Star Trek Enterprise Surak's Soul

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What happened next happened quickly.

Weakened or not, the alien produced a small object—a utility knife, Archer thought—and lifted it

upward with the clear intent of disconnecting the oxygen hose that fed from the body of the suit to

Hoshi’s helmet.

Archer had no way of knowing whether the knife could pierce the strong fiber of the hose, of knowing

whether the alien could do her any serious harm. He responded out of pure instinct—drawing the phase

pistol from his utility belt, putting his gloved finger on the trigger, aiming and preparing to fire.

But before he could do so, another’s phase blast, painfully precise, caught and illumined the alien in the

instant before he could bring down the blade.

Archer and Reed reached Hoshi’s side at the same time; she sat up, grimaced, and rubbed the back of

her skull—in vain, since her helmet kept her from any hands-on contact with the injured area. “I’m fine,”

she told the captain ruefully. “I tried to say that we were here to help, but the alien ... He didn’t seem

sane.” She looked up at the crouching Reed. “Thanks for stopping him.”

“I didn’t shoot,” Reed admitted; actually flushed. “I didn’t have time.”

ENTERPRISE™

SURAK’S SOUL

J. M. DILLARD

Based onStar Trek®

created by Gene Roddenberry

Based onEnterpriseTM

created by Rick Berman & Brannon Braga

POCKETBOOKS

New YorkLondonToronto SydneySingapore

The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you

should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the authors nor

the publisher have received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s

imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead

is entirely coincidental.

AnOriginal Publication of POCKET BOOKS

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster/Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New

York, NY 10020

STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc., under exclusive license

thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas,

New York, NY 10020

ISBN: 0-7434-6280-7

First Pocket Books printing March 2003

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster

Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or business@simonandschuster.com

Printed in the U.S.A.

For Dave Stern

for all those opportunities

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.5

One.7

Two.12

Three.21

Four26

Five.32

Six.38

Seven.43

Eight49

Nine.54

Ten.60

Eleven.66

Star Trek Book List68

About the e-Book.74

Acknowledgments

I am most humbly indebted to editor Margaret Clark for cheerfully giving me the opportunity to write this

novel, as well as a great deal of support and information while I was doing so. I’d also like to thank her

for remaining blessedly patient when I was a month late in delivering it.

I would be remiss if I failed to mention the two most responsible for helping me in the day-to-day writing

of this tome: Hershey and Sweetie Pie. It’s a well-known fact that we writers have a tendency to

addiction, and I have developed an overwhelming one in recent years. I simply cannot work well without

one Labrador stretched out snoring beside me, and another draped over my feet. There are certain

disadvantages to this, such as numbness and tingling in the extremities, and then—well, itis avocado

season here now, and the dogs have learned to stand on their hindquarters and pick the fruit from the

trees. I leave it to the reader’s imagination to conjure up the difficulties faced in close quarters with large

canines who have eaten heartily of California’s fresh produce. The situation may have affected my

concentration at times but, I hope, not the quality of storytelling herein.

—Jeanne Dillard

Late July 2002

SURAK’S SOUL

One

Captain’s Starlog, Supplemental.While mapping an area of uncharted space, we have encountered

a populated planet—which is sending out a beacon that our Universal Translator has garbled.

Communications Officer Ensign Hoshi Sato is currently trying to decipher what she can.

JONATHAN ARCHER SATin his command chair on the bridge ofEnterprise and stared at the image

of the Minshara-class planet on the main viewscreen before him: the larger-than-Earth globe,

blue-speckled with large verdant islands rather than continents, rotated lazily.

Frankly, Archer was grateful for the signal, and suspected the rest of his crew was, as well; the[2]

process of mapping lifeless planet after lifeless planet had grown tedious, and he was looking forward to

some interspecies interaction. He was hoping that this particular planet, which they would have labeled

Kappa Xi II, was transmitting its signal in order to welcome interstellar travelers.

He was, in fact, hoping for a distraction. Today was a day that came every year—and every year

Archer found a way to remember it, to mark it, and then spent the rest of the day trying to forget so that

emotion would not interfere with his efficiency.

That very morning, shortly after he had risen from his bunk—even before he had fed his

reproachful-looking beagle, Porthos—he had stepped barefoot over to his tiny closet, removed a picture

from the top shelf, and stared at the image for a full minute. It showed Zefram Cochrane, a tall, lean man,

all sharp angles, shoulders, and elbows, with a tanned, deeply lined face and a shock of white hair to

match his shocking white grin. One of his long, skinny arms was thrown over the shoulders of an equally

tall man—this one younger, with dark hair, but with a grin just as wide.

“I’m here, Dad,” Archer had said. “I’m really here.” The words brought with them both a tightening of

his throat and a deep sense of satisfaction; they brought, also, disappointment that his[3]father, Henry

Archer, had not lived to see the ship he spent his life building launch.

Today marked the anniversary of Henry Archer’s death; and his son Jonathan Archer’s life was devoted

to fulfillingEnterprise’s intended mission—to explore the unknown.

Now, hours later, Archer was seated in his command chair on theEnterprise bridge, doing exactly

that—and hoping to establish contact with another new race of aliens.

But, as he turned to look expectantly at Hoshi (already under the scrutiny of Ensign Travis Mayweather

at helm, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed at tactical, and Sub-Commander T’Pol at the science station), his

hope grew fainter. As Hoshi listened and relistened to the message, her dark eyes focused on a

far-distant point, her lips resolved themselves into a thinner and thinner line, and the crease between her

delicate jet brows deepened.

“Anything?” Archer prompted at last.

“I need more time to do a thorough translation.” Hoshi shook her head, then added, “It’s not good.”

“How so?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s a distress call. Some sort of medical emergency. But I can’t get any more detailed

than that. ...” She sighed. “From the articulation of the sounds, I’d say the population is humanoid; at

least, their lips and tongues and teeth are similar to ours.”

[4]Archer considered this for no more than a matter of seconds, then turned to T’Pol, lithe and spare in

her formfitting, no-frills Vulcan uniform, and an equally understated and efficient cap of nape-length ash

hair. “What’s the atmosphere down there?”

The Vulcan swiveled gracefully to her station, then looked back at the captain, her expression and tone

impassive, despite the news she conveyed. “Breathable. However ...” Her gaze became pointed. “I

detect very few life-forms.”

It took Archer no more than an instant to make a decision. Regardless of the number of survivors,

Enterprise was present, capable of assistance, and therefore obligated to intervene. An entire species,

perhaps, was at risk of annihilation. He pressed the intercom. “Archer to sickbay.”

“Phlox here.”

Keeping his gaze fixed on the worried Hoshi, Archer said, “Doctor, we have an unknown medical

emergency down on the planet’s surface; the population is probably humanoid. Bring whatever you need

to the shuttlepod launch bay. Archer out.”

He stood. “Hoshi, I’ll need you to translate what you can. T’Pol, Reed ...” He gestured with his chin,

and together the four of them headed for the bridge doors. “Mr. Mayweather, you have the conn.”

* * *

[5]The flight down to KappaXi II’s surface was pleasant; Archer was privately cheered by Hoshi’s

attitude toward it. She had made up her mind to learn to enjoy such expeditions, and peered through the

small viewscreen at the looming image of large emerald islands adrift in a vast turquoise sea—a far

different distribution of land to water than on Earth.

“Gorgeous,” Archer murmured, half to himself, as he piloted the shuttlepod closer to one of the larger

islands, their destination.

“Yes,” Hoshi echoed, while Phlox made an enthusiastic noise. “Too bad they’re having an emergency.

This looks like it would be a beautiful place for shore leave. ...”

“Quite the tropical paradise,” Reed added.

Archer smiled faintly to himself, remembering the pleasant times he had spent on the island of Kauai.

“Just don’t expect to be welcomed with garlands of flowers, Lieutenant.”

“Itis rather Earthlike,” T’Pol commented neutrally from the jump seat, which made the captain consider

that a blue-green planet might seem inviting to humans, but perhaps to Vulcan eyes, a red desert planet

would be more aesthetically pleasing.

Still, the ride down through the atmosphere to the coastline of the island was breathtaking; the water

closer to the shore was celery-colored and so clear that even from a distance brightly[6]colored

creatures could be seen swimming beneath the surface. The sand was pure white, reminding Archer of a

Florida beach he’d once visited; at the meeting of water and shore, long-legged birds raced to pluck

buried meals from the wet sand before waves rolled in again.Too bad Trip isn’t here to see this. Trip

Tucker,Enterprise’s chief engineer and the captain’s best friend, had spent years scuba-diving in the

Keys.

Archer brought the shuttlepod to a smooth landing at its destination, a large paved strip closest to the

largest cluster of remaining life-forms. He had wondered whether this large paved area was used strictly

for planetbound air travel—but a glance at his surroundings made it clear that this culture, if not used to

extraterrestrial contact, was probably capable of spaceflight. In a nearby hangar, a number of

sophisticated vessels rested; Archer eyed them covetously as he brought the shuttlepod to a halt, wishing

there were time to inspect them. Instead, he pushed the hatch controls open, and followed his away team

out onto the landing strip, adjacent to the coastline.

Once outside, the first thing Archer noticed was the sun:thesun, shining bright in a cloudless Earth-blue

sky, the sun reflecting off the nearby diamond-white sand, off the dappled water, off tall, spiraling

buildings that shone like mother of pearl, reflecting pale green, turquoise, and rose. Tall trees, their great

blue-green leaves draping[7]down like weeping willows, rustled in a light breeze.

“An island paradise.” Archer sighed. The landing party had dressed in their copper-bronze colored

spacesuits on Dr. Phlox’s insistence. Had the captain been alone, he would have risked exposure and

relied on the decontam procedures on boardEnterprise just for the chance to feel the sun and wind

against his bare skin. The notion of breathing in a lungful of sea air was enticing. Besides, the suits, with

their domed helmets, might make them look rather outlandish to any species unused to regular

extraterrestrial contact. But he respected Phlox’s opinion, and where his crew members were concerned,

he would take all precautions. Reed had insisted on them arming themselves with phase pistols. Medical

emergency or not, it was impossible to predict exactly what they might encounter.

“Beautiful,” Reed breathed.

“Ambient temperature twenty-five degrees Celsius,” T’Pol announced clinically, her gaze on her scanner.

“Life-forms ...” She paused, then pointed in the direction of the spiraling buildings. “In that direction,

Captain. Very few, and very faint.”

“Let’s move,” Archer said, all appreciation for his surroundings dismissed. He led the group at a rapid

pace, slowing only when Hoshi cried out behind him.

[8]“Captain!”

He turned and followed his communication officers gaze. Peeking out from the profile of one of the silver

ships was a hand. Not a human hand—this one was six-fingered, curled in a limp half fist, the skin a deep

greenish bronze.

Archer arrived at the humanoid’s side first, closely followed by Phlox. In the open hatch of the

shuttle-sized ship, a male had fallen backward, so that his torso lay faceup on the stone-and-shale landing

strip, his legs on the deck of his vessel. Clearly, he’d been stricken as he attempted to leave ... fleeing,

perhaps, whatever had decimated his people. His complexion was deep bronze, his scalp and ridged

brow were entirely hairless; the cartilage of his nose terminated in a sharp, triangular tip, framed by large

diagonal slits for nostrils. He stared up at the cloudless sky with almost perfectly round, dark eyes, dulled

by death. His expression was entirely neutral, his lip-less mouth open to reveal a hard dental ridge mostly

covered by pale gums. The hands that fell so limply from his flailed arms were slightly webbed, suggesting

that his people had evolved from the sea that covered most of their planet. His clearly muscular body was

draped in a soft white, semi-sheer toga with full, winglike arms that made Archer think of the snow angels

he’d made as a child.

Whatever had taken his life, Archer decided,[9]had not inspired fear in him, even if he was running

away. He got the impression that the man had sagged gently to the ground, as if he had simply no longer

been able to hold himself erect.

Phlox crouched over the body and scanned it briefly. He glanced up at Archer and said softly, sadly,

“Already dead, I fear. Very recently.”

Archer gave a single regretful nod.

The doctor studied his readouts, then gently touched the dead humanoid, examining the eyes, nose,

mouth, and torso. “I’m not detecting anything microbial in his system. ...” He looked up at Archer, his

features furrowed with puzzlement. “In fact, I can’t really tell you what he died of. My first guess is that

these readings are normal for him ... but it would help if I had a healthy member of his race for

comparison.”

Reed drew his phase pistol and disappeared into the ship for several seconds, then emerged again, his

expression one of awe. “No other bodies, sir. But these people are definitely capable of spaceflight. I

know Commander Tucker would love to take one of these apart—we could learn a thing or two. ...”

“Later, Lieutenant,” Archer answered shortly.

“Captain,” T’Pol said quietly. Archer took a step toward her and glanced over her shoulder at her

scanner. “Chances of finding such a being are becoming slimmer. Since we have leftEnterprise, many

more life-forms have died. I’m now reading[10]only eleven on this island. The signals are growing

increasingly faint.”

“Let’s move,” Archer said again, gazing down at the dead man, feeling oddly reluctant to leave him

without some acknowledgment, some rite to mark his passage. But as the captain turned to face the alien

city, he realized the necessity for speed—else they would be needing a memorial to mark the passage of

an entire civilization.

As the quintet strode quickly over a shale-and-sand street toward the building T’Pol indicated, they

were met by grisly sights: pedestrians fallen as they walked, in different stages of decomposition under the

bright sun. Airborne vehicles carrying single passengers, sometimes pairs, had dropped from the sky,

leaving mangled wreckage and toga-draped corpses—some on the ground, others caught in the swaying

trees, or on shrubs, or lying atop a bier of brightly colored flowers. At one point, they passed a body

being attended to by a carrion bird; Hoshi briefly closed her eyes, but moved stalwartly onward. Once

again, Archer got the impression that the victims had surrendered easily and unexpectedly to death, in the

midst of going about their lives.

He was finally glad for the awkward suit, with its self-contained atmosphere; the smell of decay must

have been overwhelming. He thought of Earths past plagues, and the terror that must[11]have been felt

by the survivors. During the Black Plague in medieval Europe, there had been so many dead, the living

could not bury them all; a similar thing had happened during the plagues that swept mankind after the

third World War. And it had happened to these poor people, in the midst of their beautiful paradise.

Death came too swiftly sometimes, Archer decided. He was an enormously lucky man; he had lived long

enough to be able to do exactly what he wanted to do with his life. ...Yeah, and Dad lived long enough,

but was denied the one dream he had. ... Archer forced himself to ignore the last thought. At least his

father had had the time to create something of real value. But these people—they were stricken in

midstride, without warning. Had they had the chance to achieve their goals?

He maintained silence, forcing himself to concentrate on the waiting survivors who needed their help;

only Hoshi spoke, uttering a single plaintive remark.

“I only hope there’s someone left for me to try to talk to.”

No one replied—not even Phlox. The streets were still, quiet save for the sound of wind rustling through

long leaves, and the cries of seabirds.

The landing party soon reached their destination: a building with shimmering, nacreous walls[12]that

coiled delicately skyward. Large windows overlooked the sea.

“Like a nautilus shell,” Malcolm Reed said as he stared upward, his tone hushed and reverent in honor of

the dead. His chiseled, somewhat hawkish features—so distinctly British, Archer decided—stood in

profile against the cyan sky.

Yet the building’s beauty belied the horror that waited inside. As Archer and his group entered, they

were met by an eerie sight. In a large sun-filled room with a view of the sparkling beach, some sixty or

seventy bronze-skinned people sat cross-legged on the padded floor—some fallen forward, faces

pressed to the ground, others fallen back against the walls. All wore the same gentle, relaxed expression

of the first casualty the away team had encountered.

Hoshi failed to entirely surpress a gasp; even T’Pol’s eyes, behind her visor, flickered for an instant as

she steadied herself to do a quick scan.

“Survivors this way,” she said softly, pointing down a gleaming corridor.

Phlox turned his broad body directly toward the sight, absorbing it fully. “A shame,” he said. “A peaceful

people, able to build such a marvelous city ... and now, most of them gone.”

Archer put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go find those survivors, Doctor.”

Phlox turned, shaking his head as he moved alongside the captain. “You read of such things[13]

happening in history, but you never wish to see such a thing yourself. ...”

Reed remained altogether silent, keeping his pistol drawn.

T’Pol led the way down the corridor; they passed several rooms, all of them filled with exotic-looking

beds made of a shimmering gelatinous material that caught Archer’s eye, but there was no time left to

stop and inspect them. Atop each one lay one, sometimes two, bodies; after a time, Archer stopped

looking.

A moment or two later, the Vulcan said, with the faintest hint of something suspiciously akin to

excitement, “Survivor, Captain. This room ...”

They entered; Archer moved aside so Phlox could attend to his patient at once. Eagerly, Hoshi moved

beside the doctor, in case she was needed to communicate. The alien—this one, judging by her more

delicate features and smaller size, female—was partially encased in a bed composed of a blue-green

gelatinous substance suspended in the air.

Phlox scanned the woman, then exchanged a knowing glance with T’Pol.

“What?” Archer demanded of the two.

Both paused, then Phlox spoke. “This woman has just died.”

“Another survivor,” T’Pol added swiftly. “Approximately zero-point-one-seven kilometers down the

corridor. ...”

[14]Archer made his way into the hallway at a speed just shy of a full run; T’Pol outpaced him, leading

the way as Reed, then Hoshi and Phlox followed. Two doors down, the Vulcan entered what appeared

to be a large, fully equipped medical laboratory. Several suspended beds lay empty, but on the one

nearest the entrance lay a patient—half covered by the body of another alien, who had apparently been

standing over the bed when he was stricken.

The bed itself was glowing, phosphorescent, slightly pulsating; Archer could feel the warmth it emanated

as he helped Reed lift the body of the male off the smaller, prone patient.

“Poor sod,” Reed murmured. “Probably died trying to save her.”

As theEnterprise officers gently eased the male to the floor, Phlox leaned forward and ran a scanner

over his chest. “Dead.” The doctor turned and swiftly made his way over to the reclining patient—a

female. “But she’s alive!” His tone was one of pure triumph; as he ran his medical scanner over her, he

reported, “But weakening with each second. Electrolyte readings differ from those found in the dead

victims. ...” He opened his medical case and prepared an injection. As he administered it, the blue-green

bed flickered, then began to brighten, shot through with glowing phosphorescent veins.

“A nutrient bed,” Phlox murmured, while he[15]attended the woman. “Probably to counteract the

weakness. I’ll wager it’s to help stabilize her electrolytes. ...” He trailed off, absorbed in his work.

Archer, meantime, could not help noticing the expression on the male victim’s face; of all the dead the

captain had seen, only this man’s countenance was not peaceful. Indeed, his features were contorted with

what a human would call outrage, even—Am I reading my own cultural cues into this?Archer

wondered—recognition, as if he had recognized the cause of his own death and been incensed by it.

“Anyone else still with us?” Archer asked softly of T’Pol, who was busily scanning for readings.

Her eyes narrowed. “No survivors in this building. But roughly zero-point-five-four kilometers northeast,

there’s one fairly strong signal left.”

“And the others?”

Her gaze grew pointed. “Thereare no others, Captain. Not on this island. Not anymore.”

You said there were eleven,Archer almost said, then realized the futility of challenging the accuracy of

T’Pol’s reading. In the moments since they’d arrived on the island, nine of those survivors had died.

He made a decision. “Stay with her,” he told Phlox, who was busily bent over the surviving female.

“Reed, Hoshi, you come with us. T’Pol and I are going to go find the last survivor and bring[16]him back

here; Hoshi, we might need your help communicating after all.”

“Fascinating medical apparatus,” Phlox murmured, his gaze fixed on his patient, but Hoshi nodded in

acknowledgment.

“Aye, sir.”

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Whathappenednexthappenedquickly. Weakenedornot,thealienproducedasmallobject—autilityknife,Archerthought—andlifteditupwardwiththeclearintentofdisconnectingtheoxygenhosethatfedfromthebodyofthesuittoHoshi’shelmet.Archerhadnowayofknowingwhethertheknifecouldpiercethestrongfiberofthehose,ofknowingwhethert...

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