The Romulan War_ Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Book 1) - Michael A. Martin [167]
Archer could tell that his funk was only deepening; if Phlox had intended to bolster his morale with this little homily, he was achieving exactly the opposite effect.
“Where is this going, Doctor?”
“Back to the choice between two evils, Captain,” Phlox said, speaking with surprising vehemence, apparently cowed not at all by the steely edge in Archer’s voice. “You made that choice, just as I have. You chose to preserve your ship and everything you had learned about the Romulans in order to save more lives than could have been saved if Enterprise had shared the Kobayashi Maru’s fate—or worse, had been captured.”
Archer opened his mouth to respond, but found he had nothing to say. He knew that Phlox was right. At least, his head knew it. His heart, however, was another matter entirely.
“It’s never easy to make a decision like that, Phlox. I’d rather chew one of my own arms off than have to repeat what I did that day.”
Phlox offered an encouraging smile. “If those decisions were easy to make, then ship’s captains would be a fairly inexpensive commodity.”
And we’re certainly anything but that, Archer thought as he considered just how expensive even a single wrong decision could turn out to be in the long run.
Aloud, he said, “I’m lucky you’ve agreed to stay on, Phlox. Even after you’ve seen how hard it is to do this sort of simple moral math in my head.”
“Jonathan, ‘simple’ is not the same as ‘easy,’” Phlox said, his good-natured smile succumbing to a gravity he displayed only rarely. “I would seriously consider leaving only if and when those ‘simple’ moral equations become too easy for you to solve.”
FORTY-FIVE
Day Thirty-Nine, Month of K’ri’lior
Thursday, March 11, 2156
The Hall of State, Dartha, Romulus
CHIEF TECHNOLOGIST NIJIL DREADED having to visit Admiral Valdore’s office when he was experiencing one of his “moods,” which had occurred with increasing frequency of late. But since the admiral’s orders had left him no discretion to do otherwise, he reported to Valdore’s office with all required haste.
Delay, after all, would only make Valdore’s mood uglier, if such a thing was possible. At least he had some good news to counterbalance the bad, assuming that the early reports he had just gleaned were reliable.
The grim-faced decurion conducted Nijil to the front of Valdore’s massive sherawood desk, then beat a hasty retreat to the exit. The office was in uncharacteristic disarray, with papers scattered about, a desktop computer lying broken on its side and staring out toward Nijil like a single blinded eye. The collection of blades and particle weapons that usually hung in such an orderly fashion on the rear wall was incomplete and askew, with some items strewn across the floor as though the admiral had been hurling objects about in a spittle-flying rage.
Most significantly, Valdore’s gleaming dathe’anofv-sen, his Honor Blade, lay across his desk, free from both its wall-mounted display rack and its scabbard, as though the admiral had foreseen an urgent need for its keen edge in the very near future.
Swallowing hard, Nijil tried to maintain a façade of coolness. “I trust you have seen the after-action reports from the Andorsu operation, Admiral.”
Valdore nodded, then spoke in surprisingly calm and measured tones. “I have read them all several times over. I have also made a close study of the recordings of the long-range sensor data, sketchy though they are.
“I find little reason for encouragement in any of it.”
“We needed more ships for the Andorsu operation,” Nijil said, struggling to remain composed. “Three or four Amosarr carrier vessels would have been much closer to optimal, along with at least double the complement of Nei’hrr-class sublight raptors on each.”
Valdore glowered in silence for an uncomfortably lengthy interval before responding. “Unfortunately, Doctor, that wasn’t an option, given the fleet’s... other military