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By Root 571 0

the curve of E deck’s main corridor. They were, or had been, scientists and engineers, both Starfleet and civilian. They were also doctors, soldiers, energy-extraction specialists, administrators, and frontier laborers, though sorting such details out under the current circumstances was next to impossible, not to mention irrelevant. All Archer knew for certain was that if he lived another century he would never forget the gaunt faces and haunted eyes of these people the Romulans had displaced from the Tarod IX outpost—those that hadn’t been vaporized outright during the Romulans’ initial strike, and hadn’t needed immediate life-sustaining surgery. These survivors were mostly silent, stifling their desultory conversations as Archer and T’Pol advanced slowly through their nearly stationary ranks, moving from Enterprise’s core toward the saucer’s forwardmost starboard-side section. They looked, variously, stunned and shell-shocked and angry and grief-stricken, and smelled of sweat and blood and fear.

The captain couldn’t help but wonder how many of them fully understood yet that the Romulans had just transformed their homes and workplaces into rubble, vapor, and frozen ash—pulverized remnants that even now were being driven far and wide across Tarod IX’s frigid scarps and canyons by the planet’s merciless, eternal winds. As he passed them, Archer could feel the quickly accumulating weight of their gazes falling upon his back, hard stones of summary judgment cast by an army of the unquiet dead—a quiet chorus of lost souls who had received damnation unjustly.

Enterprise got here as quickly as possible, he reminded himself, just as he had already done more times than he could count already. No other ship could have saved this many survivors. And no matter how badly I might want to stop these Romulan bastards before they attack, there’s only so far I can bend the laws of physics to do it.

He only wished he could force his gut to accept that as easily as his brain could.

T’Pol followed Archer through the hatch that led into the captain’s mess. The door closed behind them again as they stepped toward the large table that dominated the room. Two humans, a man and a woman, sat on the table’s far side, while Chef busied himself setting up the formal dining linens and cutlery. Framed by the stars and the dim glow of Tarod IX visible through the wide transparent aluminum window behind them, the destroyed outpost’s senior surviving military and civilian leaders watched blankly as Chef worked.

The male human guest appeared to be about the same age as the captain, while the woman might have been ten or perhaps even twenty years older; since both humans were obviously under stress and lacked rest, their true age was difficult to assess. The man wore a rumpled civilian suit with slightly singed sleeves and a soiled collar, while the woman wore an olive drab MACO duty uniform that had clearly seen some hard service. Both of their faces bore extensive bruises and cuts, though none of these appeared to be immediately life threatening.

Chef withdrew, presumably to get whatever refreshments he was about to serve, as the man and the woman both rose and took turns making introductions and shaking Archer’s hand. T’Pol took a step backward, not eager to encourage either of the humans to attempt to touch her. The gesture wasn’t one of revulsion; being a touch-telepath like the vast majority of Vulcans, T’Pol simply regarded the unbidden physical touch of a stranger as an intolerable intrusion. Fortunately, neither of the outpost’s leaders appeared to have taken offense at her reticence.

Once the introductions were completed and everyone had taken their seats around the table, T’Pol said, “If your injuries are causing you discomfort, our sickbay is at your disposal.”

A deep frown creased the hard face of the MACO woman, who had introduced herself as Colonel Manetta Lundy. “Thank you, Commander. But your sickbay is a bit crowded now with people who have real injuries. Once your medics have taken care of them, we’ll be happy to