcolm!" he exclaimed, taking care to speak quietly.
Archer, hearing the exchange, stepped out into the corridor. "It's good to see you, Trip," he added, smiling in relief at the sight of his friend; but it was short-lived. "Where's T'Pol?" he asked soberly.
"The medical ward," Trip answered. "She's with our daughter."
"There's no time," Travis intervened. "We have less than five minutes until the deadline."
"Enki, take Phlox and find the medical ward. Everyone else, let's go," Archer ordered immediately, gesturing to Malcolm to take the lead. "Are you up to joining us, Trip?" he added, uncertain of the engineer's physical and mental condition.
Trip nodded firmly. "I'm not going to miss this."
A short jump away from Mars, the starship Enterprise, the first of its name, rested silently in space, awaiting the final order to surge ahead and fire its torpedoes at the array. On the bridge, not a whisper was heard, no one speaking to disrupt the tension that reigned supreme; even the instrumentation was muted, the usual chorus of bells and whistles reduced to a bare minimum. In the command chair, watching the seconds tick down on the timer, Hoshi sat erect, doing her best to convey a sense of confidence and calm that she did not feel.
"Five minutes," Perri O'Connell noted, her voice carrying across the compartment. Hoshi, knowing what was about to come, leaned her head back to collect focus her thoughts as the whistle came in.
"Incoming hail from the Prime Minister's office," Anzel Stali reported from the communications console. It wasn't even a second late, but Hoshi entertained a brief thought of making Nathan Samuels wait for her to answer.
But it was not to be. "Onscreen," she ordered. Standing up, she stepped forward, assuming a position behind Hutchinson and the navigation controls.
The screen flickered for a second as the connection was made, and the Prime Minister appeared, against the backdrop of his office. His shoulders were slumped, and he appeared defeated. "Lieutenant," he acknowledged in greeting, but he wasted little time. "We have to face an unpleasant reality: Captain Archer's mission failed."
"He still has five minutes," Hoshi countered, even as the seconds continued to disappear without word from the captain.
Samuels shook his head. "We can't cut it that close, Lieutenant," he replied, his decision made up. "It's time to destroy the array."
Hoshi straightened her back. "We still have time, sir. We've done the calculations. We know exactly how much time we need to warp to Mars and fire on the array."
"We can't cut it down the last second!" Samuels exclaimed as he leaned forward, his face growing in the camera. "Too many things could go wrong, and there are too many lives riding on this. I'm not prepared to take any more chances!"
"We can do it," Hoshi stated resolutely, understanding the risk she was taking—not just with Paxton and the array, but with the Prime Minister himself. Nonetheless, she would not move early; she would give her captain every last moment to complete his mission. It is, she knew, exactly what he'd do for me. "I won't destroy the array until we have no other choice."
"We're out of choices, Lieutenant," Samuels rejoined. "I understand your reluctance, but it's time to attack."
Hoshi took in a deep breath. "My orders are to wait."
The minister's voice fell slightly, but took on a new strength. "I'm giving you new orders, Lieutenant. Launch your attack now."
Here it goes, Hoshi realized. She could not come back from her next words. "I'm sorry, sir," she answered, "but I can't do that."
His eyes widened in disbelief. "I can have you relieved of duty for this."
Hoshi held her head high. "Actually, sir, I can only be relieved by a higher-ranking officer in my chain of command. Until then, I am in command of the Enterprise, and we will attack when I say so."
"Lieutenant." Samuels voice was deep, showing the command that had made him the prime minister. "Starfleet is under the authority of the United Earth government. I am the highest-ranking officer in your chain of command. And if you don't comply with my orders, I will remove you and find someone else who will obey."
No one on the bridge had moved as the confrontation took place, but now, the viewscreen began to flicker. "Lieutenant," Stali called out, "we're losing the signal." Before Hoshi could turn to look at the ensign, the face of Nathan Samuels disappeared, replaced by a starfield. "It'll take a few minutes to get him back," Stali added.
At the helm, Hutchinson spoke up next. "Holding steady, as per your orders, Lieutenant."
And then O'Connell joined in as well. "Weapons remain on standby."
And for the first time, Hoshi realized what it meant to be in command of the Enterprise.
Paxton felt a sense of unerring calm as he contemplated what was about to happen. He wasn't sure if it was destiny or duty that had brought him here, to the brink of a new dawn for the human race; but he knew that his actions, here, today, would spark a new flame that would spread across Earth, bringing right-thinking humans to the forefront, stepping forward to take back their heritage and preserve their future against the enemies within and without. And all, he knew, because he had led the way; because he had stood strong, and shown that there remained humans willing to stand up, with pride, for the human race.
"We're getting the final reports," Evan Rogers, the lead technician for Terra Prime, reported from his console in Paxton's office. "Many of the aliens have withdrawn to their consulates and embassies, but they've remained on Earth."
Josiah Greaves, the third and final occupant of the office, shook his head. "Fools," he replied. "But then, what do they care if Starfleet gets destroyed? It's just human lives."
"I never expected them to comply," Paxton commented roughly. He stirred from his contemplation, suddenly tired of waiting. It was time to act. "Let's get this done." A smile split his face, the first true smile that he had expressed in months. "Evan, power up the array."
"Lieutenant, the array's powering up!" O'Connell reported. "They're chambering a missile! Two minutes to launch readiness!"
"Coordinates are locked in," Rogers confirmed. He pulled the image up on the wall viewer, showing Paxton and Greaves an old-fashioned image of targeting crosshairs superimposed over Starfleet Command. "Two minutes to launch readiness!"
At last. Paxton stood strong in the center of his office, debating if he should offer any meaningful words for this momentous occasion. With his actions, he would ignite the cleansing fire that would sweep Earth free at last; after today, there would be no returning to alien subjugation. Humanity would stand on its own, and it would stand strong. Satisfied in his thoughts, in complete control of his future, he didn't glance over as the main door clanked open; it was, he assumed, simply one of his crew stepping in.
The tactics were elementary, but little time existed for more: storm in, fire, and secure the room before the Terra Prime inhabitants could adjust. Moving swiftly through the open doorway, shifting to the side to clear the entrance, Malcolm Reed came in first. His phase pistol drawn and sweeping the room, he saw Greaves spin around, reaching for a weapon; Malcolm fired quickly, his energy beam clipping the large man and sending Greaves to the deck plating.
Coming through next, his own pistol ready, Jonathan Archer noted a subtle movement in the corner of the room. Rogers, standing before the bank of computer consoles, was rapidly inputting commands. "Step away from the controls!" Archer barked, but as Rogers made no haste to comply, Archer fired a beam. He struck the technician squarely in the chest, and Rogers, too, fell to the deck, collapsing insensate.
Followed quickly by Kosieradski, Travis, and Trip Tucker, the Starfleet team cornered Paxton with pointed weapons, and the Terra Prime commander raised his hands, making a show of compliance. "Jonathan Archer, the man who saved Earth from the Xindi," Paxton said dryly, his tone making clear that he still felt as though he held the upper hand. "Well, look at you now. You delivered us from evil, but now you'll lead us into temptation."
"Don't move," Archer warned. Without shifting his glance, he addressed Tucker. "Shut it down, Trip."
The engineer nodded firmly. "Main controls are over there," he said, gesturing to the consoles above the unconscious technician. "I should be able to kill it from here."
In an instant, Archer lost control of the situation.
Laying on the deck, hit by Malcolm's energy blast, Greaves was struggling to stay awake; the blast had merely clipped him, and with the man's size, it had not been quite enough to completely stun him into unconsciousness. Now, as he wrinkled his face, trying to maintain his awareness, Greaves saw the Starfleet engineer move towards the command console. Focusing his best, Greaves pulled his pistol up and fired.
The packet of energy struck Tucker in the shoulder, and he was spun around by the force as he cried out in unexpected pain. Instinctively, the other members of the team redirected their own pistols to target Greaves; and several energy blasts nailed him, bringing an end to the man's resistance.
In the momentary chaos, as eyes shifted away, Paxton drew a pistol from behind his back. Ducking low, he fired several rapid blasts as he ran. As shots were returned, Paxton scrambled, finding protection behind his desk; and in the interchange of fire, he hit Malcolm twice with compressed packets of energy. Reed, too, dropped to the deck, taken out of the battle.
The firefight descended to a stalemate; Paxton, behind his desk, could not expose himself to fire his own shots, but the Starfleet team could not draw a target on the hidden miner, and there it might have remained; but, as the whine of pistol fire ceased, Archer heard an alarming sound. It was the cracking of transparent aluminum, followed immediately by the hiss of atmosphere escaping from the pressurized room. Somehow, he realized, in the exchange of fire, a blast had struck and fractured the viewport.
"The room's depressurizing!" the captain hollered out, bringing his team's attention to the new danger. "Get Malcolm out of here!"
"Aye, sir!" Travis answered immediately. Holstering his pistol, he gestured to the security officer accompanying them, and the two men grabbed Malcolm under the arms. Pulling him across the deck, the door clanked open again, and they exited, leaving Archer and Trip alone with John Frederick Paxton.
"Trip!" Archer called out, not willing to look away from Paxton's hiding place. "Trip, can you hear me?"
The engineer rolled over on the deck with a loud groan. "Not so loud, Captain," he mumbled, his words less audible, barely heard over the growing hiss of vacating air.
"We need to kill the array, Trip!" Archer exclaimed, trying to bring his engineer fully into the present. "How do I do it?"
Tucker let his head fall on the deck with a loud thud, and for a moment, he didn't respond. "The control console," he finally uttered, the words coming out hard. "Disengage the plasma grid." He concentrated hard, trying to bring coherent thoughts to the forefront. "Hurry, Captain. The array—it's primed to fire."
Paxton knew he needed to act, and now; but hidden behind his desk, unable to fire on either of the Starfleeters, his options were limited, and he resorted to the last weapon he had. "I know the reason why you turned your back on humanity, Captain," the Terra Prime commander announced, his voice raised loud to carry in the thinning air.
The two men, Paxton and Archer, were locked in a standoff; neither could fire on the other, but if either shifted their attention, it would provide an opening for their opponent. And, as the array readied for launch, Paxton knew that time was on his side, if he could only keep Archer's attention. "I blame your father," the miner continued harshly, his raspy voice struggling more as he sucked in the air. "He wanted the secrets of warp technology so badly that he allowed the Vulcans to turn him into their pet human." He gave a mirthless laugh. "And you, well…like father, like son."
The viewport continued to fracture; spidery cracks splintering outward with increasing speed, it was clear that it would not hold indefinitely, and as Archer felt himself growing light-headed, he used his free hand to raise his breathing tube back up to his face.
"My father never asked anything from anyone," Paxton went on. "His mining operation transformed the Moon from a mere colony into a completely self-sufficient world." Slowly, with great deliberate effort, Paxton rose from behind the desk, holding his hands up. His pistol was not visible; but Archer struggled to believe that the miner was truly surrendering. "And that is how we should go to the stars: taking the worlds we need and taming them, with human hands, and human minds, and human souls. Earth first, Earth foremost, and Earth alone."
Archer shifted towards the console as he kept his phase pistol leveled at Paxton. "That might've worked for the Moon," he countered, trying to split his attention between the miner and the computer. "But the galaxy's a lot bigger, a lot more crowded. We won't survive on our own."
Paxton spat in disgust. "Then there are people like you—who would render us servants in our own land, foot soldiers for a foreign army, and for what? Thirty pieces of dilithium?"
"It's over, Paxton," Archer retorted.
For the first time, Archer saw a smile crease Paxton's face. "We're each our father's child, I suppose," Paxton said sardonically, and the air pressure inside the room finally overpowered the window, sending it exploding outwards, sucking the air out with the force of a gale. Pulled violently towards the now-vacant opening, Archer lost his grip on his pistol; and as the captain smashed into Paxton's desk, his pistol went flying outward, lost into the Martian landscape beyond.
Paxton, however, was prepared; he had anchored himself, and as the pressure settled, he kept his footing. "I've been a miner all my life," he commented. He recovered his own weapon from behind his back, and pointed it at Archer. "I'm used to low oxygen." Keeping his target firm, as Archer could only roll over in pain, Paxton crossed the room to the command console. "You, on the other hand…"
He punched several commands into the screen. "Firing sequence activated," the computer announced. "Launch in thirty seconds."
It gave Archer barely a moment; Paxton had to glance down at the panel to input the commands, and launching himself upward with great effort, he fell on the miner. Together, they fell back to the deck, both struggling to function as their bodies gasped for oxygen; doing his best to rise up, Archer struck Paxton with a lazy roundhouse punch. Impacted as much by the thin air as by the hit, the miner groaned, unable to respond.
The captain clambered to his feet, and staggering back and forth as his head grew light, he let himself fall on the control console; but the controls were locked out, and Archer's shaky thoughts could not immediately conceive a way to circumvent the security.
"Pulse activation in fifteen seconds," the computer reported pleasantly.
Stumbling around, Archer found his phase pistol, and pointed it at Paxton's head.
"You really think that'll work?" Paxton jabbed mirthlessly as he sat up, wavering under the effect of the poisonous atmosphere.
"Ten, nine, eight," the computer intoned.
"You can't stop it from firing!" Paxton barked as best he could, his voice more of a raspy yip. Before him, Archer's movements became erratic, as he tried to keep his pistol pointed at Paxton.
"Four, three, two," the computer continued unerringly.
"Watch your future end, Captain," Paxton announced, knowing that he had won. "Terra Prime forever!"
"Launch activated."
In the Orpheus office, Archer shifted his eyes to look out the viewport; and he watched in horror as the array fired, thrusting a mighty rocket past his gaze in a split second, on a doomsday course for San Francisco. I've failed, Archer realized, the thought coming tough for him. In everything leading up to this moment, he had never truly thought that he would be unable to stop the launch; but here he was. The realization fell heavily upon him, crushing him under the weight.
On the floor, Paxton drooped over, closing his eyes as his lungs ran out of oxygen; but he went with a smile on his face, a peaceful calm, the knowledge that even in his death, perhaps because of his death, he had won.
Still on the floor, trying to prop himself up on his elbows, Trip Tucker chuckled lightly; and the captain, assuming that the oxygen deprivation was affecting his engineer as well, staggered over. He pressed his breathing mask against Trip's face, and the commander sucked in the air greedily.
Having recovered his breath, if only for a moment, Tucker pushed the mask away. "Captain,' he croaked, his voice raw and dry. "It's okay. Paxton forgot that I sabotaged the targeting system."
A ray of hope hit Archer. "You mean—"
Trip nodded and pointed to the telemetry readings scrolling across the console. "That sucker's headed right into the sun."
"Lieutenant!" Stali announced, his excitement in direct contravention of the horror that had settled upon the Enterprise bridge. "We're getting a message from Orpheus!"
Let this be good news, Hoshi thought miserably, uncertain of anything that could save her—or save Earth—now. She steeled herself, ready for the inevitable victory speech from Paxton. "On screen, Ensign."
The viewscreen flickered, and the face of Jonathan Archer appeared. And he was smiling. "Hello, Hoshi," he stated, as if unaware of the calamity that was about to wipe out San Francisco. "We've taken control of the array. And please notify Starfleet that we redirected that missile."
The Enterprise bridge nearly broke into a round of applause. "That's great news, Captain," Hoshi replied. Her faith in Jonathan Archer had not been misplaced; he had come through again, and despite the risk, she had done her part to enable his success.
It is, she thought, a good day.
The marchers came through the streets, waving torches, clad in the familiar colors of the Terra Prime movement, shouting and chanting as they weaved their way across San Francisco to the diplomatic district. They numbered in the thousands, forming a snaking procession stretching block after block, the dark smoke of fires and chemical explosives casting a surreal pallor over their undulating body.
As they marched, the front ranks paused in step, throwing a barrage of rocks, stone, thermoconcrete, and debris ahead to clear away the handful of Civil Police that stood in their path. Under the onslaught of the crude missiles, the officers melted away, allowing the marchers to work their way to their final destination unchecked.
From within the mass came a constant, steady beat of feet hitting the cobblestones, accompanying the rough chant of the marchers, shouting out in unison, "One race!" Two steps later, came "One planet!" And finally, "One people!" The chant progressed, over and over, the portions mixing into a medley of voices straining high.
As the front ranks approached the final turn in their cross-town march, the body slowly ground to a halt, and stepping forward, several masked protestors turned to address their compatriots. Before their eyes, the marchers spread across the streets, a veritable sea of bodies punctuated by leaping flames, smoke, and the omnipresent flags of Terra Prime.
One of the lead protestors raised a voice amplifier, and shouted out. "MY FELLOW CITIZENS!" he bellowed, a rippling roar returning his salutation. "My fellow citizens!" he shouted again, waiting for the noise to die down. "The destiny of the human race will be determined, not thru treaties and compromises, but thru blood and iron!" he screamed, raising a defiant arm in the soot-filled air, receiving a roaring concord of voices in response. The surge poured thru him, awakening primal instincts, inflaming the Terran blood that flowed in his veins.
"However many insults and slanders you may hear, wear it as a badge of honor! You have the good fortune to be hated by the greatest of scoundrels!" He lowered the amplifier, waiting for the cacophony that swept the crowd. "For he who on our side is today the leader of the Terran people! He has nothing to win but perhaps only everything to lose. He who today fights on our side cannot win great laurels, far less can he win great material goods–but in that very fact there lies an inexhaustible source of strength!" A chant of "Terra Prime!" coursed thru the rioters, stomping their feet in rhythm. "Our movement is sustained, not by lust, but only by our love for our race!"
In the background, the leader saw a Starfleet flag erupt in flame. "Together, we shall drive to a new greatness, to a new power and glory, to a Terra firma which for the first time shall fulfill that which in their hearts millions of the best of our fellow humans have hoped for through the centuries and the millennia: a united Earth, belonging to the Terran race!"
Soot was now raining down freely on the marchers, but none seemed to notice. Clad in ash, the demonic afterglow echoed thru thousands of voices bellowing in unison. "We hereby demand the expulsion of all resident aliens!" the leader screamed to the welcome roar of the mob. "We hereby demand the seizure of all alien-owned property in the Terran system! And we hereby demand the termination of all interstellar treaties, including the so-called 'Coalition of Planets,' which only serve to weaken us and render us defenseless!"
With his free hand, the leader took a flaming branch and thrust it upward. "Against the alien infection, we must hold aloft a flaming ideal—that of Terra firma, and Terra Prime! There are only two possibilities: we stand firm as a Terran race, or we become the slaves of the alien! Here we will stand victorious!"
The mob thronged forward, forging its way thru the streets, the barrage of missiles clearing the path before them. Their target was nearly in sight: only two blocks away, around a corner, was the Denobulan Embassy, and the marchers, recognizing their proximity, strained forward as each sought to be the first one to enter the devil's building.
At the forefront, the leaders of the march swung heavy, wooden batons and metallic rods, threatening to sweep any remaining resistance out of their way. Keeping a steady pace, fortified by the beating footsteps behind him, they led the rioters around the final corner.
The riot leaders pulled to a stop in disbelief.
A block in front of them, spanning the breadth of the plaza in front of the embassy, hundreds of feet deep, were thousands of people, massed together and filling the approach with the unyielding greatness of united silence. Unmoving, undisturbed, placid but resolute, they stood together, leaving no gap unfilled and no route unplugged as they defended the aliens in their midst. And across the sea of bodies, as it worked deeper towards the building, the people continued filling the stairs leading up to the entrance; and in the doorway itself, the mayor and the bishop of San Francisco, respectively, stood flanking the Denobulan ambassador, linked arm-in-arm in defiant reproach of the Terran rioters.
Slowing to a halt behind the stunned first rank of marchers, a ripple coursed backwards as the bulk of the mob's body conveyed the word to the remaining throng. The chanting slowly died off, and the rhythmic beats became uncertain, then stopped entirely.
The resisters protecting the embassy outnumbered the rioters nearly ten to one, and while they took no aggressive step, the determined embrace of interlocked bodies left no doubt as to their willingness to fight back.
Around the street corners, thousands more were still pouring in, fortifying the lines holding steady behind the citizens of San Francisco; and, amidst the already-filled plaza, more people were pouring forth from the office building and condos that surrounded the plaza. The new additions swelled the ranks of the resolute assembly, unintimidated by the belligerence of the Terran force. It was an encounter repeating itself, across the world, in cities great and villages small.
The people choose their future.