“Knowing something and proving it aren’t quite the same thing, Travis,” Archer said as he stared through the front windows, beyond which the cobalt sky had already given way to a deep purple, which in turn was quickly yielding to the blackness of space. “As far as we can tell, the projectile ship that wiped out half of Coridan didn’t leave a trace of itself behind. And even if it did, the Coridanites aren’t likely to let us turn what’s left of their home planet upside down searching for it. Besides, several parties other than the Romulans are claiming ‘credit’ for what happened on Coridan. And the Romulans themselves, of course, aren’t talking.”
A bright pinpoint of light hung over the Earth’s nightward terminator. Archer watched as it grew swiftly in brightness until it became recognizable as something far closer to Earth than any of the distant, fixed stars behind it. Its familiar saucer‑and‑twin‑nacelle shape continued growing steadily in the window.
Enterprise.Home.
While Travis continued making his characteristically graceful approach to the ship, Hoshi spoke in incredulous tones. “So without hard evidence that the Romulans were actually behind the Coridan Prime attack…”
Archer completed the thought for her, though he realized that everyone present had probably already done the geopolitical math. “The Coalition Council would be debating a preemptivewar declaration.”
Preemptive war, of course, was strictly forbidden by the Compact. Given the terrible consequences such wars had wrought upon Earth during the previous century–particularly during the Eugenics Wars–Archer saw this prohibition as a wise policy, at least in the abstract. He disagreed vehemently, however, with its present application to the Romulans, whose responsibility for the Coridan attack was really beyond doubt, at least so far as Archer was concerned.
On the one hand, he could certainly understand why the Coalition delegations from both Earth and Vulcan would be loath even to appearto be in violation of the charter before its ink was dry. On the other, he hoped he could count on the Andorians and the Tellarites to have the great good sense to stand on ceremony less than the rest of the Coalition would.
Like Section 31?Archer asked himself, not liking the answer in the least. But he had to face the sad truth of the matter, which was that another Coridan‑like disaster might strike anywhere within the Coalition, and at any time. Perhaps even right here on Earth, whose wounds from the horrendous Xindi attack of not quite two years earlier still had yet to fully heal.
As Mayweather adroitly maneuvered Shuttlepod One back into its launch bay, Archer thought, If the Romulans ever hit Earth as hard as they did Coridan, at least we’ll have the support of the other Coalition worlds.
Forty‑Eight
Tuesday, March 4, 2155
San Francisco
DRAWING THE HOOD of his dark traveler’s robe up so that it covered most of his head, Charles Tucker rounded the damp and deserted street corner, hugging the shadows of two of Grant Avenue’s most venerable brick buildings as he entered an even darker alley. Since this particular crevice between ancient pre‑Third World War structures was located just off Greenwich Street, Trip had expected to catch at least a glimpse of historic Coit Tower looming overhead; however, the evening fog’s omnipresence and the Moon’s utter absence conspired to render the familiar landmark effectively invisible.
A perfect night for a spy to be out and about,Trip thought, suppressing an absurd urge to giggle.
The all but impenetrable gloom all around made Trip distinctly uncomfortable, to say nothing of the ripe‑garbage smell that must have originated inside one of the local restaurants’ large, back‑alley trash bins. He smiled as he reminded himself that he had survived encounters with any number of far more dangerous things, particularly over the course of the past couple of weeks. Still, he couldn’t avoid considering how ironic it would be if he were to get killed by a street criminal–or maybe even by some nut‑job Terra Prime‑loyal Vulcan basher–in some dark and stinking alley on his own home planet, fresh from having survived a harrowing sojourn deep inside Romulan territory.
“Good evening, Commander,” intoned a quiet, even voice shrouded in darkness. The voice, which sounded uncomfortably close, made Trip jump involuntarily, though he recognized it immediately.
“Let’s meet in your office next time,” Trip said. “I’m not a big fan of these film noir locations. I want a bigger ship. And a pony.”
Harris stepped closer, chuckling as Trip finally glimpsed his silhouette. The other man’s unassuming shape seemed to devour whatever scant illumination was present; Trip decided this was because he was clad in the same dark, leatherlike garment he’d been wearing the last time they had communicated. According to Malcolm, it was almost a required uniform for bureau insiders.
“Sorry to have startled you, Commander,” Harris said.
Trip shook his head. “Nothing much really startles me these days.”
“I suppose not.” Harris chuckled again. “I’m eager to read your report. Coridan notwithstanding, I trust congratulations are in order for a job well done?”
“You tell me, Harris,” Trip said as he handed Harris a small cylindrical object. “For starters, here’s the data rod Phuong was carrying.”
Trip’s eyes had adjusted well enough to the darkness to see the wariness taking shape on Harris’s face. “ Wascarrying?” the spymaster said.
“When the Romulans killed him,” Trip said, nodding. “I’m sorry to have to bring you such bad news.”
“I trust you also have some better news, Commander. Please tell me you made Phuong’s sacrifice mean something.” The wariness in Harris’s expression had given way to unmistakable grief, making Trip regret having broken the news of Phuong’s death so bluntly.
Trip felt that grief quite keenly as well, having come to regard Phuong as a comrade‑in‑arms–and now one that had fallen in a battle that he, Trip, had survived, at no small cost in terms of self‑recrimination. Trip supposed he would never stop asking himself if he could have done more to save Phuong.
“I owe him at least that much,” Trip said at length. “I have good reason to believe that the Romulans won’t succeed in perfecting Doctor Ehrehin’s warp‑seven drive anytime soon. Here are the details.” He handed Harris a second data rod.
“Were you able to bring Ehrehin to Earth?” Harris wanted to know. “Or did you have to kill him?”
Trip shook his head. “Neither.”
Harris’s scowl pierced the darkness. “Then how can you have ‘good reason’ to believe anything,Commander?”
Trip responded with a wry smile. “I guess you had to have been there, Harris. You see, we discovered a huge gap in our intelligence about the Romulans. Starting with this.” He lowered the hood of his robe, turning his head so that Harris could get a good look at his elegantly pointed ears and gracefully upswept eyebrows.
Harris gasped, though he was clearly trying to contain his astonishment. “My God. The Adigeon surgeons made you look like a Vulcan.”
Trip nodded. “But only because Romulans and Vulcans are ‘kissing cousins,’ so to speak. I know, it surprised hell out of me and Phuong, too. Of course, we’re going to have to keep this under our hats.”
“Of course, Commander. This will have to become one of the bureau’s most closely guarded secrets. If this were to become public knowledge, it would probably shred the Coalition Compact.” Harris paused, sighing, evidently still reeling from what he’d just learned. Then he fixed Trip with a hard gaze, like a pair of searchlights lancing through the gloom. “We are both going to have to work harder than ever to manage the Romulan problem now.”
“ We,” Trip thought. As if my staying on this Romulan thing has already been decided.
Trip found it impossible to avoid making an accusation. “You never expected my ‘death’ to be temporary, did you, Harris?”