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"Purgatory" - Chapter 7 By Blackn’blue
Rating: PG 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. Synopsis Whew! So much ground to cover. All right then. Take a quick swig of your favorite beverage, grab a solid handhold, and take a deep breath. Here we go. TnT are living on Vulcan with their daughter Elizabeth, who was renamed as T'Lissa to protect her from hostile xenophobes (see my first story For Want Of A Nail to find out how Agent Daniels twisted the time line to save Elizabeth, and my second story In The Cold Of The Night for background on the name change and the relocation to Vulcan). The story of Purgatory begins with Trip in the Forge on Vulcan, just starting his Kahs-Wahn ordeal. Having fulfilled all the other requirements, all that remains for Trip to do is survive the Kahs-Wahn and he will be officially granted full status as a Vulcan citizen. Sounds simple enough? Be not deceived. This is Trip we are talking about, remember? His luck runs true to form. The Vulcans only offer the Kahs-Wahn test during a limited part of the year when the sandfire storms are at their weakest. After all, they are trying to test their children, not get them killed. As the famous Tucker luck would have it, the Andorians decide to choose RIGHT THEN to offer a technology swap. Of course Starfleet jumps at the chance. Only problem, the Andorians insist on Trip being included in the talks. After all, he is the man who risked his career to bring them warning of the Vulcan attack. And he is the man who threw is own ship in front of the attacking Vulcan fleet to protect the Andorian ships. The blue-skinned guys want to deal with Trip directly and that's that. Which means that everyone waits until he gets out of the Forge. The brass isn't happy, but what can they do? So Enterprise waits in orbit over Vulcan and Archer fumes impatiently. In the meantime, the bridge crew make a visit to T’Pol at the home of her clan’s Eldest Mother, T’Para, who graciously provides Archer with a valuable educational opportunity. Meanwhile Phlox gets a chance to catch up with Healer Kerlek regarding their ongoing research project into Human/Vulcan genetic compatability. Their final conclusions turn out to be somewhat startling. So startling in fact, that the two researchers are left wondering if they dare report them. Enter - stage left - Dr. George Hopkins, Trip and T’Pol’s great to the nth generation descendent. George reveals to T’Pol that Subminister V’Rald, uncle to the unforgettable Koss, has hired assassins to pursue and kill Trip while he is in the Forge taking the Kahs-Wahn. V’Rald has two objectives in mind. First, he wants to remove Trip from the negotiations, thereby hopefully derailing the tehnology swap and preventing a serious increase in Human trading competition. (V’Rald is raking in the kickbacks from the Vulcan shipping industry). Second, he wants to eliminate Trip because of the issues involved with his revelations at T’Pol’s last clan Gathering. (see Father To The Man for the explanation about what happened between Trip, Koss, and the very old Bowie knife. It’s a LONG story). George tries to explain to T’Pol and T’Para that the technolgy exhange with Andoria is critically important, but he is constrained from revealing too much. T’Pol discreetly lets George know that she is aware of the upcoming war with the Romulan empire, having been informed of future events by her alternate self during their meeting on Daniel’s ship when Elizabeth was being cured (see For Want Of A Nail). George then happily proceeds to recruit Hoshi into the circle and tells the ladies that they need to steal a photonic torpedo, which they will use as a bargaining chip for another technology swap with the Tellarites. Hoshi hits the roof but eventually comes around. That covers most of the ground. You should be able to pick up the rest of the narrative plot in context. I really recommend that you read the previous stories and chapters if you want to get up to speed on this. There is a lot going on here. Oh, before I forget. Eldest Mother T’Para is trying to fix Malcolm up with one of her granddaughters. Chapter 7 T’Jala inclined her head and offered the greeting of kin to V’Lanos as he opened the gate. She strolled along the path to T’Para’s door at a relaxed pace, enjoying the sight and scent of the copious garden that the Eldest Mother maintained. Altogether a pleasant way to begin the day. She opened the front door and stepped into the cool front hallway feeling refreshed. As she had expected, T’Para was waiting in the reception area with T’Pol and T’Pol’s daughter. This morning T’Jala took the time to look over the baby with more than usual attention. Superficially the child appeared entirely Vulcan, at least in her face and hands. Except... yes. Her eyes were paler than normal. Otherwise she could easily pass for Vulcan. Intriguing. Clan rumors reported that the child seemed intelligent, strong and healthy. Certainly the Eldest Mother had been heard on more than one occasion to express approval of her progress. She raised her hand. “Greetings Eldest, Krei T’Pol.” The baby raised her hand and spread out her fingers, then brought them together. Finally she reached over with her left hand and held the first two together and spread the rest apart. “And to you as well, Krei T’Lissa,” T’Jala added gravely. “Beese ‘n long lyfe,” the baby said clearly. T’Jala almost staggered in shock. “Although T’Lissa appears Vulcan,” her mother explained, “her verbal development is proceeding at a Human pace. Since Humans are non-telepathic, they learn to use their voices at a very young age.” T’Jala looked engrossed. “Fascinating.” She blinked and turned back toward T’Para. “As instructed, Eldest, I have come to report on the results of my meeting with Lieutenant Commander Reed.” “Sit, Child,” T’Para motioned at a chair. “Drink. Rest. When you are ready, begin.” T’Jala obediently took the nearest seat, directly opposite the couch where the other two women sat. She poured herself a cup of water, as custom required, and took the obligatory sip. “I confess, Eldest, that I was pleasantly surprised by the end of the evening. I had not anticipated that Malcolm Reed and I would have so many points of compatibility.” T’Pol’s eyebrow twitched but she said nothing. T’Para managed to look self-satisfied without moving a single muscle. “I suspected that you would both be resistant to the idea at first.” “We were,” T’Jala admitted. “I fear that Malcolm is still resistant.” She turned to T’Pol. “While touring the ship I met Lieutenant Commander Hess, the Chief Engineer. Are you well acquainted with her?” “Certainly,” T’Pol assured her cousin. She permitted her wriggling offspring to slide down to the floor and wander off in the direction of the window. “Remember T’Lissa, the flower pot is for looking and smelling, not touching,” she admonished the child quietly. T’Jala nodded. “She requested Minister Kuvak’s contact code so that she could initiate communication with Kov on her own behalf. Apparently she has little faith in your adun’s skill at mating negotiations.” T’Jala took another sip of water and let her glance follow T’Pol’s in the direction of the baby. The child was certainly endearing. Obviously entranced by the plant, she was examining it closely. T’Pol looked pensive. “I suppose that an unbiased third party observer could perhaps derive that conclusion. Although I am certain that Trip would be most sincere in his efforts.” Although she politely tried to pay attention to T’Jala’s presence, it was plain that a significant part of her attention was on her wandering daughter. T’Para stood up and proceeded to take the baby’s hand. “T’Lissa, I require tea. Will you assist me in the preparation?” The old woman requested gravely and T’Lissa looked up just as seriously. She nodded, and the two of them headed for the kitchen together. T’Pol visibly relaxed. “I do not believe that his sincerity was in doubt,” T’Jala responded. “Rather, Lieutenant Commander Hess holds the opinion that your adun is unskilled at relationships. She went on to state that if you had not, and I quote her exact words, ‘forked him to the plate’ the two of you would never have married. She suggested that if I determined Malcolm to be worth the effort I would need to do the same. So may I ask your advice on exactly how one goes about ‘forking’ a Human male?” “The circumstances were different,” T’Pol admitted. “Trip and I were already bonded, and we already had T’Lissa. In our case I merely proposed that we formalize a relationship that already existed. Your situation will require greater finesse.” “I welcome suggestions,” T’Jala said. “Your primary difficulty with Malcolm,” T’Pol instructed her cousin, “will lie in the fact that he is reluctant to form a long-term attachment with anyone other than colleagues. I believe that the overriding reason for this is the risk inherent in security work. He is notorious among the crew for establishing brief, superficial relationships with various females and then separating before they have time to evolve into something meaningful.” “Then it will be imperative that I establish an extended period of contact with Malcolm,” T’Jala concluded. “Obviously,” T’Para interjected from the kitchen. “If he possesses a fraction of Trip’s obstinance, you will need several weeks at minimum.” “He is at least as stubborn as Trip, if not more so,” T’Pol told her. T’Para’s left nostril twitched slightly and she nodded. “You have made your decision then?” T’Pol asked T’Jala. She stood up to take the small condiment tray from T’Lissa’s proud but unsteady hands. “You have done well, Daughter.” The little one grinned widely, displaying the gaps between her teeth. “Yes,” her cousin replied firmly. “His family and professional background are acceptable. He is physically appealing. During my visit I observed that he holds the respect of his subordinates, his peers, and his commanding officer. He is obviously dedicated to his duty and loyal to his commitments. His intelligence is obvious from his conversation alone, and also made evident by the fact of his rank at such a young age. If there were any negative aspects that I am not aware of, you or the Eldest would have advised me. Therefore, he seems eminently suitable.” She paused to watch T’Lissa climb back up onto the seat beside her mother. Rather than levering herself up with her arms, as a Vulcan child would have done, T’Lissa simply raised one leg until it was nearly as high as her shoulder. She hooked the heel over the edge of the seat and used it, along with her hands, to roll onto the couch. “She is... remarkably flexible,” T’Jala remarked. “How does her strength compare to Vulcan normal?” “Very close,” T’Para answered. “T’Lissa rates at approximately 90% of normal Vulcan strength. As you noted, she is quite flexible. Her current agility is rated at 86% of Human normal.” T’Pol told her, “Physically and mentally, she exhibits a remarkably effective compromise between the races. She combines Vulcan strength with Human agility, Vulcan stamina with the Human ability to absorb impacts. We discovered this by a most distressing accident recently when she was climbing and fell off the top shelf of the Eldest Mother’s bookcase.” The little girl spoke up. “I fall down and go bam,” she explained earnestly. “It hurted.” “Yes.” T’Para closed her eyes for a moment, but made no other movement. “The child fell a distance of 2.13 meters directly onto the flagstone floor of my library and landed on her side. Medical personnel assured us that a Vulcan child would certainly have suffered broken bones at minimum, and quite probably internal bleeding. T’Lissa merely sustained some heavy bruises.” She added, “And a disgruntled attitude when her mother confined her to her sleeping quarters for the remainder of the day.” T’Jala looked at T’Pol with meticulously calculated sympathy. “That must have been distressing.” “Quite,” she responded. “However it did diminish her fervor for climbing briefly.” “In any case,” T’Jala took another sip of water, “Malcolm declared that he is dedicated to continuing his career with Starfleet. Can you estimate the length of time before he is promoted to flag rank and transferred to a planet-based assignment?” “A difficult question,” T’Pol responded, “As one would expect, Starfleet advances officers in rank somewhat more quickly than the Vulcan fleet. And in recent years this tendency has been enhanced due to the constantly accelerating need for personnel. Humans are expanding into space very quickly now. The warp three engine has only been in mass production for ten years and already the perimeter of the Human sphere of influence has effectively doubled in size. Two more warp five vessels are currently under construction, and several more are planned. Starfleet is almost desperate to find qualified people to crew its vessels. Once it finds them, it is extremely reluctant to lose them. ” “Indeed?” T’Jala put on a thoughtful expression. “I wonder if their chef could use another assistant?” “Lieutenant Commander Reed, please report to the armory.” Malcolm rolled out of his bunk and punched the comm button. “Reed here.” He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. “What’s the emergency?” “Sir, one of our torpedoes is missing.” “I don’t want to hear that, Lieutenant,” Archer growled. “Go back over the security monitor files again. There has to be something there. Nobody just picks up a photonic torpedo in their arms and walks out the door with it!” “Yes, sir!” Lieutenant Sato flinched and bent over the console again. Archer stopped and chided himself. The captain walked over to the communication terminal and leaned over. “I’m sorry, Hoshi,” he told her, in a more controlled tone. “That was uncalled for. Just do your best, like always.” She gave him a tiny smile and quickly looked back down. “Anything, Travis?” Archer forced himself to sit back down and try to look as calm as possible. “Nothing in range, sir,” Mayweather told him. “And no record of any ship coming near us since that Vulcan security craft last night.” Archer froze. No. It couldn’t be possible. Could it? “Thank you, Mr. Mayweather,” he said slowly. “Since Lieutenant Sato is busy reviewing data, how about you take the center chair? I am going down to the armory to talk to Malcolm for a while.” “No. Why would they? The Vulcans already have better torpedoes than we do,” Archer debated with himself as he stepped into the turbolift. “And T’Para? Don’t be stupid. If she wanted a torpedo all she would have to do is pick up a communicator and order one delivered in a gift box. You are grasping at straws.” Ganlas unlocked the hatch cover and lifted the slab of hull metal. T’Pol leaned over and peered inside, shading her eyes to confirm the lettering. “Yes. This will do nicely. No doubt it has been disarmed?” Ganlas looked amused. “I am not in the habit of storing military-grade weapons within the city limits.” “Did the retrieval proceed as planned?” T’Pol inquired. The two of them casually strolled out of the Ministry of Security’s official ground car fleet garage. Across the plaza, the soothing pastel tones of the central government complex rose gracefully into the flawless sky. The setting sunlight stretched fingers of shadow across the line of trickling fountains which divided the parking garage from the main public thoroughfare. A gentle zephyr was blowing, just enough to stir the hair and carry a faint scent of refreshing blossoms from the meditation park nearby. “Flawlessly,” Ganlas told her. “Your colleague performed her assignment to perfection.” “As I anticipated,” T’Pol told him smugly. “Lieutenant Sato is a consummate professional.” “How does she plan to divert suspicion when the theft is discovered?” he wanted to know. “That is a matter that will be handled by another operative,” T’Pol made a dismissive gesture. “It is not a detail that I am required to address, fortunately. My next objective will be to arrange contact with Larai so that I can show him the item. Plainly, I cannot bring him here. What do you suggest?” Ganlas told her, “I have been considering this matter. I recommend the caverns beneath Zaerth’Bren monastery. The ruins are not a popular attraction since little remains to be seen these days, and it is easily accessible by either ground car or flyer from anywhere in Shi’Kahr.” “Logical,” she complimented him. “I will pass the message to him through the usual channels. Can the item be transported by tomorrow night before T’Kuhtset?” “Yes,” Ganlas told her decisively. “There will be no difficulty. Expect to find it in the third cavern, near the fluted columns adjacent to the spring, just behind the carved statue of the raptor-headed warrior.” “Appropriate.” She permitted herself the smallest smile. “Until tomorrow night then.” They exchanged gestures and turned to go their separate paths. Ganlas headed back into the government building, where his office awaited him with a desk that, as always, still groaned and sagged under the weight of PADDs and paperwork - all of it urgent of course. T’Pol started walking at a carefully measured pace along the narrow pedway toward the meditation garden. She needed to contact Trip. It had been entirely too long since she sent him the warning. Intellectually she realized that the bond would inform her had something disastrous occurred. But intellect was poor comfort at times like this. Perhaps the garden would permit her to achieve sufficient peace of mind to reach him. Trip woke up comfortable for the first time in longer than he wanted to remember. But he was laying on something hard. “Did I fall asleep on the floor again?” he wondered. “I’ll bet T’Pol stuck a cushion under my head and left me here while she takes care of T’Lissa,” he chuckled to himself. “Baby girl, if you can take daddy out now, what are you going to be like when you are five?” he wondered. He opened his eyes and froze. He was looking in the face of a descendant who was considerably more mature than his daughter. Then it hit him all at once. “Good evening, grandfather,” George told him. “Have a good nap?” “Yeah. I really did. Thanks.” Trip sat up and realized that the protective field was still in place. The air inside was a lot cooler than Vulcan normal. And moister too. The surface of the field looked hemispherical and grayish, cutting down the sunlight quite a bit. Although Trip could see that the day had gotten long in the tooth since he dropped off. The sun was touching the tops of the peaks, and the glow of T’Kuht had already started to burn the eastern horizon. Trip carefully stretched out his arms and legs. All the stiffness was gone. In fact, all the pain was gone completely. He felt completely rested and refreshed. He wasn’t even thirsty anymore. “What did you shoot me up with, Son?” he wanted to know. “Just a few basic restoratives and some nutrients. Nothing special,” George shrugged. “A few equalizers to get you back on your feet.” “Isn’t that kinda cheating?” Trip asked wryly, with one side of his mouth twisted. “Cheating?” For some reason George seemed to be in a bad mood. “What the hell is cheating about it? The test is not supposed to include having trained assassins coming after you, is it? Anyway this whole ridiculous farce is a monumental waste of time and energy. It’s a throwback to the days of savagery. The original Kahs-Wahn was a maturity test for young males. Like it was on Earth, where a boy had to undergo desert ordeals, or ritual scarring, or kill a lion to prove his manhood. After the industrial revolution came along, girls wanted in on it too. Then when Surak came along they took out the hunting requirements. But what difference does it really make? How often is the average city dweller going to be called upon to spend ten days wandering around in the wilderness anyway? They should just train people and be done with it.” “You’re preachin’ at the choir, Son,” Trip said gently. “But I don’t wanna screw this up. It’s important to me that I be able to look people in the eye and swear I did it honestly.” George slumped and sighed. “Of course. But you weren’t in bad shape to begin with. The rest did you more good than anything else. And you really do deserve a little boost because of the people after you, don’t you think?” “I can’t argue that part,” Trip admitted. “Where are the S.O.B.’s anyway? And how many are there?” “Two,” George said. “A husband and wife team. Both experts.” “Husband and . . . oh shit,” revelation lit up Trip’s face. “They’re bonded, aren’t they?” “Yes.” George nodded. “Now you understand one of the main reasons that they are so successful and so highly paid.” “Crap.” Trip stood up. “I better get moving if I want to make the next waterhole tonight.” He looked out at the horizon. Without facing his grandson, Trip asked, “So why are you really here?” George answered, “Here? Now? In the Forge? To keep you alive and help you make it through the test.” Trip nodded. “And the rest of it?” George sighed. “There are several things going on, grandfather. I can’t tell you about most of them.” “Like why we are going to need better engines real fast?” Trip waited but George did not respond. So he continued. “When you two were fixing T’Lissa, T’Pol and her older version went off by themselves for a while. Remember?” George said awkwardly. “I remember.” Trip mused. “She never told me what they talked about. She said it’s something private. Told me that it was her own private thoughts that she shared with herself. Asked me if she couldn’t keep her own private thoughts to herself. Now what was I gonna say to that? But I have noticed a few things.” “What things?” George tensed. “T’Pol’s worried about something,” Trip said reflectively. “Something pretty big. She never talks about it, but I can tell when it hits her. And it has something to do with Earth and our ships. And it has something to do with our technology. When we got the job re-designing the warp six engine for Starfleet, I could feel through our bond that she was almost obsessed about it. Like we were working under a deadline.” He turned to look at his extended offspring, who dropped his eyes. “I told you, grandfather.” George mumbled. “I can’t—” He stopped. Trip went on. “When we heard that the Andorians wanted to swap an engine for our transporter, I swear that T’Pol felt, to me, like she was close to getting almost dizzy with . . . relief? Almost joyful about it. She reacted like a kid at Christmas. I could feel it clear as day. Now why would she react that strongly, grandson, unless she knew for a fact that Earth is gonna need faster ships real bad pretty soon.” George chewed on his lips. “If I could tell you, I would. Honestly.” He gave Trip a look. “All I can say is that the technology swap is a very good idea.” Trip nodded. “Figured that much. Now tell me why V’Rald is trying to kill me in particular?” “He’s not just trying to kill you in particular,” George sighed. “But the other targets have already been taken care of. In your case, you have the technical expertise to help negotiate the best possible deal for Earth. You have a lot of influence here on Vulcan — a personal friend of the Chief Minister as well as a hero who prevented a war with Andoria. The Andorians consider you a hero also, for risking your career to bring them warning of the Vulcan attack, and then throwing your ship right between the fleets that way. The Andorians figure that your honor is above question. You actually have more influence on Andoria than Jonathan Archer does. You will swing a lot of weight in the negotiations, grandfather. Plus there is the whole deal about Koss and that stupid letter.” “Koss won’t have to worry about that letter much longer,” Trip hissed. “Neither will V’Rald.” “No, they won’t,” George assured him. “But for now we need to get you through this test. Here,” he handed over a small cannister the size of a fist. “This condenses water out of the air and stores it in the reservoir. It should refill itself almost as fast as you can drink it. Even if they manage to block your access to water for an extended period, you won’t be in trouble.” He saw Trip hesitate. “Take it grandfather. You don’t have to use it unless the Vulcans actually do stake out the checkpoint and set up an ambush.” Trip snorted and took the device. “You wouldn’t happen to have an extra pair of gloves, would you?” Malcolm stood up quickly when the captain walked into the ship’s data analysis center. “You’re here, Sir. Very good. I found something disturbing that you need to see.” The overpowered beowulf super-cluster — originally installed for use during the Xindi mission, along with 800K terrabytes of extra data storage, had been reassigned for astrometrics and general science applications once Enterprise’s resumed her role as an exploration vessel. Malcolm had usurped the main computer and put the entire science department to work on a 24/7 rotation analyzing every scrap of sensor data that they had picked up since arriving in the Eridani system. From the way he stood fidgeting beside the main viewscreen, Archer knew that he had hit real pay dirt. “Don’t keep me in suspense, Commander,” the captain ordered. “Spill it.” Malcolm brought up a display showing a series of overlapping graphs. “Ensign Borgas spotted it first,” he gave an approving nod to the young man bent over a nearby terminal. Archer glanced across the room and made a mental note of the youngster's identity. “These anomalies,” Malcolm was continuing, “here, here, and here,” he pointed, “look at first glance like ordinary interference. The kind of background noise that you get around any developed world. But look here, Sir.” He manipulated the controls. Several of the lines faded out, leaving only the specific interference patterns on the screen. “These are the patterns that Borgas spotted. See anything familiar, Sir?” “Not really,” Archer said, hanging onto his patience. “Should I?” “I suppose not, Sir,” Malcolm looked a touch disappointed. “I just thought it might ring a bell. We have seen that particular pattern before. We picked up these aberrations three times since Enterprise established orbit around Vulcan. The most recent detection was last night during Lady T’Jala’s visit. Right about the time that the torpedo went missing.” He brought up another readout and superimposed it over the first one. The energy signatures matched almost perfectly. “They look the same,” Archer admitted. “Where did the other one come from?” “The other one,” Malcolm turned to face him and continued gravely, “is Romulan.” “Are you certain?” Harris looked like a corpse. “The boy isn’t stupid. And I checked it myself. Yeah. We’re sure.” Ezekiel sounded tired. Harris closed his eyes. “Notify all local personnel — go to Defense Condition Two. If they are penetrating deep into Vulcan space and raiding our cruisers for weapon samples — and getting away with it,” he snarled, “then we are even closer than we thought. We may not even have time to finish this technology trade, much less get our engine upgrades installed. The way it looks we may be fighting with what we have in our hands right now.” “It's pretty plain the Vulcans didn't finish their housekeeping.” “Yeah.” Harris rubbed a tired hand over his forehead. “Did Archer let them know?” “Right away. The shit hit the fan big time. He told Trask first of course. Then Trask had him beam down and they went in to tell T'Pau together in private. Vulcan Security turned into an anthill after boiling water had been poured into it. I don't think the young lady was happy.” “The embassy?” “Jendaro has it on lockdown,” Ezekiel snorted. “Like that would make any difference to the Romulans.” “And it advertises that something big has happened.” Harris heaved a deep breath. “No wonder Gardner doesn't trust him to handle the warp upgrades. By the book, of the book, and for the book all the way, that's Jendaro.” “Couldn't drive a tack up his ass with a sledgehammer,” the old man agreed. {Greetings to you, Honored One.} The voice was familiar, even if the words were not. She had never before been addressed, publicly or otherwise, with the traditional High Vulcan salute toward an Elder Matriarch. T'Pol snapped her eyes open and quickly checked the area. But George had spoken softly, and no one was within earshot. {Welcome to you, Son of my House,} she courteously gave the appropriate response. “Sit. Speak,” she continued in modern Vulcan. “How are things progressing with your mission?” George hesitated briefly. “We will really have no way of knowing until it is complete,” he finally told her. “I wanted to let you know that grandfather Tucker is fine at the moment. I just left him.” A wave of relief made her slump back against the bench. Only then did she realize how tense she had been. “That is most agreeable news,” she admitted. She hesitated. “Thank you.” George flashed a grin for an instant before replacing his mask of Vulcan control. “You are most welcome, grandmother,” he told her in English. “He was concerned that you might be worrying. I told him, of course, that a Vulcan would not waste energy on such a non-productive activity, but he insisted that I promise to visit you anyway.” T'Pol twinkled at him. “Indeed,” she said gravely. “Trip can be remarkably determined once he fixes his mind on an idea. It is often best to humor him.” “I also wanted to warn you about the method we used to cover Hoshi's part in the torpedo theft,” George went on very quietly. T'Pol's eyebrows drew together and she leaned forward slightly. “Continue.” “I arranged,” George explained, “for the ship's sensor logs to be altered slightly. Enough to make it appear that a cloaked Romulan ship had been nearby several times, including the night the torpedo disappeared. They took the bait. Starfleet and Vulcan Security are now convinced that the torpedo was stolen by Romulans.” The edge of the concrete bench crumbled in T'Pol's grip. “Have you gone mad!?” She gasped harshly. Pausing to breathe heavily, T'Pol tried to get herself under control. “Not completely yet,” George had a strange edge in his voice. “Let me explain.” It took quite a while, and T'Pol had many questions. By the time they finished T'Khut was high in the sky and she was still not completely satisfied. But the available alternatives seemed limited in the extreme. “I fail to see how this can avoid causing further damage to the alliance,” T'Pol complained. “Particularly since this is occurring just as Trip is in the process of being granted Vulcan citizenship.” “Trust me, grandmother,” George assured her. “Despite your bond, you still don't understand how Humans think. They are an intensely pragmatic people. For them, the bottom line will weigh most heavily. Given the value of what you are going to accomplish, they will be more than willing to overlook a few minor peccadilloes committed in the process of getting there.” “Minor?” She sighed. “I seem to have no choice in the matter now. After meeting tomorrow night with Larai and his client, I will arrange to contact the local representative as you have specified. What is his designation?” “His code designation is Rinaldo,” George told her. “He is the planetary coordinator for Starfleet covert operations on Vulcan. Officially he works at the Earth embassy as a janitor.” T'Pol nodded. “An excellent cover. Maintenance personnel can enter into every area without question, and are seldom noticed at any time, day or night. They are also in a position to access restricted equipment during off hours without difficulty.” George gave her the standard recognition signals, both verbal and gesture. “These are current up to three days from now. If you can't make contact before then, I will get you the new ones. He is tall, balding, gray fringe of hair with bushy eyebrows. Gray eyes, stoop shoulders, tends to shuffle. Soft spoken. Wears faded coveralls. Invariably carrying a broom or pushing a mop. Seldom willing to make eye contact.” “A true professional,” T'Pol noted approvingly. “Indeed,” George agreed. “He is also a master of several martial arts and an eighteen year veteran in the field of espionage. I recommend caution.” “Naturally. I am not a beginner at this, Son of my House,” she told him primly. The gloves were magical. There was no other way to describe them. Skin tight, transparent, Trip could not even feel them on his hands. They let sweat and air pass through freely and did not constrict his fingers or palm in any way. But nothing could penetrate them. Just for fun he picked up another jagged shard of obsidian and closed his fist around it. The sliver was twice the size of his thumbnail and razor edged. Trip tightened his grip until his knuckles whitened. Nothing. He couldn't detect the slightest sign of irritation. Best of all, on impact the gloves became as rigid as steel. Trip dropped the sliver and reformed his fist. Then he swung a powerful punch directly into the basalt wall beside him. The shock of impact ran up his arm, across both shoulders and down his spine. But as far as his hand was concerned, he might as well have been punching a pillow. Trip chuckled and shook his head. “Nice, Kid. How do they work?” He remembered asking George. “Nano-technology embedded in the material, grandfather. Which you had already guessed of course. Beyond that I am telling you nothing, so quit poking.” He felt better than he had since the test began. Telling yourself that you could do it wasn't nearly as encouraging as hearing someone else tell you that you actually had done it. George assured him that in the original time line he had made it through the course with a few hours to spare. Hearing that had done more for Trip's morale that a full meal and ten hours in a soft bed. All he had to do now was finish the route without getting shot, stabbed, eaten, poisoned, falling off a cliff, strangled, or lost. No problem. Trip had followed the crevice downhill until the side slopes widened enough to make scrambling up the far side a simple matter. Then he hiked back along the edge until he found the trail again. He had briefly considered cutting cross country and meeting the trail farther along, but decided not to be stupid. Trails in high, broken terrain exist for a reason, he reflected. Once he found the trail it was a simple matter to establish a route parallel to it. Near enough to keep it in view but far enough back to avoid making a blatant target of himself. George had told him that his pursuers were scheduled to be waiting for him at the next spring. Meanwhile, his bodyguards were somewhere nearby. Supposedly following and watching him. When Trip asked what they would think about his sudden appearance from beneath the cloaking field, George merely laughed and told him that the field was camouflaged to mimic the background earth. From the point of view of the watching Humans, it would look like he had crawled out of a hole or something. Trip shrugged and dropped it. The terrain wasn't nearly as horrendous as he had been led to expect. At least not yet. Vulcan standards of what constituted jagged mountains were a little more mellow than Terran standards. Plate tectonics on Vulcan consisted of a grand total of three major plates, none of which were very frisky. The Sas'A'Shar mountain range partially defined the edge where two plates met, but the last episode of major volcanic activity had taken place immediately following the last planetary war. The same war that had killed Surak and left the Forge in its current condition. Even then, the eruptions were relatively mild by Earth standards, Trip reflected. Vulcan's mountain building phase had occurred long before the rise of sentient life. There was no equivalent to Krakatoa in Vulcan history. No Pompeii. And no equivalent to the legend of Atlantis or Mu either. Vulcans had no cultural context for grasping the emotional impact of a "lost civilization". Their entire history was readily traceable in the archaeological record. Some parts of it were contradictory and puzzling, Trip had learned. But none of it had been destroyed by natural catastrophe. All of which meant, for Trip, that if he had been operating under Earth gravity the hike would have been fairly easy. Unfortunately, Earth gravity was naught but a wistful memory. He stood at the base of a three meter bluff and sighed. Then he looked speculatively at his gloves. Trip took stance and stiffened his fingers. He took several deep breaths, tensed his muscles, and suddenly shot his stiffened fingers forward. His hand penetrated the weathered granite like a drill bit, smashing loose small chunks and sending them flying in all directions. Trip gaped for a moment. Then he laughed. "All riiiiight," he whispered. "Let's see if this works." Half an hour later Trip pulled himself up and over the top of the small cliff feeling disassociated by disbelief. He turned and stuck his head over the edge, still incredulous as he eyed the series of hand and foot holds that he had chopped into the solid stone with nothing but his fingers. Shaking his head faintly, Trip stood up and continued on his way. The sun was rising by the time he made it to the next spring. This particular wet spot in the rocks was located at the base of a tall crack, tucked in at the head of a deep, narrow canyon. There was only one way in on foot, and only two ways in by rope. They were waiting for him, just like George had said they would be. T'Khut was nearing the horizon. T'Pol turned and walked back into the darkness of the cave entrance. She seated herself on the ornamental bench, badly worn but once beautifully carved. Larai would be arriving very soon with the Tellarite representative. He was beset with character flaws, but lack of punctuality was not among them. T'Pol opened her scanner. Her guards were still in position, as expected. Three on the outer perimeter, two in the temple ruins above her, one on each side of the cave entrance, and two more behind her in the back of the cavern complex. Not that she expected difficulty. Tellarites were one of the more opportunistic races in the quadrant, and the value of what she offered was extremely high. There was little chance that they would risk disrupting the trade in any way. Plus, of course, her own weapons. T'Pol looked down at the sand colored coverall she wore and quirked an eyebrow. "I wonder what Larai will think when he sees me unencumbered for the first time?" she mused. There was no point in remaining incognito. To the contrary, it was vital that the Tellarite be reassured that he was meeting a valid contact with real authority to conduct business. At the thought, T'Pol's hand dropped automatically to the hilt of the knife that hung in a sheath at her waist. She twisted her mouth wryly, remembering Trip's reaction the day he decided to give it to her. "All right then," Trip had said casually, "Here's the consulting contract with the revised terms, just like Admiral Gardner promised." He placed the PADD on the desk of the clerical assistant at the Starfleet liason office. "All you have to do is sign it." T'Pol had inclined her head and murmured, "Of course, Husband." She dutifully signed the document and handed it back to him. Trip turned and offered it to the Vulcan clerk, who looked at it and tilted her head quizzically. "You must sign it as well, Commander," Trip was informed. "Me? Why?" He looked confused. "I am not the one taking the job." "You are Head of House," T'Pol explained. "Women manage family and clan matters. Males handle details of business and property. I cannot accept this position unless you personally approve it." Trip appeared nonplussed. "You have got to be kidding me." Both women made negative gestures. "You mean . . . everything?" "I am permitted to make standard household purchases," T'Pol told him, "using cash or by drawing on the household account. In such cases your approval is automatically implied. Otherwise, you need to expressly authorize me to conduct business in your name." Trip stared. "Isn't there some way I could . . . you know . . . grant you a permanent authorization?" The two Vulcan women glanced at each other uncomfortably. "That would be inappropriate, Husband," T'Pol told him, using that tone she reserved for times when he was stepping on a taboo. "The division of responsibilities in our culture is quite strict and has been kept that way for many thousands of years. What you suggest is almost never done." "Almost never? That's not the same as never. When IS it done?" Trip wanted to know. "I am not comfortable discussing this," T'Pol stubborned up. "Okay." He turned to the clerk. "You work for Starfleet, right? Part of your job is to provide information to Starfleet personal regarding local customs, right? I am asking as a Starfleet Commander. Please inform me of the circumstances whereby a Vulcan husband might grant his wife permanent authorization to conduct business." The young woman looked wide-eyed back and forth, from the amused expression on Trip's face, to the tightness on T'Pol's. Finally she visibly swallowed and said, "It is granted when the husband is physically or mentally incapacitated. To do otherwise is almost unheard of. Historically some queens have been granted this authority by their mates, and legend states that Surak also gave this power to his wife. But I am not personally aware of any other such cases." "What's required for this? Legally?" Trip wanted to know. The clerk looked uncertainly at T'Pol who refused to meet her eyes. "There is a brief ceremony, and the filing of a certificate," she told him. "Simple enough then," Trip had said brightly. "Tell me about this ceremony." "Husband," T'Pol started to make a final attempt to salvage propriety, but Trip cut her off. "T'Pol, you married a Human. Deal with it. I have bent over backward until my vertebra snapped to try and conform to Vulcan custom. But I am not about to spend the rest of my life being forced to personally supervise every purchase you make." He turned back to the clerk. "So tell me about this ceremony, would you please?" T'Pol shook her head slightly and ran her fingertips over the hilt of the dagger. Despite its ostentatious appearance, it was fully functional. No Vulcan would see any logic in making a weapon that could not be used. The artisan that Trip had contracted with to produce the knife had been compelled to consult with the priests at Mount Seleya in order to be certain of the proper configuration. She adamantly refused to wear it except during High Ceremonial occasions, and other extreme circumstances like tonight. The scrambled voice in her earpiece quietly notified her, "Incoming ground car. One driver, one passenger." She murmured acknowledgment. The car's hover fans kicked up a dust cloud outside the entrance for a few minutes. T'Pol remained seated and waited patiently. The opening car door and descending footsteps announced her visitor's approach clearly enough. She recognized Larai's step instantly. The heavy, shuffling gait of his companion could be nothing other than Tellarite. They stopped outside the entrance, carefully to avoid providing a target, and waited. “I am seated 3.2 meters inside, and 5.1 meters to the right of the entrance on a stone bench," she announced calmly. "I have two companions, who are located at the rear of the cavern complex guarding the item. The night grows no younger." "Brisk as always," Larai retorted in amusement. He stepped through the doorway and stood for a moment, turning his head back and forth. "The way is clear. Enter." His companion stepped through behind him, breathing with difficulty and growling. "Where is this Vulcan who supposedly speaks for them? I believe you have grown senile in your dotage, Larai." "I will not dispute your overall conclusion," T'Pol said, standing and walking forward. "However, I am here. Do you carry authority to negotiate for your people?" Her nostrils flared, pulling in the distinctive odor of Tellarite male. Larai had been honest up to this point at least. "You-" The Tellarite stood still. He seemed to be staring at her, as best she could detect from his hooded form. T'Pol had made certain to stop in a pool of T'Khutlight and stood facing them both openly, with her arms at her sides. "I am T'Pol, wife of Starfleet Commander Charles Tucker III," she told him. T'Pol mentally braced herself and apologized to Trip for using his name in such a deliberately deceptive manner. "In this matter, I speak for my husband." "Hrmph," the Tellarite grumbled. "They might at least have sent a Captain. This kind of disrespectful approach-" "We are not here to exchange pleasantries," T'Pol cut him off abruptly. "nor do I think that any of us are over-supplied with excess time. I have offered my identity to you. I require equivalent evidence of good faith." The short figure grunted and tossed back his hood. "I am Grotke, Senior Assistant Secretary to the Tellarite Ambassador. Are you satisfied, Vulcan?" T'Pol inclined her head. "Eminently. This way, gentlemen." She turned and led them through a rear doorway and deeper into the caves. A series of very old and badly drained radiation-powered lamps outlined the pathway. They meandered through a forest of multicolored stalagmites, some of which were carved into eye-twisting forms. The second cave was, by Vulcan standards, quite damp. It was even possible for T'Pol to hear the rare drip of water from an occasional stalactite. The back wall of the second cave had been meticulously smoothed and flattened millenia ago for purposes unknown. In the precise center an archway was located, outlined by neatly placed blocks. One factor which made the monastery fascinating to archaeologists was this arch. Each block had been individually cut from local stone, and carefully formed into a different shape. The blocks had then been fitted together like a three dimensional jigsaw puzzle to form a mathematically perfect arch. The structure was unique on the planet. The third cave was pitch black except for the light of four torches at the four corners of the square room. A walkway comprised of white marble led from the arch directly forward to the feet of a statue that stood at least five meters high, almost touching the ceiling. In form, the Colossus stood on two legs and wore Vulcan ceremonial robes. It's arms were raised as if in supplication. One hand held an ahn-woon, the other a knife. The statue wore the head of a raptor with beak open. The eyes were greenstones, huge and scintillant in the flickering torchlight. Grotke halted with a gasp and stared. The others paused to wait for him. He coughed to cover his sudden nervousness and growled, "What are you waiting for? Let's get this over with." T'Pol said nothing, leading the way down the marble path to the clawed feet of the idol. As they approached the gigantic figure a depression in the floor became faintly visible in the shadow that lurked between the raptor god's legs. A shallow set of steps led downward into pitch blackness. T'Pol triggered a small lamp at her belt and started down the stairs without breaking stride. Grotke was complaining nonstop, "Benighted Vulcans burrowing like felit. Why could we not just meet somewhere on a ship? Enterprise is in orbit right above us. They have an entire ARMORY full of these things. Instead I have to tramp through this ancient Vulcan cemetery-" "We are here." T'Pol cut through his ranting. She gestured forward. Larai held up a hand to forestall his client. The cloaked figure took an esoteric looking scanner from beneath his robe and approached the twin pillars. A low platform between them was almost filled with a sleek cylindroid mass bearing Human alpha-numeric markings. Larai triggered his instrument and starting sweeping it over the torpedo from one end to the other, and then back again. T'Pol waited patiently. Finally Larai stood up and clicked off the scanner. He stood for a moment, apparently contemplating something, before turning to face the other two. "So it is all true, Kart- T'Pol." He said in a bemused voice. "Despite our history, despite your reputation, I still could not quite bring myself to believe it. But the scans do not lie. Not from my instrument." He turned to Grotke. "It is genuine, Assistant Secretary Grotke. A working photonic torpedo. The antimatter is missing of course. And it was manufactured by Humans, not Vulcans. Confirmed." Grotke's lip curled and he growled thoughtfully. The Tellarite walked over and ran his thick fingered hand over the surface of the weapon, caressing the sleek finish. "And the Humans will give us the designs for these in return for better hulls?" "Of course not," T'Pol said primly. "The offer is to sell working torpedoes in return for Tellarite assistance with improving Human hull design." Grotke laughed gruffly. "I foresee much dickering ahead, Vulcan." He looked up with a glint of honest amusement in his eyes. "We will have need of your services in the days and months to come, Larai." "I am, as always, at your disposal," Larai bowed. "For the proper renumeration of course." "Of course," Grotke chuckled. He looked at T'Pol. "I have been authorized by the ambassador to commit my people to an agreement in principle. We are willing to enter into such an exchange provided equitable terms can be reached. But I will need this torpedo to present as proof of your good intentions." T'Pol considered. "You accept Larai's assurances that the weapon is currently in operational condition?" "Yes." Grotke sounded cautious. T'Pol walked over and keyed in a sequence that opened an access panel. She proceeded to remove two small modules and closed the panel again. "These," she said, holding up the modules for inspection, "Are crucial components for the operation of the weapon. It will not fire without them. However the rest of the weapon is intact, and you may take it with you if you wish. I am only authorized to initiate negotiations. I have not been authorized to release functional hardware at this time." Grotke nodded grudgingly. "It will suffice.” T’Pol flipped open her communicator and spoke briefly. A low hum prefaced the glow that surrounded the torpedo before it disappeared. She flipped the communicator shut and told them, “It has been transported into the cargo compartment of your vehicle. I trust that in addition to the diplomatic markings you also thought to install shielding?” Larai snorted. “How many years have I been doing this? Am I dead yet?” He turned to Grotke. “When you are ready, Secretary.” T’Pol watched the two men stride away. Larai walking as casually as if he were strolling along a well-lit city street. Grotke, by contrast, walked with shoulders hunched and his head constantly swinging back and forth. Tellarites were a superstitious people, she recalled, with a strong history of spiritualism. In their tradition, ancient ruins such as this would hold a powerful attraction for the spirits of the dead. “That did not take as long as I had anticipated.” The voice came from behind her, but she did not turn around. “There was little to discuss, Ganlas,” she said. “Their decision was already made. Tonight was merely a necessary formality. Tomorrow will be the important meeting.” “Will you require guards?” There was something in his tone that grabbed her attention. She finally turned to look him in the eye. “Is there some problem, krei?” The muscles in Ganlas’ face trembled almost imperceptibly as he fought for control. “It is not my place to question the Eldest Mother,” he began delicately. “However I cannot avoid observing symptoms of uncertainty from both her and you. Especially since you informed us of your intent to meet with the Human Intel officer tomorrow. I am concerned T’Pol.” She let out her breath and gave him a weak smile. “There are aspects that I am unable to share, this is true. But I can tell you that I have full confidence in the outcome of this meeting.” “Absolute confidence,” she thought, “if necessary, George will simply reset the timeline over and over until it works out correctly.” TBC |
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