The spymaster paused, sighed again, then answered with surprising candor. “No, Commander, you’re wrong. I expected your demise to be entirelytemporary–unless, of course, you had gotten yourself killed by the Romulans, which you have to admit wasn’t all that unlikely a prospect, especially on one’s first covert assignment. What I didn’texpect was that, of the two of you, Tinh Hoc Phuong would be the one to die.”
To hell with this,Trip thought, and very nearly began walking away. “Thanks for that ringing vote of confidence in my abilities, Harris.”
“You’ve just provenyour abilities, Commander–by surviving, just the way you always did when you kept Enterpriseup and running out on the galactic frontier. And if you’ve really managed to short‑circuit the Romulans’ warp‑seven drive the way you say you have, then you’ve accomplished in just a couple of weeks what would probably have taken Phuong’s covert ops at least as many months to pull off. On top of that, the Coalition wouldn’t even have known about the suicide attack against Coridan Prime if not for your warnings, which we received as well. With Phuong dead, the bureau–and Earth–will need your abilities more than ever if we’re to keep the Romulans from pulling ahead of us technologically.”
“I agree,” Trip said. “But I think I ought to start by getting my ears bobbed and heading out to Coridan Prime to see about getting one of theirwarp‑seven ships to Earth. Beat the Romulans to the punch, just in case I turn out to be wrong about Ehrehin.”
Harris shook his head. “We already have a number of disguised covert operatives working on just that, Commander, all of them well versed in the intricacies of Coridanite culture, politics, and technology. To be frank, in spite of all their expertise, I’m not all that hopeful for their chances of success, given the very thorough job the Romulans did when they wrecked Coridan’s shipyards.”
Trip didn’t particularly like the drift of the conversation. “You’re saying you want to send me back to where I just came from–where I damned near died–because I’m the only one who’s already dressed for the part?”
Harris seemed not to notice Trip’s unhappy tone. “There’s no better candidate, now that Phuong is dead. We need youback inside the Romulan sphere of influence, Commander, cultivating more permanent sources of humanoid intel for us there. However successful you might have been in monkey‑wrenching Doctor Ehrehin’s warp‑seven program–and regardless of the outcome of our Coridan ops–the Romulan Star Empire isn’t going to stop trying to outdo us in the race for better tactical technology or faster engines. And whether the Coalition members want to believe it or not, the Coridan disaster wasthe first step toward war.”
He paused, letting the words sink in a bit before continuing. “So can we count on you for just one more mission among the Romulans, Commander? And more importantly: Can Earth and the rest of the Coalition count on you?”
“You need me to stay dead,” Trip stated. The idea was very nearly unbearable.
“Only for a while, Commander. A year or two, perhaps. Our most pessimistic experts foresee perhaps five years of Romulan conflict at the very outside.”
Five years of my life, if my life lasts that long,Trip thought grimly. Against the safety of my planet, and everyone I love.
Trip wanted nothing more than to go back to his family. To T’Pol. To his old life aboard Enterprise. To reassure everyone he cared about that he was all right. And to remain for the rest of his days out of the shadows where he now dwelled.
But he also knew that he couldn’t escape his duty to his home planet. His duty to his dead sister, and to the millions of others who had been summarily slain because nobody had seen an alien threat coming out of the clear blue sky until after it was too late.
His duty to all the teeming billions of innocents on Vulcan, on Tellar, on Andoria–and on Earth–who could die just as those slain by the Xindi had died. Just as innumerable Coridanites had been murdered by the Romulans.
If he were to fail to act.
“All right,” Trip said at length.
The spymaster smiled and shook his hand, then placed another data rod squarely in Trip’s palm. “Outstanding, Commander. Here are the mission details, biometrically coded so that only you can read the data. You will, of course, have access to all of the bureau’s resources while you are in our sphere of influence. But you will also, of course, be entirely on your own if you should be captured while operating within Romulan space.”
Trip nodded, feeling as though he had just signed a pact with the devil himself. Maybe he had. But what was his alternative?
“I know the drill, Harris.”
“You’ll be leaving on a civilian transport bound for Vulcan on Thursday morning. Once on Vulcan, you’ll catch a Rigelian freighter for the next leg of your voyage. The details, along with the documents and background you’ll need to support your new undercover identities, are all provided on the data rod.”
Before melting back into the shadows, Harris added, “Make the most of the time between now and your departure date, Commander.”
As he exited the alley and began retracing his steps along Grant Avenue’s fog‑slicked sidewalks back toward his hotel, Trip decided that he would do precisely what Harris had suggested. Though maybe not quite in the way he anticipated.
Forty‑Nine
Wednesday, March 5, 2155
Candlestick Park, San Francisco
ARCHER DIDN’T MUCH LIKE the small dressing room that Nathan Samuels’ people had issued him. Located near the open‑air center of the ancient public auditorium, the little chamber had walls constructed of what appeared to be old cinder blocks that had been repainted countless times over the centuries, and the room felt paradoxically cold and drafty in spite of the alleged presence of one of the finest environmental control systems currently available. According to local legend, the entire stadium had alwaysbeen cold and drafty, even in the dog days of summer nearly two centuries ago when one of the facility’s main uses had been for the exhibition of the now sadly defunct sport of baseball.
The cursor on the padd he’d set down on the dressing room table blinked at him mockingly, as though the device were aware that he was having an extraordinarily difficult time making the final revisions to his speech. He knew, of course, that he should have ceasedtinkering with it at least a day or two ago, but he felt insecure enough as a public speaker–in spite of Malcolm’s having sung the praises of his extemporaneous speechifying–to feel a continuous need to edit and revise the words he’d already written and rewritten.
Those words were, after all, going to be delivered live before an audience of nearly one hundred thousand humans and assorted other sentients from across the sector and beyond, to say nothing of the billions who would view the day’s ceremonies remotely from their various homeworlds. All of them expected to see history made when the Coalition Compact was finally signed later this afternoon by the assembled representatives of four diverse worlds.
Archer started when he heard a sharp knock against the dressing room door, then forced his jangled nerves back under control. Rising from his seat once he felt reasonably composed, he turned to face the door.
“Come.”
The old‑fashioned door, doubtless centuries old, swung open on its steel hinges and admitted a characteristically stoic T’Pol. Archer glanced down at her right hand, from which dangled a small suitcase; he knew it contained a small cache of personal effects that was bound for Trip’s parents. Like T’Pol, they had been given no alternative to believing the lie to which Archer had been a party. Once again, guilt clutched at his heart, though he knew he had no choice other than to endure it in silence. He noted that T’Pol was holding the case’s handle gingerly rather than squeezing it in a death grip that might have shattered it. Not for the first time, he envied her Vulcan composure, though he couldn’t help but wonder how much the effort was costing her.