Ehrehin was startled out of his musings by a noise that seemed to come from the still dimly lit hallway in front of him. A footfall?
Breakfast, perhaps,he thought, suddenly eager to get on with his normal activities.
He crossed the room quietly and entered the plushly carpeted hallway.
And realized with a start that a pair of large, dark‑clad figures stood in his way. Behind them an indistinct figure lay slumped between the carpeted hallway and the tile floor of one of the villa’s kitchens.
Ehrehin scowled as he looked over each of the men. “You’re not Cunaehr,” he said finally, addressing them both. “Have you come to bring my breakfast?” It was only then that he noticed that neither man carried a tray, cups, or any other food‑related accoutrements.
The man on the left raised a dark, blunt shape that Ehrehin recognized as a military‑issue disruptor pistol, after spending a brief beat puzzling over it. The other man carried one as well.
“Are you my new bodyguard detachment?” Ehrehin said.
“Yes,” said the man on the right after an awkward pause. “Yes, we are.”
Ehrehin took a cautious step backward, but froze when the man on the left brandished his weapon in a menacing fashion.
“Get dressed quickly and quietly, Doctor,” he said. “You are coming with us.”
When Subcommander D’tran entered Valdore’s office, the admiral presumed that he had come to convey the next in D’tran’s series of dierha‑by‑ dierhaintelligence updates. Then Valdore spared a quick glance at the wall chronometer that overlooked the desk behind which he had spent so much of his working life. The admiral saw at once that the other man had actually turned up nearly a quarter‑ dierhaearly.
And from the look on the middle‑aged subcommander’s pale, lined face, he had come bearing tidings that he wasn’t eager to impart.
“Report, Subcommander,” Valdore snapped, having no patience with such stalling. “Just tell me what’s gone wrong.”
D’tran took a deep breath. “It’s Doctor Ehrehin, Admiral. We have…lost him, sir.”
Valdore instantly could see every tactical timetable that he had constructed since his release from imprisonment crashing like an incoming meteor. He rose to his feet, pushing his desk chair toward the weapons‑lined wall several long paces behind him. He leaned forward across the desktop, planting both of his muscular arms on the sherawood surface to support himself. “Do you mean to tell me the doctor has died,Subcommander?”
Somehow, the cowering subcommander avoided taking a step backward. “No, sir. At least, not that we can determine for certain. But I have just confirmed that Ehrehin has been taken from his secure compound, apparently by members of a Romulan dissident group. We are not entirely certain as yet which group is responsible, since no one has spoken up to take ‘credit’ for this crime.”
Evidently it was an unusuallycompetent dissident group,Valdore thought as he released a frustrated sigh. Who knew how far this could set back the development schedule for the new stardrive?
Aloud, he said, “Get me the officers directly responsible for safeguarding Doctor Ehrehin. And see to it that his captors are tracked down. Spare absolutely noeffort, Subcommander.”
“At once,” said D’tran, who appeared more than eager to leave Valdore’s presence and set about his urgent tasks. “May I take my leave of you, sir?”
Another thought suddenly occurred to Valdore. “Wait,” he said, and paused just long enough to let the subcommander realize that another order was forthcoming. “What is the status of the Aenar slaves the Adigeons are brokering for us?”
D’tran regarded him with a somewhat curious expression. “Still en route to our intermediaries on Adigeon Prime, sir.”
“But stillno firm estimated time of arrival?” This was another matter that Valdore was finding increasingly vexing. “What is causing these continual delays?”
“Our intermediaries are blaming the Orions, sir. They are evidently the procurers whom the Adigeons have retained to acquire the…commodity in question. And the Orions seem to be making numerous other stops and connections on their way to the delivery point for our cargo.”
“I now need those telepaths sooner rather than later, Subcommander,” Valdore said in a low growl. “They could well turn out to be our only hope of tracking down Ehrehin and his captors.” The time had come to take a few drastic measures.
“Subcommander,” Valdore continued, “I want you to explain to our ‘esteemed intermediaries’ on Adigeon that their continued safe passage through Romulan space depends greatly upon my continued patience and goodwill. And have them expedite the arrival of those telepaths any way they can.”
“Immediately, sir,” the subcommander said, then snapped off a smart salute and exited the office.
Valdore stood alone in the room for a protracted moment, then walked to the wall at the rear of his office where he kept his many edged weapons on display, now that he had retrieved them from the locker where they had been so haphazardly stored during his long confinement. With care and reverence, he took down his dathe’anofv‑sen–his Honor Blade–which gleamed brightly again now that he had finally found the time to remove the faint patina of tarnish it had picked up in the dank, subterranean storage room. He placed the blade and its scabbard carefully on his uniform belt, straightened his posture, then exited the office to report the latest developments to T’Leikha.
He wondered how much more would be permitted to go wrong before the First Consul required him to allow the Honor Blade to drink deep of his lifeblood.
Nine
Sunday, February 9, 2155
Enterprise NX‑01
THE SILVER‑HAIRED EMINENCE stared impassively from across the approximately sixteen light‑years that separated him from Archer’s ready room aboard Enterprise.
“That’s essentially what happened, sir,” Archer said to Admiral Sam Gardner. “Based, of course, on what Shran and Theras told us.”
His tie slightly askew, the admiral folded his arms in front of himself, displaying the heavily braided sleeves on his dark uniform jacket. “Captain, it sounds to me that you aren’t entirely convinced by Commander Shran’s assertion that the Orion slavers’ action against the Aenar represents a prelude to a large‑scale Romulan military incursion.”
Seated behind the cramped ready room’s small desk, Archer continued to stare straight into his computer monitor, despite the distraction of his chief engineer’s fidgeting; Trip was standing just inside the admiral’s line of sight, alongside a far more tranquil, but no less serious‑visaged T’Pol. Trip had already made it clear that he vehemently agreed with Shran’s assessment, and Archer couldn’t fault him for that, so long as he maintained respect for the chain of command. And, truth be told, Archer felt no small amount of guilt for allowing his upcoming diplomatic duties to keep him from simply rushing into the breach on Shran’s behalf.
Whether or not the Romulans really are about to attack us, Shran is definitely right about at least one thing,Archer thought. Ido owe him.After all, he hadn’t forgotten the rescue on Coridan, or the Andorian’s invaluable help against both the Xindi and the Romulans, or Shran’s admirable restraint when V’Las had tried to start a Vulcan‑Andorian war.
On top of all that, Archer still felt a small pang of regret for having sliced off one of Shran’s antennae with an Ushaanblade. The incident had occurred at the time of last November’s Babel conference and the previous Romulan crisis–so recently, in fact, that Shran’s missing antenna had still only partially grown back. Though he knew that the truncated antenna would probably finish regenerating itself within another month or two, Archer would always suspect that the humiliation associated with the loss would take a good deal longer to heal.