The Good That Men Do - Andy Mangels [36]
“It’s already forgotten, Captain,” Gardner said, putting on an almost amiable smile. “We’ll chalk it up to garbled communications and leave it at that.”
Archer cast a quick warning glance back at Trip, who took the hint and remained silent.
“Carry on with your present orders, Captain. I look forward to seeing you all at the Coalition Compact ceremonies three weeks from now.”
“Thank you, sir.” Archer knew when he was being shut up and shown the door without having to hear it in so many words.
“Gardner out.” The silver-haired visage abruptly disappeared from the screen, to be replaced by the white-on-blue Earth-and-laurel-leaf insignia of the United Earth government.
Archer turned his chair toward T’Pol and Trip. “Well. That’s that. Gardner is obviously taking no chances. He’s not going to risk doing anything that might rock the boat.” He turned a hard gaze upon Trip. “And he obviously must think I’m running a pirate ship, judging from the discipline around here.”
Trip was shame-faced. “Sorry, Captain. I opened my mouth without engaging my brain first. As usual.”
Archer couldn’t help but smile at that. “I’m not keeping score, Trip. There isn’t a tote board big enough. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re probably right about the Romulans. You had me half-convinced when we spoke after we met with Shran and Theras.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Trip said, “what brought you the rest of the way to my side of the argument?”
Archer hiked a thumb over his shoulder toward his computer screen. “Admiral Gardner, and his self-inflicted blind spot. I wonder how many times in history some avoidable catastrophe was allowed to happen only because the leaders at the time were in complete denial about its existence.”
Trip nodded, somber. “I suppose the question now is, What do we do about it?”
“Trip, I’m not sure there is anything we can do,” Archer said with a resigned sigh. “Not without violating direct Starfleet orders.”
“But the Romulans are obviously up to no good, Captain.” Trip’s earlier frustrated tone had returned full force. “And I’d wager that they aren’t going to just sit on their hands until the Coalition has finished dotting all its i’s and crossing all its t’s.”
“Do you suppose, Commander,” T’Pol said with her customary coolness, “that your opinion regarding the Romulans might have been shaded by your recent brush with death inside one of their drone ships?”
Trip regarded her in contemplative silence for a long moment, frowning. At length, he said, “Well, I won’t deny that that incident got my attention, big-time. But it doesn’t undercut the possibility that the Romulans have just collected enough Aenar telepaths to pull the same trick again, dozens of times, and in dozens of places. In my book, that fact alone puts them on a very short list of nominees for the next big threat against Earth.”
Archer couldn’t disagree, though he still had to admit that he, Trip, and Shran still could neither prove anything nor sway the powers that be to take any preventive action.
Recalling the suddenness of the horrific Xindi attack, Archer hoped it wouldn’t already be too late by the time his superiors finally became convinced.
Lying on the narrow bed in his quarters, his shoulders propped up by a pile of none-too-soft Starfleet-issue pillows, Archer idly tossed a water-polo ball against one of the four walls of his spartan cabin. Lying in the far corner with his face on his outstretched paws, Archer’s beagle Porthos watched the captain intently.
T’Pol was standing beside Archer, resolutely refusing, as usual, to sit in either of the room’s two simple, gray Starfleet-issue chairs. He wondered if his first officer found the chairs uncomfortable or if she wasn’t simply trying to keep her distance from Porthos, whose scent she had often said she found disagreeable.
“If we’re late for the ceremony, it will have farreaching consequences,” she