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"Purgatory" – Chapter 4 By Blackn’blue
Rating: PG (Violence, Strong Language, Adult Situations, Brutal Survival Techniques, Frightening Old Ladies) 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. A/N: Feel free to copy, archive and/or distribute this story as long as you don't sell it. If I am not allowed to make money off it, nobody else is either. And that includes Paramount or anybody else associated with Star Trek. The Enterprise universe and characters thereof are theirs. My original ideas belong to me. Chapter 4 He rapped the button with his knuckle, still hanging onto his sandwich with both hands. “Come in,” Harrison called out around a mouthful of roast beef on whole wheat. The door slid aside to reveal his expected visitor. Harrison nodded Agent Samuel Fleming to a chair while he chewed vigorously and tried to swallow his last bite. “Welcome home,” Harrison told him pleasantly, wiping a trace of mayo off his finger and tossing the napkin. “Sorry to be so rude, but I haven't had time to eat a proper meal in a few days.” “Not a problem, Boss,” Samuel grinned. “Been there, done that. I know how it is.” He always enjoyed getting a chance to use local expressions. Harrison nodded. “I know you have.” He looked keenly across the desk. “How are things coming on the Soval Project?” Fleming's face fell. “Not too well, I'm afraid. We are still applying leverage to Senator Wen, but so far he refuses to budge.” Harrison waved it off. “Wen is a lost cause. But it doesn't matter now. I am pulling you off the Soval project for now. We have something else for you, something even more important.” Samuel let his eyebrows rise. “Whatcha got, Boss?” he asked with an eager smile. Harrison turned back to his monitor and started talking. “We got to digging into some records, and we found something that needs checking out immediately. It can't wait any longer.” He keyed in a sequence. Fleming, despite his training and experience, had no time to respond when the steel restraints flipped up and over his thighs. Another pair of steel bars swung around from behind the back of the chair, overlapping his chest and dragging him back. He stared at Harrison in shock. The Chief Operative of Section 31 allowed himself to relax a trifle. As much as he ever allowed himself to relax. “Harrison. Done. Secure.” The door opened again and two technicians stepped inside pushing a cart full of equipment. “What did I do, Boss?” Samuel's voice held more than a trace of fear. “Whatever it was, I will fix it. My reports are complete, but if you need more information all you have to do is ask. I am not hiding anything.” Harrison shook his head and looked at the tech on his left, who held a scanner to Samuel's neck. After a moment he pulled it back and laid it against the prisoner's chest. He snorted and told his assistant, “Blood.” The second tech promptly grabbed a sample kit and withdrew a tube full of dark red fluid from Fleming's arm. He handed it to his supervisor, who slid the sample into a portable gas chromatograph. “Well?” Harrison demanded impatiently. “Yeah,” the lead tech told him. “There's an implant in his chest, just under the sternum. Looks like its only real purpose is to mimic a Human heartbeat. They even went so far as to inject him with some Human genetic material, and infuse enough iron into his blood to make it turn red, although the copper is still in there too. I don't have any idea why the iron isn't poisoning him. Maybe Vulcan's are just tougher than we are when it comes to heavy metal poisoning. “All right,” Harrison said. He pressed yet another button and a hidden door slid aside to disgorge three SpecOp troops in full battle armor. “Take the Vulcan Operative to Security Medical for full analysis,” he ordered. “Remember he is top level Vulcan Intel, and probably one of their best. If he breaks, shoot to kill.” They acknowledged the order soberly. Samuel sat stone faced and silent throughout the entire process. Harrison turned back just before he was removed and asked him, “Anything to offer?” There was no response. The prisoner merely stood quietly and submitted to being shackled and led away without resistance.
The comm went off in his ear again. Archer forced his eyes to focus on the chronometer. 0542 hours. Third time since they arrived at Vulcan that Trask had deliberately called during his sleep period. Twice before he had called after midnight, and now he had taken to calling before dawn. He was definitely going to have to kill him. It was no longer optional. It had to be either Trask or an admiral, and the comm. officer on duty would have warned him to put some pants on if it was an admiral. A shipboard emergency would have sent someone in person to his door, plus the Tactical Alert siren. Archer rolled over, disturbing Porthos in the process and provoking a whine. “Tell me about it,” he muttered sympathetically. He brushed the hair out of his eyes with an impatient hand and reached for the monitor switch, blinking disagreeably. It was Trask all right, and for once he wasn't smiling. That didn't really make Archer feel any better, but it didn't hurt. “Good morning, Captain,” the ambassador said dully, rubbing a hand across his face and stifling a yawn. “Please accept my sincere apology for calling you at this unholy hour.” “That's quite all right, Ambassador,” Archer replied in a firm, albeit glassy-eyed, monotone. “I was just about to get up anyway.” He mentally added, “In about an hour and a half.” “Rather thee than me, Captain,” Trask finally gave into a prodigious yawn. “My heart doesn't usually start beating until 0830. At the earliest. But T'Pau called and woke me up, and specifically requested that I, and I quote, 'contact Captain Archer at my earliest possible convenience on this matter' unquote. So here we are. Go get some coffee, I will wait.” Jonathan squeezed his eyes shut tightly and shook his head. “That's all right, Sir. I can get some coffee with breakfast in a few minutes. I realize that Vulcans get up with the sunrise. I don't think that they really understand the concept of sleeping in.” Trask grunted a pained laugh. “Too true. All right, let's cut to the chase. T'Pau told me that your Lieutenant Commander Reed will be entertaining a young Vulcan lady aboard Enterprise later today. Is that correct?” Archer stiffened and sat up straight. Suddenly wide awake, he eyed the monitor warily. “Yes, Mr. Ambassador, it is,” he replied slowly and carefully. “Is this some kind of problem?” “No, no,” Trask waved his arms. “Not at all. I just called to offer my assistance. If there is anything I can do to help make sure that this date goes off without a hitch, let me know. The resources of the embassy are at your disposal, Captain.” Archer blinked. “This is a new one, Mr. Ambassador. I surrender. You got me.” Trask chuckled. “It's simple enough, Captain. At least by diplomatic standards, it's fairly simple. T'Pau informs me that Lady T'Jala's Eldest Mother is a woman is substantial influence on Vulcan. I believe T'Jala is a member of Lady T'Pol's clan?” He raised both eyebrows inquisitively. Archer winced and nodded, rubbing his eyes with a sigh. “Yeah, she is. We had dinner at her house last night.” He raised his head. “I have known Trip for more than ten years. But after meeting that woman, my respect for him has skyrocketed to new heights. Any man who can survive having Lady T'Para for a grandmother-in-law is tough beyond belief. A formidable woman to say the least. ” Trask nodded judiciously. “I can well believe it. In business and property matters, authority passes down the paternal line on Vulcan. But when it comes to matters of family management, marriage negotiations, mediations, custody, disciplinary actions, or any other social issue the ladies rule with an iron fist. And they don't bother to slip a velvet glove over it either.” “So T'Para leaned on T'Pau, and T'Pau leaned on you,” Archer speculated. “That sums it up neatly,” Trask yawned. “I trust that you and Commander Reed have a lovely evening planned for Lady T'Jala?” “Actually,” Archer said firmly, “I wasn't planning to get involved. I make it a policy to stay out of my crews private business unless I am absolutely compelled to interfere.” “Better make an exception in this case, Captain,” Trask told him. “T'Para's influence on Vulcan is wide and deep. Wider and deeper than most people realize, since she almost never uses it. When her husband became ill, she retired from the Security Directorate, went home to her little cottage and spent her time caring for him until he died. Afterward she ostensibly stayed out of public life. Note that I said 'public' life. I doubt that even the majority of her own family are aware of how many irons she has kept quietly in the fire.” “After meeting her, I am not surprised,” Archer said. “But you have to understand something, Ambassador. This woman is trying to marry off her granddaughter, or whatever the relationship is, to my First Officer. I have no objection to entertaining a visiting dignitary, or even a visiting relative of a local kingmaker, but I am not about to throw one of my officers to the wolves in order to score diplomatic points!” “No one is asking you to, Captain.” Trask sounded exasperated. “Lieutenant Commander Reed has been around a few times, hasn't he? According to his unofficial record, he is a man of the world. From the reports I read, before he was transferred to Enterprise he was the kind of man who used to have a girl in every port. Surely a man like that can handle a naive young woman, at least for one evening.” “I don't know,” Archer replied dubiously. “Handling Vulcans can be... challenging. They sometimes tend to be... um...” “Eloquently put, Captain,” Trask said drily. “They do indeed tend to be Um. That's why I offered any help I can give. But I am sure I don't have to draw pictures about what would happen if Lady T'Para became personally opposed to this upcoming exchange.” Archer winced. “No. You don't.” He rubbed his aching head. “I think I do need that coffee, after all.” “In that case I will get off and let you go find some, while I stagger back to my bed,” Trask said sympathetically. “Good luck and don't hesitate to call. Trask out.” Archer groaned and let himself fall backwards onto his bed like a brick wall toppling. It would have worked better if Porthos had not seized the opportunity to move onto his pillow. An observer would have been hard pressed to decide which of them complained the loudest. The skin on the back of Trip's neck was tight as a drum. He had spent the better part of an hour scouting, and there was no other route available. He had to take the path directly under that cap rock in order to reach the trail into the mountains. He quickly reviewed T'Pol's frantic message. He had just finished coiling up the Marnik vines and started walking again when he abruptly found himself in T'Pol's meditation white space. That hadn't happened to them in more months than Trip cared to count. He glanced around and saw her sitting, looking relieved. He started to apologize. “I'm sorry, Hun,” he began. “I must be tireder than-” “Hush, Trip!” she demanded urgently. “We have no time! You did not do this, I did.” His eyes narrowed. “What's wrong? Something's wrong with the baby, isn't there!” Panic rose in his voice. “I can be back to the first check point by dawn-” “No! Be silent!” She ordered. He clamped his jaws shut. One thing Trip had learned the hard way was that T'Pol would never try to give him a direct order unless it was a life or death emergency. “You are being hunted by assassins. They were sent by V'Rald. There are two of them. I do not know if they have found you yet or not. There are also six Humans, sent by Starfleet Security to intercept them. Our descendant, George Hopkins is here. He told me this. He also said that the Humans will fail to stop them. He intends to help you. But you MUST be careful!” An instant later she was gone. Trip had spent the rest of the night searching every shadow and cursing himself for not killing Koss when he had the chance. And V'Rald too, since he was standing right next to the sonuvabitch. No point crying over milk that didn't get spilled, he reflected. The problem now was to get across that stretch of open ground, through the standing stones, between the scattering of boulders that littered the base of the slope, and up into the series of cracks and twisted ledges that marked the beginning of the trail. Once he was up there, Trip was confident that he could evade any Vulcan for the rest of the night. Come daylight, he would have some kind of den burrowed out. Trip started taking deep, even breathes to supercharge his tissues with oxygen. He braced his feet and got set. A voice came back from the basic training that Hayes had tried to force feed all of them in the Expanse. “What are you doing out there, Tucker? Dancing? If you are going to keep a steady, predictable rhythm then why not just stand still? Keep it random!” His eyes narrowed on his objective. He took a final breath and exploded from cover, ducking and dodging from side to side in order to present as difficult a target as possible.
Kerla saw the Human break cover and lifted his dart thrower. Perfect. She had a clear shot. The foolish Human was wasting energy on evasive patterns. Somehow he must have become aware of pursuit. Unfortunate, but ultimately irrelevant. He was still going to be forced to pass between the standing stones, which would limit his field of movement to an area no more than 2.3 meters wide. All Kerla had to do was take a resting position in the center of the field of fire and wait. A hit anywhere on the Human's torso would result in a nearly instant kill. Saren, carefully positioned across from Kerla, saw his partner lift her weapon and did the same. He repressed a sigh. There were times when his mate's fascination with these hunts disturbed him. Granted, the income from such work provided both of them with an extraordinarily good living. After all, he consoled himself, it was not as if they were hunting people. At Saren's adamant insistence, they had an unbreakable policy of never taking a contract on a Vulcan. This, among other reasons, was one of the primary things that allowed them to continue living on Saren's home world. It wasn't as if he hadn't known what he was getting into. Bonding a Rihansuu in the first place implied that he was not going to be able to continue following the path of Surak. He knew that from the beginning and accepted it. He had decided that Kerla was worth it, and he still believed that. It had also bought him a highly placed position at the time with the Security directorate. Until the fall of V'Las. Even now, their contacts and their carefully hoarded stockpile of incriminating information kept them both protected from retaliation. Back to business. Saren took aim at the space between the uprights. He decided to let Kerla have the first shot. That would make her happy. He twitched an eyebrow. One thing had to be admitted. When she came back happy from a hunt, she always became quite enthusiastic about making him happy. There were worse ways to make a living, he reflected philosophically.
George Hopkins looked over the situation carefully. Both Vulcans were in position. The first Human team was moving in on the Vulcan positions, so far undetected – but that would not last more than another few seconds. The second Human team, the one shadowing grandfather Tucker, was closing in behind him in a flanking movement. It was too soon. Much too soon. According to grandfather Tucker's memoirs, the first actual conflict between the Vulcans and the Human SpecOps had not happened until after the second checkpoint. Time to muck around with the time stream again. George shook his head. This was starting to become a habit. Since arriving in this period a year ago, he had made three significant and eleven minor changes to the time stream. His junior year professor in temporal mechanics would be ripping out his antenna by now. George thought quickly. A fake Sandfire, that would do it. Even more so as it would be unexpected. The heavily armored environment suit he wore was adorned with a relatively huge backpack. Besides the masking field, which blocked all sight and sound of his presence, it also contained a shockingly powerful generator, a portable tractor beam, and other assorted goodies. Fortunately, it was also equipped with grav neutralizers, or not even Vulcan muscles could have budged it. He activated the short-range scanners and swiftly found what he was looking for, a wide area of loose sand. George grinned and powered up the tractor beam. He reversed the polarity and aimed it at the patch of sand, which instantly began to boil and surge. In a few seconds what had been as smooth as a table top was a solid wall of howling, swirling dust. He cranked up the power enough to make his home made storm look even more realistic, then started walking toward the base of the mountain trail. The high-pitched wind that he had manufactured made it impossible for George to pin down which of the Humans actually shouted, “Holy Shit!” He suspected it was grandfather Tucker though, since the SpecOps were too thoroughly trained to break discipline that way. Infrared scans showed him two Vulcan life signs heading off in one direction, two groups of Humans digging into the ground in two different spots, and one lone Human taking off up the mountain trail at top speed. He chuckled and continued forward, casually following the general direction that the Vulcans had taken. He was in no particular hurry. Once he located whatever cave the Vulcans decided to take cover inside, a few hours nap at the mouth of said cave before his next appointment would do him some good. |
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