Текст книги "The Good That Men Do"

Автор книги: Andy Mangels

Соавторы: Michael Martin
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Текущая страница: 23 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

Archer’s jaw dropped like an anchor when the Vulcan responded with an incongruous ear‑to‑ear grin–and spoke with a voice that he had half expected never to hear again.

“Cap’n, it’s me.It’s Trip.”

Archer’s bemusement quickly gave way to a broad smile of his own. He walked over to his old friend and grabbed him in an unself‑conscious bear hug.

“Easy, Captain. In spite of how I look these days, my ribs are still only human.”

Archer released him and took a step back, studying his old friend’s surgically altered features, his dark hair, prominent brow, and upswept eyebrows. Most striking of all were Trip’s elegantly tapered pointed ears. He doubted that Trip’s own parents would have recognized him, but he also had the grace not to utter that particular thought aloud.

“So you’re a Vulcan now,” Archer said with a wry smile. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, Trip…but why are you here?”

“I figured you’d be nervous about delivering your speech, so I won’t stay long. Written it yet, by the way?” Trip’s grin broadened.

Archer made a mock frown as he picked up the padd that contained the text of his speech, along with an intimidatingly vast amount of source material drawn from the historical records of four planets. The device now displayed the surprisingly profound words, first uttered centuries ago, of Shallash, the second Liberator of Tellar; Archer was determined to find a way to work them into his own presentation somehow.

“Still working on it,” he finally said noncommittally.

“I came to wish you luck, Jonathan,” Trip said. Archer couldn’t remember the last time Trip had addressed him by his first name, but he knew that his old friend had more than earned the right. Besides, Trip was no longer his subordinate. He was simply a friend, and an ally.

Trip reached into his black robe and withdrew a single folded sheet of paper, which he placed carefully in Archer’s hands. “I also came to ask you to deliver this to T’Pol before you give your speech,” he said. “I’d tell you to knock ’em dead, by the way, but that would probably be in poor taste. So how about ‘break a leg’ instead? I’ll be watching.”

With that, Trip turned and exited through the same door Archer had used to enter. Still carrying his padd, Archer tucked the note into his jacket, then followed Trip’s footsteps back out into the corridor.

He wasn’t a bit surprised to find no trace of his friend.

Raising his padd to resume his eleventh‑hour revision of his speech, Archer walked down the corridor and entered a backstage anteroom adjacent to a staircase that led upward to the raised speaker’s dais on the auditorium’s wide stage.

Looking up briefly from the padd, he saw that T’Pol and Phlox were already awaiting him there, the latter offering a broad smile, the former bearing a disapproving scowl. Once again, T’Pol strode up to him and began adjusting his collar, making him feel like a little kid who’d just been caught sneaking away to the playground while still dressed up in his Sunday best.

“Please stand still,” she said sternly. With an involuntary roll of his eyes, Archer complied while still trying to see the text on his padd.

But T’Pol evidently wasn’t quite finished upbraiding him. “If you hadn’t waited until the last minute, you would have had time to memorize your speech.”

His gaze still on the scrolling text, he murmured, “You sound like my ninth‑grade teacher.”

Archer glanced away from his display and saw that Phlox was examining a padd of his own. The doctor seemed quite impressed by whatever he was reading.

“There are dignitaries here from eighteendifferent worlds,” Phlox said in his customarily punctilious but upbeat tones. “It’s a good sign. I wouldn’t be surprised if this alliance begins to expand before we know it.” He paused to fix his azure‑eyed gaze firmly upon Archer. “You should be very proud of yourself, Captain.”

Archer waved his padd in the air, then returned to studying his speech. “I’ll be proud of myself if I get this speech out in one piece.”

Phlox shook his head in gentle reprimand. “That’s notwhat I meant.”

Archer allowed the hand that held the padd to drop to his side momentarily, and met Phlox’s mild gaze. “I know what you meant, Phlox. And I appreciate it. But this is not about me.”

T’Pol looked annoyed, at least for a Vulcan. “Why do so many humans refuse to take credit where credit is due? There are times when modesty and humility are quite illogical.”

Archer noticed some movement in his peripheral vision. He turned toward the stairs that led up to the dais, and saw a young, shaved‑headed male Starfleet ensign walking resolutely down the steps toward him.

“Whenever you’re ready, sir,” the ensign said after coming to attention before him.

Archer nodded to the ensign, dismissing him, and the young man immediately disappeared back up the steps, no doubt to join the detachment charged with guarding the various dignitaries and speakers who would be using it throughout the day as the formal Coalition Compact signing ceremony neared. Beyond the anteroom, Archer could hear the murmur of the crowd receding as his date with destiny approached. They were waiting for him.

“Well, I’ve got three wives waiting,” Phlox said, walking toward Archer. “I’d better go and join them.” He paused beside Archer for a moment and placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “I’d wish you good luck, Captain, but you’ve always had an ample supply.” Phlox’s warm smile stretched until it became impossibly broad.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Archer said, then watched the doctor’s back as it retreated from the antechamber. Turning toward T’Pol, the captain favored the Vulcan with a wry grin. “You’d better get out there. You don’t want to miss me screwing this thing up.”

T’Pol looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. “I’m going to remain down here, if you don’t mind.”

“You never liked crowds, did you?” Archer said, smiling. Padd still in hand, he turned toward the stairs and began ascending them while trying to construct an emotional levee to contain the rising tide of nervousness he was feeling. They’re waiting for me out there!

T’Pol spoke behind him. “You look very…heroic.”

Archer paused on the staircase in mid‑step, allowing this rare compliment from the usually stoic Vulcan to wash over him. He turned back toward her and stepped back down into the antechamber.

He stood face‑to‑face with T’Pol, not wishing to trivialize the moment by smiling or joking about it. Although he knew it went against everything he understood about Vulcan propriety, he gathered her into a warm but platonic embrace. He wasn’t certain, but it seemed to him that she was trying to return the hug, at least insofar as a Vulcan could consent to making such an apparent display of emotion.

The embrace lingered for a measureless interval until Archer heard the ocean‑tide noise of the crowd rising again. They were still waiting for the day’s first speaker, perhaps checking their chronometers and wondering what had become of him.

As he gently separated from her, he remembered the note that Trip had entrusted to him–a note that Archer hadn’t looked at and whose contents Trip hadn’t explained. He reached into his coat and extracted the single folded sheet, wondering whether it contained a final farewell–and if he’d see his oldest friend ever again.

Archer wordlessly handed her the note, then withdrew a few paces as she unfolded the paper and read its contents, her unlined face betraying not the slightest reaction as her dark eyes absorbed Trip’s message.

Then something unidentifiable, and perhaps even worrisome, passed behind T’Pol’s dark eyes.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come up and watch the speeches?” Archer asked.

She nodded. “Thank you, Captain. I am quite certain.”

Archer nodded silently, then walked back to the steps that led up to the dais.

It’s finally showtime,he thought, his heart racing as he ascended the steps yet again. He mounted the stage and strode onto the dais, clutching his padd nearly hard enough to shatter it.

And as he tried vainly to take in the impossible hugeness of the audience, Archer decided he’d much rather face a dozen bloodthirsty, d’k tahg‑wielding Klingons.

Fifty

Wednesday, March 5, 2155

Candlestick Park, San Francisco

AS T’POL OPENED THE DOOR to Archer’s dressing room, apprehension and eagerness struggled within her even more vehemently than the debates between Sessinek, T’Karik, and Surak that her mother T’Les had told her about so often during her childhood.

She was greeted by a young‑looking male Vulcan who sat in the small room’s single chair as if he had been waiting for her to arrive. The first peculiarity she noticed about him was his rather prominent brow ridge.

The second was his voice.

“Hello, T’Pol,” he said. Although his face was unfamiliar–unless, she thought, she had glimpsed it once before in a dream–his voice, though altered, was unmistakable. After all, very few Vulcans had ever picked up an Alabama‑Florida accent.

“Trip?” In spite of what had been written on the extremely surprising note the captain had delivered to her–an apparently genuine handwritten message from Trip Tucker that purported to have been written today–she could scarcely contain her surprise at seeing him.

A sheepish grin spread itself across the man’s face, confirming his identity as conclusively as had the sound of his voice. “Maybe I dreamed it, but I’m prettysure I told you we weren’t going to lose touch,” he said. “By the way, that Starfleet uniform looks really good on you.”

He approached her and gently took the folded white sheet of paper she still carried between her suddenly nerveless fingers. “Mind if I take this back? I have to keep the fact that I’m still alive a secret. From mostpeople, that is.” He folded the sheet again and tucked it into a pocket inside his black traveler’s robe.

It occurred to her then that the instinct she had experienced immediately after Trip’s “death” now stood vindicated. Her early, and apparently illogical, conviction that Trip–along with the mind‑link she’d shared with him before their romantic entanglement had dissolved–had indeed somehow survived had been borne out. She was dumbstruck for a seeming eternity, until she found the one word that best expressed her bewildered state of mind:

“Why?”

His smile faded, and a look of intense regret colored his now uncannily Vulcanoid features. “The Romulans were about to perfect a new warp seven–capable spacedrive. Somebody had to infiltrate the project and stop them. Somebody who already had some close‑up familiarity with their technology.”

“And did you succeed in stopping this project?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You know, I’m still not completely sure about that. I guess we’ll all find out soon enough. I can only hope I did a better job on that front than I did in preventing their attack on Coridan.”

“The devastation on Coridan Prime would have been far worse had we not warned them. I assume you had something to do with enabling us to do that.” She paused, then added, “ Youwere Lazarus.”

Trip nodded. “I warned Captain Archer about what the Romulans were planning for Coridan as quickly as I could. I wasn’t quite quick enough, though. But I keep telling myself my warning made somesort of difference anyway, just so I can get to sleep at night. Sometimes it even works.”

“So out of all the possible candidates in Starfleet, Starfleet Command selected youto infiltrate the Romulan Star Empire.”

“Yes. But it wasn’t exactly Starfleet Command. It’s a covert ops bureau buried deep inside Starfleet Intelligence. In fact, Starfleet Command would probably deny even knowing about it.”

“Deceit,” she said, her voice edged more sharply than she had intended. “How very human.”

“Oh, come on, T’Pol,” he said, his brow furrowing. “Humans sure as hell don’t have a monopoly on deceit.”

“Vulcans do not make a habit of lying, or of concealing the truth.”

“Then you folks must be quite a bit better at it than weare. But even Vulcans get caught sometimes in the middle of a whopper. Do I have to remind you about the Vulcan operatives who were secretly spying on the Andorians on P’Jem? Or how your former fearless leader V’Las set up those terrorist attacks last year, then tried to pin ’em on T’Pau and the other Syrrannites?”

Including T’Les, my mother,she thought. T’Les had died during that terrible time.

Though Trip’s words stung her, T’Pol carefully schooled her mien to maintain its best display of Vulcan equanimity. There was no point in continuing to argue the point; she knew that he was right. Nevertheless, she still felt incensed–illogically, she had to admit–that he had deigned, whether under orders or not, to keep concealed from her something as important as the faking of his own death. She stared at him in silence, not trusting herself to speak again until she succeeded in calming her roiling emotions, or at least in centering herself somewhat.

“You should have taken me into your confidence,” she said at length, finally breaking the silence that had begun to stretch awkwardly between them.

“You’re probably right, T’Pol. And I’m sorry.” His eyes glistened with regret, and she was startled when she realized that her own eyes were waging a struggle of their own against a rush of unshed tears. “ Probably”?

“Who else knows?” she said aloud.

Tears finally began running freely down his cheeks. “Malcolm. Phlox. The captain.”

Only those with an operational need to know,she thought, understanding but still somewhat resentful. And angry. And hurt.

“I’m so sorry, T’Pol.”

Still battling her own emotions, she said, “I am…gratified that you survived.”

“Gratified, but also damned pissed off,” Trip said, smiling through his tears.

“Vulcans do not experience such base emotions.”

“Horse apples they don’t.”

“I certainly hope no one else sees you in this emotional state,” she said, though in truth she wasn’t eager to let anybody see heranytime soon either.

“What, are you afraid I’ll give Vulcans a bad name?” Trip said, chuckling at his own comment as he wiped at his still‑flowing tears with the heels of both hands.

T’Pol stood watching him, feeling awkward and inadequate to do anything to comfort him, or herself for that matter. Her arms felt like useless vestigial appendages, so she clasped her hands behind her back to keep them out of her way. She wondered how he would react if she were to initiate the same sort of affectionate human embrace to which Captain Archer had spontaneously resorted only a few minutes ago.

Then, as she studied his overwrought face, a fundamental realization struck her: He had said he had been sent into the Romulan Star Empire as an infiltrator. Therefore Charles Tucker now wore the face of a Romulan.

And the face of a Romulan was all but indistinguishable from that of a Vulcan.

“Your…appearance suggests that Romulans and Vulcans are kindred species,” T’Pol said once she’d found her voice again.

“Looks that way.”

Oddly, her emotions began to calm now that she had an external problem of some importance with which to occupy her mind. “Does Captain Archer know?”

“I’m sure he’ll figure it out once he’s a little bit less preoccupied.”

“Of course,” she said, nodding, training her attention back upon the core of Trip’s surprising revelation. “If the Romulans truly are a throwback to the warlike, colonizing period of our ancient ancestors, then all the Coalition worlds are in grave danger. The Romulans will never stop attacking us voluntarily.”

“I know,” Trip said.

At that moment T’Pol understood with immediate, heart‑breaking certainty that he intended to go back among them, and probably quite soon. She could sense from the resolve in his voice that it would not only be useless to try to talk him out of it, but also that it would be dangerous to the Coalition should his mission be interrupted or delayed.

And there was another grave danger as well, one that could not only disproportionately affect her homeworld, but might also shatter the entire alliance if it wasn’t addressed properly.

“The Coalition will be fragile for a long time, Trip, even after the delegates sign the Compact,” she said.

“I figured that kind of goes without saying,” he said, regarding her with evident curiosity. “What exactly are you getting at?”

“I speak of Vulcan’s…evident kinship with the Romulans. Should this secret ever get out, the other Coalition members–even Earth–will distrust us. The Andorians would almost certainly demand our withdrawal from the alliance, or else abandon it themselves. Even if the Andorian‑Vulcan war that would almost inevitably result didn’t directly involve Earth and Tellar, it would render the entire Coalition more vulnerable than ever to Romulan conquest.”

Trip seemed to be listening with what T’Pol regarded as an appropriately Vulcan degree of sobriety–so long as one overlooked his tear‑streaked cheeks, and his greenish bloodshot eyes.

“Looks like we’ve both done the political math the same way,” he said after she’d finished making her case. “Don’t worry, T’Pol. Your people’s secret is safe with me. And I’m just as sure it’ll be safe with my…associates here on Earth. And with Captain Archer, too. As far as I know, that’s everyone else who’s seen the dirty family linen. I’m sure it’s going to be kept strictly off the record.”

She gathered Trip’s meaning clearly, despite his often perplexing human metaphors. Relief swept through her, like the cooling winter nightwinds that blew so infrequently across the desiccated sands of Gol.

“And yoursecret is safe with me.” She felt certain that there was no way she would voluntarily reveal to anyone what had actually become of him. Being officially dead was his best protection, considering the dangers inherent in interstellar espionage, and the consequences, should his true fate and activities be revealed, were too grave to be contemplated.

He grinned again. “I know, T’Pol. And I think I finally came to understand that when I was in Romulan space and thought I was going to die there….

“I only wish I’d realized it sooner.”

He approached her closely then, put his arms around her, and gathered her in for a kiss. Though surprised, she did not resist, and even found herself reciprocating.

Nearly as soon as it had begun, the kiss was over. “So long, T’Pol. I’ll see you again after this Romulan business is finished. I promise.”

Then he turned, headed for the door, and was gone.

T’Pol stood in the tiny dressing room for several minutes, stunned and silent, alone with her thoughts and her regrets. So much still remained unsaid between them, though she supposed that neither of them had any real need to hear any of it spoken aloud by the other. After all, the vestige of their mind‑link still remained.

She knew that the only constructive–and logical–thing she could do was to look forward, hoping, if not entirely believing, that their paths would indeed cross again someday.

But she was also logical enough to know that no one could entirely avoid taking at least an occasional backward glance.

Reaching into the small hip pocket on her uniform, she extracted a tiny gleaming metal bracelet and raised it nearly to eye level. The dressing room’s bright lights immediately brought out its finely etched inscription:

Elizabeth T’Les Tucker.

Her dead infant daughter, and Trip’s, named for Trip’s dead sister and T’Pol’s dead mother. Created with test tubes and incubators by a craven Terran criminal, the child’s remains now lay buried on Vulcan, though she wasn’t born there, nor anywhere else, strictly speaking. T’Les was buried under those very same sands as well.

Whatever else she could have been or might have become, little Elizabeth now represented the vanishingly small chance that T’Pol and Trip might have had for a future together.

Silently, T’Pol put the bracelet away.

Then she allowed herself to weep once again, this time for everything that might have been.

Archer found the air in the open‑dome stadium damned cold, despite the relative thickness of his dress‑uniform jacket. Standing under an overcast sky, his heart was lodged firmly in his throat as he stood at the podium, facing countless thousands of people hailing from no less than nineteen planets, including Earth. Addressing them, as well as the cameras that would carry his words to billions more, was a daunting prospect, to say the least.

And a lot of these people consider me a hero, dammit!he thought, cursing himself for his continued nervousness. He looked up from the lectern that concealed his padd, imagining all the faces that he couldn’t see clearly in the enormous, faceless crowd, while focusing his gaze on the nearest rows. These were filled with luminaries of numerous species, and many of them would affix their signatures to the historic Coalition Compact later today.

He felt buffeted by the intense pressure of their eyes and their expectations: Admirals Black and Gardner from Starfleet Command; Captain Erika Hernandez, Archer’s one‑time lover and current counterpart aboard the Starship ColumbiaNX‑02; Prime Minister Nathan Samuels and Interior Minister Haroun al‑Rashid of Earth; Ambassadors Soval, Solkar, and L’Nel, and Minister T’Pau of Vulcan; Ambassadors Thoris and sh’Rothress of Andoria, as well as Shran and his new bondmates, Shenar, Vishri, and Jhamel; Ambassador Gral of Tellar; and various members of the press, most of whom were equipped with head‑mounted imaging equipment.

All of it trained squarely upon him,like some mass‑media firing squad.

Archer scowled involuntarily when he noticed Travis’s old flame, the covert Starfleet Intelligence operative Gannet Brooks, sitting among the ranks of the journalists. The press–including the estimable Ms. Brooks–had picked up and run with certain unauthorized remarks made off the record by someone in Nathan Samuels’ office concerning Archer’s Monday conversation with the prime minister about the Coalition delegates’ reluctance to take military action against the Romulans, despite their having attacked Coridan Prime. Although both Archer and Samuels had been ducking interview requests ever since the story had broken–Archer had offered only a neutral but calculatedly surly “no comment” in response to every question the press had hurled his way in public–many among the press seemed convinced that Archer intended to bang the drums of war from the lectern today.

He remained just as convinced as ever that the Romulan threat simply wasn’t going to go away, at least not without a great deal of military “encouragement.” But a declaration of war was the last thing he wanted this day to be about.

Though he couldn’t see any members of his crew, Archer tried to draw strength from the knowledge that Malcolm, Travis, Hoshi, and Phlox were here somewhere pulling for him, probably along with anyone else from Enterprisefor whom Lieutenant O’Neill had authorized shore leave.

Of course, his crew would expect eloquence from him, too. It’s too damned bad Starfleet Academy doesn’treally offer elocution classes for captains,he thought, recalling the observation Malcolm had made a couple of days earlier.

His gaze swept over the nearby Vulcan contingent, settling quickly on Soval, who was watching him with his usual reserved expression, though Archer thought he spied a fair amount of curiosity on the diplomat’s face as well. How could he flounder on the dais right in front of Soval? For years, the Vulcan ambassador had considered Archer an unworthy failure, until he’d finally won Soval over following the Terra Prime crisis.

Archer closed his eyes and took a deep breath, reaching more deeply into his inner resources than he could ever remember having done before. He recalled having briefly carried the disembodied katraof the long‑dead Vulcan philosopher Surak around in his head when he had helped T’Pau gain control of Vulcan’s government last year. Some of Surak’s knowledge seemed to have stayed with him for a short while afterward, such as the ability to use the paralyzing Vulcan nerve‑pinch that T’Pol had never succeeded in teaching him.

Surak, old friend, if there’s any trace of you still left in my brain, I hope you’ll let me use it to calm myself the hell down.

Archer opened his eyes, offered the crowd a gentle smile, and began to speak.

Fifty‑One

Day Eight, Month of Havreen

Dartha City, Romulus

CENTURION TERIX, once again charged with conducting Admiral Valdore’s briefing, finally appeared to be winding down his presentation. “Coridan Prime has suffered what can only be described as a mortal wound, Admiral.”

Ah, to be so young and optimistic,Valdore thought. He allowed the barest trace of a smile to cross his broad lips as he recalled his own stint as a callow young centurion.

Valdore sat behind the heavy sherawood desk in his office in the Romulan Hall of State, scowling up at the semitransparent holographic image that hovered in the air between himself and Terix.

“There are wounds,” Valdore said, “and there are wounds.I myself have recovered from many injuries that others had declared mortal. In a century or so, the Coridanites could well experience just such a healing themselves.”

The centurion seemed taken aback by Valdore’s reaction. “They lost more than half a billion people in the initial attack alone, Admiral. Along with fully half of their planetary dilithium reserves.”

“Which leaves them with a remaining population of upwards of two billion. As well as around half of their planetary dilithium reserves.”

“May I point out, Admiral, that Coridan Prime has withdrawn from the Earth alliance?” Terix said. “The so‑called Coalition of Planets has been more than correspondingly weakened, not only by Coridan’s departure, but also by the sudden and precipitous diminishment of locally available dilithium.”

Valdore nodded. “Indeed. But our incomplete destruction of Coridan seems to have made the worlds that have opted to remainwithin that alliance more steadfast about maintaining it.”

The centurion’s face was flushing a florid, coppery green. “Permission to speak freely, sir?” he said.

“I fear no man’s perception of the truth, Centurion. Speak.”

“Forgive me, Admiral, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were determined to wrest defeat from the bhathof victory.”

Valdore chuckled at that. “I am merely attempting to see the likely consequences of the Coridan attack through the same lens through which First Consul T’Leikha is likely to view them. And likewise, the Praetor. You may do well to think of such exercises as a survival skill.” As he made this last comment, he bared his even, white teeth in a manner that could never be confused with a smile. And while his teeth bore scant resemblance to the curved, serrated bhathof the mountain‑dwelling, fiercely predatory hnoiyikarto which the centurion had referred, Valdore could see that the younger man had taken his meaning instantly.

Terix swallowed hard as he offered the traditional elbow‑against‑the‑heart military salute. “Of course, Admiral. I beg forgiveness.”

“Dismissed.”

After the young officer had turned on his heel and exited, Valdore remained alone in his office, staring silently at the image of a devastated Coridan that the centurion had neglected to deactivate.

Despite its superficial resemblance to a military victory, the sight brought him no joy. Indeed, the suicide mission had been planned by First Consul T’Leikha and the interim military commanders who had been in charge of the Romulan Star Empire’s defense and war making during the time of Valdore’s recent imprisonment following the unfortunate drone‑ship affair.

In fact, Valdore’s direct involvement in Coridan’s devastation had extended only to giving the plan’s final “execute” order, lest he balk and face the wrath of both T’Leikha and the Praetor, and end up either executed himself, or find himself dwelling again in a dim, dank cell like the one the former Senator Vrax now occupied. Valdore had seen no alternative to authorizing the attack, though he felt confident that he never would have conceived such a plan had all the decisions been left up to him.

But these facts did little to expiate the guilt Valdore felt as he watched the image of Coridan’s wreckage continue in its slow, stately rotation through the glare of its virtual sun. Was this really a mission for a military man?he thought. Or was it simply the slaughter of innocent women and children and elders in their beds?

Though he was far too loyal a soldier to speak his misgivings aloud, the part of him that had decades earlier served as a senator alongside Vrax couldn’t help but wonder if the Coridan attack was truly worthy of the un‑sheathing of even a single fighter’s Honor Blade.

And the guilt he carried was exacerbated by the realization that the destruction he’d sanctioned had failed to achieve its intended political effect: the abortion of the signing of the official Earth alliance agreement, which was to have crippled the so‑called Coalition’s ability to defend itself.

But the official papers hadbeen signed, according to the Coalition worlds’ own public newsnets, which the Empire’s intelligence services had long made a habit of monitoring as closely as possible. Now the four remaining Coalition of Planets partners were apparently cleaving together more closely than ever before, and their civilian media were loudly asking when their governments intended to do something about “the Romulan threat.” Therefore Valdore’s hopes for a campaign of relatively resistance‑free–and therefore largely blood‑less–conquest now lay dashed at his feet.

There would be war, realwar rather than the mere subjugation of demoralized and therefore already half‑conquered worlds. And it would certainly come soon, despite the Coalition’s relative paucity of dilithium to power its ships.

But that wasn’t the worst of it. Thanks to a recent extremely poor run of luck, Valdore lacked access to the new Aenar telepaths he’d need if the fleet’s newest telepresence‑piloted warships were to fly effectively and on schedule. He was also beginning to lose faith that the recently recovered and bizarrely incoherent Ehrehin was really capable of delivering a working singularity‑powered stardrive prototype any time in the foreseeable future. What had those dissidents done to him before he’d been picked up by the fleet, alone and nearly catatonic in a small escape pod? Of course, the hope always remained that Ehrehin would one day become lucid enough again to carry the project to fruition, but Valdore had long made it a practice never to rely overmuch upon hope as a tactical weapon. If Ehrehin’s revolutionary new stardrive remained an unrealized dream, then the destruction of all that Coridan dilithium–and the carnage associated with it–would all have been for naught.