ACT FIVE

Earth was in mourning.

From the aircar that was rapidly carrying him home, Jonathan Archer could see the indications of humanity's grief over the millions of lives lost only weeks earlier. Flags were at half-staff across the planet, and wreaths of flowers, both artificial and organic, seemed to be everywhere. Images of those lost – whether in Mumbai, India, or Henan, China, or Sagan City on Mars – seemed to be the centerpiece of these memorial wreaths, and it was difficult to find someone who hadn't lost a friend, or co-worker, or passing acquaintance. For the first time since the immediate aftermath of the Xindi attack, Earth seemed truly united.

It was ironic, Jon reflected bitterly, that an attack that seemed intended to drive humanity apart had accomplished the opposite goal. Where there had once been petty squabbles over territory or representation in the UE senate, now there was complete unity of purpose. Never in the history of mankind had the entire planet been so focused on a single objective.

Or so furious.

Almost overnight, the groups protesting the war with the Romulans seemed to vanish as the mood toward the conflict underwent a massive change. The media especially altered how they were reporting the war, suddenly shifting their focus from the numerous military setbacks to the heroism of the men and women serving in Starfleet. The more cynical part of Jon's psyche wondered if the Romulan destruction of the communication satellite had been perceived by the journalists as an attack on the institution of the news media.

As the reports of the attack filtered in, Archer had initially been worried that this second attack on humanity's homeworld by extraterrestrial forces would reignite the simmering xenophobia that had caused so many problems in the past. To his surprise, however, that was not the case. The images of Ambassador V'Lar leading her consular teams into radiation-ravaged Mumbai to lend assistance were splashed across the news-nets on an almost hourly basis, and the heroic actions of Captain Sopek of the Ni'Var had caused a massive shift in popular opinion for Earth's oldest ally. That Sopek was killed during his defense of humanity only turned him into a martyr.

"Incoming call," the carcomp announced, causing Jon to turn his attention away from the passing cityscape. "Identification: Starfleet Command."

"Accept call," Archer said as the aircar began descending toward ground level. The image of Jon's yeoman appeared upon the small dashboard screen. "What is it, Tyner?" Archer asked.

"I have the details about your meeting with the president, sir," the petty officer replied, and Jon nodded. "The shuttle departs at sixteen hundred and the meeting is scheduled for eighteen hundred." Tyner hesitated, and Archer gave him a 'get on with it' look. "There's a black tie reception at twenty hundred for the Chinese and Indian delegations, sir."

"Dress uniforms," Jon muttered darkly. He loathed these sort of functions in the best of times.

"Yes, sir." It was said with as much contempt as Jon felt; evidently, Tyner hated them too.

"Track down Lieutenant Reynolds and tell him to be ready at fifteen hundred." Archer decided. "I'll want both of you with me in case the president ambushes me with questions again."

"Aye, sir," Tyner said glumly. At Jon's look, he spoke again. "That's all, sir."

"Then get some sleep, Tyner. I'll see you in the morning. Archer out." He pressed the END button on the small display, causing the image of the petty officer to wink out.

"You have arrived," the carcomp declared in its monotone voice. The door retracted almost at the same time, and Jon climbed out of the small automated vehicle, pausing only long enough to grab his briefcase. One of the Starfleet Security officers waiting outside the apartments gave him a quick nod, and slid into the aircar to park it. Archer quickly walked toward the waiting turbolift, fishing out his identification as he did. An armed guard accepted his ID and checked it against the master roster, even though they had gone through this same routine every night for the past fifteen days.

The operator of the apartment's secured turbolift was a grizzled Starfleet veteran who only had one arm after having lost the other one during a plasma fire aboard the UES Ganymede several years earlier. He gave Jon a broad smile as Archer stepped into the lift.

"Evening, Eddie," Jon said in greeting. "Haven't seen you around lately." The lift lurched slightly as it began to climb, and retired Master Chief Petty Officer Edward Boyce shrugged slightly.

"Was at my boy's graduation, Admiral," the retired master chief said with another smile, before abruptly shaking his head bemusedly. "Can you believe he starts STC next week?" Jon blinked in surprise.

"I thought he was going to be a doctor," Archer commented. The last time they had spoken, Boyce had been bubbling with news about his son Robert's plans to become a surgeon.

"He is. Just for Starfleet now, instead of Johns Hopkins." The older man chuckled. "I swear, between the History and Moral Philosophy classes he's been taking, and these damned Gannett Brooks documentaries that keep airing, the boy is halfway convinced that he's destined to be an admiral!" There was no reproach in the master chief's voice, only amused pride. "At least he's not reading Hemingway again..."

"I can talk to him if you like," Jon offered, and Eddie laughed again.

"God no, sir. If you try to talk him out it, he might just sign up for the infantry!" The master chief sobered slightly as the lift began to decelerate. "If it wasn't for this damned arm," he commented softly, an undertone of anger in his voice. "I'd try to sign back up myself."

It was a common refrain, one that Jon had heard numerous times since the attack on Earth. Retired Starfleet and MACO veterans had begun contacting recruiters within hours of the attack to inquire if they could rejoin the Service, many even offering to accept a reduction in grade as long as they were allowed to rejoin. At the same time, adults both young and old across the planet abandoned their previous vocations to volunteer for active duty. For the first time in its existence, the United Earth Space Probe Agency had more personnel than they knew what to do with. Manpower shortages were gone almost overnight.

And still, the volunteers were coming.

With a soft chime, the doors opened, and Jon gave a nod and smile to the retired master chief as he stepped out of the turbolift. There were only three doors on this level, and Archer was glad to see that the logistics officer who currently resided across from him was either asleep or visiting his mistress. The third door was currently vacant, although Jon suspected that Commodore Burnside Clapp – soon to be rear admiral – would be living there soon.

The moment that he stepped into his apartment, Archer knew something was wrong. He silently drew the phase pistol that Reynolds insisted he carry, and crept forward into the large living room. At any other time, he would probably have paused just beyond the threshold to stare at the ugly throw rug that Erika had loved so much, or the silly-looking vase she had bought from a Tellarite trader, or even the beautiful Vulcan wall hanging that he had purchased for her, but his attention was instead riveted on the man sitting on the couch.

Harris.

"The pistol isn't necessary, Admiral," the man stated with a slight smile. He nodded in the direction of where Dumas was lounging on one of the chairs. "I took the liberty of feeding your dog."

"Give me one good reason," Jon said grimly, "why I shouldn't just stun you where you sit."

"Because if you did," Harris replied, still smiling, "I couldn't help you."

"Help me?" Archer gave a short, mirthless chuckle. "What the hell do I need your help for?"

"It has come to my attention," the other man began, his jovial appearance transforming into a dangerous-looking glower, "that the real reason the planetary defense grid didn't work was not because of some mythical super stealth capability on the part of the Romulan warheads."

Jon hesitated for a moment, then slowly lowered the phase pistol. That had been the official story leaked to the media to prevent the public becoming aware that the Romulans had possessed Starfleet IFF codes. According to Archer's best estimate, less than ten people currently knew the truth. Even Gardner didn't know it yet, as Jon had been struggling with whom to inform. Daniels' warning about there being a traitor in Starfleet Command continued to ring in Archer's ears. If he told the wrong person, it could lead to disaster.

He studied the spymaster sitting on his couch for another long moment in an attempt to discern whether the man could be trusted or not. Very little was known about Harris, or the organization that he ran; Jon's attempts to learn more had consistently met with bureaucratic roadblocks or deleted files. Every flag officer that he had spoken to expressed a complete lack of knowledge about any such organization, although Archer doubted that many of them were speaking truthfully. His own research had yielded omnious coincidences since UESPA first launched a Starfleet.

And yet, everything that Jon had discovered seemed to indicate that Harris' organization was dedicated toward the defense of Earth, regardless of the methods they used.

"The Romulans had our IFF codes," Archer finally said, breaking the protracted silence. To his surprise, Harris frowned, clearly surprised at this revelation.

"That's ... less than ideal," the spymaster stated darkly. "I had expected that they may have penetrated the targeting stations with one of their operatives, but this is a bit more troubling." Harris leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he interlocked his fingers together. "You suspect a traitor in Command," he theorized, and Jon nodded.

"I have it on good authority that a traitor exists," he commented.

"From your Mister Daniels," Harris remarked. At Archer's surprised look, the spymaster offered another slight smile. "One or two of my people have had interactions with him in the past, Admiral," he smirked. "You can't conduct an investigation of this magnitude while running the war," Harris continued. "But I can." He rose to his feet. "I will keep you apprised of my findings, Admiral."

"Just like that?" Jon asked, narrowing his eyes. "From what Malcolm told me, you always have an angle." The spymaster chuckled softly.

"As a matter of fact, Admiral," he replied, "I do need your assistance in a small matter." Harris' expression was deadly serious as he spoke.

"What sort of matter?" Archer asked. Jon's eyes widened as Harris answered.

He certainly hadn't expected that.