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"Payment" - Part Thirteen
Rating: R (Violence, Strong Language, Adult Situations, Brutality) Note: Vulcan terms used in this story were taken from the online Vulcan Language Dictionary, the Vulcan Language Institute, or I made them up myself. Dedications: This seems like a good time to offer some long overdue recognition to various people. First off, thank you to Rigil Kent who inspired this story in the first place. Not only did he instigate the whole idea, but his stories about space battles and intrigue have provided me with a how-to manual. Next, I want to thank 2Distracted, my cohort in writing the Lerteiran Chronicles, and in my opinion the best fan fiction writer on Earth, bar none. She smacks me back into line when I start to get excessive, and forces me to think about the details. Linda (aka Bineshii) my first beta and cheerleader, who more than anyone else is responsible for the deluge of semi-literate dreck with which I have flooded this site. I also steal her ideas on a regular basis. If it weren't for her, I would still be lurking. If you are looking for somebody to blame for my writing, blame her. Then there are the ongoing march of others like Asso, the Italian wild man who used his medical expertise to advise me on how to use a transporter to commit murder and get away with it. Plus helping me come up with the main plot for another story I am writing. DinahD, who scolded me into transforming Hess into a person instead of a stereotype. Transwarp who checks my math. Plus a crowd of other folks too long to list who have offered suggestions, useful criticism, and simple encouragement, including everyone who has taken the time and trouble to comment here. It's the only pay we amateurs get for this, but it's enough. So this is for you folks. Part Fifteen: ANDORIAN CAMPAIGN, FLEET LAUNCH MINUS 14 DAYS, 3 HOURS: Tucker moved along Jupiter Station's Grand Entrance Hallway with an impatient stride. His six man honor guard, required by tradition as well as pragmatism, stretched their legs to keep up without compromising their commander's dignity and breaking into a jog. Like most engineers, Tucker had small patience with what he regarded as useless formalities. But the empire's rules and regulations were set in stone. When assuming a new command there were ceremonies and rituals to be performed, and that was all there was to it. Never mind that the emperor's consort expected three month's worth of work to be finished in two weeks. Tucker was about to take over management of the construction yard. Therefore he had to waste precious time posturing and strutting. He snorted in disgust. The station's chief administrator, Captain Wasoon, waited at the far end of the main hall surrounded by his aides. They all, like Tucker, were wearing the obligatory dress uniforms and decorations demanded for the occasion. "Why couldn't we at least do this downstairs, in regular clothes?" Tucker growled to himself. "That way, once this farce is done I could just go right to work." The Grand Hall, designed and constructed for just such ceremonial foolishness, rose overhead at least six meters to a peaked cathedral style ceiling. Scented fountains... "Fountains! Of all the stupid, wasteful..." lined the sides of the huge hall, sending their graceful arcs of water through rainbow colored lights. Flowering plants from all over Earth were scattered throughout the area at strategic locations. Their eye-hurting riot of glaring color was a sharp contrast to the black onyx floor and the genuine white marble walls and ceiling. At the far end of the hall, where Tucker's new C.O. waited for him, a huge copy of the imperial globe was inset into the wall in solid gold, pierced by an equally huge dagger of solid platinum. The entire room represented, in Tucker's opinion, altogether the most asinine example of imperial excess in Terran space. His little group pulled up sharply in front of the waiting brass. Tucker smacked his left shoulder sharply with his right fist and intoned, "Commander Charles Tucker reporting for duty, sir!" Captain Wasoon had the look of a man who had just swallowed a bad piece of shrimp. Unhappy, but not quite sure what to do about it. He looked Tucker up and down, ignoring his bodyguards. "So I see, Commander. Tell me, what exactly do you expect your duties to be? Her majesty's consort was somewhat vague. He merely said that you would be in charge of upgrading ships, but he declined to specify exactly what the limits of your authority would be." Tucker stifled a sigh. "About what I expected. A political appointee, worried about someone moving in on his little kingdom. Naturally. How else would he end up with this plum assignment? A captaincy inside the home system doesn't go to just anyone. I wonder whose nephew he is?" "Sir," Tucker began tactfully, "I anticipate spending virtually all of my time in the actual construction areas, barring the occasional necessary visit to the design offices for as-built modifications-" "What's that?" Wasson interrupted him suddenly. "Design offices? You are not a design engineer. What would you be doing in the design offices? Those areas are off-limits for anyone except licensed designers." Tucker gritted his teeth. "Sir. I would not be doing any designing as such. I would merely be reporting any changes that we might be forced to make to the original design-" "What? Why? You should have no reason to change anything!" Wasson told him indignantly. "Those designs are perfectly fine just as they are!" Tucker couldn't completely hold back the growl. "If the designs were perfect... sir... there would be no need for her majesty to order an upgrade. Would there?" Wasoon deflated instantly. "Oh. I suppose not." He shook his head. "But still... To allow access to sensitive areas to unqualified personnel... I must confirm this with Fleet Command on Earth." A red haze descended over Tucker's vision. "With. All. Due. Respect. Sir." He breathed heavily. Tucker's bodyguards glanced at each other and moved in closer, eying the lower ranking officers who stood behind Wasson. The officers in question, two lieutenants and an ensign, shifted nervously and backed up a step. The only person seemingly unaware of impending doom was Wasoon. "My orders come direct from the Empress herself by way of Fleet Admiral Mayweather. Do you wish to defy the direct orders of the Empress?" Wasoon flinched. "No. No, of course not." He firmed his jaw. "But I will require prior notice before each visit to the design wing in order to arrange for a proper security escort." Tucker closed his eyes and started counting. "As you wish, sir. I will also need unrestricted access to all supply stores, and full priority rights on power. In order to meet the specified deadline, we will-" "What?" Wasoon screeched. "Out of the question. Who do you think you are, Commander? You may have been granted an important assignment, but you are still only a starship engineer, and don't forget it. I command this station, and I will make the determination about what supplies you need and what power you use. Is that understood… Commander? You possess neither the training nor the experience to be entrusted with unrestricted access to the resources of this station. For me to allow such a thing would be an act of utter irresponsibility." Tucker gave up. He opened his eyes and told Wasoon, "Captain Wasoon. My orders come directly from Admiral Mayweather himself. If you choose to defy Admiral Mayweather, it's your funereal. I refuse." Tucker pulled out his communicator and hailed Defiant. In a moment the communications officer on duty had transferred him to Her Irritated Majesty. "Tucker. What is it? I'm busy." "There is a holdup here, ma'am. Captain Wasoon refuses to grant me full access to the facility on the basis that I am not qualified." "I see. Stay where you are. Travis will be right there." & Sato punched the comm button in disgust and signaled for Travis to report to the bridge. A moment later the ready room doors opened and her consort/bodyguard/de facto co-ruler stepped out, wearing his usual quiet smile. This time it irritated her almost as much as Tucker's call. The man never revealed anything unless he chose to. She firmly squelched the response though. It would never do to show anything but cool control on the bridge – past episodes notwithstanding. "Travis, we have a small issue on the station." She filled him in rapidly. "I know what I think, but I want your input before I take action." Admiral Mayweather twisted his lips and gave a slight shake of his head. "Wasoon is a first cousin to the brother-in-law of Councilor Lopez. By his record, he's never been accused of either imagination or technical ability. I'm thinking the same thing you are. Besides, you did promise him a reward." Sato snorted. "So I did. I promised him a captaincy. But then again, those upgrades have been making a life and death difference in the war. I think commodore would be appropriate, don't you?" Travis nodded with amusement in his eyes. "It always helps to give the troops something to shoot for. It also helps to set examples in front of them - both kinds." "We agree then," Sato nodded. "Get over there and straighten things out. We don't have time to waste while idiots stand around muttering about regulations." Mayweather bowed. "As my lady commands." & Wasoon fidgeted. "I'm certain once I explain, the admiral will understand. I am simply following procedure." Tucker ignored him. His bodyguard, deducing the most likely outcome of the next few moments, followed suit. Wasoon's junior offices wore expressions ranging from uncertain to sick. Less than five minutes later a transporter whine heralded the arrival of six bodyguards bearing phaser rifles. They spread out in a menacing circle and proceeded to secure the area with brutally efficient dispatch. They didn't kill anyone, but only because no one offered so much as an eyeblink's worth of objection to anything they did. Finally one of them spoke into a communicator. The transporter sounded again. Admiral Travis Mayweather materialized, surrounded by five more bodyguards. He strode over to the waiting cluster of Starfleet personnel, followed by his guards. "Wasoon," he said abruptly. "Is what Tucker told me correct?" "Well," The smaller man hemmed and hawed while Mayweather's face tightened. "In a sense, yes. But you see, I was simply following proper protocol, Admiral. I'm sure you understand." "Perfectly," Travis agreed. Wasoon disappeared in a nimbus of blue light accompanied by the high-pitched buzz of a 23rd century phaser. Mayweather replaced the weapon on his belt and snapped, "Attention!" Every man present snapped stiffly erect. "Commander Charles Tucker," Travis walked over, pulling something out of his pocket. "For meritorious and exceptional service to the empire, you are hereby awarded a field promotion to the rank of commodore." He pinned the two extra pips on Tucker's collar. He stepped back and saluted ironically, fist to chest. Tucker blinked and responded in kind. "That should also take care of any similar problems you might have with idiot ship captains. Her majesty will pass the word to Earth that you are autonomous out here, and to give you anything you ask for as soon as you ask for it. Is there anything else you need?" Tucker swallowed. "Not at the moment, sir. Not that I can think of." "If you do think of anything else, say so," Mayweather told him. Tucker nodded dumbly. Travis turned to leave, then paused and turned back. He stepped closer and spoke in a toneless voice, not soft, but not loud either. "Tucker, understand something. I don't care about your background or paper credentials. All I care about is getting the job done. As long as you continue to get the job done, your position is safe with me. So do whatever you have to do to get the job done. Use all of your resources," he paused and added with emphasis, "even the ones you might not like. Whatever it takes." "Yes, sir," Tucker said suspiciously. "I always do." Inwardly he wondered what caused this conversation. Travis regarded him. "Think about it. Where else am I going to find someone with your skills who doesn't want my job?" Tucker watched thoughtfully while Mayweather walked back to the open area and signaled for beam up back to Defiant. The rest of his bodyguards followed close behind - leaving the bemused Tucker to deal with a badly intimidated trio of junior officers, and a brand new station to command where he didn't know any of the personnel and only half of the facility locations. Tucker shook his head and started introducing himself, thinking sourly, "I have fourteen days to get Defiant ready for battle, and finish the rest of the upgrades for the ships that are already docked. Just think, if T'Pol had been only a little bit smarter in her planning, I wouldn't have to deal with this. Blasted Vulcan incompetence." & Minister V'Lar looked pensively out the window of the council chambers overlooking the main city square. It was nearing sunset, and lengthening shadows from the taller buildings blotted out much of the central park. However, shops around the perimeter of the square were still active and would remain so until well after midnight. Terrans were once again occupying the empire's barracks at the edge of the city, and the Humans rarely emerged from their dwellings during the day. But after sundown, their superb darkvision and high tolerance for cool temperatures made them excellent nightstalkers. Once the day's heat had subsided the Humans would emerge and crowd the commercial district, seeking surcease from their boredom. Despite many Vulcan's personal distaste for Humans, few of her people would refuse their money. The door opening behind her was completely expected. From the footsteps she deduced that Syrann and Kuvak had arrived. When she heard them arranging chairs, V'Lar turned from the window and moved to join them at the conference table. Kuvak announced abruptly, "To date, 3,491 former rebels have accepted amnesty. We have re-possessed 11 combat capable ships, of which there are three Surak class cruisers, one D'Kyr, three standard fighter units, two D'Vahl, and two of the older style survey craft with disruptors retro-fitted. All of the remaining ships, which include a substantial number, are either cargo transports or small personal craft such as shuttles." "Are the cargo ships combat capable?" V'Lar wanted to know, interlacing her fingers primly on the table in front of her. Syrann winced. "Theoretically, yes. But to do so would be equivalent to suicide. They are neither structurally designed, nor sufficiently powerful, to survive the rigors of combat." "We may lack the option of refusal," V'Lar said bluntly. "The empress expressly declared that every Vulcan ship capable of mounting a weapon must be available. As a choice between sacrificing those cargo ships - and sacrificing 100 Vulcan lives for every Terran who has died in this rebellion... which will you choose? How many thousands of Terrans have already died? Do you think they will be in any mood to distinguish between those who were killed by Vulcans and those who were killed by Orions, or Andorians?" "No." Syrann closed his eyes in pain. "The un-mastered passion of those young ones has brought disaster upon us all." "It is a grievous situation, indeed," Kuvak noted. "But I remain agreeably astonished that we were given this opportunity. Mercy is not a quality with which Humans have ever been overly identified." "Because we pleased the empress through our punishment of T'Pol." V'Lar looked down. The other two remained tactfully silent. A moment later she continued. "I have given this matter further consideration. It is possible that my logic is biased. I welcome critical input from both of you on the soundness of my reasoning." "Certainly," Kuvak told her. "I am here to serve," Syrann agreed. V'Lar took a deep breath. "It come to me that we may well have been remiss in our response to the situation." Syrann spoke up. "How so? The choice of punishment belonged to her mate, by ancient law. With Commander Tucker being non-telepathic and incapable of shielding himself, severing the bond would have been unacceptably hazardous. There was nothing more we could have done." "What damage has T'Pol inflicted on her helpless mate since we left him there, defenseless against her telepathic attacks?" V'Lar wanted to know. "Even if she has not, what treatment options do the Humans offer for damage caused by telepathic assault?" Syrann hesitated. "I perceive your point. Ethically, perhaps we should attempt to check the situation. Or at least make the offer." "It will also," Kuvak suggested, "provide an opportunity to update our information at a point closer to the center of power." "Another valid point," Syrann agreed. "Our agents have been necessarily circumspect lately. In fact, a substantial degree of their attention has been focused on identifying and neutralizing any remaining rebel infiltrators before they can cause further trouble. It would be intolerable if a Vulcan saboteur were able to inflict noticeable damage after we have been granted this amnesty." "When you speak of neutralizing, I trust you do not mean that our agents are wasting valuable time and resources taking prisoners," V'Lar said grimly. "No," Syrann assured her. "We initially debated," he glanced at Kuvak, "whether it would be beneficial to extract information. However, we decided that presenting the Humans with intelligence extracted from Vulcan prisoners would remind them of our youngster's peccadilloes. Ultimately the slight potential advantage, if any, of such knowledge would be more than offset by the increased friction that it would provoke." "I concur," V'Lar nodded emphatically. "We should strive to avoid doing anything to remind the empress that any Vulcan has ever been anything but absolutely loyal to the empire. We will face inevitable issues with members of Starfleet, of course. But as long as the empress and her consort are satisfied, we should be able to redeem ourselves by the time this insurrection is put down." "I am reminded," Kuvak spoke up. "Do you have the revised calculations?" "Yes," V'Lar told them both. "I remind you both that prior to the acquisition of Defiant, the probability of success for the rebellion - at least in part - was on the close order of 50.31%. Following the capture of Defiant, the rebellion's chance of success dropped to 42.63%. It has since been declining steadily following the amnesty and return of our expatriates. In addition, Commander Tucker's upgrades to the weapons and shielding of the NX battle cruisers has had a profound effect on the empire's effectiveness in combat. Our latest calculations indicate an 84.55% probability that the empire will achieve total victory within one Terran year, and a 91.21% probability of total victory within two years." The men looked thoughtful. "Obviously then," Syrann offered, "the Council's decision to suspend neutrality and execute the rebel liaison officers was the correct one." "Indeed," V'Lar said. & ANDORIAN CAMPAIGN, FLEET LAUNCH MINUS 14 DAYS, 1 HOUR: "Michael. Come over here a minute." Anna Hess waved a casual arm without really looking up from her monitor. Rostov glanced over and called back, "Be right there." He wiped off his hands and climbed down from the upper catwalk briskly. "Whatcha need?" "I'm trying to confirm these maintenance specs," she told him. "But the energy usage levels don't average out right. Or at least, they don't average out the way these specs say they should for the way we have been operating." "Oh." Rostov glanced around quickly, then reached over her shoulder and made a quick correction to the figures on her screen. He turned his face away from the security monitor and whispered, "Now they do. Just forget you ever saw that. The boss had a special project. My screw up there, I forgot to wipe the energy monitors." He looked chagrined. Anna looked curious, but nodded. "Sure," she told him out loud. "That explains it. Thanks." Rostov grinned and went back to his injectors. Hess turned to the monitor with a crease on her brow. "Now what kind of special project would Charles be doing to need that much power? He wasn't doing any welding or cutting. He wasn't blowing up any asteroids. The only other way he would need that much energy would be if he was converting it into matter. What was he replicating?" She finished the maintenance report and hurried through the rest of the personnel schedule. Charles was due back from the station in another three hours, and she wanted to have all of his paperwork completed for him by then. Of course, she supposed in all but name it was actually her paperwork now. Or would be as soon as Defiant left Jupiter Station. A chill ran up her back - half terror and half anticipation. Her, chief engineer on the empress' own flagship. She smiled to herself. Then it faded. She would trade it in a heartbeat to have Charles back, and that Vulcan whore never to have been born. Personnel scheduling wasn't as bad as she expected. Charles had already picked out the 'problem children' to take with him when he left. Supply requisitions were almost irrelevant, with Defiant able to replicate almost anything that the crew needed. The only thing that might prove useful would be stocking up on some raw materials, which would save time and energy. It was faster and easier to convert things from one form to another than it was to create them out of raw energy after all. Anna paused as she finished the requisition request and look thoughtful. She reached for the controls and started scanning through the most recently accessed replication templates. She stopped in surprise. Why would Charles be replicating a bio-cylinder? Was he culturing some kind of micro-organism? A bio-weapon maybe? She sat back and wrinkled her forehead. It would make sense. A final, scorched earth option just in case the empress turned on him. Maybe it was something that he found in the classified section of the database. There was no telling what type of fancy bio-weapons the people who built this ship could produce. But whatever Charles had made, it was a weapon of some type. No doubt about it. That was why he had ordered Michael to keep his mouth shut. "But why not me? Why Michael? Didn't he trust me?" She started to feel a bit hurt, until it hit her. "Idiot. I'm the obvious choice. So I'm the first one they will drag in for questioning." She felt like slapping herself. Well, whatever. She still had more work to do than she had hours to get it done. The frequency resonance for the backup dilithium crystal matrix was .00003 microhertz out of tune. The problem was, her tuning instrument had a margin of error of .0001. The currently active dilithium matrix was tuned within specs, somehow, so obviously it could be done. Anna sighed and stood up. The answer was somewhere in the user manual, no doubt. Like every other user manual she had ever read, it seemed to have been composed by an illiterate Klingon trying to write the Andorian language using Tellarite glyphs. But there was no help for it. She picked up the hated book and started thumbing through it, with her teeth locked. & ANDORIAN CAMPAIGN, FLEET LAUNCH MINUS 13 DAYS, 23 HOURS T'Pol sat cross-legged on a cushion in front of Tucker's desk, which coincidentally happened to be located near the air vent containing her child. She kept her eyes closed and her breathing steady. The maternal bond hummed softly and safely. Her daughter was asleep, just as she should be. A fetus at this stage would properly be spending nearly all of her time resting. The child's nervous system was still far too primitive to form anything like a thought. But her tiny contentment warmed T'Pol's katra. The minutes trickled past like drops of water from her foremother's meditation fountain. At 1100 hours precisely T'Pol opened her eyes and stood up smoothly. It was time to change her daughter's nutrition pack. She glanced at the control panel for the doorway, noting that the locking indicator still glowed the proper color, indicating that the anti-monitoring measures were in place. Moving casually over to her mate's computer terminal, she tapped in a brief message to Rostov requesting permission to order a morning meal for herself. Since she always ate at 0400, which Rostov knew, the replicator activated 29 seconds later to deliver a tiny square unit designed to be attached to the side of the bio-cylinder. T'Pol moved in absolute silence to the replicator and retrieved the nutrition module, then proceeded toward the air vent on soundless feet. Even to Vulcan ears her passage would have been undetectable. Although her mate had faith in the effectiveness of his anti-monitoring devices, She saw no logic in taking unnecessary chances. Installing visual monitoring equipment in Tucker's quarters would present serious logistical challenges, but T'Pol had personally worked out at least three different methods whereby audio monitoring could be accomplished. She was determined to minimize any and all risks to her child. The latch cover opened easily to her deft touch. She swung the cover aside and reached into the darkness. The panel that covered her child's bio-cylinder was indistinguishable from the other sections of ductwork. T'Pol pressed the coded pattern, twice at the upper right corner, twice at the bottom left, once at the upper left, once more at the upper right. The cover rose up to reveal her baby's shelter. For a breath she paused with her hand on the outer surface, savoring the intensified contact. Then she moved quickly to detach the depleted food source and insert the new module, forcing down any trace of fear that Rostov might have compromised the contents. She had no control over her mate's human staff, and no choice but to accept his judgment regarding them. She re-sealed her child's hiding place and placed the spent module in the replicator, pressing the disposal key and watching it disappear in a glittering flash. Her baby's food requirements were taken care of for the next three days. T'Pol settled back down in front of the air vent and resumed meditating, happily sinking back into rapport with her offspring. & ANDORIAN CAMPAIGN, FLEET LAUNCH MINUS 13 DAYS, 22 HOURS Doctor Kim told the squirming crewman calmly, "Hold still. This isn't going to hurt." He received a look of blank disbelief in return, but the young man braced himself and locked his jaws. Kim sprayed the split skin on the Security crewman's cheek with a topical analgesic and watched him suddenly relax. "Told you so," he said with a smile. Then he picked up a wound sealer and got busy reconnecting the torn flesh. "How did this happen, anyway?" Kim asked over his shoulder. Amanda Cole replied coldly, "Training exercise." The crewman flinched and avoided looking at his superior officer. Doctor Kim refrained from commenting, simply moving along to the patient's arms and applying disinfectant and sealer to the cuts and burns along the crewman's arms, and the deep lacerations around both wrists. "Stretch out, face down," Kim instructed. The crewman gingerly obeyed, flicking nervous glances toward Cole all the while. When Kim lifted the examination gown it took all of his self-discipline to maintain a poker face. He had seen this kind of thing before, more than once. He had even been on the receiving end one time during medical school, when he encountered an especially carnivorous professor. But Kim had seldom seen a whipping applied with such calculated viciousness. The neatly aligned hatching of slicing strikes began at the crewman's neck and continued in an unbroken pattern all the way to the top of his thighs. Dried blood caked the man's entire dorsal area, masking the swelling a bit. But nothing could hide the stink of advancing infection. "A training exercise," Doctor Kim repeated her explanation. He shook his head in disgust. "This man will need to remain here for at least two days under observation." He never saw her move. When Kim remembered the incident later, the part that kept returning to haunt him was the fact that he never even saw her move. Suddenly Cole was in his face and two cold edges were pressing against his carotid artery and jugular vein. Kim's eyes blinked downward to see that Amanda Cole's prosthetic attachment had extended in claw mode, extruding a pair of ragged edged blades that interlocked like a lobster claw. Kim's throat was pinned between the jaws of the claw and Cole's face was drawn tightly into a humorless smile. "It was a training exercise," she hissed. "I do not coddle my people over minor bumps and bruises. Disinfect his scratches and send him back to his duties. Now." Kim swallowed and whispered, "Acknowledged." Cole withdrew slowly while her smile gradually took on a glint of satisfaction. The doctor turned back to his patient and went to work. He made a point of injecting the man with the largest dose that he dared of a slow release pain killer. Then he took his time with the repairs, making sure that each wound was individually cleaned, disinfected and sealed before moving on to the next. By the time he was two thirds finished Cole snarled, "That's enough. You're done." Kim stiffened and looked up. "Commander, this is my sickbay. I am responsible to the Admiral and the Empress directly. I answer to them, not to you. If you insist on demanding that this man be discharged without proper treatment I have no authority to prevent you. However my duty will require a complete report to Admiral Mayweather regarding this man's condition, as well as your-" He saw stars and dimly felt the deck hit his back as he landed. The sound of Cole shrieking something dimly penetrated the ringing in his ears. When Doctor Kim's vision cleared, the wounded crewman was gone and Cole stood over him. The claw attachment had withdrawn. Now he found himself look into the discharge end of a projectile weapon that extended from the socket on the end of Cole's arm. She trembled with feral rage. "Don't… you ever… DARE… to… threaten… me… again…. Fool!" Kim neither breathed nor moved while the wild woman backed away. Her breathing gradually slowed until she reached over with her good hand and twisted a control. The gun barrel retracted and a cover slid into place over the end of her prosthetic attachment. Cole continued to pin the doctor with a homicidal stare as she backed away through the sick bay doors. Kim swallowed hard. Well, this settled one question. He struggled to his feet and moved painfully over to the drug supply safe. At the rear of the bottom shelf was the Bejoran serum that he had been replicating as a combination bribe/peace offering to the Engineering department. Kim had held off on making a decision about which faction to align himself with, or whether to align with either one, until he gained more experience with this crew. But after such an intimate interlude with Commander Amanda Cole, Kim decided that indecisiveness was no longer an option. He gathered up the ampoules and affixed them to hypo sprays. Then he dropped them into a small case and headed out for the engineering section. The door guards eyed him with puzzled expressions and fingered their weapons uncertainly. "I'd like to speak to Lieutenant Commander Hess please," he requested politely. The guards glanced at each other, shrugged, and one of them passed the request along. In a moment he was passed through with strict instructions to proceed directly to Hess' office and touch nothing. He agreed immediately. Anna Hess was sitting at the desk in the chief engineer's office when Kim walked in. She looked him over carefully and said, "Hello, Doctor. This is unexpected. If you need something fixed you could have used the comm." Kim thought, "Well, at least this one looks sane. Which proves nothing of course." He spoke in a soft voice, looking at the deck, "Commander, I was hoping you would have time for a short meeting. I promise that it will be worth your while. Is this area secure? I mean from monitoring?" Hess looked intrigued. "Come with me." She got up and led him up a short catwalk stair, and then through a short maze of conduits and ductwork to a tiny platform hanging essentially in the middle of nothing. The acting chief engineer took a small instrument from her belt and worked some esoteric controls. Then she nodded and said, "It's clear now. We can talk freely." Kim took a deep breath. Now or never. He passed over the pouch and told her, "The drug inside those hypos will reverse radiation damage. I know that all of you worked on NX class vessels before transferring to Defiant. You have to be suffering the effects. Those drugs will heal you." Commander Hess stood perfectly still and expressionless. She held the pouch without opening it for a long moment. Then she attached it to her belt without looking inside. For another long moment she examined Kim with laser intensity while he squirmed. Then she asked him, "Why?" He didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Would you believe that it's because I am a healer? And that healing people is what I do?" "No," she told him bluntly. Kim sighed and nodded. "It would be nice if we could afford to be that way, wouldn't it?" She didn't respond, so he went on. "I'm not good at cloak and dagger, Commander. I'm a lousy fighter, and I stink at strategy. If I had to play the game the way most people do I wouldn't last a week. That's why I went into medicine. A doctor isn't a threat to anyone's position. I'll never command anything, and nobody is afraid of me. Plus I'm useful no matter who is in charge. So I get to stay alive." "That doesn't answer my question," Hess said impatiently. "Why did you bring these," she tapped the pouch, "down here? What do you want from me?" "Protection," he told her simply. She tilted her head curiously. "I'm new on this ship," he offered. She nodded and he continued, "I have been watching and listening, same as anyone would on a new ship. Didn't take long to realize that everyone below the Admiral's personal guards are either with Engineering or with Security." Hess smirked. "And you decided that you don't like Security for some reason maybe?" Kim shuddered and looked around. He burst out in a loud whisper, "That woman is crazy!" Hess chuckled. The doctor went on, ordinarily I wouldn't take sides, but Cole…," he shook his head. "Listen, Commander Hess. I can help you and your people. I can give you priority on treatment. I can provide you with favored access to the medical technology on this ship. But I can't do anything for you if that harpy swoops into sick bay one day and kills me in a sudden fit of madness." Hess raised both eyebrows. "I won't even bother to ask what she did that made such an impression on you, doc. Knowing Cole, it could have been almost anything." She looked down for a moment. "Let me think about it for a while," she finally told him. "If this medicine works the way you say it does, we might be able to do business." "It will," he promised. "I'm sure of it." "What about the next batch?" Hess wanted to know. "And the one after that? And the next one? How long before you decide that you have baited us enough and it's time to slip in the poison?" "It won't happen," Kim swore. "Look, I said I'm a lousy fighter. I never said I was stupid. Security might kill me. But Engineering can make it impossible for me to stay alive. Besides, without you my equipment doesn't work, therefore I can't do my job, therefore her majesty flushes me out the airlock." "You do seem to have a firm grasp on reality," she told him drily. "Go back to sick bay. I'll be in touch." He hesitated, then gave her a final nod before leaving. & Hess watched the skinny little doctor walk away thoughtfully. As soon as Kim was out of sight Rostov stepped into view and spoke. "That was intriguing, to say the least." Anna agreed, "Intriguing and potentially useful." She handed him the pouch, "How about you check these out and see how close they are to the cocktail that we have been taking? Meanwhile, I'll start digging into his record and family background. Look for some leverage." "Sure thing," Michael told her cheerfully. "What do you think? Is he real?" Anna ran fingers through her hair pensively. "He's new, and he's alone. And Cole is enough to rattle anyone. It's possible. We'll know more when we see what's in those hypos." & ANDORIAN CAMPAIGN, FLEET LAUNCH MINUS 13 DAYS, 16 HOURS The bond warned her when he returned to the ship. T'Pol withdrew from meditation and prepared to greet her mate. In spite of his recent episode with Hess, T'Pol was determined to continue her ongoing efforts to improve her relationship with Tucker. After all, despite Her best efforts the bond had acted to prevent actual mating – which T'Pol found an agreeable surprise. Few bonds between full Vulcans would have been powerful enough to exert such influence. It was irrelevant whether the cause was Tucker's Humanity, or whether the two of them simply shared a bond of unusual strength. In either case, it meant that her mate would find it difficult to stray. That being the case, further confrontation on the subject of That Woman would be counterproductive. Her optimum strategy must be to encourage her mate to desire her company as well as her body. Repeated mating would strengthen the bond even further, while closer association would give her opportunities to seal his loyalty. By the time Tucker opened the door to their quarters, T'Pol had arranged a tray with a mug of strong coffee and a selection of his favorite snacks. She had changed out of the standard engineering coverall that was her daytime uniform, and was wearing one of Tucker's undershirts. Following their first night of mating, he had provided her with such a garment in lieu of any alternatives. As soon as she had donned it and turned to face him, Tucker's reaction through the bond had convinced her to adopt it as her typical sleepwear. Tucker stepped through the door and the full weight of his fatigue struck her like a blow. She put the tray down and met him just inside the doorway, taking his stack of PADDs and pushing energy through the bond to reinforce him. He gasped and shook his head, then looked at her in mild surprise. "I still can't get used to you doing that." "You must rest," T'Pol chided him quietly, careful to avoid any tone that he might consider provocative. "That would be nice," Tucker said. "Not likely, but nice." He walked tiredly over to the desk and sat down. She handed him the coffee mug and he upended it, pouring it down his throat like medicine. "Let me help you." She walked behind him and began massaging his shoulders, feeling the hard ropes of muscle start to loosen under her fingers. For a brief moment he sagged back against the chair and let out his breath in relief. Then Tucker straightened and reached back for her wrist, pulling her around to face him. "I need help," he told her bluntly, "but not that kind. If you're willing." "Of course," T'Pol assured him. "I am ready to assist you in any way I can." His eyes searched her face. T'Pol waited for him to make a decision and suddenly noticed his collar. Her eyebrow rose precipitously. "Yeah," he answered her look. "I got a field promotion." Nothing in his tone indicated pleasure. "I'm in charge of the whole station now. Just what I needed. An even bigger headache." T'Pol's mind raced at warp speed. "This will provide you with many advantages. You will be significantly better equipped to protect our child. Also, your position in the new administration appears to be consolidating." Tucker growled and stood up. "That's the problem." He paced the length of their quarters. "That's why I need your help." T'Pol straightened. "Name it." He spun to glare at her, causing her to wonder what she had done this time. "You went through advanced science training, right?" T'Pol blinked. "I… attended seven years of advanced training at the Vulcan Science Academy in General Sciences, followed by ten years of additional training in Astrophysics before I was conscripted. After being chosen for Starfleet duty I was subjected to additional training at Starfleet Academy before being assigned as Science Officer aboard the Skinner." She watched Tucker's face darken as she spoke. When she finished he snorted and walked over to the washroom. The sound of running water was followed by the distinctive echo of her mate drinking. He emerged and fixed her with a determined look. "I got drafted in public school," he told her. "I was seventeen. I never got the chance to finish my last year of training, but they figured it wouldn't matter anyway. Ya see, I was slated for either engineering or front line dirtballer. Either way I'd be dead before I was twenty so what difference would it make?" T'Pol's lips tightened. "But I fooled 'em," her mate snarled. "Didn't matter that I came from lowbrow stock. Didn't make any difference if my old man worked in a quarry and my ma slung drinks for a living. I could still make an engine sing. So they let me move up. And the sons and daughters of shopkeepers, and sometimes even the kids of low end government workers, stayed inside the Jeffries tubes and down in the injector wells and died. But I got out and onto the open floor where the radiation wasn't so bad." "I am gratified that you did," she offered. He looked at her "Bullshit." Tucker raked a hand over his face. "I taught myself," he told her. "I read the manuals. Then I looked at the engines and the instruments, and I saw that the designs were shit. So I studied what was really happening when I was off duty. While everyone else on my shift was in their bunks getting drunk, I was down in the hellhole. I compared the designs to the real world, and I saw what had been changed and why. I read every unclassified book in every ship's library I was ever posted to. I taught myself how to program. I taught myself how to tune a warp drive by feel. I taught myself how to be a damn good engineer." "Yes, you did," T'Pol said carefully. "The proof of this is your current position." "Not good enough." Her mate's shoulders sagged. "Not anymore. I can't follow the other Tucker's notes any farther. He had at least as much education as you do, maybe even more. He knew warp physics inside out and upside down. I can't even follow his explanations, much less the math. There's no way I can use his notes to improve our ships any farther." He looked up at her grimly. "Which means that my usefulness to her majesty is over." T'Pol's blood froze for a moment. Then her brain resumed functioning and she recalled his earlier remarks. "This is why you asked for my help, and inquired about my training," she concluded. "You wish me to supplement your training with my own." He sighed and nodded. "Can you teach me?" T'Pol walked over and put her hands on his cheeks. "Of course, my adun. There was never any need to ask. You are my bonded mate and the father of my child. All that I have is thine. Including all my skills and knowledge. Show me what you wish my aid with, and we can commence the lessons as soon as you have eaten and rested." "I can rest later," he said. Tucker picked up a PADD and opened a file. T'Pol firmly took it away from him and handed him a sandwich. "Eat. Then rest. Then we study." Her tone was implacable. "I refuse to cooperate until you have consumed at least 1000 kilocalories and slept a minimum of four hours." He looked at her, looked at the sandwich, then gave in. T'Pol smiled internally and watched her mate eat. She finally had a useful lever with which to influence him. Knowing Tucker, it might not work consistently. But it was something at least. She moved behind him and resumed rubbing his shoulders. "Would you like to use my body before resting?" she offered. Tucker stopped chewing and looked over his shoulder with an unusual expression. He hesitated, then answered slowly, "Not… right now. Thanks anyway." T'Pol nodded and continued the massage. Tucker resumed eating for a time. Then he said, "We need to come up with a new hiding place on the station for the kid. There's a safe in the administrator's office, but that's too obvious. Any ideas?" T'Pol asked him, "Are there any diagrams of the station available?" He reached out with his free hand and tapped one of the PADDs. "In that case, I will study the station schematics as well as your alternate's notes while you rest." "All right." Tucker finished his sandwich and drained the last of his coffee. Then he groaned his way to his feet and headed for the bed, with T'Pol attached to his arm for added support. She was honestly afraid that he was about to fall over, given the overwhelming sense of exhaustion that was coming through their connection. Her mate collapsed across the bed and made a feeble attempt to assume a standard sleeping orientation before subsiding into unconsciousness. T'Pol unfastened his boots and began undressing him. It took longer than she anticipated, due to the fact that her adun was completely limp. Finally she had Tucker stripped to his underwear and tucked under the bunk's shimmering coverlet. T'Pol stood looking down at the man who had not only changed her life, but had forced her into an entirely new mode of existence. "It is strange, but you were ultimately correct. I do regret what I did to you now. The more I learn, the more I realize that you are far more worthy of respect than any other Human I have ever known. I never suspected that your people treated their own lower classes so badly – in some ways worse than they treat us." She settled her emotions and turned back to the desk. Picking up the PADD Tucker had indicated, she began skimming it for information about Jupiter station, looking for potential safe spots to hide her baby. & The renegade Vulcan Krasen was finding life aboard the Andorian ship Kumari to be a sore trial upon his patience. On the one hand, discovering that the blueskins had risked themselves to rescue him from the debris of the rebel base left him with an honor debt that he could never realistically hope to repay. On the other hand, they were driving him mad. The seething turmoil of emotion that these beings operated in was equivalent to navigating through a perpetual sandfire storm. More than once he sorely wished that he had not survived the Human attack, just to escape the constant telepathic barrage. Only Shran's promise that they had a mission for him, a mission that would allow him to take vengeance for his murdered comrades, gave him the strength to continue. And now he was being summoned to meet with the two of them. Finally. By the deathgod, let it finally be time for action. The two of them looked up when Krasen entered the briefing room. In the center of the table a hologram of the new Human ship was on display. Krasen felt his belly tighten. Could this be his objective? It was too much to hope for. Talas waved him to seat and Shran pushed a full glass of blue ale in his direction. Krasen had no desire for the beverage, but he was willing to do whatever was necessary to smooth the process of the briefing. He took a sip of the foul drink and offered an abbreviated smile. Indicating the hologram he asked, "I believe it is named Defiant?" "Correct," Shran told him. "The flagship of the Terran Empire. Reported to have been taken from the Tholians, who reportedly stole it from the Terrans at some point in the future. Or so they claim. We also have reports that it was not taken from the future at all, but from some kind of parallel universe where the people are farther advanced than we are. Either way, it's by far the fastest and most powerful ship ever seen in known space." Krasen nodded, never taking his eyes off the display. He started reading the data feed that scrolled along the bottom of the hologram. A cold chill ran up his back. "This information cannot be accurate. No ship could be capable of this." "It's all accurate, I promise you," Talas told him insouciantly. "The information was taken from the ship's own specifications and transmitted before our agent was killed. Another Vulcan, if you're interested." Krasen's face tightened. "I'm certain they were aware of the risk, and prepared for the consequences. Just as I am," he told her. "An increasingly unusual attitude among Vulcans, since your government took the Empire's amnesty offer," Shran said bluntly. Krasen looked down at the table and fought for control, feeling their eyes pinning him. "My people are led by ancient ones. Old and weak and cowardly. But we have a strong tie to custom and tradition. I am certain that most of my people do not approve of the Council's decision. They will obey, reluctantly, because as Vulcans we are conditioned to respect our elders. But they do not like it." He looked up and spoke through his teeth. "The Council accepted the amnesty because they believe that probability favors the empire. If they can be convinced that circumstances have changed, they will rescind this decision. Once the decision is rescinded, the Terrans will not make the offer again." The Andorians traded glances. "Maybe," Shran told him. "Maybe not. Once thing is certain, if we don't do something about these new upgrades the question isn't going to come up. The empire will win without needing to make any serious effort." "Upgrades?" Krasen sat up straighter and looked back and forth. "What upgrades?" Talas smirked and worked a control. The hologram of Defiant was replaced by a head and shoulders representation of a Human male. The Human appeared to be in his middle prime years, and bore an obvious burn scar across the upper right portion of his face. "This is Charles Tucker. Your target. Former chief engineer of the NX-01 Enterprise. Now chief engineer of Defiant. Her majesty has publicly announced that he is in line to become head of starship research and design eventually." Krasen leaned forward, memorizing the man's features. "Tell me more. I need details. Origins, personal habits. Friends. Everything you can give me." Shran said, "How about this? When that NX cruiser came into the system and butchered your scouts, then proceeded to hammer your base into dust, what did you and your comrades think about it?" Krasen sat back and looked thoughtfully at him. "We were astonished. Three scouts should have been sufficient to cripple a NX class, at minimum. Even if the Terran had been able to survive the fight with our scouts, it should most certainly have been so badly damaged that our base's cannon should have been able to blast it into scrap almost instantly." "But that didn't happen, did it?" Shran prompted. "No," Krasen said grimly. "The Terran cruiser came through the battle almost unscathed. When we opened fire with our cannon, they were ineffectual. Our shields should have protected us from their phase cannon. But…" "But their cannon sliced through your defenses like a sword through snow," Talas finished for him. Krasen just looked at her. "Tucker is the man responsible for that. He developed the upgrades to the NX shields and cannon that let Ghengis Khan wipe out your friends with impunity." Krasen felt his blood heating. He clutched desperately at the Disciplines, fighting to maintain control. He spoke, with only a slight tremor in his voice, "Consider him dead. But I will only have one chance, and I will surely not survive. I will need as much information and preparation as you can provide." "It will be our pleasure," Shran told him. "But there is another task to perform. We have learned that the Terrans are preparing a battle group for a major offensive." Krasen clenched his fists and leaned forward to listen intently. His nostrils flared. "Where is the target?" "We don't know," Shran told him. "That is the second task. The intended strike point is top secret. We have narrowed it down to either Andoria or Rigel." The Vulcan nodded thoughtfully. "A successful strike at either system would deal a crippling blow to the rebellion." "We need to know where to reinforce, and we need to know immediately," Talas told him. "Which is another reason that you are a good choice. Half of the task force is going to be Vulcan." Krasen recoiled. "Are you… yes. Of course." He met their cold, assessing stares. "I see. I am disposable. No doubt you have other operatives pursuing the same objectives. The Terrans, not being idiots, will assume this is the case so if I am a traitor you have actually lost nothing. All I can tell them is that some rebel Andorians are trying to kill Tucker. No doubt they will find this far from surprising. But if I am not a traitor, a Vulcan will be especially well-equipped to penetrate the security around the task force preparations." "I told you he wasn't stupid," Shran said to Talas. She smiled at him. The Andorian male turned to Krasen and informed him, "Killing Tucker is priority one. If you are also able to obtain the information we need, excellent. But Tucker must die no matter what. Your briefings will commence immediately, and continue for the next four days. At which point you will meet a ship for transfer. From there you will be transferred again to a Vulcan ship which is on its way home to accept the pardon. You will decide on your choice of weapon after your briefing is complete. We will assist you in obtaining whatever you need up to the point of insertion. After that you are on your own. Expect no rescue or assistance." Krasen gestured assent. "Understood. Acceptable. Consider him dead." TBC |
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