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"Purgatory" – Chapter 2
Rating: PG (Violence, Adult Situations) Chapter Two Ganlas met them at the front gate to T'Para's home, offering respectful nods to the ladies and a curious inspection to the newcomer. T'Para imperiously announced, "Commander Ganlas, this is Healer-In-Training Sessek, also a Son of our Clan. He is here at my invitation. His presence is not to be revealed to anyone at all for any reason." "Understood, Eldest," Ganlas bowed in submission. "Welcome, Krei Sessek," Ganlas offered the salute. "It is always agreeable to meet another member of the family." "I offer greetings to you, Ganlas," Sessek responded. "Your reputation is most impressive. I am honored to meet one of your distinction." "Now that decorum has been satisfied," T'Para said shortly, striding toward her front door, "I await your report, Grandson." Ganlas glanced at T'Pol and Sessek, then evidently decided that if the Eldest Mother wanted things kept confidential, she would inform him of that fact. "We have confirmed the earlier news of two Terra Prime agents aboard Enterprise. Both have been neutralized. One of them was captured during a joint effort involving the Security Directorate and Starfleet personnel. The other member of Terra Prime was apparently killed by his partner to prevent his revealing himself to Captain Archer. Or at least, that is the Human's working theory." T'Pol's face tightened. "Do you have identification on the Terra Prime members?" she asked quietly. "Unfortunately not yet," Ganlas reported. "We anticipate obtaining that information shortly. If you wish, I can pass it along to you as soon as we confirm the accuracy of our report." "Yes," T'Pol's nostrils flared and her eyes darkened. "Trip will want to know." She closed her eyes and suppressed a shudder. "It is most disturbing to realize that one has served so long, and survived so many common dangers, in company with someone who considered you a hated enemy." Ganlas regarded her soberly as T'Pol settled herself on the bench, spreading out T'Lissa's pad on the floor in front of her and situating the baby in a comfortable napping position. "If it might help to restore some harmony, I can tell you this. Both of the Security agents that were assigned to Enterprise made particular note of the vehemence with which the Humans conducted the search for the traitors. They said that the Starfleet officers seemed to consider the existence of the Terra Prime agents as a personal affront." Sessek had been quietly fading into the background up to this point, propped up against a back wall and listening with bright-eyed interest. But now he offered carefully, "I have noted that Humans place a high value on personal loyalty. The loyalty of a Human is difficult to earn. Perhaps because of this, once it is earned they guard it as something most precious. To a Human, betrayal of a battle comrade is considered equivalent to betrayal of family. An despicable offense." "Indeed," T'Pol sent him a warm look tinged with hidden affection. "I have learned this much... Sessek. My primary concern is the effect that this will have on Trip. He was devastated when he learned that Ensign Massaro, one of his own men, was the initial source of the Terra Prime involvement. When he realizes that two more of his shipmates were also planning to betray us, I confess to uneasiness regarding his reaction." "Is it necessary to tell him at all?" Ganlas innocently inquired. "Yes," T'Pol and T'Para snapped out simultaneously. Ganlas looked taken aback at this double-barreled assault. "Yes, it is," T'Pol continued more gently. "Trip and I have suffered issues in the past due to my misguided efforts at protecting him by withholding information. Invariably, this has resulted in more problems that it solved. I no longer keep secrets from my bondmate. None."
The sun woke him. A slow burn started to penetrate through Trip's closed eyelids, getting brighter and more painful minute by minute. He stirred and squinted, mumbling uncomfortably. Then he threw a forearm across his face and took a deep breath. The blast furnace temperature of the air seared its way across his tongue and tore the lining of Trip's windpipe on its way down. He coughed and sat up, shaking his head. The ledge he had picked the night before wasn't quite as well sheltered as he had thought. The sun wasn't completely up yet, but already the light was blindingly bright, even through Trip's tightly closed eyes. The heat pounded against him like angry fists, jealously resentful of this alien interloper. Trip fought his way up against the powerful drag of Vulcan's remorseless gravity and hooked his precious water supply over one shoulder. The banner marking the artesian spring hung limp in the dawn stillness. Both of the Vulcan priests squatted comfortably beneath an awning, munching what looked like fruit snack bars and sipping something juice colored. Trip briefly considered murder, but regretfully put the idea aside. He just wasn't familiar enough with the territory to hide the bodies effectively. He sighed and scanned the cliff, looking for a better hole to crawl into for the day. He needed something up on the wall of the cliff. The climbing Le'Matyas were nocturnal. Unfortunately the land bound Sehlats were diurnal, and quite frisky at this time of year. Especially the males, as they skirted the edges of each other's territories looking for feminine companionship. Trip scanned the hard packed dirt of the plain along the base of the cliff. No obvious tracks, but that meant nothing. Smokey the saber-tooth bear could amble along at any time, and Trip wanted to be in a position to look down his nose when it happened. Nothing looked greatly appealing at first glance. But one fairly wide shelf had an overhang where Trip might be able to hang his emergency blanket to make an improvised lean-to. At least he would be in shade. He took a careful sip of water and realized that his lips were already cracked. No reason to let that happen, he would be sitting next to the spring all day after all. Trip filled his mouth with cool water and swallowed gratefully. The Human embassy doctor's admonitions rang in his ears. “You are going to dehydrate almost instantly out there. No help for it, the Human body was just not designed to withstand those conditions. When you do reach a water source, spend some time recharging your tissues. I don't care if it costs you an extra hour or two. Do it anyway. Sit down and drink, and keep drinking. Don't just stop when you are no longer thirsty. Wait a while after that, and then drink some more. Drink until the thought of more water is actually unpleasant. You want your tissues to be saturated to maximum before you set out again." "Okay, okay, I get it. Quit nagging me," Trip muttered. He felt a little bit light headed and tried to blink away the spots that were forming in front of his eyes. "Better get under cover boy," he told himself. "This frying pan is startin' to sizzle." It was 150 paces east and ten meters up to reach the ledge that Trip had spotted earlier. It took him the better part of 20 minutes to get there. Each step was slower than the one before. Finally he made it to the ledge and crawled onto solid rock. It felt like the side of Enterprise's warp core when the coolant flow was starting to clog. That was the only thing that kept Trip from collapsing on his face. Instead, he dragged himself up and unfolded the emergency blanket. Holding it up in front of himself, stretched between his arms like a curtain, Trip walked forward until the overhang pressed against his chest. He spread the edge of the blanket across the top of the overhang and grabbed some scalding stones to spread across the material, anchoring it in place. It would never hold against a serious wind, but since this was the calm season it might work. When he finished the blanket dangled off the ledge like a shower curtain, with a small opening at each end for air flow. “My survival training instructor would not be amused," Trip thought, “but I don't give a rat's ass." He crawled under the makeshift excuse for a shelter and slumped gratefully against the inner wall, gasping for air. It took all his remaining strength to painfully wrench loose the lid from his canteen and hoist it up to his mouth. The first swallow hit his mouth like frozen champagne, coating his tongue and throat with indescribable ecstasy.
"I certainly agree." George/Sessek said emphatically, "It would be best if I made a discreet withdrawal before your guests arrive." "Yes," T'Para nodded. "Ganlas can be trusted absolutely. But it strains credulity to suppose that none of these Humans would mention your presence to Phlox, who would certainly pass it along to Kerlek." "In which case," T'Pol told him firmly, "an explanation would be most timely." George rubbed his chin and shot his glance from one woman to the other. "Has, um, how much has Eldest Mother T'Para been informed about the temporal aspect of things?" he asked delicately. "Sit, Young Man," T'Para pointed imperiously at a chair. George obediently sank down and T'Para continued, "T'Pol has informed me of Mr. Daniels, and his claims regarding a Temporal Cold War. She has related her own experiences in apparent temporal displacement. As a tentative working theory, I am willing to entertain the possibility that the Science Directorate may have been mistaken in this matter when it declared time travel inherently impossible. From your earlier form of address, I conclude that you claim to be a descendant of T'Pol and Trip?" "Yes, Eldest," George told her humbly. "That is correct." "I also conclude that the two of you are acquainted." It was not a question, but both of them murmured quiet assents. "T'Pol, describe the circumstances of your prior meeting. Be concise but complete. You have five minutes." She flinched but began talking with economical precision. George sat open mouthed and listened in amazement while T'Pol presented a straightforward, abbreviated but essentially intact account of T'Lissa's medical problem and cure. She finished in four minutes and 21 seconds. No one spoke while T'Para digested the new data. "Is T'Lissa in need of additional medical attention?" the old lady asked. George shook his head. "No," he replied reassuringly. "While Kerlek and Phlox were examining her I took a few surreptitious scans myself. She's healthy as a little horse." He grinned, then quickly wiped off the expression when he saw T'Para lift the Eyebrow of Ancestral Disapproval. George glanced at the baby, who had just started to squirm her way into action on the mat. "I am here for another reason. Actually several other reasons." "Specify," T'Pol instructed him tersely. She reached down protectively and put her hand on the baby unconsciously. "It has to do with, um," George coughed into his fist self-consciously. "Koss." T'Pol closed her eyes in pain. "What precisely is that young man planning to do that requires Temporal intervention?" T'Para demanded. "It isn't just Koss," George explained. "It is the entire situation that was set in motion when Grandfather Tucker confronted him at the Gathering. It has... the Human term for it is 'snowballed'. Each event has triggered other events that have, in turn, triggered additional events. It has now reached the point where the future course of civilization in the Quadrant is affected." "And you have been sent here to correct this?" T'Para asked. "Partly. There are some other Temporal agents in place acting to derail the worst of the distortions also. Mostly I have been sent here to prevent V'Rald from murdering Grandfather Tucker," George told her. T'Pol lunged to her feet with blazing eyes. "When? How?" She snarled like a leopard defending her cubs. George noted the glittering eyes and flushed ear tips, and decided that a meek tone was called for. "It won't be for several days yet," he told her. "I have been keeping close tabs on the situation, of course. When the time is right I will move into position well in advance of the event. V'Rald's agent won't have a chance to get close." "Compose yourself, Daughter," T'Para admonished her. To George she said, "Several days? He plans to ambush Trip while he is on his Kahs-Wahn then?" "Yep," George confirmed. "The idea being that his agents will strike while Grandfather is deep inside the Forge and make it look like an animal attack. They are following Grandfather now, even as we speak." T'Pol jerked and George jumped to add, "Unfortunately for them, Human Security forces are already in place and guarding Grandfather." T'Para blinked. "Let me be certain I understand. Trip is working his way through the Forge on what is supposed to be his solitary survival test. Meanwhile a group of assassins is trailing him, hoping to find an opportunity to strike, while another group of Human Security guards are also following him and watching the assassins? How is it that the thunder of their passing, and the clouds of dust they raise, have not roused every wild creature in the area?" "There aren't really that many of them," George told her. "V'Rald sent two agents, and the Humans sent two teams consisting of three men each. All of them are experienced professionals. And they, like Grandfather, are moving exclusively at night." "Six Human guards were not sufficient to stop them?" T'Pol demanded angrily. Her color was deepening from pale olive to deep sea green. George hesitated, uncertain whether to continue. "Daughter!" T'Para snapped sharply. "You are on the verge of losing control again. Center yourself at once. Begin the disciplines as I taught you. Now!" T'Pol looked startled and turned to face the Eldest Mother. Suddenly she shivered and closed her eyes. Her breathing changed, settling into a steady rhythm for time. When she opened her eyes again, they were clear. In a lower voice that mimicked perfect calm, T'Pol requested, "Please explain to me how two assassins were able to bypass six guards." "By being Vulcans in the Forge," George shrugged. "Had it been a case of the setting being northern Alaska in mid-winter the outcome would no doubt have been different. Actually the Vulcans are going to fail several times before they make their final attempt, so the Humans are not completely inept. They are simply at a lethal disadvantage." "As is Trip," T'Pol's voice held the barest hint of a quaver. "That's why I'm here, Grandmother," George said quietly. "Why are you here, Son of my Clan?" T'Para wanted to know. "You are a Healer, not a Security agent. What prompted your superiors to assign this duty to you?" George sighed and raked a fingernail through one eyebrow. "Several things, Eldest. For one thing, the Temporal Authority doesn't have many Vulcan operatives." He glanced up at T'Para, then shifted his eyes over to T'Pol. "Most Vulcans find temporal displacement unnerving in the extreme for various reasons, and the pool of available candidates for this mission was limited. They also had to have someone who could adapt to the time period readily with a believable cover story. As a doctor, I had no problem stepping into place at the University. Most importantly, I could make contact with Grandmother T'Pol without questions over my legitimacy." T'Pol remembered something. "How long have you been here?" "About a year now," George told her, returning her look steadily. T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "What else have you been doing during your time in this century, Son of my House?" she asked him. George grimaced and shifted uncomfortably on his seat. "Um. Well. You see, Grandmother T'Pol. It's like this. I was given several specific tasks to complete. Each of them are critically important. Each of them must be completed in the required order, at the correct time and in the correct manner for the timeline to be properly reset. If I tell you the full background it might effect your decision making process, which could potentially cause catastrophic results for all of us." He looked sincerely into her eyes. "Please believe me, Grandmother. Of all the people alive today, no one has more of a vested interest in maintaining the well being of this family than I do." "T'Pol," T'Para said, "Did you not inform me that your alternate was told by Agent Daniels that the timeline had already been reset?" T'Pol murmured agreement. "Why then is it necessary for George to be here now to continue the process?" George chuckled wryly. "The timeline was reset. Up to the point just before Enterprise launched. It has been more or less restored to something resembling its original configuration right up until the Suliban chased that Klingon to Earth. That's where it gets ragged again. But we can't just go back and delete everything that happened since then. All of the things that occurred since Enterprise launched — your encounters with the Suliban, the destruction of the Paraagan colony, the attack by the Xindi, the defeat of the Sphere Builders, the discovery of the Kirshara… There is no way that we can simply erase all of that. It would destroy any chance of salvaging the future altogether. So we have to cherry pick our way through the next few centuries, tweaking and pruning things to make the major events come out the way they are supposed to. The timeline won't really be back to anything like its original configuration until nearly the 27th century." "I am not concerned with this," T'Pol said firmly. "Let future centuries deal with their own problems. I am concerned about my adun and my daughter. Why can you not simply eliminate the assassin now?" "Because I am not a killer, Grandmother," George told her sharply. T'Pol flinched and nodded. "I recognize your sense of urgency, but I dare not move too soon and reveal myself. Besides, I don't want to invalidate Grandfather Trip's Kahs-Wahn. It is important to the timeline that he finish it and be granted Vulcan citizenship. There are several details that are coming together at this time, and they all have to balance together properly. This is a little bit touchy and it has to be done just right. I can't screw this up or I will never be born. And if I am never born, I can't come back in time to repair the genetic damage to T'Lissa. You understand?" T'Pol gritted her teeth and nodded. "The paradoxes of time travel are extraordinarily distasteful. I can well understand why the Temporal Authority has difficulty recruiting Vulcan agents." T'Para looked sharply at George and raised her eyebrow thoughtfully. T'Pol was too intensely focused on the danger to her husband to catch the slip George had just made. But T'Para considered it carefully. She repressed a smile with the practice of two long centuries and held her peace. There would be time to discuss such things later. Perhaps.
The trio of Starfleet officers exited the silver colored Vulcan subway cube with relief and, at least in Hoshi’s case, exasperated impatience. She was just about well and truly fed up. Between Vice-Admiral Jendaro spending three hours grilling them as if they were the suspects instead of the good guys... and then finally escaping only to be subjected to Captain Archer’s unending monologue about Ambassador Trask’s arrogant attitude... interrupted by Malcolm and the captain going on and on about how foolish Trip was for trying to pass this Vulcan test... a nunnery was starting to look pretty good to Hoshi right about now. “Would it kill them to shut up for five minutes?” she wondered plaintively. “Here we are on Vulcan. Neither of them have ever been here before long enough to do any real sightseeing, much less been invited into the residential neighborhoods. We are supposed to be explorers. But are they looking around? Nope. Look at them.” She glanced with disgust at the two men as they climbed the ramp up to ground level with their heads together, muttering complaints. She stopped and waited at the top of the ramp for them to finish their discussion. And waited. Finally she snapped. “GENTLEMEN!” Their heads whipped around in shock. “May I remind you,” Hoshi continued with icy control, “as designated protocol officer for this away mission, that we are in public on Vulcan. As such, continuing such a public display of emotion, much less carrying on such obviously private and personal discussion, is a remarkably distasteful display of bad manners.” The two men at least had the grace to look embarrassed. The three of them fell into step and started heading for nearest street corner, where one of the regularly placed city maps was displayed. Hoshi rolled her eyes and bit down hard on her tongue when they discovered that Captain Archer, experienced pilot and professional explorer, had led them into exiting the subway system one stop too early. Archer clamped his jaw closed and dared either of them with a look to offer any comments. Malcolm could have given lessons on impassivity to the palace guards at Buckingham. Hoshi batted her eyes and returned her best innocent ‘who, me?’ look. They confirmed their location in reference to the directions that T’Pol had provided and set off northeastward at a brisk walk. Half a block later, the brisk walk became a slow walk. By the end of the block, the slow walk became a very slow amble. By the end of the second block, Archer held up his hand and called for a three minute break at a fortuitously placed bench. The other two, with sweat streaming down their faces, did not complain. “Bloody Hell,” Malcolm wheezed. “Trip’s been living like this for months, and he’s not dead yet? Remind me not to challenge him to a sparring match anytime soon.” “I forgot how hot it really is down here,” Archer admitted. “I guess Surak kept me kind of protected while I was carrying him, or something.” “It’s the air,” Hoshi suggested. “It wouldn’t be so bad if we could just breathe.” Malcolm nodded agreement. “Like the top of Mount Everest under a blowtorch.” They moved on carefully, stopping at half block intervals to wheeze and pant. After seven and a half blocks they finally reached the promised land. “Here we are,” Captain Archer announced faintly. “Care to knock, Malcolm?” His executive officer gave him a dirty look but managed to force his arm into lifting the massive hammer. He let it drop against the announcing gong. The bronze colored metal bar boomed and rang like a medieval church bell. The gate opened almost instantly, revealing the face of a young Vulcan male wearing a look of polite inquiry. “How may I be of service?” he asked in Vulcan. Hoshi stepped forward and introduced them in the same language flawlessly. “Ah,” the youngster replied in English. “Of course, Captain Archer, Commander Reed, Lieutenant Sato. Welcome. You are expected. It was not necessary to ring the gong, the button next to the gate latch activates a buzzer. But it was kind of you to respect the old tradition.” He stepped back and opened the gate wide, gesturing them to come in. “I am V’lanos,” he told them, “Lady T’Pol is my krei, I believe the closest term in your language would be cousin. Please follow me. T’Pol and Eldest Mother T’Para are waiting inside.” The weary Humans trudged hopefully after the young man, inspired by the thought of sitting down. As they entered the cool shade of the thick walled house, simultaneous sighs of relief blended together to form a harmonious convergence that echoed down the entrance hall, causing T’Para’s nostrils to twitch faintly. She sent T’Pol a glance. “It seems that our guests have arrived.” T’Pol started pouring the traditional welcoming cups of water. In allowance of their Human guests, she had replaced the typical pitcher with a large urn full of ice water. The ordinary small porcelain cups were left in the cabinet this time, in favor of tall insulated mugs. Three deep, well padded chairs were arranged in a semi-circle around a low table, facing the couch where three generations of Vulcan ladies waited to offer greeting. V’lanos led the Humans through the main archway, with Archer in the lead. T’Pol stood to offer the formal salute and perform introductions. “Charmed, ma’am,” Archer sketched a shallow bow toward T’Para. “Why?” she asked him curiously. “I have made no effort to charm you. And I seriously doubt that a woman of my obvious age and desiccated appearance holds any fascination to a male of your youth.” “Ur...,” the captain choked slightly and looked a bit lost. T’Pol stepped in with, “It is a standard conversational interjection, Eldest. Commonly used when addressing a female to which one has been introduced in a formal setting.” “Remarkable,” T’Para tilted her head to regard Malcolm. “Are you charmed as well, young man?” Malcolm gave a sterling imitation of a man facing a firing squad. “I can only say, Ma’am, that I am dumbstruck with admiration.” T’Para actually snorted. “Trip has spoken of you. I see that he did not exaggerate. And you, child,” she looked at Hoshi. “What have you to say for yourself?” Hoshi let a smile spread over her face. “I say that I want to see that baby again. I haven’t had a chance to hold her since T’Pol and Trip left Enterprise. Can I have her please?” T’Para let her eyes soften and replied. “Sit down girl. All of you sit down before you lose consciousness. Rest and drink your water. Then you may hold her.” They obeyed gratefully. Several minutes passed broken only by the sound of gurgling and tinkling ice. T’Lissa roused up at the strange commotion and peered curiously around T’Para’s elbow. When she spotted the newcomers her face lit up with gleeful anticipation. Afire with enthusiasm at finding a new audience to enthrall, the elf-eared dynamo lunged head first toward the floor in an effort to meet and greet. T’Pol twisted and fielded the little unguided missile in mid-leap. Nothing daunted, T’Lissa started working her arms and legs in vigorous crawling motions, like an ATV trying to dig its way over a sandbar. “Pehkau, T’Lissa,” T’Pol said softly. “Our guests must rest after their journey.” Her daughter’s grunt indicated a lack of sympathy with anyone too tired to expend energy on truly important matters like playing with her. “Ooooh!” Hoshi squealed in delight. “Look at her go! Malcolm, Captain. Look how much she has grown! It’s only been such a short time and look how big she has gotten.” Hoshi gave T’Pol a beseeching look. “May I? Please?” T’Lissa suddenly froze and looked at Hoshi with a puzzled expression. Her tiny face screwed up in a look of intense concentration for a moment. Then she exploded into a storm of chattering and arm waving excitement. The baby suddenly started lunging for Hoshi, ignoring the two men completely. “I believe she remembers you,” T’Pol remarked, handing the pocket sized tornado to her former shipmate. “You’re kidding, right?” Hoshi asked her in disbelieving happiness. She turned toward the baby, who was busily tugging at her hair. “Hi there, Honey. Do you really remember me? You can’t remember me can you? You were barely big enough to peek over the top of your diaper the last time you saw me.” “Of course she can,” T’Pol assured her. “Vulcan children can recognize and identify individual faces immediately after birth, and retain long term memories of them within a few days. And you were the third female she ever came into contact with. I am certain she retains memories of both your appearance and your voice.” “Oh my goodness,” Hoshi’s voice cracked and she hugged T’Lissa. Not perhaps the wisest course of action, as it turned out. The little one, ever the opportunistic investigator, decided to find out why Hoshi’s ear was shaped so strangely by removing it for closer examination. “Uh, no baby. You can look at it if you want to. But it doesn’t come off. Really, it doesn’t detach. I swear, it doesn’t. I’m not lying. It really doesn’t.” Eventually T’Lissa gave up and turned her attention to other matters, leaving Hoshi to silently mouth an exaggerated ‘ouch’ and rub the side of her head vigorously. “This is a beautiful house, ma’am,” the captain interjected, hoping to smooth things out a bit. Vague memories from Surak’s katra informed him that no one of any race could ever go wrong by complimenting a woman’s taste in decor. “I should hope so,” T’Para responded a touch smugly. “I spent one hundred and thirty-six years decorating it.” “Really?” Archer replied respectfully. “That’s very impressive.” “What is impressive about it?” T’Para tilted her head again and skewered him with a laser gaze. “The fact that I have spent the years doing it? Or the concept that it took me one hundred and thirty-six years to get it right?” Archer froze and looked desperately at T’Pol, who merely raised an interested eyebrow and waited for his reply. Malcolm closed his eyes and bowed his head in sympathy. “I... simply meant that quality takes time.” T’Para raised both eyebrows. “I did not mean to imply that I needed more than a century to determine the proper placement for my potted plants young man. But the years have taught me through experience some basic principles to simplify the process of organization.” “Yes, ma’am,” Archer seized on it gratefully. “That’s what I was trying to say.” “Then why didn’t you?” T’Para inquired curiously. “I... uh... I guess I am not thinking too clearly because of the heat,” Archer blurted out. He took another swig of water hopefully, silently pleading with fate to let the old lady drop it. Fate was kind for once and she turned to pick on Malcom. “Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed,” T’Para said. Malcolm swallowed hard. Conditioned reflexes that had lain dormant for twenty years brought him to seated attention. “Yes, ma’am?” he replied crisply. “Trip has informed me that you are suicidally brave, loyal as your captain’s dog, and ‘dumb as a post’ when it comes to women,” T’Para told him casually. “Would you consider this an accurate summation?” Hoshi snorted and coughed her way into a giggling fit. Malcolm’s mouth opened and closed a few times before he managed, “I really couldn’t say, ma’am. I am not confident in my ability to judge myself impartially.” “It’s absolutely accurate,” Hoshi proclaimed. “It’s perfect!” She fell back against the chair, hugging the baby and snickering. T’Lissa, clueless about what brought it on but always willing to join in a good joke, squealed her way into the chorus. “Trip has a tendency to be somewhat less than tactful on occasion,” T’Pol murmured, glancing at T’Para. The Eldest Mother waved her attempted warning away. “In that case, perhaps we can assist you. I understand that your counterpart on the alternate timeline Enterprise never married and died childless.” Hoshi’s laughter slowed and stopped. She leaned forward and started looking interested. “This is a tragedy that need not befall you here,” T’Para continued. “I know that Humans do use not arranged marriages as such. But Trip has recently agreed to assist a friend by expediting contact with a potential mate. Perhaps we could offer similar assistance. Malcolm’s eyes were the size of grapefruits. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Malcom said weakly. “Ma’am,” he added. Archer broke in. “You know about the alternate time Enterprise?” his voice suddenly tensed. “Yes,” T’Para said calmly. “What of it?” “That’s highly classified information, Madam,” Captain Archer told her between clenched teeth. “Trip and T’Pol had no business disclosing that information to you.” T’Pol’s face froze and she flicked her glance over to T’Para. Her heart sank as she watched the Eldest Mother’s eyebrows draw together and both nostrils widen a trifle. As Trip would say, it was about to hit the fan. T’Pol briefly debated grabbing her child and running for it. But such cowardice would be completely dishonorable, when neither Hoshi nor Malcolm possessed any such escape option. All they could do was sit and hope for minimal collateral damage. “You are not aboard your ship, Captain Jonathon Archer,” T’Para informed him deadpan. “This is Vulcan. Here, Vulcan law prevails.” “I am aware of that, Lady T’Para,” Archer held onto his temper with both hands. This was the last straw as far as he was concerned. First, Gardner dumps this whole situation in his lap and blithely assures him that he has complete faith that everything will work out fine. And by the way, if anything goes wrong it’s all your fault Jon. Then Trip has to pick right now to go haring off cross country on his Kahs-Wahn. Like it couldn’t have waited another week or two. Then Trask turns out to be an arrogant pain in the butt. Then they have to hike an extra three kilometers to get here. And now it turns out that two of his most trusted friends have been casually scattering top secret information hither and yon with gay abandon. It was all just too much. “However,” Archer continued, “Trip is a Starfleet officer and bound by Starfleet regulations and Earth law. And while T’Pol is no longer a Starfleet officer per se, she took an oath to adhere to Starfleet regulations. Neither of them had any right to reveal this information without authorization.” “I see,” T’Para said coldly. “However you are making several inaccurate assumptions young man. Shall I enumerate them for you?” Archer took a deep breath. “Please do,” he said tightly. “Foremost among your assumptions, child,” T’Para lectured, “is your conviction that Trip or T’Pol was the source of my information. They were not. I obtained my briefing directly from a representative of the High Council. Minister Kuvak in fact, who happens to be married to the third cousin of my nephew’s wife’s brother.” Archer’s jaw dropped. T’Para went on before he had time to respond. “Your expression indicated surprise. Did you think that one reaches the position of Eldest Mother of a major clan without developing political and professional contacts along the way? I served as Chief Minister of the Security Directorate for twenty-nine years. I still have many connections. Most of them are members of my own family.” “I... didn’t know that,” Archer said in a subdued tone. “No, you did not,” T’Para continued to administer verbal discipline, not bothering to dilute it with mercy. “Nor did you bother to find out. You merely made an unwarranted assumption and then leaped into action as if your assumption were proven fact. A pattern of behavior that your ship’s logs reveal to have been all too common during your time as T’Pol’s commanding officer.” Three watching faces winced. “You have been reading my logs?” Archer asked in disbelief. “Naturally,” T’Para waved it away. “How else could I obtain an impartial evaluation of your character and competence? Trip is prejudiced in your favor due to your long friendship. T’Pol is reluctant to criticize you for Trip’s sake, and because she believes that you are honestly trying to learn and improve. My personal conclusion, based on my experience as a Chief Minister, is that your style of command is woefully inefficient. Your pathological inability to delegate responsibility is going to get you and your crew killed someday. But that is not my concern. However.” T’Para leaned forward. “If you intend to succeed in your current mission, I suggest that you modify your habits, young man. Not only were you incorrect in your assumption concerning the source of my information, but you were also incorrect about another matter.” She glared at him, daring him to open his mouth. He didn’t. “The captain of the alternate Enterprise, Lorian, was a member of my clan. By clan law, thousands of years older than your Starfleet regulations, T’Pol was obligated to inform me of his existence so that his name could be entered into the family’s records. Even though the temporal anomaly that you encountered may well have destroyed him, the fact that he once did exist is sufficient to grant him a place in the clan rolls. As his mother, she was required by clan law and custom to enter his name. Not to do so would have been a betrayal of her own child. The vilest form of treachery imaginable. So do not presume to adopt a self-righteous attitude regarding what would or would not have been proper for her to tell me. Do you understand me, Jonathan Archer?” “Yes, ma’am,” Archer mumbled, swaying slightly in his chair. He sat blinking, too punch drunk to make any reply. “Now,” T’Para sat back. “As I was saying, Malcolm Reed. My grandson Serl’s daughter T’Jala is currently unbonded...
Ambassador Kilruym adjusted his chair to a more comfortable position and made sure that his cup of Human chocolate was conveniently at hand. The stuff was highly addictive, just as Trask had warned him. It was a lapse of discipline for a veteran with his years of experience in the Andorian Guard to indulge so frequently in this newly acquired vice. But by the Great Mother herself, it was so good. The main viewscreen on the wall of his office lit up in two subsections. The left half displayed the interior of a private briefing room located on Andoria, deep inside the bowels of the Central Command HQ. The other side showed a nondescript table with two equally nondescript Andorians, apparently civilians, sitting alertly with note taking supplies ready. Ambassador Kilruym tapped his stylus on his desk and signaled the meeting was ready to begin. “Greetings and respect to all of you,” he began. “I thank you for responding to my call.” The old woman displayed on the left half of the screen snapped, “We understand that you have become accustomed to flowery speeches, Kilruym. But the rest of us have real work to get done. Get on with it.” The ambassador broke into a chuckle. “Skrilla, you haven’t changed at all. All right then. Enterpriseassumed orbit earlier today. Trask called Archer down immediately, of course. I expect a request for a meeting with those two very soon. Before I go into that, I wanted to consult with our expert on Archer,” he nodded at the man sitting beside General Skrilla, “and the two agents who put the first broke the pack ice on this voyage.” He turned to the right side of the screen. “Lethos. Thyren. Have you obtained any further information from unofficial channels that I can use?” The two of them traded looks. “Probably nothing that you don’t already know,” Thyren told him. “I can confirm that Dark Agent Harris is unhappy about Soval being on Vulcan. The Humans are working on something that they believe will force him to return to Cairo, but I haven’t pinned down what it is yet.” Kilruym’s antennae twisted in understanding. “Soval has been making noises about setting up a meeting to discuss ‘matters of mutual benefit’.” ”He knows?” The man sitting beside Skrilla leaned forward tensely. “Of course he knows, Commander,” Ambassador Kilruym snorted. “The Vulcans have had more than a hundred years to penetrate Human security. Not even the most incompetent operative could fail to accomplish something in that length of time.” Lethos chuckled. “The Humans apparently compromised the new Vulcan embassy within 57 days.” Thyren’s mouth twitched into a smile. “I have come to have great respect for Human resourcefulness,” Thyren admitted. “It keeps us busy here intercepting and countering their attempts to penetrate our embassy. We finally found it most expedient to simply let them succeed in planting a few listening devices at controlled locations. It saved a lot of bother.” “And no doubt they did the same to you,” Skrilla growled in disgust. “No doubt at all, General,” Lethos replied soothingly. “We all know the rules of this game. Humans have been playing it as long as we have.” “What is that devious old ice grinder after this time?” General Skrilla’s companion wondered aloud. “The Human Dark Guard,” Lethos offered, “is operating under the assumption that the Vulcans will attempt to sabotage the exchange.” “I am not so certain of that,” Kilruym muttered. “Something in Soval’s manner seemed... uneasy. There is more here than one can perceive on the surface. I suspect that there is some tension between the Humans and the Vulcans that we are not privy to.” “What about that, Lethos?” Skrilla’s companion demanded. “That recording you submitted implied that there was a Vulcan somewhere impairing the Humans in their warp drive upgrades. On the face of it this sounds ludicrous. Knowing Tucker as I do, I can easily picture him grabbing any interfering Vulcan by both ears and pitching him straight out the nearest airlock.” “We are still attempting to discover the reason for that secret meeting, Commander Shran,” Lethos replied. “Agent Thyren has a contact at the 602 club who provided a possible lead. But so far we have only one solid piece of information to report.” “Then report it,” Skrilla snapped sharply. Thyren cleared his throat. “The day before the meeting, a Tellarite freighter dropped off a Vulcan passenger traveling under false documentation. He was detected and intercepted by Human authorities and taken for questioning.” Thyren paused. “Somehow he managed to end up dead. The official cause of death is listed as “natural causes”. The Vulcans have invoked privacy seal on the information, and his body was cremated, The ashes are sealed pending shipment back to Vulcan.” There was general silence while everyone considered this tidbit. Finally Kilruym asked, “What was he really? A courier?” “An assassin,” Lethos said bluntly. Shran let out an angry hiss and straightened in his chair, his antennae twisting in rage. Kilruym’s fist clenched but he gave no other overt reaction. General Skrilla’s face tightened and darkened. “Are you certain?” she growled. “Confirmed, General,” Lethos said soberly. “He was a known criminal, wanted by Vulcan law for more than two decades. His last known location was deep inside the Orion Syndicate. Why he would even consider returning to known space, much less to Vulcan’s closest ally, is unknown.” “I may not own the sharpest cutter on the rack,” Shran said sarcastically, “but I will take a slice at this puzzle. I will wager everything I own and everything I ever expect to earn that he had a contract to fulfill.” “It seems likely,” Lethos agreed. “Small wonder then,” Skrilla considered, “that Soval wants to meet with you. If things have deteriorated to the point that the Humans and Vulcans are sending assassins after each other.” “We don’t know that,” Kilruym pointed out. “It could be a faction of Vulcans. Perhaps some of V’Las’ cohorts are seeking to regain a foothold. Perhaps a revenge attempt of some sort. It could be a variety of things. I can’t afford to get too optimistic yet.” “How will the Humans respond to this, Lethos?” General Skrilla demanded. Commander Shran grimaced and rubbed his face, while Lethos and Thyren put on identical expression of pain. Lethos opened his mouth and hesitated. “General.” He paused. “We really have no way of knowing.” He winced at her expression. “You have no way of knowing.” Her voice was a deadly monotone. “How long have you been there, studying these people Lethos? Have you actually done anything? Has all your time been spent sipping the local beverages and reading pornographic literature from home?” “It’s not his fault, General,” Shran broke in. “No one can predict a Human. They are insane. As a species I mean. Totally unpredictable. They can’t even tell you themselves what they are likely to do at any given moment.” “Don’t try to be amusing Shran,” Skrilla sounded like she was in no mood for games. “An entire species cannot be insane and still survive.” “I don’t know what else to call it,” Shran said stubbornly. “Look at the evidence. Look at how they reacted when the Xindi attacked them. An unknown race comes from nowhere and attacks their planet. What do they do? They send one ship off into completely unknown space to deal with the threat. Was this a rational response?” Skrilla stopped for a moment. “All right. But in their defense, they had never been attacked before. They had no experience, and they were still hoping that their so called allies would offer them some help.” “They had never been attacked by another race,” Shran admitted. “But they had certainly been fighting each other for their entire history. Humans are far from novices when it comes to war.” He considered for a moment. “What about this then? When V’Las was planning his treacherous attack against us, Commander Tucker disobeyed his own high command to bring Soval deep into our space to find me and report the Vulcan’s plan. He risked his career and his life, his ship and his crew’s lives, to prevent a war that meant nothing to his people. The Vulcans had already betrayed his people when they needed them most, and we had certainly not done anything to earn their loyalty, had we? Considering that I was ordered to steal the prototype Xindi weapon from them.” Skrilla and Kilruym both looked embarrassed. “I defy you to tell me that was not irrational behavior.” “He is one individual,” Kilruym pointed out. “You said the whole species is crazy.” “They are,” Shran’s antennae twisted in the equivalent of a shrug. “Most Humans are decent enough. They have a code of honor and they try to live by it. But the most stable of them will bear close watching.” “It is this planet of theirs,” Thyren said earnestly, leaning toward the camera pickup. “It is like no habitable world I have ever seen before. It is impossible, literally impossible to predict what this Hellpit is going to throw at you next. If you are not ready at any split second to react with lightning speed to the constant flux and flow of conditions here, you die. It is as simple as that. Swift adjustment to constant change is the price of survival on Earth.” “Is it really that bad there?” Kilruym wanted to know. “I have heard Thrella complain about it, but she is always complaining in any case.” Lethos sighed. “There are some places here on Earth, depending on latitude and the distribution of land and water, that...” He shook his head. “This ‘Mother Earth’ of theirs is a ravenous hunter that delights in devouring her own young.” “What specifically are you referring to?” Skrilla wanted to know. Lethos thought for a moment. “There are some areas on this planet where it is possible to get up at dawn to greet a beautiful sunny morning, with warm pleasant breezes, and by noon be facing a rain storm — with howling winds that can lift you off the ground and throw you hard enough to break bones.” Lethos winced and added as an aside, “I hate rain. Snow is wonderful of course. But rain soaks its way inside your clothing and coats you in a sheath of melted exoskeleton.” “It sounds miserable,” Shran agreed distastefully.
“It can be even more miserable,” Thyren added ruefully, “if you are forced to leave your shelter and flee because an undersea quake has caused a tsnunami to sweep in toward you.” "That might be disconcerting, I will admit,” Skrilla acknowledged. “But then you find that you must change course and veer away from your planned escape route,” Thyren continued, “because the tectonic disturbance was more extensive than you first realized, and that lovely mountain you admired this morning has just blown up and spewed flaming lava over the area.” Shran made a choking sound. “Blown up? What do you mean, blown up?” “Exactly what he said, Commander,” Lethos replied grimly. “He meant blown up. Exploded. Like a torpedo. I know it is hard to imagine, since very few class M worlds have active volcanoes.” “There are active volcanoes here on Vulcan,” Kilruym said. “But they don’t blow up.” “That’s because the plate tectonics on Vulcan are significantly less active than on Earth,” Thyren noted. “I’m sure you have noted the volcanoes on T’Kuht? They are large and fiery enough to be seen with the naked eye at night. The volcanic activity is almost as fierce here as it is on T’Khut. The edge of the tectonic plate that surrounds the major oceanic area is so active that Humans refer to it as the Ring of Fire.” Thyren stopped to catch his breath and Lethos interjected helpfully. “While you are fleeing the tsnunami and the lava flow, you must watch carefully to avoid falling trees that are being torn loose by the howling winds, or struck down by the massive thunderbolts that split the sky on this world like pulse cannons. “Oh, one last thing,” Thyren mentioned. “One must be careful while fleeing the tsnunami and the volcano, as the storm and the screaming winds are trying to rip the skin off your back, to avoid being fried by the forest fires that the lava started. Not to mention the mudslides.” “All of this between sunrise and sunset,” Lethos said tiredly. “Mudslides.” Kilruym said flatly. "Oh yes, Ambassador,” Lethos told him. “The ground is only frozen here at the poles. Nowhere else. So any admixture of water in any form destabilizes things quite remarkably.” “How did they build a civilization?” Skrilla wondered. “Without any solidly frozen ground for a base, how do they keep their buildings from tumbling over?” “By drilling down to bedrock, usually.” Thyren explained. “But it is not unusual at all for entire towns to be buried in mudslides. Or in lava flows. Or flattened in windstorms. Or shaken to pieces in quakes. Or washed away in flood waters.” “Great Mother Andor,” Shran whispered. “I knew from talking to them that their world was harsh. Archer and I had compared notes about the differences between mountain climbing on Andoria and on Earth. I also remember hearing Tucker talk about growing up near that foul sounding swamp. But this—” “Near a swamp?” Thyren absently tugged on his antenna, to the amusement of all present. “What about in a swamp? One the most highly prized cities on this planet is sinking.” “What?” said Kilruym. “What?” said Skrilla. “What?” said Shran. “Sinking,” said Thyren with a twitch of his right antenna and a head shake. He leaned back in his chair with a distracted expression. “By the Tongue Dancers of Rigil,” Kilruym demanded, “What is he talking about Lethos?” Lethos looked resigned. “The city is named Venice. It is very old, by Human standards. They built it in the middle of a swamp, on poles.” “On what?” Skrilla stared, dumbfounded. “Poles,” Lethos repeated. “They drove long poles down into the mud as deeply as they could. Then they built their houses on top of them. It is a common practice here. What is unusual about Venice is that they built an entire city this way. Instead of streets they use canals, and boats instead of ground cars.” “You cannot possibly be serious,” Shran whispered hoarsely, incredulous. “It’s true,” Thyren insisted. “But over the centuries, the city has settled into the mud. So the Humans have continued to build it up higher and higher. They have also worked to try and drain the swamp somewhat, and generally do whatever they can to preserve the area. But the planet is winning the battle. Their Mother Earth is eating them, slowly but surely.” Kilruym looked dazed. “And I complain about dry heat.” “They have that here too,” Lethos said helpfully. “There is a place called, appropriately enough, Death Valley, where temperatures can reach as high as 57 degrees." Kilruym winced. "It doesn’t get much hotter than that in the Forge,” he grumbled. “It is not all like that,” Lethos assured them. “The climate here in Toronto is quite tolerable in winter. From this point northward things are quite pleasant. Except for the storms of course. This atmosphere is... turbulent. That moon of theirs is a veritable demon when it comes to weather disturbance.” “Why would their moon matter?” Shran objected. “Andoria orbits a gas giant. Surely our planet is subjected to greater stress.” “But our oceans are covered in pack ice,” Lethos pointed out. “Here, the tidal variations cause massive shifts in water level twice a day. Every day. This of course plays havoc with the oceanic currents. And this planet wobbles on its axis like a top that is about to fall over. The axial tilt on this planet is more than 23 degrees, if you can believe it. Twenty-three degrees! The seasonal variations in temperature are incredible.” "Especially when the atmosphere turns upside down," Thyren interjected helpfully. After a few moments it occurred to Lethos that, if the Human proverb were literally true and silence were actually golden, one could readily purchase a palace on Rigel's fourth moon with the wealth that was pouring out of the monitor in front of them. He eventually decided to answer the question that everyone was afraid to ask before they all starved. He cleared his throat delicately. "What Agent Thyren is talking about," Lethos offered cautiously, "Is referred to by the Humans as a 'temperature inversion'. It is caused by a major disturbance in the atmospheric pressure, which is caused by shifts in the prevailing wind currents, which are in turn brought about due to the axial tilt and the tidal force of their moon on the massive quantities of liquid water that cover this planet's surface. You see —" "Don't bother," Shran muttered. “Now, suddenly, many things become very clear to me.” “It seems I may have judged too quickly and harshly Lethos," Skrilla acknowledged stiffly. "From what the pair of you are telling me, it is small wonder that Human behavior would sometimes be... erratic." She shuddered slightly. "But such a place as you describe must be unimaginably stressful. How could they have ever learned to hold themselves together long enough to build a civilization, much less achieve starships? How do they cope with it all?" she wondered. The two Dark Guard agents look at each other helplessly. Finally Lethos tentatively offered, “I have noticed that they seem to curse a great deal.”
Trip drained the last of his water. Time for a refill. He needed to get out from under this thing anyway. His half-assed excuse for a shelter was keeping out the sunlight all right. But even with the openings that he left at each end of the ledge, air movement was at a premium. Trip seriously considered moving on, daylight or not, just in hopes of finding better shelter. Mediation was a washout. It wasn’t going to happen, not under these conditions. His split lips were bleeding again. It hurt to drink, and it hurt to close his mouth afterward. The corners of his lips had cracked and scabbed over a dozen times in the last two days. Now he could barely open it far enough to ease the rim of the canteen into place. Thousands of hot pins jabbed into his sinuses with every breath he drew. If he breathed through his mouth, he avoided the sinus pain but he choked on dust and phlegm instead. “Can’t win for losing,” Trip though ironically. The heaviness in his bladder added yet another good reason to get out from under the lid of this roasting pan. As he started scooting for the opening Trip’s sore palms received a fond farewell from the lacerating gravel that covered the ledge. But his poor dented backside, flattened and misshapen from being smashed down on stone under Vulcan gravity, rejoiced at the relief. His feet didn’t care one way or the other. They had cut off all communication with him sometime last night, and were sullenly refusing to discuss any and all peace overtures. He couldn’t help a gasping grunt when his bare head came out from under the covering. Trip grabbed frantically at his hood and flung it over his head before his brain caught on fire. He scrambled in slow motion the rest of the way out from under his hanging emergency blanket and shakily rose to a weaving crouch. “Shoulda brought the sombrero,” he thought resentfully, ticked off at himself. “Don’t care how stupid it woulda looked. Don’t care if T’Pol woulda been embarrassed. I shoulda brought it.” What made it worse was that knowledge that T’Pol had offered no objection to his using the monstrous lid. She told him to wear anything that he felt comfortable in, and that he felt would give him the best protection. Trip had decided to leave the hat behind on his own, just to keep from feeling like a fool when he started off with all those little kids. Trip started to straighten and felt a muscle in his back spasm. “Oh shit!” He let his left his knee bend and lowered himself back down as slowly as possible. A twinge of real fear hit him for the first time since the test began. If his back went out, or he became disabled in any way out here, then he was a dead man. What would be a minor problem at home would surely kill him here. And a Human operating under Vulcan gravity was at constant risk for everything from sprained ankles to slipped disks. “Maybe it’s just stretched,” he prayed. “Maybe I have just been sitting in one place too long and I got stiff.” He knelt and tried to control his breathing, using the disciplines that T’Para had taught him. The fear was there, and it had to be dealt with. Hiding from it wasn’t going to help. He had to face it and conquer it logically. All right. Assume the worst. Even if he was really injured, he still wasn’t going to die here. He was within shouting distance of the first station. All he had to do was yell for help and the two Vulcan watchers down there would come and save his pitiful Human ass. It would be humiliating, but not fatal. The worst part would be facing T’Pol after his failure. He would almost rather be eaten by a Le'Matya. If he wasn’t able to continue they would carry him down to the spring, give him water and food. They would use their medical kit and shoot him up with pain killer. Then one of them would climb the cliff and fire off a green smoke flare — the signal for an injured tester. A trained emergency response team would be in motion within moments. This part of the Forge had been carefully chosen for the Kahs-Wahn course. The electro-magnetic interference was weak in this area. It wasn’t a good idea to carry conductive metal in here, and electronic equipment of any kind had to be heavily shielded and only worked at point blank range. But simple machinery could be made to operate. A light flyer constructed from resin, fiberglass and tempered ceramic compounds, powered by an alcohol burning engine, would be dispatched to pick him up. “So I’m gonna be ok, no matter what happens,” he told himself quietly. “All I need to do is assess the situation logically, and determine the correct course of action.” He paused to replay what he had just said in his head. “Oh man,” he laughed painfully to himself, “Everyone told me that old married couples start to act like each other. But I didn’t expect it to start this quick.” There were worse people he could start imitating, he considered with a fond smile. Trip carefully stretched out his arms, one at a time, and tested the feel of his shoulders. No pain, good. Now for the hard part. He looked at the rock wall next to him and remembered how hot it felt in the early morning. By now the stone would be hot enough to blister. Trip tucked his hands up under his tunic and used it to insulate them as he grabbed a pair of hand holds to brace against. Then he slowly and carefully straightened both of his legs. This time he made it up with only a few minor twinges. He stood panting and tried picking up his feet one at a time, bending and flexing his knees and swinging his legs off to the side to test his range of motion. So far, so good. Trip turned and looked down the slope that he had crawled up to reach the ledge. This would be the real test. If he made it down to the plain without crippling himself, he would be fine. He made sure that his canteen was secure, then he moved over to the top of the slope and sat down. It wasn’t fun, but it wasn’t as bad as he had dreaded. Sliding down was easier than climbing after all. When he hit bottom, hit being the operative word, his vision was swimming. Trip could tell he was breathing because he felt the cloth across his chest tightening every time he drew a breath. But that was the only clue he had. Somehow the air didn’t seem to be doing him much good. If you could dignify it with the name of air. Damn this planet. Damn this atmosphere. Damn this gravity. Damn that sunlight. Damn these boots. Damn he had to piss. Trip debated just turning it loose right where he stood. But he remembered how close he was to the spring and thought better of it. Male Vulcans didn’t have noses anywhere near as sensitive as Vulcan women, but there was no percentage in being deliberately obnoxious. He still didn’t have any real idea how the proctors for the Kahs-Wahn were chosen. For all he knew, those two guys might even be members of T’Pol’s clan. The last thing he needed would be for one of them to go back and report to T’Para that he had acted like an animal. “Probably not an issue that they have to deal with very often,” Trip reflected as he trudged wearily off toward a fairly tall rock. “Considering that Vulcans old enough to be potty trained don’t urinate more than once every two or three days.” He ducked behind the boulder, glancing through squinted eyes and a layer of cloth from his hood for the presence of anything carnivorous. The area was mercifully bare of local residents, and Trip sighed in blessed relief as he unloaded. He noted with interest that the stuff evaporated almost before it hit the ground, leaving only a small, pale stain to mark the spot. He fastened up and felt much more optimistic for some reason. Trip turned back and took unsteady aim at the banner marking the spring. He knew it couldn’t be as far away as the heat waves make it seem. No way he would have been able to walk that far. “Just keep putting one foot in front of the other one Tucker,” he told himself. “You will get there eventually.” When he finally arrived Trip was overjoyed to discover that the moving sun had cast a slight shadow over the spring, leaving a sliver of shade next to the cliff. Just barely enough for him to squeeze into. He promptly flopped down next to the faucet and filled his canteen. Then he scooted over to the cliff and used a flat rock to scrape away the top layer of dirt, exposing the slightly less scorched subsoil. Trip sat down on the peeled dirt and took a massive swig of water. Then he struggled loose from his tunic and spread it over the dirt in front of himself. Gingerly, not looking forward to what he would find, Trip pulled off his boots and rested his bare feet on his spread tunic. He winced when he finally got his socks off, as much from what he saw as from what he felt. Actually, his feet were pretty numb. But he knew better than to expect things to stay that way. Broken blisters were turning raw and both feet were badly swollen. “Not good Tucker. Not good at all. You better do something about this, fast, or you are gonna be crawling the rest of the way.” The Vulcans observed him with uncertain interest. There was nothing in the rules of the Kahs-Wahn that said a tester couldn’t sit down next to the spring and stay there all day. It was just unheard of. But of course, no Human had ever taken the test before. They looked at each other in frustrated silence, unable to discuss the matter while Trip was present. Then the scent of his unbooted feet became evident, and they had a new subject to avoid discussing. Trip noted the changing expressions and realized that the slight breeze was blowing from him toward his hosts. He shrugged. “Sorry guys,” he thought. “Not my fault you put your awning downwind of the spring.” He took the laces out of his boots and peeled the tongues all the way back, turning each boot upside down to make sure that any moisture either dripped or evaporated out. Although there wasn’t much chance that dampness would last long. His socks got turned inside out, rinsed and wrung out, then hung over a nearby rock to dry. Trip decided that since he had water to spare, it was time to do something about the salt build up. A sponge bath was somewhat challenging without a sponge, but he could at least retrieve one of his socks for a washcloth and swab off his face, chest, and armpits. It made a real difference in his sense of well-being. The Vulcans watched with pained expressions at this waste of precious water. Wiping off his feet was more in the nature of first aid. Adding the salt tablets to his drinking water also added a new and interesting dimension to the way it felt when it hit his broken blisters. But Trip reflected that at least the salt should help disinfect them. Afterward he re-rinsed his longsuffering sock again and hung it up to rest beside its brother. Then he leaned forward with his head in his hands. At least here there was some air moving. Trip took deep breaths and tried to convince himself that there was actually oxygen entering his lungs. He steadied himself and forced his breathing into the pattern T’Pol taught him for entering the first level of meditation. The weight of his head pressed heavy against his hands, forcing his tired elbows to dig hard into his thighs. His back ached and his ribs were sore from fighting for breath. Freed from their binding, his feet were starting to throb like a pair of toothaches. Trip’s head swam. Bile rose up and he locked his teeth to keep from losing the water he just drank. The hot breeze tickled around his bare chest and shoulders, prickling the short hairs. It would be so easy to give up and quit now. They were sitting right there. He wouldn’t even have to raise his head and face them. He could just mumble out that he was ready to give up. That would be all it would take. Then he could go home. He could rest. He could take a long, cool shower. He could drink something besides salty water, and he could eat real food. He could sleep. In a real bed no less. And he wouldn’t have to watch for anything coming to kill him. All he would have to do is give up. All he would have to do is admit to T’Pol that he wasn’t strong enough. The weight of his whole body pushed down hard against the dirt. Or maybe the weight of the whole planet was pushing hard up against his body. Trip couldn’t tell the difference anymore. He floated in a dark limbo between consciousness and trance. A buzzing in his ears mixed with the throbbing of his pulse, and the rasping of his sore breaths whistled and echoed through his head. “Daddy?” Trip looked down and saw a little girl with her mother’s brown hair and delicately pointed ears. But the worried little eyes that looked up at him imploringly were as Human as his own. “What is it, Honey?” he asked gently. “I’m scared, Daddy,” the little girl told him. “Momma says I can do it. She says she did it and she knows I can do it. But she is Vulcan and I am half Human. What if my Human part can’t do it?” Trip felt a cold hand grab his chest. “You can do it, baby girl. I know you can,” he assured her. “Are you sure?” the worried child asked him. “Really and truly sure? What was it like when you did it?” Trip felt sick. “I don’t know, Honey. “I... wasn’t able to finish it.” Trip’s fists clenched and he straightened convulsively upright. “NO! By all the gods and devils that have ever been named or imagined by any race anywhere! I won’t quit. I will die first. It’s me or this planet. One of us is going down.” Ignoring the sudden stares of the two Vulcan watchers, Trip placed his hands in the Pl’Trin position and began reciting his own personal mantra silently to himself. He closed his eyes and focused on taking deep, controlled breaths. Doubts, fears, anger, all were swept aside. Nothing mattered but the rhythm and the focus. It was a long day. Trip spent nine tenths of it in second level meditation trying to make contact with T’Pol. Periodically he would receive flashes of images. T’Para drinking a cup of tea. T’Lissa crying. T’Lissa laughing and waving a toy. T’Pol sitting in meditation and looking back at him with a smile. On the last one, Trip tried hard to hold the connection and talk. But weakness and fatigue did him in. He just couldn’t keep up his end of the link. Too many distractions in the form of pain and thirst made it impossible for him to maintain his focus well enough. T’Pol’s image kept flickering in and out until finally she faded from his vision completely. But he was sure she saw him, and her smile looked relieved. The shadows lengthened. Finally Trip judged that he had about half an hour until sunset. Time to start preparations. T’Kuht would rise within one hour after sunset. His feet were still highly pissed at him. But at least they were no longer threatening to quit and find a new owner. He eased the more or less somewhat slightly cleaner socks over his badly chewed toes with hisses and winces. The boots went on reluctantly, and he laced them as tightly as he dared. His tunic got beaten against a rock to knock off the worst of the sand. As an after thought, he turned it inside out and gave it a quick rinse, draping it over a rock to dry while he went after his emergency blanket. The slope that he originally chose as a shelter had snuck into the shade while he wasn’t looking. Trip eased his way up the slope and carefully checked under the hanging material in case any natives had claimed squatter’s rights. His shelter was uninhabited. Not even the bugs were interested in it. Trip gathered up the edge of the blanket and pulled it out from under his anchoring rocks with a casual yank, then started folding it and smashing it down into a packet the size of his hand. By the time he got back to the spring darkness was falling and the Vulcans had lit a lamp. Trip sighed and sat down to finish off his canteen and refill it yet again. The Vulcans looked at Trip, then glanced at each other and shook their heads almost imperceptibly. During the course of the day Trip had consumed over eight liters of water while they sat and watched, and here he was getting ready to drink once again. They knew that Earth was a waterlogged planet, but this was frankly ridiculous. Trip paid no attention to the silent commentary. He concentrated on supercharging his tissues with as much water as he could possibly hold without making himself sick in the half hour he had left. He mentally reviewed his planned route. Follow the cliff base east by northeast as it curved around. Eventually the cliffs would end up running almost due north until they met the foothills of the Sas’A’Shar mountain range. At this end of the range, the mountains were no more than molehills, barely a few hundred feet high. But they were plenty jagged enough to make life interesting for anyone fool enough to go in there. At the end of the cliffs, find a pair of rock spires with a cap rock laying across them. Pass under the cap rock to locate the beginning of the trail into the mountains. This leg of the test was a planned two day route. Not for distance, but because of the difficult terrain. There were also the problem of the mountain Le’Matya to consider. Small than their flatland cousins, they were also faster, more agile, better climbers, and notably more aggressive. Since food was scarcer in the hills, they were prone to attack on sight anything that moved. But at least there was supposed to be a dearth of wild Sehlats. On the other hand, the plants were reported to be quite irritable. Trip emptied his canteen one last time and started filling it again just as the eastern sky lightened. The upper edge of T’Kuht’s disk glowed orange against the horizon like the ominous flare of a distant explosion. He stood up and settled his canteen, adjusted his clothing, and stretched with a huge yawn. Then with a final glance at his two drinking buddies, Trip walked out into the alien night. For several minutes neither spoke. Finally Sepel said softly, “Most remarkable.” “Indeed,” Sturn replied. “I have been informed by one of my krei who is employed at the Earth embassy that Humans do not conform to any detectable standard of logic.” Sepel nodded in agreement. “How long has your krei been employed at the embassy?” “Fourteen years,” Sturn told him. “An astonishingly disciplined and patient woman,” Sepel said. As Trip started moving along the base of the cliff, a figure at the top of the cliff turned and gestured. A second figure, also clad in mottled gray coveralls, joined him. The two of them began to pace along the top of the bluff, maintaining a steady distance back from their quarry. The Watcher lowered his infrared long range viewfinder. “Night Owl from Red Fox. Rabbit is afoot. Weasels are tracking.” “Copy Red Fox. Maintain visual. Do not close unless Weasels try to bite. Night Owl is roosting at Stonehenge.” “Copy Night Owl. We celebrate the solstice after Rabbit gets promoted. Out.”
“This is delicious, T’Pol,” Hoshi said. “It’s really unfortunate that you can’t eat tomatoes. They bring out the flavor of the ghurui leaves so exquisitely.” “I am gratified that you enjoy it,” T’Pol replied. “Would you care for more kasa juice?” While T’Pol refilled drinks T’Para sipped her tea and surveyed the table. Ganlas had fortuitously arrived just in time to join them for the evening meal, exactly as instructed. He and Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed quickly established an agreeable rapport discussing Security techniques. Meanwhile Ganlas was carefully assessing Malcolm for his suitability as potential mate for T’Jala. Captain Archer, looking rather subdued, tried to soldier onward in his effort to make up for his earlier gaffe. “This really is a wonderful meal. Thank you.” He took a bite and added with a touch of mischief, “Trip told me that he has tried to help with the cooking, but the only thing you will let him handle is breakfast sometimes.” T’Pol suppressed a sigh. “Unfortunately Trip’s culinary skill does not match his enthusiasm. He is not quite as adept with a spatula as he is with a pair of calipers. The third time he set the kitchen on fire I was forced to set firm rules to preserve our health and safety.” Hoshi coughed and grabbed a napkin. “Excuse me,” she gasped, turning crimson. Malcolm merely pursed his lips and nodded, as if unsurprised. “And how are your cooking skills, Malcolm?” T’Para demanded abruptly. “Could you prepare a meal for your family if called upon to do so?” Malcolm stiffened and felt a cold chill run up his spine. “Uh-oh.” He had been hoping the old lady was done grilling him about his domestic attributes. This was really starting to make him nervous. “Ur... Ma’am, I can’t say that I am especially gifted in the kitchen. I can prepare basic meals that will keep me alive, but nobody would claim they are tasty. I can eat them, but I wouldn’t ask anyone else to make the attempt.” “I see,” T’Para nodded. “Fortunately T’Jala is adept at food preparation. Her mother’s sister’s husband’s father operates a dining establishment in the oldest part of Shi’Kahr, where she spent several of her formative years receiving advanced training as a chef.” Malcolm swallowed and shot his captain a wide eyed look of desperation. “I am sure that she is a lovely person, Lady T’Para,” he stammered. “But I really—” “Of course,” T’Para continued unabated, “it is too early to consider such matters in depth, as it has yet to be determined whether the two of you would be compatible.” “Yes, Ma’am.” Malcolm slumped in relief. “Therefore the logical course of action is to arrange a meeting,” T’Para told him. “T’Jala will visit your ship tomorrow at 1830 hours your time. I have already arranged the necessary clearances with T’Pau and Ambassador Trask. Will this be acceptable Captain Archer?” She turned to make the request with a look in her eye that warned him what his answer had better be. Archer paused with his fork in midair, fixated like a bird staring at a cobra. Finally he muttered. “Certainly. Anytime would be fine.” T’Para nodded in satisfaction. “Since your time here may be limited, it would be best to expedite the preliminaries as rapidly as possible.” Malcolm started looking pale. Out of sheer pity, Hoshi changed the subject by asking T’Pol, “How are T’Lissa’a verbal skills coming along? Are they...” She paused and bit her lip. “It is all right,” T’Pol assured her. “My entire clan is aware of T’Lissa’s mixed blood. In the family, all is silence. It is safe to discuss her heritage here.” “Good,” Hoshi looked relieved. “I was wondering how her verbal skills compare to a Vulcan child’s?” “Her speech patterns are significantly more advanced than is considered usual among Vulcan children,” T’Para stepped in. “Unfortunately, neither T’Pol nor myself are qualified to evaluate her proficiency in Human terms. Do you have such training?” “Well, yes, somewhat,” Hoshi told them. “I am a linguistics teacher. Part of my training included learning about the stages of development for verbal communication in Human children. It was just part of the standard curriculum. But I haven’t actually applied the knowledge in any practical manner for several years.” “Like riding a bicycle, Hoshi,” Archer encouraged her. “It will come back to you. Besides, you can get a link to the Enterprise database for reference material.” “You are welcome to visit with us tonight,” T’Para invited. “T’Lissa often becomes quite talkative in the evenings before bedtime. Primarily because she is objecting to the concept of going to sleep. It would give you a rich opportunity to observe her speech patterns.” “It would be agreeable to have the opportunity to catch up,” T’Pol said, just a touch wistfully. “It does sound nice...” Hoshi looked over at the captain, who nodded. “Absolutely,” Archer told her. He gave her a significant look. “Maybe you can get a chance to talk to T’Pol without the old bat around,” he thought hopefully to himself. T’Para hoisted one eyebrow and told Archer, “I would have thought that having carried Surak’s katra, you would be more aware of Vulcan abilities, Jonathan.” “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he responded, suddenly feeling his mouth dry out. “Nearly all Vulcans are touch telepaths to some degree,” T’Para explained. “But by no means do all of us require physical contact in order to pick up surface thoughts. Especially when those thoughts are quite strong and narrowly focused, as yours were just now.” Archer closed his eyes in pained resignation. “Just shoot me now. Please.” He opened his eyes and told T’Para wearily, “I apologize, Lady T’Para. I meant no offense.” “Certainly not,” she told him. “There can be no offense where none is taken. You had no anticipation of broadcasting your thoughts, and therefore no reason to expect me to take offense. I was merely warning you. When you go into meetings with representatives of our people regarding your upcoming technology exchange, I recommend that you attempt to curb your thoughts as much as possible.” She paused. “Particularly when dealing with T’Pau, who is as skillful in the arts of the mind as any young person I have ever met.” Archer sighed. “I suppose that you were briefed about the technology exchange by a member of the high council also?” “Actually no,” T’Para mentioned. “I overheard your first call to Trip and T’Pol when you informed them of your mission. This is my house after all, Captain. And my Com as well.” “Technology exchange?” Ganlas asked, looking interested. “Not a matter that needs to complicate your life at this time, Ganlas,” T’Para told him. “An agreeable relief then,” he said, settling back and picking up his teacup. “Please continue and feel free to ignore my presence. I already know more than I wish to about things that do not concern me.” Archer felt the beginnings of a splitting headache. He rubbed his brow and asked in a low tone, “May I be so bold as to ask your opinion of the situation, Lady T’Para? Since you already know about this?” T’Para tilted her head slightly. “It is not my place to hold an opinion, Captain. As I no longer occupy a position with our government, I am thankfully free of those responsibilities. But such exchanges take place routinely between races, and always have throughout history. Your people are moving from Protectorate status, and rising to take your place among the other political powers in the quadrant. You will find yourselves in this position many times in the future, just as Vulcan has found itself in this position many times in the past.” Archer looked thoughtful. “That’s an aspect that I hadn’t spent enough time considering. Thank you, Lady T’Para, for pointing that out. This is kind of horse trading is old hat to you, isn’t it?” T’Para blinked. “If by that you mean that such exchanges are commonplace, then the answer is yes. This is, after all, how the game of interstellar politics is played. Natural resources can be found almost anywhere. One system might have a rich deposit of dilithium crystals for example, but there is certain to be another such deposit somewhere else if desirable terms for the first one cannot be arranged. Space is vast, Captain. Anything you need can be found somewhere. True wealth is found in rarity. “However, rarity is difficulty to establish. Aside from specialized foodstuffs, and a few drugs, the only unique items that any species has to offer for profitable trade are the fruits of its imagination. Ideas are the actual wealth of a species, Captain. Art, music, technology. These are the goods that determine whether a race will be regarded as rich or poor.” “I see,” Archer said slowly, thinking hard. “Then do you now see, Captain Archer,” T’Para said calmly, “why the Vulcan people have never been eager to simply hand over our hard-earned wealth to other races simply for the asking? During my time as Security Minister, I often heard complaints from our Human allies because we refused to simply give them our superior technology. Can you begin to understand why we preferred to encourage you to earn your own living instead?” Archer flushed and opened his mouth, then closed it again. He drew a deep breath and said nothing. T’Para nodded. “Well done, Captain. Your control is praiseworthy. You may confidently expect such bluntness to be expressed repeatedly during your talks with T’Pau and Soval. As for Kilruym, I am sure you are aware that the Andorian’s motivation in this matter is to inflict damage on Vulcan, while gaining an advantage for themselves. It is doubtful in the extreme that they harbor any deep seated feelings of goodwill toward Earth, other than as a potential weapon against us.” Everyone else at the table carefully maintained a discreet silence while Archer’s jaw muscles worked. He replied, “I wasn’t aware that you had relatives working in the Andorian embassy, in addition to the High Council and Security Directorate.” “I do not,” T’Para told him. With perfect equanimity of course. “What I have is a clear understanding of Andorian motivation, based on decades of observation.” “And the Vulcan motivation?” Archer asked dryly. T’Para applied a gently scolding eyebrow. “To prevent the Andorians from succeeding of course, what else?” Archer couldn’t keep his lips from twitching into a smile. “Whenever the diplomatic miasma gets too thick for me to bear, all I will need to do is remember your honesty tonight. It will blow through my mind like a breath of fresh air and flush out the taint.” “One of several reasons I cut short my term of service with the Security Directorate after only three decades,” T’Para admitted. “My skills at political gaming among the other members of the high command, particularly V’Las, were less than exemplary.” Momentarily struck speechless by the mental image of this woman locking horns with V’Las, Archer finally managed to shake loose from his paralysis and announce, “Speaking of politics, I have a meeting at 0830 in the morning. This has been the most memorable evening I can recall in quite some time, Lady T’Para, but I am afraid I must be going.” Malcolm swiftly wiped his mouth and interjected, “I really must be leaving also. The debriefing took longer than we expected and I am disgracefully behind schedule on those efficiency reports, Captain.” He stood up, trying not to look like he was escaping a fire. Neither of the two men paid attention to Hoshi, who was trying desperately to catch their eye. “It is generally considered appallingly bad manners to leave the table before the host has announced the end of the meal,” T’Para mentioned mildly. Both men froze, Archer half risen from his chair and Malcolm with one foot already turned to step away from the table. T’Para waved them away. “But since you were plainly never briefed in proper Vulcan behavior, I will not mention it again. Good evening to you both, Captain Jonathan Archer and Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed.” As they stepped outside and heard the front door close behind them, the two men stopped to share identical sighs of relief. Malcolm looked around and asked, sotto voce, “Shall we run for our lives, Sir?” Archer shot him a flickering side glance. “Works for me, Commander. But with dignity please. Always with dignity.” The two of them started quick-stepping for the main gate, with many a backward glance. |
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