Rise of the Federation: Live by the Code (7 page)

“Look on the bright side,” Phlox told him. “At least Krit believed he was acting in your defense. As misguided as it was, it was an act of love. I haven’t been so lucky.”

“You are better off without such ‘luck,’ believe me.”

Phlox shook off his solemn mood. “So—what will you do now, Doctor?”

“I’m not sure. Perhaps now, with M’Rek out of the way, I can again petition the Council to finance research into a cure for the Qu’Vat mutation. Perhaps then I can help bring an end to the strife I have caused, and bring stability to the Empire at last.”

“You know,” Phlox couldn’t resist pointing out, “you could simply learn to live together. To look beyond a cosmetic change and learn to cooperate. My people—most of them—have overcome their hatred of the Antarans and learned to work with them as friends.” He chuckled. “My daughter is marrying an Antaran man in just a few weeks. You’re welcome to attend the wedding, if you can.”

Antaak gave the hearty laugh of a man who desperately needed something to laugh about.
“Then you have my congratulations, Phlox! Though I fear I must decline, for I have matters of my own I must attend to. As for the rest . . .”
He sobered and shook his head.
“Such tolerance is not the Klingon way. These smooth brows show the galaxy that we can be conquered by a lowly virus. They are a badge of weakness, and weakness must be destroyed.”

“Are they really, Antaak?” Phlox asked, his voice hardening. “The High Council has seen that you, a ‘weak’
QuchHa’,
acted with true honor and courage, while your
HemQuch
son acted
with treachery and shame. Perhaps they will learn something from that. And if they don’t . . . then at least you should.”

July 15, 2165

Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco

“And do you think Antaak listened?” Jonathan Archer asked Phlox. He had his desk monitor turned around so he could pace the office while receiving the doctor’s report from the Xarantine freighter that was bringing him back to Federation space. It was one way he tried to avoid letting this job make him too sedentary.

“I’m inclined to doubt it, Admiral,”
the Denobulan said.
“He seems more driven than ever to find a ‘cure,’ as he insists on calling it, for the viral mutation. He feels he must redeem his family’s honor at any cost.”

“Do you think he has any chance of succeeding?”

“Hard to say. The metavirus was incredibly aggressive, as you know, inducing systemic changes in nearly every cell in its host’s body. Normally, mutated cells will coexist alongside unaltered cells, and gross physical changes will come slowly if at all. You’d be surprised how many individuals are genetic chimeras—males with a certain percentage of female cells from their mothers, or the like. Normally it has no impact at all on an organism’s gross anatomy or overall body function. But this metavirus infects nearly every cell and triggers it to regenerate, reactivating cytogenic and cytolytic processes that have been dormant since maturity. It’s really quite extraordinary, and it should be quite a challenge to overcome.”
He shook his head.
“Personally I feel Antaak is wasting his time, since the cosmetic and slight neurological changes have a trivial effect on quality of life. But if anyone has a chance of undoing its effects, he does.”

“But not anytime soon, I take it.”

“It could be a lifetime’s work. Or more.”

“And from what you tell me, the Council is divided about how to deal with it.”

“Indeed. Some want to exterminate the
QuchHa’
altogether, others to exile them. Some simply want to declare war on the Federation as retaliation for Earth’s perceived role in creating the virus. However, I gather that one or two
QuchHa’
, the leaders of noble Houses whose wealth
and status enabled them to avoid complete ostracism, have actually put their names in for nomination.”

“Not Admiral Krell?” Archer recalled his contentious dealings with the fleet admiral, a stern, powerful Klingon who had at first hated Archer and Phlox for their roles in turning him into a
QuchHa’
but had ultimately afforded them some measure of respect and become something verging on an ally.

Phlox’s expression was grave.
“I received word from Doctor Kon’Jef that Fleet Admiral Krell has died. Once he carried out the execution of Doctor Krit, he requested that Kon’Jef help him perform the
Mauk-to’Vor,
a form of assisted ritual suicide.”

“Damn.” Archer winced. Why did the Klingons insist on seeing someone’s death as the answer to everything? Not only was it a total waste, but from a coldly political perspective, it had cost the Federation a potential ally in the High Council, or at least a voice of moderation. “Any idea who’s likely to be the next chancellor?”

“Hard to say. Arbiter Deqan is taking his time with the Rite of Succession. Before I left, he ordered prospective candidates to report for the
ja’chuq
, an involved ritual in which the challengers recite their achievements and deeds to demonstrate their worthiness to lead. Apparently it’s quite time-consuming, and there have been calls for its elimination from the Rite, but Deqan insisted on going through with it. I think that, in the wake of recent events and accusations, he wishes to give tempers a chance to cool.”

Archer laughed. “Among Klingons? That I’d like to see.”

“Anyway, I’m just grateful to be out of there. I think some of the
councillors were, ah, disappointed that my findings did not incriminate any of their rivals for the chancellorship. I’m grateful to Krell for ensuring my safe departure before he . . . well.”

“I’m glad you’re coming back too, Phlox,” the admiral told him, smiling. “I’ve had
Endeavour
standing by near the Kling­on border—I’ll tell T’Pol to rendezvous with your freighter as soon as you’re clear.” His smile widened. “And then I’ll see you on Denobula. I hear it’s gonna be one hell of a wedding.”

Phlox gave a grin that put Archer’s to shame.
“I can guarantee it will be an experience you’ll never forget!”

4

July 28, 2165

Pebru homeworld

“D
ON
’
T LET THEM SURROUND
US
!” Valeria Williams called to her security team as they closed ranks against the mob of rioting Pebru. “We have to get through to our people at all costs!”

The rest of the team shared the armory officer’s urgency as they brandished their particle rifles and stunned the charging horde with precision fire, advancing step by laborious step toward the besieged government complex. After all, not only would defeat by the raging mob mean they had failed in rescuing their crewmates . . . but it would be damned embarrassing. The Pebru were chubby, pear-shaped bipeds with small heads, pointy snouts, and stubby arms with barely functional digits. They were perhaps the least physically imposing species that Williams had ever fought against. Losing to them would be like being beaten by a mob of overweight Corgis.

But the lieutenant reminded herself that the Pebru had a ruthless streak. They had deliberately infected more than a dozen pre-warp worlds with Ware in order to provide the rapacious technology with alternative sources of live processors, victimizing others to spare themselves. The majority of those worlds had suffered horribly from their selfishness, while the Pebru had thrived.

“Their line is weakening near the left entrance!” Ensign
Ndiaye cried.

Williams spotted the opening before her second-in-­command finished her sentence. Trusting that she and the ensign were on the same page, she turned to Crewman Kemal. “You and Sandra drive them to the right! Make us a hole!” She pushed forward, Katrina Ndiaye at her side, and fired relentlessly at the few remaining rioters who stood between her and the left entrance. They were slow-moving, making easy targets, but there were still enough to overwhelm her and the ensign if Kemal and Yuan failed to shift the rioters’ line. Indeed, one managed to evade her fire and get close enough to leap at her. She took that one down with a right cross to the snout. The Pebru went down so easily she almost felt bad about it, but she reminded herself that if she let even one rioter knock her over, the others could overwhelm her.

In the Pebru’s defense, this uprising did not represent the will of the majority. Most of the Pebru masses had been kept ignorant of their government’s atrocities, and the recent revelation of the truth had led to that regime’s ouster. But the revelation had come along with the shutdown of the Ware network on which the Pebru depended for virtually their entire civilization. Their anatomical limitations made it difficult for them to build or operate technology without the Ware to synthesize it for them, and so they had been forced to endure significant hardships in the wake of the shutdown. Most Pebru blamed their government for bringing things to this point, and there had been widespread gratitude for the restoration efforts undertaken by the Starfleet task force and other neighboring powers like the ­Tyrellians—­a civilization of interstellar traders who had lost both individuals and profits to the Ware (since their own goods could not compete with the advancement or convenience of the Ware’s products) and thus were happy to assist the worlds now
liberated from it, in hopes of nurturing future trade partnerships.

Yet many of the ousted leaders still sought to regain political influence and avoid imprisonment. In recent weeks, they had mounted a propaganda campaign to exploit the masses’ growing frustration at the harsher standard of living they now endured. An ugly sentiment of xenophobia, shifting the blame for the Pebru’s hardships onto outsiders rather than their own leaders, had been spreading through the more gullible and angry segments of the populace, finally erupting into these riots.

For Williams, the timing of the upheaval could not have been worse. Left to herself, she could take on a mob of rampaging xenophobes every day and chalk it up to exercise; there were surely no categories of life-form more satisfying to punch in the face than bigots. But her concern was for the people inside the government complex—specifically for one man that she’d failed once and was determined never to fail again.

As Williams and Ndiaye fought their way to the steps of the blocky, gray-white government complex, the doors opened and the Pebru defenders inside, employees of the new, reformist government, started firing their own low-powered stunners at the mob. With their assistance, the women from
Pioneer
were able to break through the line and reach the doors. “Where are our people?” Williams asked.

Urging them inside, the captain of the defenders gestured with a stubby forelimb. “This way,” he replied, leading her down the stark, white Ware-built corridor while his fellows remained to hold the entrance. Williams hoped that they and her team outside would be enough to contain the mob until reinforcements arrived.

The Pebru captain led them deeper into the complex, which put them farther from the rioters yet drove home that there’d be no escape by transporter. The walls were made from
materials that resisted sensor and transporter beams; it might be possible for
Pioneer
’s transporter to get a lock if they were by the outermost wall, but it would be a risk. Beaming out from deeper inside would be impossible. That was why they’d had to break in the hard way to begin with.

Still, it was a relief when they reached the archive room and she saw the faces of the two she’d come to rescue. “Val!” cried Ensign Bodor chim Grev. “Thank Kera and Phinda!” The cherubic Tellarite communications officer shot to his feet and ran over to give her a hug. “I knew you’d save us, but I’m still relieved you’re here.”

Behind Grev, Lieutenant Samuel Kirk looked equally relieved but was more reserved in expressing it. “He’s right,” the soft-spoken historian said. “It would’ve been annoying to get killed just when we’ve made a possible breakthrough.”

Williams studied Kirk, wondering what lay beneath his flippancy. Over a year ago, he and Grev had been taken hostage by the First Families of Rigel IV in an attempt to sabotage their system’s entry into the Federation, and Kirk had been tortured to motivate Grev to help them decrypt classified files stolen from the Rigelian authorities. The ordeal had changed the thoughtful, gentle-natured historian, leaving him more haunted, less open with his feelings.

But that was something to save for a later time. It was ­simpler—and more important to the mission—to focus on what he’d just said. “You found something about the origin of the Ware?” she asked him.

It was easier to get him to talk to her when it was strictly business. “Maybe not the origin, but at least the Pebru’s source. Their early records are fragmentary—they had a mostly oral history before the Ware era—but I’ve found references to another civilization that either gave the Ware to the
Pebru or shared it with them.”

Williams frowned. “What’s the difference?”

“Shared in the sense of coexisting. It sounds like the Pebru were initially part of a larger community, but then had a falling out with them. I get the impression that they got sick of being exploited as sacrifices to the Ware, so they struck out on their own to become the exploiters.”

“Any indication of where this other race came from?” the armory officer asked.

“Not a race,” Grev said, “a multispecies community. In fact, I’d say the best translation of the Pebru name for them is ‘Partnership of Civilizations.’ ”

Williams stared. “Those people
Vol’Rala
encountered? The ones who claim to use volunteers for the Ware?”

“Not necessarily,” Grev said, warming to the debate. He was far more easygoing with his human crewmates than most Tellarites would be, but he still relished a good argument. “After all, it’s a pretty generic label. Partnership, Consortium, Alliance . . . Federation . . . there could be multiple neighboring groups with equivalent names.”

“But the description fits what we know about the Partnership,” Kirk said, “including the general region of space where they were encountered.”

“So maybe their whole ‘volunteer’ thing is just a smokescreen,” Williams replied.

The discussion was interrupted by a series of loud bangs and rumbles and the distant sound of shouting voices. Williams’s communicator beeped; she fished it out of the sleeve pocket in her gray tunic and answered it.
“The rioters have broken into the building,”
Kemal reported.
“We’re inside, but we’ve fallen back to a defensive position. We’ll try to hold them off until reinforcements arrive.”
More shouting and weapons fire sounded.
“I just hope that isn’t
much longer, ma’am.”

“Don’t be modest, Ediz. You and Sandra can hold that line all by yourselves, right?”

“
Right. Got it, Lieutenant. Kemal out.”
The crewman tried to instill his voice with the same certainty she expressed, but there was a hint of resignation beneath it.

But Williams had been watching Kirk and Grev, and she’d seen the fear in their eyes—especially Kirk’s—at the prospect of falling into enemy hands again. Putting her communicator away, Val stepped closer to Kirk and lightly touched his arm. “Don’t worry, Sam. I promise, I won’t let you down. Never again.”

They were both surprised by the intensity in her voice. From the look in Kirk’s eyes, Williams feared she’d done more to upset than comfort him. During the Rigel incident, she had prioritized saving a stranger over bringing back intelligence about Kirk’s captors, delaying his rescue. If she hadn’t made that choice, he could have been spared days of torture. Once she’d told him that, it had changed things between them. Before, he’d always been clearly attracted to her, though she’d done nothing to encourage it; not only was he not the bold, athletic type of man she normally preferred (though he did have lovely eyes and a very attractive mouth), but her previous attempt at shipboard romance had interfered with her work and earned her a chewing-out from Captain Reed. But though she’d made sure to keep their relationship platonic, she’d come to value his friendship greatly, appreciating his intelligent, inquisitive mind and his innate gentleness and empathy.

Ever since Rigel, though, Sam had pulled away from her. She couldn’t blame him for that, and she’d given him the space he needed to heal, hoping that they could renew their
closeness in time. Grev had been there as his stalwart friend—clearly as unrequitedly attracted to Sam as the historian had been to her, but just as selfless and loyal in his friendship. Although Val thought the two of them would make an adorable couple, she’d come to realize that she was grateful that nothing seemed likely to happen on that front. She felt she owed something to Sam, and she yearned for a second chance with him—thus her determination to prove that she would not fail him again.

But what if the reminder of that failure just drove him further away?

After a moment, Kirk sighed. “Val . . . you didn’t let me down before. None of it was your fault. It was the Families who had me tortured. You just did what was right. You always do.”

She gazed at him, a wave of relief washing over her. “I thought you resented me.”

He looked down. “I did, for a while. But I got over it.”

“Then I don’t understand. Why is it still so hard to get close to you? What more will it take to get things back to the way they were?”

More distant bursts of fire and shouting sounded outside, and Kirk took a moment to contain his alarm before replying. “You don’t get it, Val. What happened to me . . . nothing can make that go away. It will always be part of me.”

“You’re right, I don’t get it. Do you forgive me or not?”

He grew exasperated. “It’s not about you, Val. It’s not about whether you can be the brave space hero and get the guy.”

“I’m not—” She let out a frustrated breath. “I don’t want to score you as a conquest, Sam. I care about you. I want you to know I’m there for you. Damn it, isn’t that what you want?”
She winced. She wasn’t very good at this sensitive stuff.

His voice hardened in response to her own. “Not if it’s just about you assuaging your guilt.”

“But you just said I had nothing to be guilty about!”

“The problem is that I had to tell you that!”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Umm . . . guys?” That was Grev, his soft voice managing to reach them despite their own raised voices. It helped that it was underscored by a change in the sounds from outside. “The reinforcements are here,” the ensign went on. “The mob is in retreat! We’re okay now!” He looked between them. “Maybe we should celebrate. You guys want to go for coffee?”

Grev’s attempt to play matchmaker, while sweet, was rather poorly timed. “We’ll have plenty of mopping up to do,” Williams said, gesturing to Ndiaye to follow her outside to rendezvous with Kemal and Yuan.

“Right,” Kirk said. “And we need to report what we found out about the Partnership.”

“Or whoever,” Grev couldn’t resist adding. But no one was in the mood to reply.

August 6, 2165

Gronim City, Denobula

Phlox’s home was one of the most remarkable cities that Hoshi Sato had visited in all her travels. She had never seen a place that was so urban and so organic at the same time. Great towers and sprawling arcologies stretched clear to the horizon, reminding Sato of Tokyo or São Paulo on an even grander scale; yet the wide boulevards between them were rich with vegetation, and the buildings themselves were covered with greenery on their rooftops and many terraces. The larger
structures were artfully faceted and curved to reflect sunlight around their bulk, breaking up the shadows and keeping the streets bright and airy for their botanical and humanoid occupants alike. Large, leathery-winged mammals soared on updrafts between the towers, occasionally swooping down on the lemurs that climbed and leapt among the branches, commuting across their own arboreal city that coexisted within the constructed one. Their cries and peeps blended comfortably with the constant, gentle roar of ninety million Denobulans going brightly and politely about their business.

“You’re in luck,” Phlox had told Sato, T’Pol, and Elizabeth Cutler as they had made their way through the crowded city toward his family’s pre-wedding gathering. “Since it’s mating season, it’s also monsoon season, and the city is at its most lush and vital. It’s so invigorating!” Hoshi agreed up to a point, though she could have done without the humidity and the frequent downpours.