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"Purgatory" – Chapter 5
Rating: PG (mild expletives) 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. The characters Chulak and D'deridex belong to Rigil Kent. I am just borrowing them briefly. Chapter 5 Sam Fleming interlaced his fingers and pillowed them behind his head. He looked up from his bunk and mused on the pattern of ceiling tiles in this otherwise unmarked cell. He really hated being confined, although in his decades with the agency it had happened many times, under many differing conditions. “You would think by now that I would be used to it,” he mused. “At least here and now there aren't any rats.” Something caught his attention suddenly. Sam had carefully cultivated reflexes, like all experienced agents. A part of his attention was always monitoring his environment, listening to background noises, sifting through sounds, smells, peripheral vision—carefully noting and analyzing everything that happened in his vicinity, just in case. It was a habit that everyone developed after spending time in dangerous environments, and Sam had spent more time than most. He was confused for a few seconds, until suddenly realizing that it was the absence of sound and movement which had caught his attention. Instantly tense, he rolled off the bunk and slid over to the doorway of the cell. The silence hammered in his ears. There were three armed SpecOps in addition to the technicians in this part of the facility. The only thing that could suddenly cause them all to fall silent at once was either some kind of gas, or a perfectly coordinated attack. If it was gas, he was in trouble too. His backup emergency kit did not include a gas filter. And any attacker capable of penetrating this far into Section 31's most secure research facility was going to be a handful, even for him. Sam could see nothing from the left side of the doorway. He took a deep breath, smelling nothing, and dove for the far side of the doorway. Crouching low, he looked up in disbelief at the door guard. The young man was standing in a comfortable slouch, one hand raised, with his mouth open as if in conversation. Sam followed the guard’s eyes and saw one of the female technicians smiling back at the guard, wearing an obviously teasing expression. Neither of them were breathing or moving at all. He grunted in disgust and stood up. “Cute one, George,” he growled. “Now turn off the cloaking field.” A chuckle provided his visitor's location. Sam turned and watched his colleague fade into view. George was grinning from ear to ear. “Just part of the checkup, Sam,” he insisted. “I needed to make sure that they didn't damage your reflexes.” “Once this mission is done, I am going to damage a lot more than your reflexes,” Sam vowed, returning to sit on the bunk. “You'll have to catch me first, Kid,” George riposted, and walked over. He pulled out a scanner and ran it over Fleming. More seriously, he continued, “The field will give us less than half an hour subjective time before I have to leave. How are you feeling? Have they done anything intrusive?” “No,” Fleming's lip twisted. “Paranoia can be useful sometimes. They are afraid of setting off some kind of self-destruct switch if they get too eager, and they don't want to lose me as a bargaining chip.” George nodded. “What did they think about the genetic analysis?” “I told them I was shot up with a retro-virus that spread Human DNA through my system, and that I take anti-rejection drugs to keep it from poisoning me,” Sam told him smugly. George stared at him. “And they bought that?” “You have to remember that genetic experimentation has been taboo on Earth since the Eugenics War,” Sam reminded him. “Not just illegal. These people look at it like they look at cannibalism, or pedophillia. Sure, the top minds here and now would know better. But the top minds don't work for the Section. These technicians lack the background in multi-species genetics to spot a hybrid. They have never seen one before.” “But you're three quarters Human!” George shook his head in disbelief and continued scanning. “What's this drug they put in you?” “Scopolamine,” Sam mentioned off-handedly. “Oh,” George snorted. “Figures. They try anything else?” “Sleep deprivation,” Sam grinned. “They tried sensory deprivation but I kept going to sleep on them.” They both laughed. “Hold still,” George told him. He placed a hypo at the junction of Sam's neck and shoulder. “Ouch.” Sam twisted to look at him. “What is that?” “Quit twisting. It's a transponder. It boosts the signal from the chip in your pump,” George notified him. “Just in case we need to make pickup on you from inside a shielded area.” Sam looked resigned. “So much for being traded back to the Vulcans, and tragically lost in a shuttle crash. Don't tell me, His Lordship Daniels has pulled another brilliant one out of his derriere?” “This one actually comes from headquarters,” George told him. “It turns out that dear old Grandpaw threw yet another boot in the works—one that nobody noticed until just now.” “That's not funny, George,” Fleming glared at him. “That ancestor of yours is already the locus of more temporal anomalies than anyone short of Jim Kirk. Now you are trying to tell me he caused another one?” “Not directly,” George hastened to assure him. “It's not his fault. It's V'Rald, and those assassins he hired. One of them is a Romulan deserter. You remember?” “Yeah,” Sam nodded. “The woman. What was her name . . . Kerla?” “Yep.” George put his medical equipment away as he explained. “Turns out that she was originally scheduled to become an invaluable source of information about the Romulan fleet.” Sam winced and rubbed his forehead. “You get the picture now? Her mate, Saren, gets busted and to buy him loose and a chance for both of them to start over on a colony world, Kerla offers to spill her guts about everything she knows. And she knows a lot, since she grew up in a noble house.” “But Charles Tucker's memoirs . . .” Sam let his voice trail off. George nodded emphatically. “And the brass have decided that Grandfather's memoirs document the time line that we are definitely going to follow. Which means that we need to find an alternate way to shortcut the coming war. Otherwise it won't be pretty.” “It was far from pretty in the original time line,” Sam sighed. “How much worse can it get?” “The new projections,” George told him, “have the war continuing unabated for twenty-three years.” “Oh shit.” “It only sputters to a close,” George finishes somberly, “When a Human kamikaze squadron manages to break through the Romulan defenses. All but two of the ships are destroyed, but those two manage to make it to Romulus. They both dive at the planet and deliberately shut down their antimatter containment fields. The death toll will be in excess of five billion.” Sam clenched his teeth and grabbed a hand over his mouth, making gagging noises. It took him a couple of minutes to regain complete control. Hoarsely he forced out, “What's my new assignment?” George informed him, “We planted some evidence in your apartment that makes it look like you are addicted to peyote.” “Peyote?” Sam looked blank. “It's a Terran cactus,” George explained. “For Humans it's hallucinogenic. For Vulcans it's a moderately powerful narcotic, and promotes extreme physical dependency. There's a black market in the stuff, but the supply is limited. It only grows on Earth, due to trace element requirements. And here is the bad news.” George held up a final hypospray, which he had left out of the supply bag. “Before I leave I am going to shoot you up with this. It mimics short-term peyote withdrawal, while at the same time immunizing you against actually developing an addiction when you are exposed to the stuff. Sorry.” His expression was sympathetic. Sam looked depressed but nodded. “I see where this is headed. You are giving Harris a lever to use on me. What am I supposed to steal for him?” “Nothing,” George said. “You are going to go into withdrawal. Harris will wait until he thinks you are really hurting, so ham it up good. Then he will start the carrot and stick routine. Gradually let him worm enough out of you so that Human engineers can accelerate development of their deflector shield and tractor beam technologies.” “That's it?” Sam looked relieved. “Simple enough.” “According to the analysts, that will be all it takes,” George told him. “Earth already has force fields. Right now they are trying to fine tune the hardware to make overlapping fields that will cover a ship's hull. They are this close,” he held up two fingers about a centimeter apart, “to getting there on their own. One nudge should be enough. The tractor beam will be almost as simple. Once they have the deflectors, all they need to do is modify the same emitter hardware to form a tube instead of a plate, and then generate an artificial gravity field inside the tube. Piece of cake.” “And this will be enough to shorten the war?” Fielding asked hopefully. “Supposed to be,” George replied. “They re-ran the analysis at headquarters, factoring in Humans having deflectors and tractor beams, along with the Andorian engine upgrades. All else being equal, the war should end in less than four years, hopefully much less, with the final decisive battle being fought at Cheron. Fleet Admiral Chulak will be killed—leaving D'deridex with a clear path to the Praetor's seat, right on schedule.” Sam looked sick with relief. “Some withdrawal symptoms are a small price to pay for that. Speaking of which,” he looked over at George, “what are the symptoms I should expect?” “Nervous twitches, mainly,” George told him. “Some loss of coordination. Nothing disabling.” He glanced at the chronometer on his wrist. “Time to head out. We will be making random spot checks from now until pickup, but whoever drops in will probably stay cloaked. You know how to signal if you need anything. Are you set for now?” “I suppose I am.” Sam told him. He shook himself. “At least this beats hell out of the Roman arena.” “Someday,” George told him, reaching for the controls on his suit, “you have to tell me that story.” “Only if you are buying,” Fleming told him.
Trip was really starting to hate the planet Vulcan, and the foothills of the Sas'A'Shar mountains in particular. The ravine cut directly across the trail. It was five meters wide, seven meters deep, and stretched just far enough in both directions that he would never be able to work his way around it before full daylight. Trip grabbed a boulder and levered himself to his knees, then sat down in the dirt at the edge of the gash. He rubbed the back of his hand across his face and sighed. At least the sandfire had petered out. It just figured that he would draw the short straw. If anyone on the planet could get hit with a storm during the off season, it would be him, Trip Tucker, the living rabbit's foot. So now what? Climb down and then back up? Find shelter on this side for the day? Start going around and go to ground somewhere along the way? Trip sighed and hung his head, stealing just a moment for deep breathing and rest. His chest was sore from gasping in the thin air. Even after months of getting acclimated, he wasn't fully used to Vulcan's dessicated excuse for an atmosphere. Maybe he never would be. A stone rolled down the hill and struck the side of Trip's foot. His head snapped up and caught a blur of movement in his peripheral vision. No time to think. No time to weigh options, or judge distance. No time to do anything but react. Trip dove forward and over the edge of the ravine, rolling into a ball and taking the impacts of rocks and ledges on the way down. A cloud of choking dust flew up around him, blinding him and choking out what little breath he had left. The noise of gravel and stones rolling and rattling tore into his ears, and almost drowned out the snarl of the frustrated Le'Matya when she missed her slashing swipe by mere centimeters. Trip slipped sideways and felt a strangling yank. Instantly he was halted, half propped and half dangling against the side of the ravine, with the coiled loops of his homemade rope digging into his chest. The rest of the rope coil passed under one arm and around the side of his neck, looping over the upthrust chunk of granite on which it had caught to break his slide. Below him, the ravine continued downward to the razor slicing chunks of broken flint at the bottom. The Le'Matya paced angrily back and forth along the rim of the ravine above him, snarling in righteous fury over this interloper that had dared to threaten her den. Every instinct shrieked at her to go down and disembowel the creature. But the slope was too steep, even for her. Meanwhile, her cubs were squealing in hunger and she had not killed for them since before sundown. They needed more meat, but how could she leave them with this strange smelling thing nearby? It was maddening.
Hoshi was industriously stirring pancake batter when T'Pol entered the kitchen. “Good morning,” she greeted the Vulcan with a somewhat forced air of cheerfulness. “I hoped pancakes and loural berries would be appropriate for breakfast.” “Entirely appropriate,” T'Pol approved, moving to dig out the berries and start peeling them. “Did you rest well?” “Yes, I did,” Hoshi answered truthfully. “I was surprised and grateful for the humidifier. I really appreciate it. I must remember to send T'Para a formal thankfulness gift when I get back to the ship.” “No need, Child,” the old lady in question moved into the kitchen to join them, looking precisely the same as she had when they bade her good night the evening before. “You are a guest. It is my responsibility to see to your comfort. A formal gifting is neither required nor appropriate.” The old woman carefully lowered herself to a stool and started making tea. Hoshi started a tentative movement in the direction of the pot and got waved off. “Tend to your mixing bowl, Girl, and I will tend to this. But I wish to ask you if you have formed any opinions about T'Lissa's linguistic development.” “Actually, yes.” Hoshi picked up the spoon and started stirring vigorously. “This is all preliminary until I get back to Enterprise and confirm things with the official references.” Both women nodded. “But from everything I checked, T'Lissa seems to be significantly ahead of schedule for verbal development, based on Human standard benchmarks.” “That is most agreeable news.” T'Pol's chronic stiffness seemed to loosen just a little. “What are the benchmarks to which you refer?” “Well, for example,” Hoshi turned and carefully poured a measured dose of batter onto the griddle, catching the last drip with her mixing spoon. As the mixture started to sizzle she continued, “At her stage of physical development, most Human babies are using words, and a significant percentage are making simple two-word sentences.” She grabbed the spatula and stood poised, waiting like a lioness at the waterhole for the prey to be ready for her to pounce. “That appears to describe T'Lissa'a current level,” T'Para murmured, activating the flame under the teapot and settling back to regard the two younger women. T'Pol just raised her eyebrow and continued peeling berries, confident from long experience that Hoshi wasn't finished yet. She was correct. “Not really,” Hoshi responded respectfully but firmly. She carefully worked the spatula under the edge of the incipient fritter and gave it a quick twist. The golden disk took wing like a gull, spun a 180 in midair and landed neatly back on the griddle. “T'Lissa is well beyond the point of simple two-word sentences. Not only is she making them, she is stringing them together into multi-sentence statements. For example, last night she told me, Uh-uh rest. Not tired. Want cookie.” Hoshi triumphantly proclaimed, “and that, Lady T'Para, is a three sentence paragraph. It wasn't a fluke either. She forms those kinds of statements routinely. Her communication skills are definitely well ahead of schedule.” “In every measurable aspect, this child meets or exceeds the acceptable standards for both species,” T'Para mused. “She sure does,” Hoshi agreed. “I can also testify that her physical coordination is well ahead of Human average. I can only imagine what Trip goes through trying to chase her.” She grinned and reached for the serving platter, flipping the first pancake from the griddle to the platter. Then she reached for the bowl and started pouring another dose of batter. “She is beginning to climb,” T'Pol announced dolefully. “Trip warned me that this might occur, since he was prone to such behavior as a child. As soon as T'Lissa was able to support herself on her legs, she began trying to scale the sides of her crib. When placed on the floor, she is now determined to reach the top of every piece of furniture in the house.” “Oh my,” Hoshi chuckled. “I had a cousin like that. He once climbed up on top of a bookshelf and crawled into the ductwork. Then he got himself stuck. My aunt and uncle had to call the fire department to come and remove part of the wall to get him out.” She snorted and kept grinning until she saw T'Pol's face. “Sorry.” Hoshi fought hard to wipe off the smirk. “It could be worse you know,” a male voice interjected. Three heads turned in surprise. The faces of T'Para and T'Pol lit with recognition, while Hoshi continued to look both surprised and puzzled. But since neither of her hostesses offered any objection to this newcomer's presence, she shrugged and continued with her batter. “You have an undeniable talent for appearing unannounced and unexpected, Son of my Clan,” T'Para chided him. Her words had a stern ring to them, but her tone was not really disapproving. “I realize this, Eldest Mother,” George said apologetically. “But I needed to speak with the three of you, and this seemed like the time most likely to provide a quiet interval without interruption.” “The three of us?” T'Pol glanced at Hoshi warningly. George winked and grinned, causing Hoshi's jaw to drop open in shock. “Yeah, I am afraid that's correct, Grandmother,” he said calmly. “I have been authorized to bring Lieutenant Sato into the loop regarding the situation, since she is scheduled to become rather intimately involved with the upcoming events.” “Grandmother?” Hoshi squeaked. T'Pol sighed and nodded. George grinned again and sketched a bow. “Dr. George Hopkins, at your service ma'am,” he said in courtly tones. “I have the honor of being the great-to-the-umpteenth grandson of Charles and T'Pol Tucker. And since you wouldn't be Human if you weren't wondering, I am approximately as much Terran as I am Vulcan, give or take a bit either way. I am also a small part Bajoran, with a trace of Trill. Neither of which means anything to you of course.” She stared, transfixed, while her pancake burned. “You're a time traveler, like Daniels.” “Yes, Ma'am,” he responded promptly. “Please put out the fire,” he added, even more promptly. Hoshi started and jumped to scoop the charred remains of her charcoal fritter off the griddle. While she worked on cleanup, George turned back to T'Pol and braced himself. “What upcoming events do you anticipate that will require Lieutenant Sato's participation?” T'Pol demanded. George ran his fingers through his hair in a singularly Human gesture. “You already know what is coming, Grandmother. Don't you? You understand why it is imperative that Earth obtain the engine upgrades that the Andorians are offering?” T'Pol's expression darkened. “Yes.” She said nothing more. Hoshi looked curiously at her, while T'Para gave her a calculating examination that boded ill for later on. George relaxed. “Agent Daniels confirmed that when the two of you left that night, you went to a room together and spent some time consulting. But I couldn't be absolutely certain how much she told you.” He looked directly at her. T'Pol returned his gaze. “We melded. She told me everything.” George looked surprised. “Everything.” He swallowed. “All right.” He shook his head hesitantly. “I didn't realize . . . well. Hopefully it won't screw up anything. At least it hasn't so far.” “I have no intention of using my information to do anything that would provoke intervention by the Temporal Authority,” T'Pol informed him. “I prefer things as they are now.” “All right then, the situation here and now is starting to get complicated,” George explained. “Diplomatic and political interests are tangled up with the economic rivalries involved in this. More specifically, certain members of the High Council have a vested interest in maintaining Vulcan's trading advantages. They have decided that allowing Earth to obtain upgraded warp systems would be inadvisable at this time.” “V'Rald.” T'Pol came as close to a growl as a civilized Vulcan was capable of doing. “Among others,” George admitted. “V'Rald sees this as an opportunity to overcome the damage that Grandfather caused with his confrontation at the Gathering. But he is not alone in this effort, by any means.” “I hate to sound stupid,” Hoshi broke in, “but could someone explain this to me? In words of one syllable or less?” George smiled. “You spent your career in academia, didn't you?” Hoshi nodded uncertainly. “OK then, here it is in a nutshell. For centuries Vulcan has enjoyed a near monopoly on trading routes in this part of the alpha quadrant. Vulcan dominated in one sector, Tellar dominated in the adjacent sector. When the Andorians broke out into this part of space, things started heating up and we wound up fighting over trade routes and territories. No matter what else you may hear, the real reason for the conflict between Vulcan and Andoria was over trade competition. But eventually the situation stabilized, more or less.” “I get it,” Hoshi looked thoughtful. “That's actually the most sensible explanation for the conflict that I have ever heard.” T'Pol looked uncomfortable. George continued, “The High Command spent a century keeping Earth from pushing their way into the forefront of things and making matters even worse. But now, if Earth gets faster ships, Vulcan will be in for the economic fight of its life. For the first time in generations, Vulcan traders will be facing bare knuckle competition from people who are not only used to it, but actually relish it. See why they are nervous?” “I'm an idiot,” Hoshi muttered. “None of this even entered my mind.” She groaned. “No wonder Captain Archer and Ambassador Trask look so worried.” George looked at her, then shifted his attention to T'Pol. “So . . .Grandmother . . . we need you to steal something.” Every set of female eyebrows in the room started levitating. T'Pol cleared her throat. “You want me to steal something?” T'Pol said, with placid equanimity. “Very well, what do you need me to steal? Something from the High Council? The Science Directorate perhaps?” “Nope,” George said cheerfully, “nothing from the Vulcans.” “Indeed?” T'Pol looked surprised. “From the Andorians then?” “Wrong again,” George grinned wolfishly. “We want the two of you to steal something from Enterprise.” Lieutenant Commander Reed adjusted the collar of his dress uniform again and coughed into his fist. He could feel vibrations from the docking procedure through the soles of his boots. When Eldest Mother T'Para told them to expect T'Jala at 1830 hours, she never bothered to mention how the young lady was supposed to get there. Archer and Reed had briefly discussed offering to send down a shuttlepod. Then they decided not to tempt fate. As it turned out, this was just as well. The Security Directorate's suborbital pursuit craft completed docking procedures and signaled readiness to match atmospheres. Reed pressed the activation button for the airlock and entered his personal access code. The inner door slid aside to reveal the outer hatch of the Vulcan craft. There were no visible controls or latches. Only a hairline seam marked the otherwise flawless metal surface. Reed waited with reasonable patience while the Vulcan pilot ran his checks to ensure that the seal was tight, and made sure that those sneaky Humans hadn't prepared some nasty surprise for his esteemed passenger. Finally the sound of a breaking vacuum seal cued Malcolm into assuming a formal posture. “Grim,” was the first thought that hit Malcolm's mind when the door slid aside. The woman who stepped through was half a head taller than Reed, and built with typical Vulcan slimness. Her expression was as closed as T'Pol's had ever been at her worst. But even in the most tense situations, Reed reflected, T'Pol's demeanor had always been tempered by something... sympathetic? A person always got the sense from T'Pol that she was at least willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Not this lady. Malcolm would have bet against the word being in her vocabulary. He filled his lungs slowly. The captain had explained the diplomatic importance of the situation. So be it. When duty called, a Reed always answered. It was only for a couple of hours anyway. At least he wouldn't have to face another rubber chicken dinner. Chef had prepared a top of the line vegetarian meal. T'Jala stopped at the entrance and waited. Malcolm stepped forward, carefully maintaining a bland expression, and raised his hand. “Peace and long life, Lady T'Jala. I am Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed, Executive Officer of Enterprise. Welcome aboard our ship.” T'Jala returned the gesture. “Live long and prosper, Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed. I am T'Jala, daughter of Serl and T'Mari. I have come in compliance with the Eldest Mother's instructions. I am told that we are to assess each other as potential mates.” Her tone contained not the slightest trace of enthusiasm. Reed couldn't help wincing. “With deep respect, Lady T'Jala, you must understand that we Humans do not conduct things quite so . . . abruptly. We take time to get acquainted with each other, spend an extended amount of time together, before even considering such a thing.” T'Jala relaxed almost imperceptibly. She looked Reed over carefully. “I begin to suspect that this meeting was instigated by the Eldest Mother on her own initiative.” Reed was flabbergasted. “Uh . . . yes?” He thought in appalled disbelief, “She thought this was MY idea?” Malcolm cleared his throat. “During a dinner party at her home last night she informed me that you would be visiting.” To fill the suddenly awkward silence he blurted, “Would you like a tour of the ship? She may not be impressive by Vulcan standards, but we are quite proud of her.” T'Jala inclined her head. “Certainly. I confess to curiosity about this craft, ever since my krei T'Pol accepted assignment here.” Malcolm sighed. “All right. There's an hour killed, easily. The captain swore he would help me with dinner, so we can count on another hour there. Get her out of here by 2030, so she can be back home by 2130. I can do this.” He started briskly describing the basic deck plan of the ship, leading T'Jala toward engineering to start off. T'Jala watched closely as crewmen passed them. As the two of them walked along, she paid close attention to the deck, bulkheads, fixtures and fittings. “I am surprised,” she finally remarked. “About what?” Reed looked at her. “Based on my examination of other Human-made buildings and vehicles, I expected Enterprise to be more ostentatious,” she said. There was almost a note of approval in her voice. “Thus far, the layout appears to be strictly utilitarian. Logical, but not what I expected.” “We Humans are just full of surprises,” Reed quipped. “Indeed,” T'Jala told him gravely. “It is precisely this quality that makes my people so concerned about you.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Control yourself.” Malcolm managed a tiny smile and started walking again, conscious of T'Jala's eyes. “I can only suggest,” he told her, “that your people cultivate a flexible mindset. We are out here now, and we are staying. You are going to be dealing with us for a very long time to come, like it or not.” “A fact which some of the more conservative members of our society still struggle to accept,” she mentioned. “But I have always been interested in Humans. I suspect that to be the primary reason that I am here,” she added acerbically. “In addition to the fact that my original betrothed had the misfortune to perish in battle against the Andorians.” “Well, look on the bright side,” Reed offered. “If nothing else, you are getting a tour of the Human flagship, and a chance to interview some Humans in person. Think of it as an educational opportunity.” T'Jala raised an eyebrow. “Of course.” They walked in silence until they reached the turbolift. T'Jala immediately perked up and started quizzing Malcolm on the details of its operation. Malcolm felt a surge of ironic amusement. “You are an engineer?” he asked. “By no means,” she replied. “Merely interested in everything.” “Well, in that case,” he started an in-depth explanation of the turbolift system. Which led, by meandering routes, into a discussion of other ship's systems and inevitably, the ship's weapon systems. The turbolift slid to a stop and the two of them stepped out into the new corridor, too engrossed in their conversation to notice the looks they had started to draw. “You use photon torpedoes?” T'Jala's eyebrows were climbing into her hairline. “I had no idea that Human containment systems were sufficiently advanced to allow anti-matter warheads.” “Actually,” Reed told her cheerfully, “we stole them from the Klingons.” “Stole?” she asked slowly, blinking. “Yes,” Malcolm gave her a mischievous look. “Some time ago we encountered a Klingon ship, damaged and adrift in the upper atmosphere of a gas giant. Their crew was unconscious from illness. We stopped to help them out.” “And took the opportunity to help yourself to their technology while you were there,” T'Jala said flatly. He shrugged. “It's not as if they were gushing with gratitude,” Reed told her. “We saved their ship and their lives. And in return they demanded we surrender and called for reinforcements. We had to make a run for it. I don't think a few scans were an exorbitant price for the help we gave them.” He added, as they came to the entrance to Engineering, “We didn't actually take any torpedoes. Just enough data to produce some cheap imitations. Our warheads aren't as powerful as the original Klingon torpedoes yet. But we decided some was better than none. ” Malcolm keyed in the access code and the doorway opened. “How very pragmatic,” T'Jala muttered. She looked around the dimly lit confines of this Human engine room with reserved fascination. Unlike a Vulcan vessel, this warp core was installed horizontally. A series of control consoles were spaced around the perimeter of the room, with Human technicians busily moving back and forth. The entire area hummed with purpose and energy. A young Human female approached them, wearing the same rank insignia as Malcolm Reed. “This is our Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Commander Anna Hess,” Reed introduced them. “Anna, this is Lady T'Jala—a visiting dignitary and a relative of T'Pol.” “Welcome aboard, Lady T'Jala,” Lieutenant Commander Anna Hess flashed a massive Human smile. “I gather Malcolm is giving you the grand tour. Anything in particular that you would like to see?” T'Jala was intrigued. “You are remarkably open about such a sensitive area. Do you permit all visitors such unrestricted access?” Hess laughed. “No way. But one of T'Pol's family is almost a member of the crew.” T'Jala was lost for a response to this one. “So is there anything that interests you in particular?” “Your lithium matrix,” T'Jala told her. “If it is not too much trouble, Lieutenant Commander.” “Right this way,” Hess started walking. “By the way, call me Anna.” “I am honored,” T'Jala inclined her head. “Please feel free to call me T'Jala as well.” She mentioned politely, “I understand from the Eldest Mother that krei T'Pol's mate Charles is acting as an intermediary between yourself and Kov, son of Kuvak.” “Say what?” Anna stopped and looked puzzled. “Kov? I haven't heard from him since we docked with their ship a couple of years ago. What do you mean by intermediary?” Reed coughed. “I seem to remember T'Para mentioning something about this. But she didn't go into specifics.” “Trip?” Anna asked blankly. “Kov?” She looked back and forth. “Let's go into my office for a few minutes. This bears discussing.” Reed looked bemused, while Anna seemed half stunned and half fascinated as T'Jala explained Vulcan arranged courting traditions. “So you are telling me,” she finally said, fighting back a grin, “that Trip volunteered to play matchmaker? “So it would seem,” Malcolm scratched his nose and pursed his lips, trying hard to keep from making any potentially offensive remarks. “Do you have Trip's . . . no. He is in the desert isn't he? Do you have T'Pol's number, Malcolm?” Anna requested. Reed dutifully recited it and she jotted it down. T'Jala looked somewhat uncomfortable. “If you are offended, I offer apologies on behalf of our clan,” she told Anna. “I am certain that no—” “I'm not offended,” Anna snorted, then let it break out into a soft laugh. “But in a case like this I prefer to do my own courting, thank you. Let me tell you something about your cousin-in-law, T'Jala.” She looked at the Vulcan woman with amusement dancing in her eyes. “He is a great guy. He really is, as good a man as you will ever find. And when it comes to nuts and bolts engineering, or warp theory, he is as sharp as a razor. But Trip Tucker is a pure idiot when it comes to relationships. If T'Pol hadn't forked him to the plate and made him marry her, he would still be dancing around the issue today—hemming and hawing, too shy and uncertain to come out and tell her how he really felt.” “Indeed? Is this typical of Human males?” T'Jala looked curious. “Unfortunately, it's not unusual,” Anna sighed. She gave Reed an evil look. “So if you do decide that Malcolm is worth your time, you will probably have to take the lead.” “Noted,” T'Jala responded shortly, while Malcolm locked his jaws and glared daggers at Hess and her dancing eyes. “Perhaps we should continue the tour,” Reed suggested, as politely as possible. “We still have several decks to cover, and T'Jala hasn't seen the lithium matrix yet.” “Oh, sure thing. Let's do that.” Hess led the way out of her office, chatting and pointing out various control systems as they went along. The rest of the tour passed without unexpected incidents, to Malcolm's devout relief. T'Jala found Chef's tiny hydroponics bay especially interesting. As a professionally trained chef herself, the idea of being able to grow one's own spices aboard a starship appealed to her immensely. She noticed instantly how Malcolm became energized as soon as he set foot inside the Armory. The brisk pace he had maintained throughout the rest of the tour slowed, and he lovingly described each part of the weapon storage, loading and firing systems in loving detail. She was reminded forcibly of Ganlas. It seemed Security officers were of a universal type, regardless of race. Malcolm timed the tour almost perfectly. The two of them arrived at the captain's mess just as Archer was about to sit down. Both Reed and Archer were dreading dinner the way a pre-schooler dreads vaccinations. After the fiasco at T'Para's house, neither of them wanted to think about what to expect. To their surprise and relief, nothing catastrophic occurred. T'Jala actually complimented them on the quality of the food. “Your chef is quite adept at preparing Vulcan dishes, Captain,” she said. “I will pass that along to him,” Archer told her graciously. “He's had a lot of practice. Chef always tried to make sure that T'Pol got proper variety in her diet when she was aboard, naturally. Then after the Vulcan embassy was bombed, we had quite a few families aboard while they waited for the Cairo embassy to be prepared. Chef really enjoyed the chance to expand his repertoire during that time.” “I can well imagine,” T'Jala replied thoughtfully. She forked up a bite of fruit salad. After swallowing she went on, “That brings up another topic for consideration, Malcolm.” She looked across the table. Captain Archer noted with a touch of wry amusement that Reed had at least managed to make it to a first name basis with his prospective fiancee. “The bombing was conducted by the same group that was responsible for creating the child of Charles and T'Pol, was it not? The same group that later tried to kill the baby as part of their propaganda campaign?” Malcolm's jaw tightened. “Yes,” he said tightly. “It was. But the ones responsible were apprehended, eventually. They are currently sitting in a maximum security prison, where I for one hope they remain for the rest of their lives.” “But is it not the case that you apprehended two more members of this same group aboard Enterprise, on your way to Vulcan during this trip?” T'Jala held his gaze steadily. “I can see where she is going with this.” Malcolm reflected. “She is just as aggravated by this situation as I am, but she doesn't have the option of telling the Matriarch of her clan to take a hike. So she is fishing for ammunition that she can take back and use to get out of this. Not very flattering, but let's be reasonable here. I'm a strange alien that she met a couple of hours ago.” “If you are asking me whether there are still Humans that bear animosity toward non-Humans,” Malcolm said slowly, “I must acknowledge that there are. The members of Terra Prime do not represent the general opinion on Earth. But they are capable of offering a threat.” “Noted.” T'Jala chewed quietly. “In the event of our marriage, would you be willing to settle on Vulcan, as Charles Tucker has done?” Malcolm coughed as his water went down the wrong pipe, and he grabbed a napkin. She waited patiently while he recovered his aplomb. “I . . . uh . . . I expect to spend the next several years in space, Lady T'Jala,” Malcolm tried to re-insert a note of formality into the conversation. “My chosen career path makes it unlikely that I will be settling anywhere until retirement. When I am old.” A sudden inspiration hit him. “Which of course will be fairly soon by your standards.” She nodded. “Certainly another point to consider. But then, my original betrothed was forty-two years of age when he was killed in battle.” She looked at Malcolm. “How old was your oldest ancestor when they died?” He squirmed and looked plaintively at Archer, who tried to think of a way to divert the subject. Meanwhile Malcolm hemmed and hawed a bit before admitting, “So far that would have to be my great-grand uncle Edgar. He is 137, assuming that he hasn't passed away since my last communication from my family.” “I do not wish to be intrusive,” T'Jala told him, “but since we are to evaluate each other perhaps it would not be entirely inappropriate to exchange data about ages. You are surely less than fifty years of age, am I correct?” “Significantly less,” Malcolm told her wryly. “I am thirty one.” “Really?” T'Jala looked pleased. “I am fifty three. If we both avoid disease or violence, we might reasonably expect a century of marriage.” “I . . .” “Although, as you pointed out, we must certainly exchange significantly more information before a final determination can be made,” she took a sip of tea. Archer jumped in frantically. “You realize, Lady T'Jala, that Enterprise is primarily a ship of exploration. Our missions typically leave us out of touch with our homes for extended periods of time. Unfortunately, it is also true that exploration is not the safest career path a person can choose.” He paused and left the words hanging in midair, hoping she would pick up the connection. T'Jala nodded. “Of course, Captain. You are concerned that since I have already lost one betrothed to violence, it might be considered illogical of me to choose another who also follows a high risk profession.” “Exactly,” Archer sighed in relief and caught Reed giving him a look of profound gratitude. “The simplest solution,” T'Jala went on, “would be for Malcolm to shift his career path to the Vulcan Security Directorate.” Both men's jaws dropped open and they stared openly, nonplussed. She continued, oblivious to their stunned expressions. “My clan has extensive connections to the Security Directorate, several members of which hold relatively high positions. It would be a simple matter to obtain a posting for Malcolm, especially given his prior experience with Starfleet.” “That's it!” Reed exploded. He threw his napkin down on the table. “I have been as patient as—” “Lieutenant Commander Reed.” Captain Archer's voice sliced like a sword blade. Silence hung heavy while nobody moved. Then, quietly, Archer said, “As you were Malcolm. Lady T'Jala, I am afraid that Malcolm has made a commitment to Starfleet. That commitment cannot simply be broken on a whim, even if he were willing to do so.” “Which I am not,” Malcolm said between his teeth. “T'Jala. I realize that on Vulcan women may rule the family roost. But I am a Human Starfleet security officer, and that is what I intend to remain. For you to come aboard and casually assume that I would be willing to throw away my entire career is ludicrous.” T'Jala watched his rant with deep interest. “So you would place your career ahead of your responsibility to your mate?” “I didn't say that!” He stopped to breathe hard. Archer opened his mouth, only to find T'Jala's raised hand poised a few centimeters in front of his face. Malcolm continued. “But any mate I chose would never be the kind of woman to demand that I give up my career!” He sagged back against the chair, with his irritation draining out and being replaced by worry. The darkening expression on his captain's face did nothing to relieve Reed's forebodings. T'Jala looked unaccountably pleased. “Excellent.” “What?” Reed's expression was a complex mixture of belligerence and confusion. T'Jala explained, “I wanted to see if you would give me an honest reaction, Malcolm.” She favored him with the faintest hint of a smile. “You have been the perfect host ever since I arrived, and both of you have spent the entire meal straining yourselves to avoid any subject that might upset me. So I decided to say the most provocative thing I could think of. I needed to learn if your fear of offending the Eldest Mother was greater than your self-respect.” Reed's nostrils flared, but he held his silence by a monumental effort. T'Jala watched the shades of colors crossing his face with fascination. Captain Archer cleared his throat. “Lady T'Jala,” he offered. She looked at him politely. “Would you care for some more food or drink?” She gestured a negative. “In that case, if you have finished your food,” he gestured at her empty plate, “I believe that the meal is concluded. Perhaps we should escort you back to your ship?” “Certainly, Captain.” She stood up and they joined her. “It has been a most educational visit. Malcolm, would you mind escorting me privately? I believe that you and I should discuss something.” “Of course, with your permission, Captain?” He nodded and they left the room, leaving Captain Archer to sink back into his chair and reach for the comm button. “Archer to kitchen.” “Chef here, Sir.” “Have we got any of that brandy left?” TBC |
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