Текст книги "The Good That Men Do"

Автор книги: Andy Mangels

Соавторы: Michael Martin
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T’Pol tilted her head, momentarily regarding him as a parent might an obtuse child. “It is logical to assume that the Aenar are not being used for physical labor, given their lack of a visual sense. However–”

“However, their telepathic abilities certainly give them a fair number of other uses for the slavers and their clients,” Reed said, interrupting her in his evident enthusiasm to get to the bottom of the mystery.

Trip cleared his throat, then spoke for the first time in minutes. “What worries me is who the Orions’ customers might be. The last time we ran into something like this it was the Romulans. What if these wholesale abductions mean that the Romulans are planning to send their drone ships against us again? With dozens of Aenar telepaths at their disposal instead of the one they had last time, they could do one hell of a lot of damage.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Shran said in somber tones.

T’Pol looked down at a padd in her hand. “The trajectory the Orion warp signature is following doespoint toward Romulan space.”

“And about three dozen otherstar systems along the way,” Reed said grumpily.

Archer sighed heavily and considered the points of their discussion so far. The conjecture certainly seemed plausible, and if there was some kind of massed drone‑ship attack being planned, it was certainly going to spell trouble for someone. But for whom?

Which planet would the Romulans attack first, if that’s really their plan? Will it be one of the core Coalition worlds? Or will it be a target in one of the nonaligned systems scattered between here and the Romulan Empire?

And therein lay the rub. They had no real proof of anything, other than the scanty evidence that Shran and Theras had provided them.

“Given the circumstances, and the lack of concrete information,” Archer said finally, “I’m not sure I can justify devoting Enterprise’s resources to helping you, Shran.”

Malcolm nodded. “Unless some more definitive evidence pointing to the Romulans emerges, I’m forced to agree.”

Trip scowled, shaking his head in silent dissent, while T’Pol sat impassively, keeping her own counsel in typically Vulcan fashion. Archer had no doubt that at least one of them would insist on having words with him about this matter in private, and soon.

Shran stood up, his fists pounding the tabletop, his antennae rigid. “Captain, you musthelp us! If you don’t, you will not only have dishonored your debt to me, but you also could be leaving your world and your allies exposed to a potentially lethal series of Romulan attacks.”

Archer refused to allow himself to take the emotional bait, though he found it difficult not to respond in kind to Shran’s increasingly bellicose tone. “Shran, it’s that ‘could be’ that sticks for me. I will inform Starfleet Command, and report everything you’ve told me. But unless my superiors order me to pursue the Orions, I simply can’t afford to go off on what could turn into a weekslong interstellar chase. At least, not until after the Coalition Compact business is concluded back on Earth.”

Shran’s skin blushed a darker blue, and he closed his lips tightly, glaring at Archer. Finally, he said, “I am asking you, as an ally, as someone who has fought beside you, andagainst you, to help me find Jhamel.”

Archer glanced briefly at Theras, who seemed to stare at him expressionlessly with those milky, unseeing eyes. He wondered if the Aenar really was as flaccid and lacking in will as he appeared. Though he might well still have been in shock over the abduction of his bondmates, Theras seemed as unmoved by their plight as he’d been by Shran’s earlier declaration of affection for Jhamel.

“We have to be back to Earth in three weeks for the signing ceremony,” Archer said. “Unless Starfleet issues new orders, that’s nonnegotiable. In the meantime, I don’t think we can risk doing anything–including provoking the Orions–that might cause a major disruption to the Coalition. But I will considerall the facts–as you have presented them–and discuss with my superiors and my officers what can be done about your request. In the meantime, you and Theras should take some time for a shower and get some food in the mess. Trip can also assign you an engineer if your ship needs any repairs or supplies.”

Shran continued to glare at Archer as Theras moved his chair back and stood. As soon as he moved aside, Shran stepped forward and put his hands on the table’s edge, then leaned in toward Archer.

“I’d advise you not to waste too much time ‘considering,’ pinkskin. The slavers already have a six‑day head start now.They’re on the move, heading toward the Romulans, with fresh munitions for their war machine. And one of those munitions–whether I can have her or not–is the woman I love.”

Shran strode angrily toward the door, then turned back around to regard the room from the open doorway. “You worry about what you risk by pursuing the Orions.” His voice sounded as cold as Andoria’s northern wastes. “But be certain that you alsoconcern yourself with the danger to the Coalition of Planets should you choose to ignore what I’ve told you.”

Shran stormed out of the captain’s mess, with Theras following meekly behind him.

Archer felt himself shudder involuntarily. Shran’s final comment could be interpreted either as a warning about the Romulans or as a threat from Shran himself.

He had no doubt that the passionate Andorian, even though stripped of both his rank and his ship, could indeed be quite a formidable foe….

Seven

The early twenty‑fifth century

Terrebonne Parish, Louisiana

JAKE SISKO REACHED FORWARD with his right hand, tapping a symbol on one of the pair of padds sitting next to each other on the desk. They had already paused the other moments ago. Nog had brought both of the devices with him, since they had sizable holo‑imagers built into them. The effect was like having simultaneous mini‑holodecks running side by side, like bizarre living doll‑houses. Except this time, though the story began the same for both, the divergences were notable.

He turned toward Nog. “Okay, this is weird. Not alternate universe weird, but it’s not adding up right.”

Nog nodded, his mouth full after taking a hefty gulp of his wine. Swallowing, he said, “I knew you’d be intrigued.”

Jake shook his head. “I don’t know if I’m intrigued, or just plain troubled.”

“Well, it’s not the first time hew‑mon history has gotten distorted,” Nog said. “Look at Zefram Cochrane. He’s still hailed as a great hero at the Academy, even though Troi’s memoir describes him as more of a scared, drunken genius than the larger‑than‑life figure everybody thinks they know.”

“Yeah, but this is morethan that,” Jake said, reaching for his glass. “Cochrane’s personalitywas one thing; we’re seeing whole sequences of history that are different from the version that just about everybody accepts.”

Jake’s stomach gurgled suddenly, and he realized that he hadn’t eaten yet. Rena often joked that if she wasn’t around, he’d starve to death and be eaten by the cat before anyone found him. “Excuse my rumbling,” he said. “I’m going to fix myself a sandwich. Do you want anything to eat?”

“What local delicacy would be good with a pinot noir?” Nog thought for a moment, then grinned. “Do you have any fresh nutria?”

Jake blanched. “Ugh! Not unless you want to go out in the bayou and try to catch them. I can replicate you some, if you really have your heart set on it.”

“Won’t taste quite the same as the wild version, but I suppose it’ll have to do,” Nog said, his shoulders drooping in mock resignation.

Jake stood up and began walking toward the kitchen, rolling his shoulder to try to work a kink out of it. “You know, Nietzsche said, ‘History is nothing more than the belief in the senses, the belief in falsehood.’ I wouldn’t be surprised if a significant amount of what we think we know to be true in our own histories could be represented completely differently two hundred years from now.”

He unwrapped a loaf of bread and sliced two pieces from it with a serrated knife from a wooden rack on the kitchen’s tidy counter. “I remember Dad once telling me about the American presidents, pre‑World War III. He said that history always told people that George Washington was the father of the United States, and that he had been the first president of this country. But there were actually over a dozen men that preceded him, although their powers were different and they were called ‘President of the United States in Congress Assembled.”’

Nog had followed Jake to the kitchen. “You hewmons and your territorialism. You think the history of the Grand Naguses is any different?” He smiled widely. “You should hear some of the ‘facts’ about even recenthistory I’ve been told during my visits to Ferenginar. Some of what’s being taught to my younger brother and sisters about Rom sounds almost like a fairy tale.”

“Well, you have your world, I have mine,” Jake said, slicing some salami he’d pulled from the refrigeration unit. “I knew that World War III had pretty much caused havoc with files and data back in the twenty‑first century, but I don’t think–I didn’tthink that Earth’s history could have gotten so messed up since then.”

Nog picked up the salami log and sniffed at it, then wrinkled his nose as if in disgust. “This smells awful.” He took another sniff. “Why don’t you go ahead and make me a sandwich from it as well?”

Jake snorted a laugh and reached for the loaf of bread. “So, history is being rewritten all over the place, and this is no different, is that what we’re saying?”

Nog put his hands up, protesting. “Not me. I think there’s something more to this.”

“Okay, so returning to the mystery at hand, the accepted holoprogram of 2161 says that Shran was a military hero who disgraced himself in private business and had to fake his own death,” Jake said as he continued cutting the sandwich fixings. “And that he had a five‑year‑old daughter with Jhamel, whom he had met in 2154, and that it was their daughter that was kidnapped. The new holoprogram, that is reported to be from data recorded in 2155, says that Shran was disgraced due to the destruction of his ship, wasn’t even one of Jhamel’s bondmates, and therefore had produced no children with her, and reports that Jhamelwas actually the one who got kidnapped.”

Nog nodded, watching Jake cut the salami. “I don’t think Shran is the real focus of this mystery, though. I think it’s Commander Tucker. More of the foul‑smelling meat, please?”

Jake looked at his friend and affected a perplexed expression. “Commander Tucker has exactly whatto do with foul meat? Oh, you want more on your sandwich.” He gamely sliced off a few more pieces, then began assembling the sandwiches with a graceful economy of movement he’d picked up over the years he’d spent working in his grandfather Joseph’s restaurant in New Orleans. “ Thanksfor spoiling the surprise for me, Nog. You, of course, have seenall this already, so you know what’s coming.”

Nog shook his head. “Actually, I haven’t seen all of it yet. But I didwatch and read through enough of it to get the basic gist before I decided to journey out here to see you.”

Jake cut the sandwiches in half, then slid the knife under them and transferred them to small plates. He handed one to Nog. “Here. Feed yourself, and don’tspoil any more surprises for me.”

“So, you don’t want to hear about the–”

Jake put a hand up over Nog’s mouth, and glared at him sternly. “ No.I’ve already gotten my history through one filter, and now I’m seeing it through another. I don’t need to hear yet another version through the Nog‑filter.”

He picked up his plate and his wineglass and padded toward the desk, a similarly encumbered Nog trailing after him.

“Boy, you can be as grumpy as your dad sometimes,” Nog said, almost under his breath.

“You don’t know the half of it,” Jake said, sitting down in his comfortable writing chair and setting his sandwich to the side. His hand trembled slightly as he moved to activate the padds again.

“Now hush up, and let’s see what comes next.”

Eight

Day Twenty‑One, Month of Tasmeen

Somewhere in Romulan space

DOCTOR EHREHIN WAS AWAKENED in the semidarkness by a hard jolt of confusion. He was unsure for the moment exactly where he was as he rose slowly in his bed, his back protesting as he moved carefully to a sitting position.

“Cunaehr?” he called out, then listened attentively to the silence that answered.

At length he rose from the bed and cinched his robe tightly about his slight frame, tiny lightning bolts of pain assaulting his lower spine. Ignoring the familiar discomfort, he padded barefoot across the thick white carpet toward the heavy curtains that lined the richly appointed bedroom’s wide transparisteel window. He pulled on the sash, letting in the wan of light of the dawn that was just beginning to tease the horizon of this arid, relatively undeveloped planet.

Then, all in rush, he remembered where he was: safely ensconced inside one of the secret government villas on Nelvana III. It was the same place in which he had awakened with a quite similar jolt of confusion every morning since the drive‑test mishap at the Unroth facility. He was beginning to believe that he would continue to arise each daybreak in temporary bewilderment, at least until such time as his project support people finally finished putting right the Unroth mess, so that the various tests and analyses could begin to go forward again.

Perhaps that time would arrive soon, since at the moment he truthfully could not recall just how many confusing mornings had passed since the Romulan military had brought him to Nelvana to recuperate in this isolated if luxurious estate.

“Cunaehr?” Ehrehin repeated, after turning away from the window to face the door at the broad bedroom’s opposite side. Still no one answered. Perhaps none of the staff had risen as yet. But that didn’t explain the lack of response of his bodyguards.

“Cunaehr?” Cunaehr, his beloved favorite student and assistant, would never have abandoned him this way.

Ehrehin stopped short, recalling in a sudden wash of grief that Cunaehr would never answer him again. If that reallywas Cunaehr I saw with his head smashed in back at the lab on Unroth,he thought.

He raised a withered hand to a throbbing temple. Why was everything becoming so damned confusing?

Ehrehin was startled out of his musings by a noise that seemed to come from the still dimly lit hallway in front of him. A footfall?

Breakfast, perhaps,he thought, suddenly eager to get on with his normal activities.

He crossed the room quietly and entered the plushly carpeted hallway.

And realized with a start that a pair of large, dark‑clad figures stood in his way. Behind them an indistinct figure lay slumped between the carpeted hallway and the tile floor of one of the villa’s kitchens.

Ehrehin scowled as he looked over each of the men. “You’re not Cunaehr,” he said finally, addressing them both. “Have you come to bring my breakfast?” It was only then that he noticed that neither man carried a tray, cups, or any other food‑related accoutrements.

The man on the left raised a dark, blunt shape that Ehrehin recognized as a military‑issue disruptor pistol, after spending a brief beat puzzling over it. The other man carried one as well.

“Are you my new bodyguard detachment?” Ehrehin said.

“Yes,” said the man on the right after an awkward pause. “Yes, we are.”

Ehrehin took a cautious step backward, but froze when the man on the left brandished his weapon in a menacing fashion.

“Get dressed quickly and quietly, Doctor,” he said. “You are coming with us.”

When Subcommander D’tran entered Valdore’s office, the admiral presumed that he had come to convey the next in D’tran’s series of dierha‑by‑ dierhaintelligence updates. Then Valdore spared a quick glance at the wall chronometer that overlooked the desk behind which he had spent so much of his working life. The admiral saw at once that the other man had actually turned up nearly a quarter‑ dierhaearly.

And from the look on the middle‑aged subcommander’s pale, lined face, he had come bearing tidings that he wasn’t eager to impart.

“Report, Subcommander,” Valdore snapped, having no patience with such stalling. “Just tell me what’s gone wrong.”

D’tran took a deep breath. “It’s Doctor Ehrehin, Admiral. We have…lost him, sir.”

Valdore instantly could see every tactical timetable that he had constructed since his release from imprisonment crashing like an incoming meteor. He rose to his feet, pushing his desk chair toward the weapons‑lined wall several long paces behind him. He leaned forward across the desktop, planting both of his muscular arms on the sherawood surface to support himself. “Do you mean to tell me the doctor has died,Subcommander?”

Somehow, the cowering subcommander avoided taking a step backward. “No, sir. At least, not that we can determine for certain. But I have just confirmed that Ehrehin has been taken from his secure compound, apparently by members of a Romulan dissident group. We are not entirely certain as yet which group is responsible, since no one has spoken up to take ‘credit’ for this crime.”

Evidently it was an unusuallycompetent dissident group,Valdore thought as he released a frustrated sigh. Who knew how far this could set back the development schedule for the new stardrive?

Aloud, he said, “Get me the officers directly responsible for safeguarding Doctor Ehrehin. And see to it that his captors are tracked down. Spare absolutely noeffort, Subcommander.”

“At once,” said D’tran, who appeared more than eager to leave Valdore’s presence and set about his urgent tasks. “May I take my leave of you, sir?”

Another thought suddenly occurred to Valdore. “Wait,” he said, and paused just long enough to let the subcommander realize that another order was forthcoming. “What is the status of the Aenar slaves the Adigeons are brokering for us?”

D’tran regarded him with a somewhat curious expression. “Still en route to our intermediaries on Adigeon Prime, sir.”

“But stillno firm estimated time of arrival?” This was another matter that Valdore was finding increasingly vexing. “What is causing these continual delays?”

“Our intermediaries are blaming the Orions, sir. They are evidently the procurers whom the Adigeons have retained to acquire the…commodity in question. And the Orions seem to be making numerous other stops and connections on their way to the delivery point for our cargo.”

“I now need those telepaths sooner rather than later, Subcommander,” Valdore said in a low growl. “They could well turn out to be our only hope of tracking down Ehrehin and his captors.” The time had come to take a few drastic measures.

“Subcommander,” Valdore continued, “I want you to explain to our ‘esteemed intermediaries’ on Adigeon that their continued safe passage through Romulan space depends greatly upon my continued patience and goodwill. And have them expedite the arrival of those telepaths any way they can.”

“Immediately, sir,” the subcommander said, then snapped off a smart salute and exited the office.

Valdore stood alone in the room for a protracted moment, then walked to the wall at the rear of his office where he kept his many edged weapons on display, now that he had retrieved them from the locker where they had been so haphazardly stored during his long confinement. With care and reverence, he took down his dathe’anofv‑sen–his Honor Blade–which gleamed brightly again now that he had finally found the time to remove the faint patina of tarnish it had picked up in the dank, subterranean storage room. He placed the blade and its scabbard carefully on his uniform belt, straightened his posture, then exited the office to report the latest developments to T’Leikha.

He wondered how much more would be permitted to go wrong before the First Consul required him to allow the Honor Blade to drink deep of his lifeblood.

Nine

Sunday, February 9, 2155

Enterprise NX‑01

THE SILVER‑HAIRED EMINENCE stared impassively from across the approximately sixteen light‑years that separated him from Archer’s ready room aboard Enterprise.

“That’s essentially what happened, sir,” Archer said to Admiral Sam Gardner. “Based, of course, on what Shran and Theras told us.”

His tie slightly askew, the admiral folded his arms in front of himself, displaying the heavily braided sleeves on his dark uniform jacket. “Captain, it sounds to me that you aren’t entirely convinced by Commander Shran’s assertion that the Orion slavers’ action against the Aenar represents a prelude to a large‑scale Romulan military incursion.”

Seated behind the cramped ready room’s small desk, Archer continued to stare straight into his computer monitor, despite the distraction of his chief engineer’s fidgeting; Trip was standing just inside the admiral’s line of sight, alongside a far more tranquil, but no less serious‑visaged T’Pol. Trip had already made it clear that he vehemently agreed with Shran’s assessment, and Archer couldn’t fault him for that, so long as he maintained respect for the chain of command. And, truth be told, Archer felt no small amount of guilt for allowing his upcoming diplomatic duties to keep him from simply rushing into the breach on Shran’s behalf.

Whether or not the Romulans really are about to attack us, Shran is definitely right about at least one thing,Archer thought. Ido owe him.After all, he hadn’t forgotten the rescue on Coridan, or the Andorian’s invaluable help against both the Xindi and the Romulans, or Shran’s admirable restraint when V’Las had tried to start a Vulcan‑Andorian war.

On top of all that, Archer still felt a small pang of regret for having sliced off one of Shran’s antennae with an Ushaanblade. The incident had occurred at the time of last November’s Babel conference and the previous Romulan crisis–so recently, in fact, that Shran’s missing antenna had still only partially grown back. Though he knew that the truncated antenna would probably finish regenerating itself within another month or two, Archer would always suspect that the humiliation associated with the loss would take a good deal longer to heal.

Archer nodded tentatively toward Gardner’s image. “Let’s just say I’m…concerned, Admiral. I think that Starfleet should investigate the matter as thoroughly as possible, if there’s any chance at all that Shran may be right–”

“Captain,”the admiral said, interrupting. “Neither Starfleet nor Earth’s government–all the way up to Minister al‑Rashid, and even Nathan Samuels himself–can afford to risk sending the fleet’s flagship off on what could very well turn into a lengthy and distracting snipe hunt. Not with the Coalition Compact signing ceremonies coming up so soon. Andcertainly not on the basis of such inconclusive evidence.”

The longer Gardner spoke, the more Archer felt his spine stiffen–and the more he was coming around to Trip’s way of thinking. “Respectfully, Admiral, the signing ceremony is three weeks away–”

Gardner interrupted again, causing Archer to bristle further. “The galaxy is avery big place, Captain Archer. And, unfortunately, the slave trade afflicts a fair chunk of it.”

“Perhaps you’ve just identified a very good reason for us to stay out here and do something about it, Admiral,” Archer said, carefully schooling his tone to a fairly convincing degree of calm.

Gardner nettled Archer still further by grinning indulgently. “I would have thought that four years out on the frontier would have taught you a little more patience, Captain.”

Archer returned the admiral’s grin, but with considerably lower wattage. “Patience. Never had much time for it. Sir.”

“Captain. Jonathan.” Gardner appeared to be changing his tack, trying to appear reasonable, rather than patronizing or outright authoritarian. “You’ve been around long enough to know how lawless most of the galaxy is. You and I both know it’s filled to overflowing with slave traders, pirates, gangsters, smugglers, and soldiers‑forhire. The best chance we have of doing anything substantive about that sad reality is the Coalition of Planets. Therefore it’s my duty, and yours as well, to donothing that might conceivably make any of the prospective members any more nervous about entering the alliance than they already are–at least untilafter the Compact is finalized and signed.”

Not for the first time, Archer breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the fates that Starfleet Command had seen fit to entrust Enterpriseto him instead of to Gardner.

The Admiral continued: “And that includes taking risks that might provoke the Orion Syndicate into embargoing any of the Coalition worlds with which they currently do business, such as Coridan or Tellar. Adopting an overly aggressive posture against the Romulans right now is a similarly bad idea, since we don’t yet understand all the repercussions for the allies should hostilities break out within the next three weeks.”

Trip, who was already fairly vibrating with repressed frustration, had apparently reached the limits of his patience. “Admiral, does your list of ‘don’ts’ include leaving our collective ass exposed to a Romulan sneak attack? That’s one‘repercussion’ that’s fairly easy to see.”

“Trip!” Archer snapped, turning toward his engineer and rising from his chair.

“You have something you’d like to share, Commander Tucker?”Gardner asked. Though he hadn’t raised his voice, he no longer sounded as though he wanted to play reasonable.

“I do, Admiral,” Trip said, almost snarling as he stepped toward the computer on Archer’s desk. “Sir, have you even readthe report I filed about the Romulans’ invisible mine field? It was a clear and present danger back when we found it, and I’d bet my commission that the Romulans haven’t gotten any friendlier in the two and a half years that have gone by since. They’ve even tried to install invisibility cloaks on their ships, and if they ever perfect that–” Trip’s anger‑besotted features posed a remarkable contrast to T’Pol’s expression of slightly surprised calm.

“Commander,” Archer ordered, “that’s enough.”

Though still red‑faced, Trip nodded to Archer and looked contrite as he stepped back beside T’Pol.

“I apologize, Admiral,” Archer said as he turned back to the screen in front of the desk. He barely resisted an urge to ask the admiral if he hadactually read Trip’s report on the cloaked Romulan mines, though he strongly suspected that he already knew the answer.

“It’s already forgotten, Captain,”Gardner said, putting on an almost amiable smile. “We’ll chalk it up to garbled communications and leave it at that.”

Archer cast a quick warning glance back at Trip, who took the hint and remained silent.

“Carry on with your present orders, Captain. I look forward to seeing you all at the Coalition Compact ceremonies three weeks from now.”

“Thank you, sir.” Archer knew when he was being shut up and shown the door without having to hear it in so many words.

“Gardner out.”The silver‑haired visage abruptly disappeared from the screen, to be replaced by the white‑on‑blue Earth‑and‑laurel‑leaf insignia of the United Earth government.

Archer turned his chair toward T’Pol and Trip. “Well. That’s that. Gardner is obviously taking no chances. He’s not going to risk doing anything that might rock the boat.” He turned a hard gaze upon Trip. “And he obviously must think I’m running a pirate ship, judging from the discipline around here.”

Trip was shame‑faced. “Sorry, Captain. I opened my mouth without engaging my brain first. As usual.”

Archer couldn’t help but smile at that. “I’m not keeping score, Trip. There isn’t a tote board big enough. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re probably right about the Romulans. You had me half‑convinced when we spoke after we met with Shran and Theras.”

“If you don’t mind my asking,” Trip said, “what brought you the rest of the way to my side of the argument?”

Archer hiked a thumb over his shoulder toward his computer screen. “Admiral Gardner, and his self‑inflicted blind spot. I wonder how many times in history some avoidable catastrophe was allowed to happen only because the leaders at the time were in complete denial about its existence.”

Trip nodded, somber. “I suppose the question now is, What do we do about it?”

“Trip, I’m not sure there is anything we cando,” Archer said with a resigned sigh. “Not without violating direct Starfleet orders.”

“But the Romulans are obviously up to no good, Captain.” Trip’s earlier frustrated tone had returned full force. “And I’d wager that they aren’t going to just sit on their hands until the Coalition has finished dotting all its i’s and crossing all its t’s.”

“Do you suppose, Commander,” T’Pol said with her customary coolness, “that your opinion regarding the Romulans might have been shaded by your recent brush with death inside one of their drone ships?”

Trip regarded her in contemplative silence for a long moment, frowning. At length, he said, “Well, I won’t deny that that incident got my attention, big‑time. But it doesn’t undercut the possibility that the Romulans have just collected enough Aenar telepaths to pull the same trick again, dozens of times, and in dozens of places. In my book, that fact alone puts them on a very short list of nominees for the next big threat against Earth.”

Archer couldn’t disagree, though he still had to admit that he, Trip, and Shran still could neither prove anything nor sway the powers that be to take any preventive action.

Recalling the suddenness of the horrific Xindi attack, Archer hoped it wouldn’t already be too late by the time his superiors finally became convinced.

Lying on the narrow bed in his quarters, his shoulders propped up by a pile of none‑too‑soft Starfleet‑issue pillows, Archer idly tossed a water‑polo ball against one of the four walls of his spartan cabin. Lying in the far corner with his face on his outstretched paws, Archer’s beagle Porthos watched the captain intently.

T’Pol was standing beside Archer, resolutely refusing, as usual, to sit in either of the room’s two simple, gray Starfleet‑issue chairs. He wondered if his first officer found the chairs uncomfortable or if she wasn’t simply trying to keep her distance from Porthos, whose scent she had often said she found disagreeable.

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