If a Tree Falls
by Ragua
Disclaimer:Paramount owns all. I'm just borrowing.
A/N:This is one of two stories rejected for publication in Strange New Worlds 8, an anthology of Trek stories written by fans. I have to admit I was pretty disappointed that this story didn't even make the second read pile. It seemed so "Trek-worthy" when I wrote it! Oh well. Hope folks here like it.
Everything vibrated slightly as the ship limped along at Warp 3. Enterprise didn't normally exhibit distress when traveling at such a mundane velocity, but then nothing about recent events was even remotely normal.
Jonathan Archer sat alone in his darkened quarters. He was reviewing his senior officers' reports on their most recent mission. The Captain had no idea why he kept returning to the matter. Perhaps he was hoping to find some kind of justification for his actions. Or maybe he was seeking atonement, masochistically rehashing all the ugly details, like picking a scab off a festering wound. Whatever the reason, he just couldn't seem to drop it.
Malcolm Reed's account bled professionalism. Archer could almost hear the brisk, clipped voice of his Armory Officer narrating the text on the PADD in front of him. Although the report was completely devoid of emotion, a sense of recrimination seemed to emanate from the words as the Captain read them. He visualized Reed's shocked face when the man had first learned of Archer's plan. The expression was identical to the one the Armory Officer had worn when he protested Archer's treatment of the captured Osaarian pirate early in their mission.
At the time, the Captain had convinced himself that the intimidation—his mind rejected the word "torture"—had been necessary. It had put them on the right trail—the trail which led them to the Xindi. And yet...
Archer grimaced, recalling the Osaarian's prophetic jibe that mercy would not serve him well in the Expanse. He had felt nothing but contempt for the man—his amorality, his opportunism. Now that same contempt was directed elsewhere. If he walked to the mirror in his bathroom, would he see his own face staring back at him? Or the Osaarian's? The Captain shook his head to chase the image from his mind and focused on the next report.
His Chief Engineer recounted only the integration of the alien warp coil into Enterprise's engines. As mechanical as the description of the procedure sounded, it somehow seemed to offer support. "You did the right thing, Cap'n," Trip's words of comfort echoed in Archer's head. "Those people will be okay."
Jonathan Archer smiled bitterly. Of course Trip would say that. They had known each other for more than ten years. The engineer would support his Captain with his dying breath. They were best friends. Or they had been, before this mission. Now they were more like passing acquaintances with a shared history.
Archer reflected on the past nine months. Many things that had been true prior to Enterprise's current mission were no longer so. Before the Expanse, the Captain would never have considered creating a living being for the sole purpose of harvesting its body parts. Now the look on Sim's face haunted Archer's dreams. In his sleep, he could still see the clone staring up at him before his eyes closed for the final time of his short life.
But Enterprise had needed her Chief Engineer. It had to be done.
The Captain shifted uneasily, directing his attention to the report of his First Officer. Her account was just what one would expect from a Vulcan—brief, efficient, logical. And yet the Science Officer's bland words, even more so than Reed's, seemed accusatory. The terse sentences dripped with disappointment and disillusionment.
"We can't save humanity without holding on to what makes us human." Archer recalled his own words to T'Pol when he'd told her of his decision not to line the ship with Trellium-D. In retrospect, his statement seemed sanctimonious, naive, and, ultimately, hypocritical.
Less than 24 hours earlier, the Vulcan had thrown those words back in his face, in an attempt to dissuade him from his plan to attack the Illyrian vessel and steal their warp coil. He ignored her, as he had so many times in the past on so many other missions—missions which now seemed trivial and inconsequential.
If he had listened to T'Pol—taken advantage of her wisdom and experience in any or all of those previous situations—would things be different now? Would he have learned enough, grown enough as a leader, to have made the right decisions here in the Expanse? Would he have been able to avoid a situation where the only viable alternative was to attack a weaker vessel and take by force their only means of getting themselves home?
Coulda, woulda, shoulda, Archer chided himself. Hindsight is always 20–20. The cliché did not comfort him, nor did it assuage the guilt that consumed him.
Finally the Captain turned his attention to the report compiled by his Communications Officer. Her information was superfluous. There had been very little for the linguist to contribute to the mission, and even less reason for any post-mission input from her. Still, Archer normally enjoyed Hoshi's accounts. Despite three years in space and the current tense situation in which Enterprise found itself, she still managed to take a wide-eyed view of circumstances. It was refreshing.
Today, Archer was hoping it would also be therapeutic.
Most of the linguist's report consisted of translations of the Illyrian language. The Captain scrolled through the text, allowing himself a wry grin at the asides and personal commentary the Communications Officer had included. However questionable the practice, he had never dissuaded her from doing this. It made her accounts a joy to read.
Apparently the unpronounceable name of the Illyrian vessel had something to do with trees. Hoshi had included several possible translations in Standard, from utilitarian to whimsical: grove, orchard, small forest, little bunch 'o trees.
Forest, Archer mused. Trees. He frowned. If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?
If the Illyrians died on their long voyage home, would anybody find them? Would the crew's loved ones ever learn what had happened to them? Archer would never know. He had resigned himself to the likelihood that their fate would forever remain a mystery. For one brief moment, he had deluded himself that he would have Starfleet order a rescue mission as soon as Enterprise returned to Earth, but he quickly realized how preposterous the idea was.
Whatever fate might befall the Illyrians, Jonathan Archer would never know how his decision had ultimately affected the people on that ship.
Never.
The Captain sighed and continued scrolling through the report. As she often did, Hoshi had amused herself by translating Illyrian words into many of the other languages she knew. In this instance, she had waxed poetic with the name of the Illyrian vessel. As was his custom, Archer tested himself, trying to identify as many of the other languages as possible.
Bosquecillo. That was definitely Spanish.
As in the Inquisition, the thought entered his head, unbidden. Torquemada and his cronies had been pretty good at rationalizing all the suffering they had caused. But then, zealots usually convinced themselves that the ends justified the means, that what they were doing to "heretics" was for the greater good.
You aren't a zealot, Archer reminded himself severely. You're saving your people. You had no choice.
The Captain scowled, continuing down the report in the hopes of diverting his thoughts. It worked for a while. Petit bosquet. That was French. Dogo Msitu. Hmmm...an African language. Possibly Swahili.
Das Waldchen. German.
Old history lessons again invaded the Captain's thoughts. At one point in Earth's past, certain Germans known as Nazis had—with macabre efficiency—perfected the dehumanization of select minority groups to an art form. However ethnocentric the word was in this day and age, it still seemed appropriate. Archer remembered the way his stomach had quailed when his high school History teacher had shown old black and white footage of the atrocities.
The people who planned that genocide believed they were doing the right thing, too, he acknowledged.
Could he count himself as evil as the madmen who had done such things to fellow human beings? No. The individuals who planned out the Holocaust had not seen their victims as people. Archer, on the other hand, knew all too well that he had committed a crime against people.
The Illyrians: thinking, feeling, breathing people. People with families. People driven to learn and explore. People who—at the end of their mission—just wanted to get home.
People like him.
So at least he wasn't guilty of dehumanization. But did that make his actions any better? Or did it make them worse?
Oh, for chrissake! Archer berated himself furiously. Who the hell do you think you are?
The Captain was repulsed by the trend of this thoughts. He couldn't decide which disgusted him more: his self-aggrandizement, comparing his own actions to some of the most heinous crimes in Earth's history, or his trivializing the incidents themselves in order to feed his self-loathing.
He closed his eyes, dropping his head into his hands and massaging his temples with his fingers. There was nothing he'd like more right now than a good, stiff drink. But even if he had been able to find his stash of bourbon in the wreckage of his quarters, he wouldn't have allowed himself the pleasure.
It was just an escape, and he couldn't permit himself to run away from what he had done. As much as he wanted to numb these feelings with alcohol, he did not deserve it. They were part and parcel of his decision—a consequence of his actions. And a very minor consequence when one considered the potential fate of the Illyrian ship.
No. It would be cowardly to hide behind a bottle.
Archer scrolled to the end of Hoshi's report. It had not provided the solace that he had hoped. Innocent as it was, it had caused him to reflect on his decision far more than any of the other more relevant accounts. The linguist ended her report as she always did—by rendering her phrase of choice into her ancestral language. The translated name of the Illyrian vessel leaped off the PADD, imbedding itself in Archer's brain. It dredged from his mind other names—names from that same high school History class.
Once upon a time—during the conflict that had resulted in the Holocaust, as a matter of fact—Hoshi's ancestors had been at war with his own. Archer's ancestors had dropped atomic bombs on two cities in Hoshi's homeland, ostensibly to bring a faster end to a long and bloody war. Seeing the name of the Illyrian ship in the language of a people that his own ancestors had once killed by the hundreds of thousands gave Archer a chill.
He recalled how he and his classmates, in their adolescent self-righteousness, had condemned the 20th century humans who had made the decision to drop such a weapon on unsuspecting civilians. How they had scoffed at the archaic reasoning that the act would prevent the deaths of half a million soldiers on each side. In their youthful idealism, Jonathan and his friends thought the argument ludicrous: taking lives to save lives.
But now?
Abruptly, Jonathan Archer rose to his feet, slamming the PADD down on the desk. This agonizing was self-indulgent. It didn't help the Illyrians. It didn't help Enterprise. And it certainly didn't help the mission to save Earth. If there were any debts to be paid, he'd deal with that when the time came. Right now he had to prepare for the meeting with Degra.
With that goal firmly in mind, the Captain strode purposefully from his quarters without a backward glance.
The abused PADD lay forgotten on the Captain's desk. He had failed to shut it off. It still displayed the name of the Illyrian vessel rendered into an old Earth dialect—one thousands of years old, still spoken by some, but forgotten by most.
Kobayashi Maru.