Earth orbit
2200 hours, Starfleet Standardized Time.
It was late in the evening, and despite their best efforts to appear fresh and bright, the hour showed upon the seven Enterprise officers; of them, only Archer was dressed in full uniform, and it failed to hide the bags growing beneath his eyes. The others were adorned in various stages of civilian clothing and ship-board sleepwear—except for Phlox, who had no official uniform and no pajamas.
It was unusual—highly unusual, Archer recognized—to call a mission briefing this late at night, when one sat in the protective embrace of space dock; but two more weeks of additional down-time was being compressed into…ten hours, he noted, somewhat blearily. The Enterprise was rescheduled for launch at 0800 the following morning. It had taken half the day to assemble his command staff, and none of them would sleep until the starship passed the inner belt.
That is, half his command staff. Archer winced at the hiccup in his thoughts; for in name, his command staff was present, but the people were not. T'Pol, his right hand, was absent, still somewhere behind the veil of the Vulcan High Command; and in truth, Archer was worried that he might never see her again. Her decision to accompany the crew into the Expanse resulted in the High Command declaring T'Pol to be absent without leave; if and when the Vulcan doctors cleared her, she was facing charges for desertion.
Commander Tucker—the captain's other right hand. Trip was currently below decks, helping with the frenzied last-minute repairs and upgrades; but when they departed in the morning, Trip would be left behind, grounded indefinitely by powers greater than either of them.
Their replacements were capable…but it wasn't the same.
"I remember reading something about the embryos," Travis commented. He stood across from the captain, in the briefing alcove at the rear of the bridge. "But I don't remember anything about some going missing."
The room was small, with a worktable occupying center, but close quarters were a fact of working in space. "There's no public record of it," Archer explained, letting a sharp hint of displeasure tone his words. "Dr. Soong was charged with other offenses, and they negotiated a plea deal to keep him off the stand. Admiral Forrest said that there are barely fifty people alive who know the full story."
"It's unusual, but not unheard of," Malcolm added slowly. "There were a lot of people interested in keeping this quiet."
"If I may, Captain?" Phlox raised his voice to join the conversation. "How exactly are we supposed to find them?"
Archer grimaced; he had spent half the day searching for a good answer. "All we know for certain is that they're operating along the Rigelian Corridor," he answered, somewhat grudgingly; it was far from a satisfactory answer. "Vulcan Intelligence thinks that the Augments might be based in the Borderlands, but they're not certain."
"The Borderlands?" Hoshi added in, quizzically.
126 Ceti
Maâlîk felt a surge of pride as he surveyed his new domain, his pleasure amplified by the sheer audacity of the hijacking. It was greater—by several magnitudes—than anything the exiles had tried before; Raâkîn was habitually cautious, reminding Maâlîk of the old Earth rodents he had read about: so eager to dive underground at the slightest hint of danger. They were weak animals, living in a dangerous world.
But the exiles were not weak; a wolf did not hide in its lair when a rabbit passed by, and neither should a proud and strong race hide itself from the common, servile masses. This ship—his ship—was well-suited for the task ahead.
He folded his arms, flexing his biceps with satisfaction. The interior of the ship was dimly lit, with only a handful of white and red bulbs glowing in hidden recesses, but it was little trouble for him; his augmented eyes handled the darkness with ease, effortlessly able to trace the sharp, jutting edges of the metallic bulkheads and support beams. The Klingons cared little about aesthetics or safety.
From the rear hatchway, he stepped forward, across the vent grilles lining the deck. In the center of the bridge, forming a shallow "v" behind the commander's chair, were the tactical consoles; and he paused at one, studying the readouts that still scrolled across in Klingon nomenclature. Familiar with the alien language, Maâlîk almost preferred its harshness over the smooth prose of the evolving human standard; but he himself was human, and not an accursed Klingon.
With a portion of his mind autonomously tracking the activity on the bridge, Maâlîk noted movement along the engineering consoles; another of the exiles, this one a brunette woman, was turning about in her chair. The barest flicker of his eyes indicated that Maâlîk was listening.
"We've mastered their engineering controls," Pêrsîs reported with an evident air of distaste. "Câîm thinks he can make some improvements."
Maâlîk nodded slightly before smacking the weapons console with his hand. "Wing-mounted disruptor cannons, photon torpedo launchers." He glowered with eager satisfaction. "This ship's an arsenal!"
Pêrsîs smiled, somewhat coyly, at Maâlîk. "We're finally free."
"Yes." Maâlîk returned a predatory smile. "We've been stuck on that damned ball of rock for ten years, hiding like common vermin. With this—" he gestured at the ship around them. "With this, we can finally claim our rightful place."
The rear hatchway clanked again, interrupting their shared moment; framed in the threshold were three more of the exiles. The center one, taller than the others, with ragged blond hair, was Raâkîn; accompanying him, as if bodyguards, were Ruâx and Tûrêl. Raâkîn led the way, stepping firmly and purposefully onto the bridge, sweeping it with an icy glare as his physical presence seemed to swell, filling the compartment with Antarctic calm.
Earth orbit
Travis nodded. "It's not the official designation," he explained, "but the Borderlands encompass portions of several sectors. My family never ran freight in that direction, but we traded stories with haulers who did. I gotta say, Captain," he added, changing his direction, "I can think of safer places to go."
Hoshi gave her fellow lieutenant a wry glare. "Like the Expanse?"
The wave of appreciative chuckles triggered a grin on Travis' face. "Point taken," he allowed as he began tapping the worktable controls. Above the flat, matte surface, a three-dimensional star grid suddenly materialized. "Here's the local sectors," he explained, infusing a portion of the map with misty, blue-tinted light. Four particular stars throbbed brighter than the rest, highlighting the familiar home systems of Vulcan, Andor, Tellar Prime, and Earth.
"Now here—" Travis tapped the controls again, this time summoning a green-tinted cloud. It was roughly twice as large as the first, but the two didn't quite touch; seen from afar, the two seemed to form the upper-left and lower-left legs of a diamond. "That's Orion space," he explained. "Both the official Hegemony, and the Syndicate's sphere of influence. And here—" A third cloud appeared, this one tinted in tan; at its nearest terminus, the region was still some fifty light-years from Orion space, giving the diamond a skewed look. "That's Klingon space."
"And the area inside—" Hoshi gestured towards the misshapen lump of space between the three-legged diamond—"that's the Borderlands?"
"Dead on," Travis replied.
"Starfleet figures that someday, someone will lay claim to it," Archer added, analyzing the map for himself. "It has some strategic value, but that's it."
"The Borderlands are quite scientifically fascinating," Verena Jordan chimed in for the first time, her choice of wording eliciting several groans. The young woman, T'Pol's temporary replacement, was a veteran of the Enterprise's mission in the Delphic Expanse. "It's roughly four thousand cubic light-years of dust and dirt, with only scarce stars, surrounded by richly-populated space."
"Infinite diversity in infinite combinations," Malcolm murmured.
"It's not completely barren," Travis added. "There are clumps of rock; asteroids and shattered planetary cores. It's a profitable place for rare mineral extraction…if you can stand the isolation. The Rigelian Corridor—" He pressed the controls again, this time summoning a bright red line that ran the length of the lower-left side. "It runs from Andor and Vulcan, and down to the Beta Rigel system. If you keep following it, you'll end up at the Klingon homeworld. It's the biggest conduit for shipping in known space, but it comes at a cost."
Travis zeroed the starmap in, highlighting the Corridor. "See here?" he said, poking a finger into the map. "On one side is Orion space. On the other are the Borderlands." The Corridor itself was a sandwiched tunnel, skating its way between the two. "You drift to one side, you get sacked by the Orions; drift to the other, and you get lost in an ocean of dust."
"So…" Phlox allowed the single syllable to drag out. "How exactly are we supposed to find them?"
Archer raised a brow towards Malcolm, who stepped into the briefing role. "These—" three blinking indicators flashed on as he spoke—"are the attacks confirmed by Vulcan Intelligence. And these—" another dozen or so popped up, flashing at slower intervals. "Are confirmed attacks, suspected to be the Augments." The first three were clustered along a stretch of five light-years, while the latter dozen expanded lengthwise to cover approximately twenty light-years; located almost entirely in sector 010, the affected stretch of the Corridor began on the far side of Beta Rigel and ended in the vicinity of the 31 Cancri system.
"What kind of ships are the Augments using?" Travis asked.
"The only confirmations are for rundown transport shuttles," Malcolm replied, sensing the navigator's train of thought. "Their effective operative range can't be more than five light-years."
"So we're looking at a cylinder of space some twenty light-years long…five light-years in radius…" Travis' face puckered as he ran the equation through his mind. "Sixteen hundred cubic light-years."
Hoshi's brow began to wrinkle. "I know this isn't my area," she said, "but we can't cover that much space with a normal search grid, can we?"
Travis smiled and shook his head. "Nope," he answered promptly. "Sixteen hundred cubic light-years? It would take three, four months."
Phlox released an uncharacteristically loud sigh. "So, Captain, how exactly are we supposed to find them?" he asked, for the third time.
There was no use sugar-coating it. "We're bringing Soong along," Archer replied somberly. "We have to get the information from him."
126 Ceti
"A fine ship." Raâkîn growled as he spoke, his voice chilled with hostility. "It's a pity that we have to destroy it."
Maâlîk bristled. "I thought you'd be pleased," he spat out, chafing with the effort of restraining himself. "With this ship, we no longer have to run from engagement. We can fight." Maâlîk tilted his head. "Or have you forgotten how to do that, Raâkîn?"
Before a snarl even escaped his lips, Raâkîn shifted his weight forward, lashing out with a flashing backslap; his hand struck Maâlîk across the face, the force sending the smaller exile up and over the console at his back. Equally fast, Maâlîk was back on his feet, surging forward towards Raâkîn; but the other two exiles had drawn daggers, halting Maâlîk in mid-step.
Maâlîk bit back his initial retort, instead staring at Raâkîn with malignant intensity as he raised a hand to the other exiles, signaling that he would not attack. "I thought you'd be pleased," he snarled, spitting a mouthful of blackened blood onto the deck plates.
Raâkîn returned the deadly glare, and for a moment, neither exile spoke. "I didn't sanction this attack," Raâkîn growled.
"But we succeeded," Maâlîk rejoined through clenched teeth.
"Do you think that matters?" Raâkîn snarled bitterly. "The Klingons will be out for vengeance. They undoubtedly have ships looking for us already."
Maâlîk broke into an angry laugh. "They won't find us!" He glanced around; his outburst had drawn the focus of the bridge crew, none of whom would meet his eyes. He looked down again. "It was time for us to leave this godforsaken planet," he growled softly.
"That is my decision to make, not yours," Raâkîn retorted. His voice quieted momentarily. "Have you forgotten who I am?" His eyes were slit angrily; and after a second's pause, he barked, "HAVE YOU?"
"No, Raâkîn," Maâlîk said, his voice lacking emotion.
"Say it," Raâkîn spat out, not breaking his steady glare.
Maâlîk's response barely escaped through clenched teeth. "You're…our…leader," he replied, grinding out the words.
Raâkîn smiled in satisfaction. "Notify me when our supplies are on board," he said, turning to Tûrêl. "We need to leave the system before the Klingons arrive."
Earth orbit
0600 hours.
"What's the verdict, Trip?" Archer asked with feigned cheerfulness as the two men rounded the outermost ring of E-deck, on route to the airlock.
"I think it's a lousy time for a shake-down cruise," Trip replied, shaking his head in wonderment. The commander—his utility overalls did not have any rank insignia—still looked slightly worse for the wear, but better than he had been in previous weeks. "We haven't even checked all of the stembolts yet."
"We…might be taking care of some things during the cruise." Archer picked his words carefully, trying to reveal everything while saying nothing; it didn't seem right, keeping his once—and hopefully future—chief engineer in complete darkness.
"Oh." Trip's superficial nonchalance couldn't quite conceal his unease. "Smitty's a good engineer," he added quickly, as they turned the final angle of the corridor.
"I've been meaning to ask about that," Archer said, cracking a wry smile as he spoke. The two men came to a halt in the small anteroom. "Smitty?"
Trip's own grin was characteristically crooked. "Yeah, it has nothing to do with his real name. Tell you what—I'll explain it to you, when you bring the Enterprise back in one piece." His eyes shifted to the open airlock doors, and the umbilical beyond. "I gotta go, Captain," he added, cheerlessly. It was painful, leaving the ship and his crew on the dawn of a potentially-dangerous meeting.
Archer nodded in understanding. "We'll be back in a few weeks, Trip," he replied softly. "In the meantime…take care of yourself, okay? I want you back on full duty when we return."
"I don't know about that, Captain," Trip answered lightly, giving a furtive wink. "They have me working on the Columbia." The Enterprise's sister ship was one dock over, going through the final protocols prior to its own launch. "She's the little sister: younger and hotter."
"Get your ass off my ship, Commander," Archer retorted, unable to quash a covert chuckle. "I'll see you when we get back."
Leaving 126 Ceti
The darkness was unending.
Reaching outward in every direction, the blackness welcomed them, inviting them into the comforting depths of unlit wastelands, providing safety and solace in the nether-regions of space; vast regions of Stygian gloom between far-distant stars, with distant pinpricks offering little more than the dying breath of twilight, swallowed up by the never-ending cloak of sunless obscurity.
Somewhere behind them was a fading ember, the last remnant of that isolated isle, clinging tenuously to meager heat against the besieging assault of the darkness. For ten years—measured according to the orbit of an alien planet in a distant system—it had provided shelter and sanctuary, keeping the exiled children alive, but little more; comfort, abundance, and repose were not in the cards as the bedraggled band hid away, coming of age in the midst of such life-adverse conditions.
And now, Raâkîn knew, even that much has been taken from us. The rocky, fragmented orb had provided little more than safety by virtue of anonymity; but thanks to the recklessness of Maâlîk, their obscurity was gone. Preying on small vessels—derelicts, usually, fending off the other bottom-feeders and scavengers—had been one thing. But pirating main-line shipping was something different, something bound to draw the attention of far-more-powerful beings.
And no one—not the Orions, not the Rigelians, and none of the other races which utilized the Corridor—was going to tolerate the presence of a bird-of-prey.
The exiles were strong and vibrant; despite the deprivation of their lives, superior genes and conditioning allowed them to develop into powerful young men and women, easily capable of besting their foes in isolated engagements. They were champions, but their own brazenness was summoning the fury of armies; and even Spartacus had been unable to overcome the might of the Roman legions.
It was unfortunate, Raâkîn recognized, but "Alea iacta est;" the die is cast. It was time for the exiles to flee, to find a new sanctuary, far away from their present enemies; and there, they could carve out a new home, have children, and give birth to a new race of man.
And if Maâlîk jeopardized the exiles again, Raâkîn would have no choice but to kill him.
Earth orbit
Only one task remained prior to launch.
The prisoner—no longer clad in a prison jumpsuit, but wearing a pea-green coat that had seen better days—slowly shuffled along the umbilical, taking care to make no fast movements. A pair of security officers followed behind him, their weapons trained on the aging doctor; and the third, a lieutenant, came behind them, brandishing a data padd and a palm-sized electromagnetic transponder.
Approaching the near terminus, Dr. Soong raised his cuffed hands, as if a supplicant before the captain's throne. "Permission to come aboard, sir?" he asked with the familiar, faintly-mocking tone. He smiled and nodded at the captain with insouciant grace.
Frowning, the captain turned away from Soong. "This is my tactical officer, Lieutenant Commander Reed," he replied curtly, indicating the stiff-lipped Brit.
Malcolm's accent was even more clipped than usual. "Doctor."
Soong replied with a tightened look of his own. "I've heard of you," he observed coolly, "but I don't recognize your face." He leaned inward, as if giving a piece of advice. "You're not getting your fair share of publicity."
"I think I've had all I can stand," Reed muttered at a barely-audible level.
"We've prepared some quarters," Archer broke in, quickly quashing the would-be joust. "You'll be under guard at all times. If you should decide you need to…'clear your head'," he added with a faint smile.
Although Soong tried to mask his response, Archer could tell that his jab struck home. "We're on a starship soon to be at high warp," Soong retorted. "Where exactly would I go?"
Point, set, match, Archer thought to himself with a cringe. "Your quarters are this way," he said, gesturing down the corridor. Seemingly indifferent, Soong stepped down from the airlock; Archer quickly signed the data padd and retrieved the manacle key.
Two of the Enterprise's own officers, Ensigns Rahimi and O'Connell, took up positions on either side of the doctor and directed him down the corridor, and Soong spoke up as they began to walk. "If I could examine the DNA samples the Vulcans recovered," he suggested, speaking over his shoulder towards the captain, "I could tell you something about the current state of the Augments."
Despite the doctor's penchant for insincerity and verbal sparing, Archer felt as though the offer was sincere. "I'll have the information sent to your quarters," he agreed, following behind as they rounded a corner.
"A laboratory would be preferable," Soong countered hopefully. "Your sickbay would be excellent. In fact, I'd enjoy meeting your Doctor Phlox; he has quite the reputation. We could…trade notes."
"I'll consider it." The chill in Archer's voice cut short any further requests.
Somewhere
The darkened corridors of the Ba'Sugh vibrated with the power of the bird-of-prey, humming noisily as the mighty engines thrust the warship across the jet-black expanse of space; it was a raw and lean force, stripped of creature comforts, designed solely for agility and precision in battle. The Klingon Empire possessed brawnier ships, heavy dreadnaughts built for imposing their will upon the Empire's foes; but the Ba'Sugh, nimble and quick, packed quite a punch of its own.
And yet, Maâlîk reflected as he waited in the shadows, willing his muscular frame to disappear in the recesses, we're using it as a glorified escape pod; even now, the ship was warping its way across space, further and further away from their birthright. The might, the force, the intensity of the warship was being used for the ignoble purpose of hiding their escape.
But that was the decision of their leader. And every exile was bound, on the parting commands of their father, to obey Raâkîn in all things.
"Pssst." The Augment hissed harshly as his target entered the corridor, and stepping out in the dim yellow and red lighting, he exposed himself to the newcomer. The second exile glanced around, as if checking for eavesdropping ears; and then ducked into an alcove with Maâlîk.
"Raâkîn is taking us down the Corridor," Pêrsîs whispered harshly, her voice raspy. She moved closer to her fellow exile, drawn in by the potent aroma of his masculinity. "He wouldn't show me the exact coordinates, but he said that it's a system where 'we can live in peace.'" Pêrsîs snorted, as if shocked by the absurdity. "But I'm sure he's already told you that much."
"Raâkîn doesn't tell me anything," Maâlîk answered, his voice ringing with resentment. "But his designs are not hard to crack."
"This isn't what our father wanted." Biting her lip, Pêrsîs looked away for a moment before continuing. "He didn't raise us to—to run away and hide." She shook her head silently. "It's not right." She raised her hands slowly, moving them across Maâlîk's chiseled torso with warm caress.
Maâlîk quivered, almost imperceptibly, under the tender touch. "Raâkîn is scared," he murmured, reaching out to hold Pêrsîs by the arms, feeling her heat around him; the urge to take her was nearly overpowering, but he forced it down, pouring his focus into their words. "He's scared of our destiny."
As if hearing a noise, Pêrsîs turned her head quickly. "Well, what do you propose we do?" she whispered, bringing her eyes back to her fellow exile.
"Raâkîn might listen to you," Maâlîk suggested intently, pulling her stray hairs from his mouth; it helped strengthen him, give him focus, concentrate on what mattered. "You could convince him to reconsider."
Stepping into Maâlîk's embrace, Pêrsîs looked up at him with moistened eyes. "He only wants one thing from me," she said softly, sliding her hands around his torso. "And it isn't advice."
Maâlîk's eyes narrowed harshly. "It doesn't suit you," he replied, tenderness warring with bitterness. "Playing the victim. It doesn't suit you."
Pêrsîs stepped away slightly, in a fog of confusion. "What do you mean?"
"You chose Raâkîn," Maâlîk retorted. Her face fell as the blow struck hard. "You wanted it from him."
"Fuck you," Pêrsîs whispered angrily. Bringing her hands to the front of his chest, she pushed the taller exile into the bulkhead, turned, and strode off down the corridor.
Maâlîk punched the bulkhead in frustration, rewarded only the buckling of hardened plasticine beneath the force of his fist.
Earth
0800 hours.
It's actually a relief, Archer thought to himself as he stepped onto the Enterprise bridge, feeling the familiar sense of home and duty around him. To leave space dock, to leave command, to head off into the vast unknown depths of interstellar space…the gravity of their mission couldn't completely temper the eagerness that swelled upward, the desire to see just what lays out there.
"Status report," he ordered sharply, strolling purposefully across the room. His mind catalogued the responses as they rolled in.
"All tactical systems are a go." Malcolm Reed.
"Science is a go." Verena Jordan.
"Communications is a go." Hoshi Sato.
"Engineering is a go." Kelby, serving as the bridge liaison during launch.
"Sickbay is a go." Although not required, Phlox had joined them.
"Helm is a go." Travis Mayweather.
"Very well." Archer sat down in his command chair, squirmed for a moment, and stood back up; it wasn't the command portion he minded…it was the chair portion that conflicted with his own sense of keen anticipation.
"You're cleared for launch, Enterprise." The overhead voice—with the slightest touch of static—came over the speakers from space dock command.
Even on a 'shakedown' launch, Archer couldn't help but exhale with a deep breath of pride. He was in command of a starship, the pride and joy of Earth's fleet, an unprecedented technological feat; he had an extraordinary crew, most of whom he had been to hell with, returning successfully to tell about it. And the stars—the same stars that had tantalized humanity for millennia—were within grasp.
The wonder was still there.
"Take us out, Travis," he ordered.
The young navigator punched in appropriate commands, signaling to space dock to begin; the first stage of launch was controlled by the facility.
Outside the ship, suited workers watched from vantage points atop the great arms and girders as the remaining umbilicals detached from the hull with miniature puffed explosions, waving snakelike as they retracted into the facility's mechanical bays. The impulse engines cast a blue glow as they warmed, and the mighty starships began easing forward, meters at a time, its course kept perfectly straight by dozens of miniature beams on every side.
Running lights came on, proudly illuminating the giant "Enterprise" painted on the ship's dorsal hull as they passed from the protective cradle, the great starship—shattered only months earlier—once again moving under its own power. It was a marvel of engineering, the best that humanity could build, and it promised the opening of a bold, new era.
"This is space dock command." The voice again came across the speakers. "Control is now transferred to the Enterprise. Godspeed, Enterprise."