Surak's Soul - J.M. Dillard [1]
He was, in fact, hoping for a distraction. Today was a day that came every year—and every year Archer found a way to remember it, to mark it, and then spent the rest of the day trying to forget so that emotion would not interfere with his efficiency.
That very morning, shortly after he had risen from his bunk—even before he had fed his reproachful-looking beagle, Porthos—he had stepped barefoot over to his tiny closet, removed a picture from the top shelf, and stared at the image for a full minute. It showed Zefram Cochrane, a tall, lean man, all sharp angles, shoulders, and elbows, with a tanned, deeply lined face and a shock of white hair to match his shocking white grin. One of his long, skinny arms was thrown over the shoulders of an equally tall man—this one younger, with dark hair, but with a grin just as wide.
“I’m here, Dad,” Archer had said. “I’m really here.” The words brought with them both a tightening of his throat and a deep sense of satisfaction; they brought, also, disappointment that his father, Henry Archer, had not lived to see the ship he spent his life building launch.
Today marked the anniversary of Henry Archer’s death; and his son Jonathan Archer’s life was devoted to fulfilling Enterprise’ s intended mission—to explore the unknown.
Now, hours later, Archer was seated in his command chair on the Enterprise bridge, doing exactly that—and hoping to establish contact with another new race of aliens.
But, as he turned to look expectantly at Hoshi (already under the scrutiny of Ensign Travis Mayweather at helm, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed at tactical, and Sub-Commander T’Pol at the science station), his hope grew fainter. As Hoshi listened and relistened to the message, her dark eyes focused on a far-distant point, her lips resolved themselves into a thinner and thinner line, and the crease between her delicate jet brows deepened.
“Anything?” Archer prompted at last.
“I need more time to do a thorough translation.” Hoshi shook her head, then added, “It’s not good.”
“How so?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s a distress call. Some sort of medical emergency. But I can’t get any more detailed than that….” She sighed. “From the articulation of the sounds, I’d say the population is humanoid; at least, their lips and tongues and teeth are similar to ours.”
Archer considered this for no more than a matter of seconds, then turned to T’Pol, lithe and spare in her formfitting, no-frills Vulcan uniform, and an equally understated and efficient cap of nape-length ash hair. “What’s the atmosphere down there?”
The Vulcan swiveled gracefully to her station, then looked back at the captain, her expression and tone impassive, despite the news she conveyed. “Breathable. However…” Her gaze became pointed. “I detect very few life-forms.”
It took Archer no more than an instant to make a decision. Regardless of the number of survivors, Enterprise was present, capable of assistance, and therefore obligated to intervene. An entire species, perhaps, was at risk of annihilation. He pressed the intercom. “Archer to sickbay.”
“Phlox here.”
Keeping his gaze fixed on the worried Hoshi, Archer said, “Doctor, we have an unknown medical emergency down on the planet’s surface; the population is probably humanoid. Bring whatever you need to the shuttlepod launch bay. Archer out.”
He stood. “Hoshi, I’ll need you to translate what you can. T’Pol, Reed…” He gestured with his chin, and together the four of them headed for the bridge doors. “Mr. Mayweather, you have the conn.”
* * *
The flight down to Kappa Xi II’s surface was pleasant; Archer was privately cheered by Hoshi’s attitude toward it. She had made up her mind to learn to enjoy such expeditions, and peered through the small viewscreen at the looming image