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Alpha 2, prepare for the worst
 
Written by : Kylie Lee
Translated by : Laurent
Original published 17 March 2006
French version published 01 May 2007
 
            Alpha 2, prepare for the worst
 
"War," Commander T'Pol repeated, the word stark.
Malcolm Reed, the armory officer, nodded sharply. "That's what Harris said. But do keep in mind that it's Harris. He's not the most reliable of sources." He set a small device on the situation room's table. "He gave me this. It's a dedicated communications device. It's single use and untraceable. He suggested we use it to set up a strategy meeting with him."
Captain Jonathan Archer picked up the communicator and examined it. "Do you believe him, Malcolm? That the Romulans are about to declare war?"
Reed had been asking himself that question ever since his meeting earlier that day. Harris was inherently untrustworthy—Reed knew that. But he remembered Harris's demeanor when he'd said, "I know you don't believe it, Malcolm, but I am a patriot. A true patriot." Harris had said it lightly, but the force of his passion had come through. Reed's own dealings with Harris in the past had taught him that Section 31 was everything to the agent. If Harris left, it could only be because some imperative reason meant he could no longer stay. And Reed hated to think of what might precipitate that kind of event. It would have to be dark indeed.
"Harris believes it. I'm convinced of that," Malcolm temporized. "But I simply cannot trust Harris. He tends to the sin of omission."
"A grave fault," T'Pol agreed, accepting the communicator from Archer.
"I very much dislike the idea of working with him again." Reed leaned against the table. "But I see no alternative." He looked up when T'Pol stirred. "Is something wrong, Commander?"
"No." T'Pol set the communicator on the table. "The technology is distinctively Centauri. Yet my research revealed that he's been on Alpha Centauri in his guise as a waiter for two weeks. That is certainly enough time for a man of Harris's talents to obtain such a device locally."
"You're right." Reed tapped the device. "I saw these in a shop window yesterday, when we were having dinner out. They're mass-produced, and they're all the rage." He smiled. "They also come in red, yellow, and green."
"Well, that's no help." Archer sighed. "All right, here's what we know. First, Commander Tucker had something placed in his brain—information of some kind, we don't know what. That information was removed about ten days ago by the Klingons, who were working with Harris."
"Except Harris is no longer working for Section 31," Reed reminded him.
T'Pol frowned slightly. "Presumably he was when Commander Tucker was kidnapped at Starbase 1 and held for several days. That was when the information was implanted."
Reed hadn't thought of this angle, but he immediately saw T'Pol's point. "So Harris stole the information from Section 31?" It made sense—but, Reed thought, irritated, it would have made even more sense if Harris had told him what that information was.
Archer was already nodding. "And here Doctor Phlox told me I was being a worrywart for insisting that Trip have a security detail. Forget Trip as a security risk—we just need to keep him out of the hands of Section 31. I'd rather not have my chief engineer kidnapped again. And if Harris isn't with Section 31 any more, we don't have an in."
"I'd hate to think of what they'd do if they realized that the information is gone," Reed mused. He'd assigned some of his most observant men and women to the task of shadowing Tucker while the engineer was offworld—as he was today, because Tucker's itinerary had him in meetings and tours all day with Rao Maas, a respected Centauri engineer he'd quickly befriended. He made a mental note to keep Tucker under discreet surveillance while on board ship. Tucker wasn't going to like it. But Reed was all too aware of Section 31's reach. He'd seen too many demonstrations of it, from untraceable communications via supposedly secure consoles to beam-outs. Having a black ops agency inside the umbrella of Starfleet meant that top-secret information—such as ship, communication, or transporter command codes—could be obtained. Reed found himself faced with a security nightmare. Normally he thrived on such a challenge, but Tucker was a close friend.
"I'm sure Section 31 thinks they have Trip on ice," Archer was saying, and Reed pulled his attention back. "They'll come get him when they're ready."
"And we have no idea when that might be," Reed added.
"I too am concerned about Commander Tucker's well-being," T'Pol said. "However, the Romulan threat needs to be our first priority. Mr. Reed, do you advocate meeting with Harris to plot strategy?"
Reed lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "Much as I hate to say it, I don't think we have a choice."
"I agree." Archer pushed the communications device across the table to Reed, who pocketed it. "Set something up, Malcolm. Let's keep the party small: you, me, and T'Pol."
"There's also the matter of the Boomers that Ensign Sato saw with Captain Hendry," T'Pol reminded them. "I am inclined to agree with Mr. Reed: it implies collusion of some kind."
Archer nodded. "That one's obvious. I'll put Travis Mayweather on that. It would be completely natural for him to seek out other Boomers and ask questions. Somebody might let something slip."
Reed suppressed a grin. This kind of mission was right up genial, outgoing Mayweather's alley, and he had an air of innocence about him that led people to say too much. Mayweather let that work in his favor. Reed had learned the hard way not to trust Mayweather's innocent face during poker games. And of course the Boomer would jump at the chance to interact with other Boomers.
"And there are the negotiations," Reed added. "The Romulans like this kind of event. I'm sure they'll be stirring up trouble."
"I believe we can count on that," T'Pol said.
 
********
 
Ensign Hoshi Sato pretended to take notes as she studied the delegates around the negotiating table. Her services as a translator weren't required because all the races represented—from Earth, Alpha Centauri, Tellar, Andoria, Vulcan, and Denobula Triaxa, as well as the Boomers—had languages that the UT translated well. She sat at Archer's side in her role as advisor. She listened carefully to the words used by the delegates—the words underneath the translator, spoken in the original language, and noted nuances that the UT missed. In addition to working with language, Sato worked with people. Her innate sense of pattern recognition, combined with her scholarly knowledge of the elements of language and her knowledge of dozens of languages, took care of the easy stuff: the words. Now she focused on the implied.
Ambassador Soval, the sole Vulcan delegate, without even an aide at his side, was his usual acerbic self, abrupt and to the point. Interestingly, he had chosen to speak in English, not Vulcan. Soval knew the language well after his many years on Earth and spoke it flawlessly. Sato suspected it was a strategy on his part to flatten nuance. That in itself was interesting. But Sato found herself studying him as he cut short what had clearly started out as a long-winded historical exposition on Vulcan historical trading routes, meant to reinforce the Vulcans' rights to spaceways that they had used for centuries, and which the Vulcans did not consider available for negotiation—much to the annoyance of the Andorians and Tellarites. But it wasn't like him to give up the floor so easily. Sato recalled that yesterday he had left immediately upon conclusion of the negotiations, without joining the polite hand-shaking and food-nibbling that occurred afterward. Sato was concerned: this antisocial behavior seemed telling to her, particularly because he'd exhibited the same behavior on board Enterprise. He'd spent most of the trip to Alpha Centauri in his quarters. He looked as he always did, but Sato wondered whether he was ill.
Sato's study of the delegates had revealed to her that Commander Shran was indeed deeply in love with his Aenar counterpart, Jhamel. The beautiful blind woman seemed unaware of his deference to her, his little courtesies, his tendency to incline toward her as she spoke. She sat calmly, proud and pale, only occasionally referring to a PADD-like device that Sato was dying to get her hands on to see how her entirely blind culture recorded information. Sato thought that Jhamel returned Shran's regard, but she was harder to read: body language meant less when those around you could not read it, and Jhamel had always tended to hold herself stiffly. But matters of the heart certainly did little to deter the blue-skinned Andorian from leaping to his feet at the slightest provocation—usually the provocation of one of the pugnacious Tellarite delegates—and ranting.
Her discovery yesterday that the Boomers were somehow involved with Captain Hendry, a shady character the Enterprise had run into before, made Sato consider the two Boomer delegates carefully. The two women, Jacqueline Kearney and Elizabeth Franklin, from two different Boomer ships, sat together and occasionally scribbled notes to each other with styluses on a PADD that they passed back and forth. Kearney, a heavy-set woman with hair as elaborately braided as Jhamel's, was the senior negotiator and did most of the talking. Franklin, a former zero-g handball champion, seemed to retain an interest in fitness: despite her thin frame, Sato saw ropy muscle, and during the breaks, Sato noticed her casually athletic stance.
The Boomers were not seeking exclusive rights to spaceways the way the Vulcans were, with those wishing to use the spaceways paying for the privilege of commerce along the path. Rather, they sought to formalize their extensive system of ships, particularly cargo ships, so that those wishing to ship goods a long distance could work out a path from Boomer ship to Boomer ship, until the goods reached their destination. They were hoping to capitalize on cargo ship captains' desire to avoid long hauls, which were hard on ship and crew, and instead create a series of shorter, permanently established cargo routes. They acknowledged, however, that some cargo required a single haul, but pointed out that these could be matched with the minority of Boomer cargo ships that preferred long hauls. And of course, the Boomers weren't the only people running trade routes. But Sato saw clearly that the Boomers were trying, through these negotiations, to establish themselves as the go-to people for cargo. Successful negotiations, with the seal of approval of a trade agreement, would likely create a cargo monopoly. To Sato's eye, the Boomers had the most to gain from the negotiations: legitimacy as a unified sociopolitical force, separate from Earth.
The two delegates from Denobula Triaxa, Alora and Card, had been chosen by the Denobulans because of their relationship to Enterprise's chief medical officer, Phlox, so that the three might have a reunion. Alora was both Phlox's and Card's wife—an example of the Denobulans' complex marriage customs and social structure. Despite the seemingly arbitrary choice of negotiators, Sato could tell that Alora, the lead negotiator, if not a trade expert, had at least boned up. The Denobulans were not seeking much. Mostly they did not want to be left out, and they wanted to retain their favored-partner trading status with their near neighbors, the Tellarites. Sato had to hide her smile when Alora dressed down the Tellarite delegates: her remarks often began with something along the lines of, "Raf, dear, you're making no sense, and you know it." As a result, their negotiations piggybacked on those of the Tellarites, and the Tellarites were locked in a fierce battle with their old enemies, the Andorians, for control of a disputed volume of space.
Sato found herself perplexed by the two delegates from Alpha Centauri. Although the Centauri were a separate race from humans, with distinctly different blood chemistry and other physiological markers, they seemed very human to her—probably the result of extensive trading and cultural exchange with their near neighbors, Earth, and the close physical resemblance. Yet she found them hard to read. Like Jhamel, they sat quietly and stiffly, and their faces did not betray anger, as Shran's too often did, or amusement, as Alora's and Card's did. A Centauri also ran the proceedings: Saan Phal, a very old woman who ran a strict meeting with a disinterested air that indicated she'd put up with no nonsense from anyone, including her own people. Centauri custom was to slap the table with the flat of the hand to command silence, much in the way that an Earth judge would use a gavel, and she'd been slapping a lot today.
The Centauri did not bring much to the table. Unlike the Boomers, they didn't control a vast network of ships and relationships. Their proximity to Earth, combined with Earth's relative technological superiority, meant that they spent most of their time in Earth's shadow. Earth had ventured out into space sooner than the Centauris and had gained de facto control of the area. The Centauris had long resented Earth's ability to dictate terms. One reason the Centauris had requested plans for the warp 5 engines from Starfleet was their desire to strike out on their own and establish themselves as a power in their own right. From the direction the negotiators—a man named Anun Osoko and a woman named Zei Sak—were going, Sato thought that the Centauris sought legitimacy. It was one reason they had lobbied so hard to sponsor the negotiations.
She'd told Archer yesterday that in her opinion, the Centauri would be happy with whatever they could get, as long as they obtained a foothold in their own right, rather than being carried along on Earth's coattails, as the current trade status had it. She'd recommended that Earth cede the volume of space around Alpha Centauri and instead contract with them, as a show of good faith. The minimal cost would be more than offset by goodwill, which would likely turn into their support at future, more important, negotiations—like the ones Archer hoped would create a federation of friendly races. And Earth was in many ways sympathetic to the Centauri desire for autonomy. After all, Earth experienced something similar with the Vulcans.
And Earth—Sato didn't think Earth's agenda was any secret. With the launch of Enterprise, against the express wishes of their longtime allies, the Vulcans, Earth had thrown down the gauntlet: humans were going out into space, and they were willing to take the consequences. Even though the consequences, which included the conflict with the Xindi, had proved dire, there was no going back. Earth, through accident, circumstance, and geographical location, had found itself to be a player. And the nexus of much of the web of relationships was Jonathan Archer, captain of the Enterprise and unwilling negotiator. But his personal relationship with important Tellarites, Vulcans, Andorians, Aenar, and even Klingons made his voice a trusted one, and Archer's pragmatic outlook made people willing to work with him. Now, Earth sought to take that newfound influence and peddle it into real power. Earth wanted to increase its reach, which would permit Earth and Boomer vessels to increase their territory, which in turn would increase their revenues. But through communication with Starfleet and the higher-ups, Sato had also learned that the monetary advantage would be sacrificed for strong political relationships. It seemed that Archer was not alone in his dream of a unified group of races. Particularly with the Romulan threat, Earth needed all the allies it could get.
Now, Earth, symbolized by Captain Archer, was losing its patience with the continual sniping between the Andorian and the Tellarites. "Commander, we understand," he said loudly, overriding Shran's words. "Look, we're not going to get anywhere if neither of you will actually negotiate. I think Denobula Triaxa makes a good point. You can't expect something for nothing."
"Thank you," Alora said, no trace of frustration or irony in her voice.
"You must then indicate to us why Andoria should give up previously established routes," Jhamel said as Shran swallowed whatever he'd been going to say—or yell, Sato thought, because if he were human, he'd be purple with anger. "Why are we here, if we must give up all for so little in return? We might as well withdraw from negotiation altogether and retain the current contract, which remains in effect for another sixty years."
"Sixty years while the political landscape shifts," Anun Osoko, a Centauri delegate, put in. "It is in Andoria's interest to move with the times, as it is for all of us. Who knows where the Andorian Empire will be in sixty years? Perhaps wiped out."
Shran leapt to his feet again. "The Andorian Empire wiped out? The greatest civilization in—" he began as Saan Phal hit the table. He subsided immediately. He'd learned the hard way that Phal would cease negotiations if he attempted to ignore her. His fellow negotiators had not been happy with each enforced ten-minute break and had made their sentiments clear.
"Andoria and Tellar will remain with me privately," Phal said. "The other delegates may depart. We will reconvene after lunch as scheduled." Her tone brooked no argument.
Sato rose with the others and gathered her things. As she followed Archer's broad back out of the conference room, she fell into step with Card, a fellow linguist. "Is such a private meeting acceptable?" he wondered as they walked into the foyer that curved around the negotiation room. Sato noticed that the screens that broadcast the proceedings had blacked out.
"I don't think they're negotiating," Sato said. "I think they're getting yelled at for failing to negotiate."
"Very likely," Card agreed. "I find myself fascinated by the events. It's such fun, watching everyone! Although I wonder about Ambassador Soval."
"Oh?" Sato said noncommittally, even as her eyes found the ambassador. He had joined T'Pol, who was again wearing her heavy Vulcan robes, and was sipping water.
"Always a pleasure to watch someone with such a grasp of the proceedings that he needs no notes, yet can cite chapter and verse for every Vulcan and human trade agreement ever made. Oh, thank you." Card took several canapés from the tray of a discreet waiter, piling them in a hand, and Sato helped herself too. He popped one in his mouth and spoke around it. Denobulans did not consider it impolite to speak with a full mouth. "And yet he is so withdrawn, so unavailable outside the proceedings. A terrible negotiating strategy! And not like other Vulcans I have known. They may hate going to receptions and parties, but I've danced with a few Vulcan ladies in my time, and they do quite well, quite well indeed."
"Ambassador Soval is very...distinguished," Sato said. She didn't want to share her own concerns about Soval with Card, particularly because she really didn't know the reason behind the Vulcan ambassador's sudden unavailability. "He really prefers to stick to business. But I danced with him once on Earth."
"Was he a good dancer?" Card asked.
"Very," Sato said. She was something of a dancer herself. "His wife had come for a visit, and Vulcan had a reception at the embassy in her honor—she's a distinguished legislator on Vulcan and was on Earth on business. They wore clothes from their province, and we all danced some traditional Vulcan dances. I think he was very happy to see her—as happy as a Vulcan gets, anyway. Actually, it was a really fun party."
"Maybe he'll come to the party at the conclusion of negotiations," Card said. "I assume there will be a party?"
Sato's eye caught Amanda Cole's. The MACO, wearing civvies and a prominently displayed press pass, had risen from her seat when the delegates had straggled out. They acknowledged each other wordlessly. Sato turned her attention back to Card. "There usually is," she said.
"If there isn't one scheduled, then Alora and I will see to it. The Tellarite ship we're staying on has a cargo hold that will do nicely."
Sato grinned. "I somehow can't see the Tellarites dancing."
Card considered. "Their dancing is really more like stomping, but quite easy once you get the hang of it." He demonstrated a few determined, heavy hops. "The Tellarites excel at percussive music, and their dancing is in that vein."
Sato tried to imagine a Tellarite tap-dancing, even as she saw Captain Archer, who had joined T'Pol and Soval, lift a hand as he caught her eye. "Save a Tellarite dance for me," she told Card. "Captain Archer wants me. Excuse me."
"Of course," Card said cheerfully, flagging down another waiter.
As Sato walked across the room to join Archer, Soval handed T'Pol his now-empty bottle of water, turned, and left. The action struck Sato as abrupt and rushed.
"Sir?" Sato said, raising her eyebrows as she joined him and T'Pol.
Archer caught her inquiring expression. "Ambassador Soval is...indisposed," he said. "He's returning to his quarters on Enterprise."
"Is he all right?" Sato asked. It seemed her concerns about Soval were well founded.
"Of more concern are the negotiations," T'Pol said, cutting off any response Archer might make, and Sato realized that any illness or indisposition on Soval's part wasn't going to be explained. "Soval has asked me to take over. He considers the Vulcan attaché too inexperienced to negotiate so important an agreement."
Archer shook his head. "I don't think it's a good idea," he said.
"It could be a problem symbolically," Sato agreed. "Commander, you're first officer on an Earth ship, and a close associate of Captain Archer, the Earth delegate. Forgive me for saying it, but I don't think you'll be perceived as having the necessary distance."
T'Pol placed the empty water bottle on a waiter's tray as the server whisked by. "There is nothing to forgive. I take no offense. Rather, I appreciate your candor. I ask both of you to remember that we Vulcans are renowned for our disinterest, as well as our inability to lie. There is no conflict. My stated aim is to negotiate to the advantage of Vulcan, within the parameters of Vulcan's agreements with other races." She inclined her head toward Archer. "This includes our policies with Earth, of course."
Sato could tell that Archer wasn't completely mollified by her unspoken reassurance. Vulcan was Earth's closest ally, and any negotiations made would reflect that. "Soval doesn't have the authority to reassign my first officer," he grumped. "He can't just...tell me that you're going to take over."
"But he has, and I am inclined to do as he asks, rather than delay until a replacement suitable to Soval can be obtained. It should not interfere with my duties as first officer. I perceive no conflict." T'Pol folded her hands inside the bells of her sleeves and looked at Archer expectantly.
Archer paused a long moment, then exhaled an annoyed breath. "Fine."
"I will file the motion of change immediately with the Centauris," T'Pol said. "Excuse me." She bowed slightly, then turned and left.
"Commander T'Pol seems so much more...Vulcan dressed like that," Sato ventured. She knew better than to ask Archer about Soval. She occasionally received confidences from Archer, but she didn't think that would be the case in this instance. "She's shifted her stance, and she's behaving more formally."
"Just like the good old days." Archer sighed. "Speaking of stance—I'm interested to hear your thoughts on what we've accomplished so far today. Let's get some lunch and do some strategizing." He steered her to the door with a gentle hand on her back. "Do you want to go back to Enterprise or try one of the restaurants in the mall?"
Sato fell into step with Archer as they exited the foyer into the busy street. "The mall, definitely," she said. "I want to practice my Centauri language skills."
 
********
 
Travis Mayweather flipped through an assortment of colorful T-shirts. His Centauri wasn't very good, but even he could tell that the slogans were rude, even obscene. It had seemed odd to him that such merchandise would be placed in such bold proximity to the negotiations, literally two doors down from the site, until he overheard a few Centauri customers sniping about the talks. It seemed that popular sentiment ran against changing the status quo. The display of the shirts was nothing more than the shopkeeper's announcement of his political sentiment.
He'd just decided on a tasteful red shirt with the Centauri flag embroidered on it—a gift for his sister—when his communicator chirped. He dug it out of a pocket and flipped it open. "Mayweather," he said tersely. He'd been waiting for this call, but it was coming early. The negotiations shouldn't let out for another hour.
Amanda Cole's voice sounded. "Ensign, your friends have just sat down for lunch in a restaurant called Tireas, on the corner of Six and Seventeen."
"Acknowledged," Mayweather said, flipping his communicator closed. He quickly chose a souvenir shirt for his brother, Paul, this one bright green and quite clearly rude, and paid. The person who waited on him eyed Mayweather's uniform with disfavor but didn't say anything.
Mayweather opened the door of Tireas ten minutes later. He'd stopped to buy a few other souvenirs, so he had several shopping bags. As he entered, his eyes fell on a party of five seated in the window, talking with a Centauri server. He made his way to the table. "Excuse me," he said as the waiter bowed and withdrew. "You've got to be the Boomer delegation. I'm Travis Mayweather."
"The Boomer from Enterprise!" Jacqueline Kearney cut in. "Sure!"
"I saw you in the window when I was walking by." Mayweather lifted his bags. "I was doing some shopping, but I just had to come in and say hi." He pointed. "Elizabeth Franklin, right? I am such a big fan of yours."
"I'm so glad I've still got fans," Franklin grinned, holding out her hand, and Mayweather leaned over to shake it.
"Are you kidding? That match at the Olympics against Klara Sutton?" Mayweather gave a low whistle. "That was something else."
"My moment of triumph," Franklin admitted. "It was all downhill from there, I'm afraid."
"Nah," Mayweather disagreed. "The Boomer Cup the next year? Come on! Your strategy there got adopted by other zero-g players. I think that's your real contribution to the sport."
"I like him," Franklin said to the table at large.
Mayweather, who had been ready to ask for her autograph to cement his "I'm a big fan" routine, decided not to push his luck. "My brother Paul runs the Horizon and I know he's behind you guys one hundred percent. It's about time the Boomers got in on the action officially."
"The Horizon," Kearney mused. "Oh, of course. I was so sorry to hear about your father's death. I didn't know him that well, but I saw him at some meetings. His was definitely a strong voice. He had no problem saying what he meant, right up front."
"Yeah, he and I have that in common," Mayweather said ruefully, and Kearney laughed.
"Let me introduce you to everybody," Kearney said. "I'm Jacqueline Kearney, but you know that. This is my husband, Blake, and my daughter, Lisa, and this gentleman is of course Leo Osgood."
"Wow," Mayweather said, extending his hand, and Osgood shook it. "The Boomer delegate to Earth Assembly? I never figured I'd meet you. It's an honor." He stepped back. "I know you guys are probably all talking about the negotiations, so I'd better go. But I hope I'll see you around."
"Don't be ridiculous," Franklin said. "We're done talking strategy, and now we're gossiping." She indicated an empty seat. "We've got room. Why don't you join us? We'd love to hear about your time on Enterprise."
"Yes, join us," Kearney said promptly.
"Well, okay...but only if I get to hear a war story about the Olympics," Mayweather said, setting his bags by the empty chair.
"Do not get her started," Osgood advised, and Franklin poked him good-naturedly.
"Have you tried haou?" Mayweather asked as he sat down. "I guess it's a signature dish."
 
********
 
Commander Trip Tucker backed out of the confines of the service tube. "Okay, I'm sold," he admitted, wiping his hands on his uniform, which was covered in smudges of dirt and grease. He was so interested in what he had seen that he was almost—but not quite—able to ignore his pounding headache, the result of the Klingons' extraction of the mysterious information placed in his head by Section 31. He'd been told that the headaches and nausea would dissipate, but it hadn't happened yet. "The way you stabilize antimatter is better than what we use. I admit it. Are you happy now?"
"Perfectly," Rao Maas said smugly. The Centauri engineer, a woman in her fifties, had spent the day giving him a tour of their orbiting shipbuilding facilities. The Centauris had just received warp 5 technology from Starfleet and were interested in integrating technologies. Tucker had given Maas a tour of Enterprise's engineering area yesterday, and now she was returning the favor. To Tucker's annoyance, a two-person security delegation discreetly trailed him. Reed had been unmoved at Tucker's protestations, and Archer had been no help either. Maas didn't seem to mind; she ignored them as completely as she ignored the Centauri engineering staff running around as they worked.
"If you're going to integrate it with warp 5 engines based on Starfleet specs, the main problem is going to be the power source," Tucker opined.
"Ah, yes, I saw that when I reviewed the specs," Maas agreed. "Some kind of mediating interface will have to be constructed, obviously."
"Well, that's going to be a problem." Tucker pulled out a PADD. "But if you guys can figure it out, I'd be real interested in the result, because your antimatter containment is way more stable than ours—much less prone to breach." He squinted at the PADD and cursed inwardly. His headache made it hard to focus his eyes.
"Are you all right, Commander?" Maas asked, putting a hand on his arm as he swayed slightly.
"Fine," Tucker managed after the brief bout of nausea passed. He'd gotten some antinausea medication from Doctor Phlox, but mostly what it did was keep him from vomiting. It didn't make him feel any better. He tucked his PADD back into its pocket and forced cheer into his voice. "You promised me the communications matrix next, and I'm holding you to it."
Maas tugged on his arm, leading him away. "Look at me. I'm a terrible host. I have some chocolate chip cookies my husband made yesterday, in honor of my new friends from Earth, and I've forgotten to offer them to you. Why don't we take a quick break? Let's head for my office. Your, uh, friends can come too." She waved at the two security personnel, who looked surprised at being acknowledged but fell into step behind them, a discreet distance back. "Chocolate chip cookies are very big on Centauri lately. Do you like them?"
"Love 'em," Tucker said, giving in even though the thought of food did not settle well with his stomach. Now that he thought about it, a break was probably a good idea. "Now, I admit pecan pie is my favorite dessert, but I am never one to pass up chocolate chip cookies."
"You'll have to send me a recipe," Maas said. "And pecans. What are pecans?"
"A kind of nut," Tucker said as Maas used a security card to open a door. He followed her into a large laboratory-style room. A few cubicles were clustered in a corner, and Maas led the way to one of them. He wasn't surprised to see that Maas had a cube just like everyone else, even though she in charge of the entire facility.
"I'll give anything a try." Maas uncovered a platter that sat on her desk. Tucker saw photographs of Maas and a man, presumably her husband, in various exotic locales, stuck up above her desk.
"They look great," Tucker said.
"Did they turn out? Are they supposed to be flat like that? My husband wasn't sure."
"They're perfect," Tucker assured her as she passed cookies around.
"I understand that milk is traditional with chocolate chip cookies, but I don't have any. I tried some with coffee last night, though, and that worked well." Maas indicated the other side of the room. "Can you two get coffee for everyone?"
"Sure," one of the security people said around a mouthful of cookie. "These are great. Thanks."
"Our favorite Earth vice: coffee," Maas admitted.
"You guys pick up on the weirdest Earth things," Tucker said. "Chocolate chip cookies?"
"Well, they're really good," Maas said defensively.
"I'm not arguing," Tucker said, nibbling his cookie. She was right: it was really good—not too sweet. Still, the flavor exploded on his tongue. His headache made his senses work overtime. "I just can't figure why popular sentiment is so against the trade talks."
"Everyone thinks we'll just agree with everything Earth does, to stay on your good side, and we'll get a bad deal." Maas took another cookie. "I hate having to make technological advances by getting it from Earth. Trip, you're great, and I like you a lot, but it annoys me no end that we didn't come up with this technology ourselves. I'd rather we were on our own, and I think that's true of most Centauri. It's just that nobody sees the negotiations as bringing that about." She sighed. "Oh, thanks," she said, accepting a mug of coffee from one of the security people. Tucker took one too. "We want to be players, but we don't have the technology to make it happen. We don't have warships or heavy-duty weapons or anything that would enable us to make a show of force."
"There are other ways to do it," Tucker argued. "You don't need to be the big bully, like the Andorians or the Tellarites."
"Then tell me—what do you see as the Centauris' biggest asset? What is it we have to offer? Be frank. Is it our scholarship? Our culture? Our fabulous personalities?"
Tucker shook his head at the bitterness in Maas's voice. "You could start by not thinking so much about Earth," he said. "It's a big galaxy, you know. We're just close by, and we share a lot—like chocolate chip cookies, and on Earth, Centauri jewelry is in style. But Earth isn't going to have a fit if you make deals with other people."
"Unless they're not your allies," Maas pointed out.
"Sure," Tucker agreed. "But we get along with a lot of people. Even Andorians. And the people we don't get along with—well, nobody gets along with them. Klingons—they're not exactly everybody's favorite, with their whole war culture thing. Romulans—who knows about them?" He pointed. "You do not want make any deals with Klingons or Romulans."
Maas shrugged. "If you say so. But you didn't answer my question. What is Centauri's biggest asset?"
Tucker swallowed the last of his cookie and brushed crumbs off his hands. "To be perfectly honest, it's your proximity to Earth," he admitted.
"Yeah." Maas sagged. "I think so too."
"And your fabulous personalities," Tucker added.
Maas forced a smile. "Yes, we are pretty fabulous, aren't we?"
"Absolutely. And great cooks. I haven't had—"
Before Tucker could finish his thought, his world suspended, then disintegrated. The last thing he saw before the familiar sensation of beaming out took him was Maas's sardonic smile turning into an expression of shock.
 
********
 
Archer held the door for Sato, then followed hard on her heels as the two of them rushed into the foyer at the negotiation site. Their lunch had been a long one, and they were running a little behind. From the clock on the wall, Archer could see that they were exactly on time. Their lunch had been broken by a welcome visit from Travis Mayweather, who had himself just finished lunch with the Boomer delegation. Mayweather had given Archer some food for thought: according to Mayweather, Lisa Kearney, delegate Jacqueline Kearney's daughter, had mentioned that their ship, the Fortitude, had met a Klingon ship on their way to the negotiations. Lisa Kearney hadn't used the word "rendezvous," and according to Mayweather, she had not implied that their meeting had been in any way planned. Instead, she'd told a story of fright as a Bird of Prey had uncloaked dramatically in front of the unarmed Fortitude, and the Fortitude's captain had exchanged a few barbs and insults with the Klingon captain before the ship recloaked and went on its way.
But to Archer, the story resonated beyond Mayweather's words. To him, it implied that the Boomers had received the information that had been placed in Tucker's mind. Archer could imagine that while the Klingon captain rattled his saber, an underling covertly contacted someone else on board the Fortitude and provided the information. Once again, Archer cursed Harris for his failure to indicate what this information had been.
The rest of lunch had been spent pleasantly enough with Sato, discussing their impressions of the motivations behind the different negotiating parties. He was particularly interested in Sato's assessment of the Centauris' motivation: legitimacy. He understood that motivation, because Earth had been held—too long, in Archer's opinion—under the thumb of the Vulcans. Even now, the Vulcans tended to see humans as unruly children. And it didn't help that all too often, particularly in the person of Ambassador Soval, Archer saw Vulcans as parental, authoritarian, judgmental figures. Their conversation led Archer to the realization that he'd perceived both the Centauri and Denobulan delegates as basically irrelevant—friends who didn't have the power or authority to meaningfully negotiate, but who would cheerfully fall into line and unfailingly support Earth's policies. He had resolved to correct that dangerous assumption.
"What's going on?" Sato asked, looking around the room, which buzzed with low-voiced conversations. "The doors aren't open yet. And I don't see the Centauri delegates or Saan Phal."
"Shh," Archer said, silencing her with a hand on her shoulder, and he pointed to a nearby journalist as he made a report in front of a colleague holding a camera. The microphone hovered above the journalist like a hummingbird.
"The latest news on the negotiations is that—there is no news," the journalist was saying with a winning smile. "There's been a delay in restarting. It's been announced that the doors will open in a half-hour. Rumors to explain the delay abound, but Saan Phal, the distinguished advocate who came out of retirement to run the proceedings, gave no explanation. Now—" Here the journalist dropped his voice, as if sharing a confidence. "—she was in private conference with the delegates from Tellar and Andoria for over an hour. None of the four delegates would provide an explanation, but the two planets' animosity toward each other is of course well known. Speculation has it that the delay is the result of this private conversation, but of course, that's just speculation." The journalist straightened and returned to reporting instead of sharing rumors. "In other news, polls sponsored by the Centauri League of Allied Offworld Cargo Trade have provided a snapshot of sentiment, and like the other polls, Centauri sentiment runs against new trade agreements..."
Archer and Sato drifted away from the journalist, their curiosity about the delay satisfied. "A half-hour?" Archer asked, looking around. Naturally, all the seats were taken.
Sato pointed. "There's Commander T'Pol, with Lieutenant Reed."
"May as well join them." Archer headed over, Sato trailing behind.
"Captain," T'Pol said in greeting. "There is a delay."
"So I've learned," Archer said. "Has Malcolm been bringing you up to speed?"
"He has," T'Pol said.
"I've also heard from Ensign Mayweather," Reed added. "He ran into some Boomer friends and is visiting their ship. Oh, and Doctor Phlox checked in. He was unexpectedly invited to tour a medical facility today, so he's away from the ship. He wanted to reassure you that sickbay was staffed by his backup."
"Fine," Archer said automatically. "Have you set up a meeting with our friend?" Archer alluded to the meeting with Harris that he'd told Reed to arrange.
"Yes, sir. It's tonight."
"Give me the details after this round of negotiations," Archer ordered, and Reed nodded. Archer could tell that Sato was dying of curiosity, but she simply stood quietly and looked alert. He realized that many of his bridge crew were still ignorant of the whole picture. For instance, only he, T'Pol, Tucker, and Reed knew about Harris, Section 31, and Reed's covert ops history. Similarly, although it was likely that the whole ship knew about Tucker's memory having been erased, thanks to the security required to keep Tucker under surveillance, only the top-level bridge crew knew that information had been extracted by the Klingons—and handed over to the Boomers, as Archer now believed. When the afternoon's meetings were over, it might be a good idea to clarify things with his people. It was getting too hard to keep track of who knew what.
T'Pol's communicator chirped, and T'Pol said, "Excuse me," then flipped it open. "T'Pol," she said.
"Commander," an unfamiliar voice said through T'Pol's communicator. "This is Lieutenant Giordano. We've got a problem—a big, big problem. I know the captain's in negotiations, but—"
"That's Commander Tucker's security detail," Reed murmured, shooting Archer a worried look.
Archer leaned toward T'Pol's communicator, and she extended it so he could speak. "I'm right here, Lieutenant." The clear tension in the security officer's voice alarmed Archer. "And so is Lieutenant Reed."
"Good," Giordano said, voice a little high. "Commander Tucker just—disappeared. Just now."
"What do you mean, disappeared?" Archer demanded, his stomach tightening.
"He apparently was beamed out," came the tense reply, just as another voice cut in. "Hello? Are you there? Is this thing on?" the voice asked. "This is Rao Maas. Hello?"
"Yes, Doctor Maas," Archer said, fighting down the sense of dread.
Maas spoke rapidly. Archer could hear the unease in her voice. "Trip and I were talking when he—um—disappeared, and he and I had just agreed that Alpha Centauri's biggest asset was its proximity to Earth. I just—I don't think you realize how much the Centauri want to match your dominance. I wouldn't put it past our leadership to deal with—with Klingons, or Romulans, or other entities hostile to Earth's interest. I tell you this in the spirit of personal friendship with Commander Tucker, and with thanks for the technology you've granted us—as well as the constant support Earth has shown us over the years."
The warp 5 engine. Archer was suddenly incredibly glad Starfleet had overruled his objections at giving away the technology. Apparently it had meant a great deal to one particular engineer.
"Understood, Doctor Maas," Archer said. "I'm going to send over my chief of security, Lieutenant Reed, to conduct an investigation. Is that a problem?"
"No," Maas said. "But you'd better hurry. I suggest you get here before the Centauri police do. Obviously I have to report this."
Reed leaned toward the communicator and gave Archer a questioning look. Archer gave Reed a nod, telling him to proceed. "I'd like to ask my two security personnel to remain there—I'd like to question all of you," Reed said.
"Understood," Giordano said. "We're in Doctor Maas's office in Sector 3 of the shipbuilding facility."
"Go." Archer indicated the door with his head. "I want a report in person after the negotiations break for—"
"Look. Something's happening," Sato interrupted urgently, and Archer fell silent as he turned to look.
The viewscreens had come to life. All around the room, they flickered in unison, then settled into a view of the Enterprise in orbit around Alpha Centauri. Archer recognized the configuration of the tugs and the courtesy shuttles that carried people from ship to planet.
"Attention," a proud masculine voice boomed through each screen's speakers, the multiple feeds echoing weirdly. "The Romulan Star Empire wishes to make a...demonstration. This will be your only warning."
"No," Sato whispered, her hand slipping around Archer's arm as she stared at the screen. The dread in her voice matched the trepidation Archer felt.
Archer couldn't look away as a ship with an unfamiliar configuration shimmered into being and swooped in. As it fired a single shot at Enterprise at point-blank range, he felt Sato's hand convulse. A beam of energy lanced through the Enterprise's saucer, and his ship blossomed into flame as it tilted about and began to spin slowly, the result of the force of the blow. The aggressor's ship continued its path. Archer saw it shimmer again and disappear right before it moved out of the camera's view. Of course—cloaking technology.
Mere seconds had passed.
"Dear God," he whispered, because he could see bodies of his crew members floating out of the horrible rent. As the ship drifted, its attitude skewed and its orbit broken, the camera shifted to keep it in view. Several tugs and shuttles had been caught in the backblast and were spinning out of control. Archer watched as they smacked into other ships, which were now beginning to move out of the way.
There was a long, electric moment of silence before the room burst into chaos as everyone began shouting at once. Archer heard the journalist say excitedly, "Did you get that? Tell me you got that."
The amplified Romulan voice cut through the chatter easily. "Anyone who assists the humans shall be perceived as an enemy of the Romulan Star Empire. The negotiations will cease."
"Out, now, out," Reed hissed, grabbing Archer's other arm. "Captain, Commander—get out now. Hoshi, come on. You can't do anything."
Archer responded to Reed's tone automatically, because he was in shock. He knew what he'd just seen: a warning shot made for dramatic effect, not damage. Destroying the ship would have meant hitting the nacelles or the power grid. Enterprise hadn't exploded. It was likely repairable—unlike the bodies he'd seen thrown out of the wreckage. The shot was the metaphorical equivalent of a shot over Earth's bow.
Reed hustled them from the room, and Archer lost the rest of the Romulan message, although he could hear the voice continuing. Sato let go of his arm as they rattled down the metal stairs. He could still hear the booming, distorted voice as Reed threw open the door to the street.
"Damn it! Run! It doesn't matter which way! Just run!" Reed shouted from behind him, and Archer broke into a trot.
He should have known. When the ship uncloaked again, this time in atmosphere, the shot through the beautiful, open foyer of the negotiating room collapsed most of the building, and the force of the blast threw him to the ground.
To be continued
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