The Good That Men Do - Andy Mangels [38]
As he entered the corridor and headed toward the central turbolift that led to the bridge, he wryly considered one day proposing that aphorism as a new Starfleet regulation.
Ten
Monday, February 10, 2155
Enterprise Nx-01
MALCOLM REED WATCHED as Tucker raised the shot glass toward the broad crew mess hall window as though toasting the still mostly unexplored interstellar wilderness that lay beyond it. He drained it in a single swallow, appearing to relish the way it burned as it went down. He set the empty glass onto the tabletop with a resounding thwack beside the bottle of Skagaran Lone Star tequila.
“I think that stuff might do a better job of scrubbing your plasma conduits than whatever it is you’re using now, Trip,” Reed said. Besides Commander Tucker, Reed thought he might well be the only other off-duty soul still awake at this ungodly hour. Malcolm had also ceased filling his own shot glass perhaps ten minutes earlier, leaving it upended before him in a silent gesture of surrender.
“I think maybe I’ll pass your suggestion along to Lieutenant Burch,” Trip said, making a sour face as he pushed both the bottle and his own glass closer to the center of the tabletop. “Besides, a hangover probably won’t make me any more persuasive to Admiral Gardner, or anybody else in Starfleet Command. Hell, T’Pol didn’t want to hear me out even when I was sober.”
Reed thought Trip’s decision to forgo the remaining tequila was a wise one. But he also knew that the decisions that lay ahead would require a good deal more than just wisdom.
“For whatever it’s worth, Trip, I think your analysis of the Aenar kidnapping is spot on, T’Pol notwithstanding. Are you going to keep trying to persuade the brass that the Romulans are the ones behind it?”
“What choice do I have?” Trip said, sounding almost belligerent. “You’ve done the math the same way I have, Malcolm. What the hell would you do in my place?”
Reed held up a placating hand. “I’m on your side, Trip. Remember?”
Trip slumped back into his chair and released a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, Malcolm. I know you are. It’s just that we’ve shown Gardner that the Romulans pose what could be the biggest threat that Earth or any of our new allies have ever faced- and he just doesn’t want to hear it because it’s inconvenient for him.”
Reed completely agreed with the commander’s assessment, and he shared his friend’s frustration, if not his present level of inebriation. “Do you suppose there’s any chance of changing his mind?”
“Not very damned likely. The captain says the only thing that’s likely to persuade Gardner is the kind of evidence that swoops in from space and blows up whole cities.”
Reed nodded quietly. “What about contacting other admirals in Starfleet Command? Like maybe Douglas or Black? Or even Clark or Palmieri?”
“You mean make an end run around Gardner?” Trip didn’t sound very happy at that prospect either. “Well, I suppose career suicide is one option, Malcolm. Maybe it’ll turn out to be the only one.” He leaned forward morosely and very deliberately grabbed both the bottle and his shot glass, dragging them toward him across the beads of alcohol he had left on the otherwise spotless tabletop.
Gardner is a blind man, Reed thought as he watched his friend pour himself another drink. Thank goodness Captain Archer is at least conducting a low-profile investigation. But what if next time it’s someone who isn’t willing to buck the system? It looks like other players will have to become involved in this game if Starfleet Command is going to wake up in time.
Reed decided the time had come to play what might turn out to be Earth’s hole card. Speaking quietly, he said, “Before you seriously contemplate charging into Starfleet Headquarters and wrecking your career, I think you’d be wise to call somebody else I know.”
Trip paused in mid-swallow, setting his drink down half intact. “Who?”
Reed spared a moment to glance around the dimly lit mess hall, confirming again that no one