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"Khellian: The Flesh is Weak"
Rating: PG-13 for language and sexual situations
Stardate 2156.804 Captain Tavin sat at the command station, pondering his most recent difficulty. The surface of the huge homeworld of the Xyrillians loomed in the viewscreen. He had a cargo which would pay the monthly expenses of the Vakhlas many times over in his cargo bay, a client willing to pay a positively exorbitant fee to gain possession of said cargo, and no way to transport a half metric ton of exotic roasted peanuts in the shell to the surface of a world with four times Earth gravity and a high pressure atmosphere without crushing the entire shipment to peanut butter. The stasis containers they'd transported from Earth were primitive by Vulcan standards, and would never withstand a sudden fourfold increase in atmospheric pressure. "Captain? May I make a suggestion?" asked his newest crew member. Toron had come aboard with the shipment from Earth. He'd brought a letter of introduction from no less than the director of the Vulcan Security Ministry himself. An enclosed Security Ministry file on the boy had detailed how Toron had spent a decade of his life on Earth as the son of a minor ambassadorial aide to the Vulcan embassy in San Francisco, and, not surprisingly after a youth exposed to humans and the violent deaths of his parents at the hands of Terra Prime terrorists, had discovered an affinity for the philosophy of the V'tosh ka'tur upon reaching his majority. Although no mention of it was made in the letter, the Security Ministry was no doubt quite eager to get the boy off Earth as soon as possible. "Yes, you may," replied Tavin with interest. Young Toron's suggestions were often wildly impractical, but they were never dull. "Sir... the nuts are at Earth's standard atmospheric pressure within their stasis containers. Deactivating the stasis containers and gradually raising the pressure in the cargo bay over the next twenty-four hours to our maximal attainable atmospheric pressure should allow pressure equalization between the interior and exterior of the shells. If it's done slowly enough, the nuts will remain intact. If we then reactivate the stasis containers at high pressure, the nuts should be able to withstand the pressure differential on the surface of Xyrillia without being crushed," said Toron matter-of-factly. Tavin nodded in reluctant approval. "Can you actually do it?" he asked with a small upward turn of the lips. He'd learned to ask this question after the first of Toron's wild plans had come to naught. There were times when the technology available to them aboard ship couldn't keep pace with the young man's imagination. Toron raised a brow at him. "I'll have to sacrifice a few nuts to determine the pressure gradient necessary to crush the shells... but yes, sir," he said confidently, "I believe I can." "Captain, I've just picked up an Earth vessel on long range sensors," interjected Tavin's mate T'Leth at comm. She sounded pleased. "The computer identifies it as the United Earth ship Enterprise." Tavin's smile broadened. It would be good for all of them to visit with old friends. He and Jonathan Archer had a lot to catch up on. When they'd spoken last, Tavin had still been dealing with the unfortunate result of mental illness in a member of his crew, and Archer had been unmarried. "Hail them, T'Leth," he said. Her lips twitched upward as she did so. Tavin gazed at her fondly. He was already becoming accustomed to her presence on board ship, and it warmed his heart to see her so eager to interact with the humans. Her enthusiasm made her seem young again. When he looked at her now, he saw the beautiful young woman he'd married nearly 70 years before, despite the innumerable grey strands scattered within the coal black locks she'd gathered neatly into a bun on the back of her head. As she had so succinctly put it during his last trip home to Vulcan, the children were grown, and she was ready to do something interesting for a change. "Ah... Captain..," stammered Toron. He seemed oddly nervous. Tavin gave him an expectant look. "The cargo bay...?" Toron continued. Tavin nodded reassuringly at the young man. "Go ahead, Toron. You're dismissed." Toron's lips moved upward in a fleeting smile, and then he left the bridge at a brisk walk, looking more like a man fleeing from something than like someone with a task to perform. Tavin's brow wrinkled and he turned back to the viewscreen to await a successful connection. His mind was otherwise occupied as he waited. Toron was a strange boy. His emotions were always written all over his face, as if he'd never been taught as a child to conceal them. One moment he would seem timid and fearful, and the next an imagined slight or a perceived act of disrespect by a crewmate would have him glowering in obvious anger. Tavin had never met anyone of any race, not even an Andorian, who so obviously wore his feelings "on his sleeve", as the humans would say. And yet, at the same time, Toron was capable of utter brilliance. His mind was as acutely logical and analytical as the most intelligent Vulcans of Tavin's acquaintance. It was a perplexing and highly volatile combination. He could easily see this boy becoming involved in Terra Prime counter-terrorism, which was undoubtedly why Tavin had been virtually railroaded into taking him off planet. Since Toron had joined the crew, Tavin had invited the boy to his quarters and offered to teach him the meditation techniques favored by the V'tosh ka'tur, but despite the young man's claim that he found the philosophy attractive, aside from his emotionally uncontrolled manner and his fondness for meat, Tavin had never seen him engaging in any activity which identified him as a student of the philosophy. "I have Captain Archer for you, sir," said T'Leth. Her eyes twinkled as they met his. He gave her a subtle smile. He still hadn't quite become accustomed to the honorific "sir" coming from her lips in regard to himself. It was entirely appropriate for her to call him "sir" while serving as crew on the bridge of a vessel over which he had command, but it still surprised him when she did. "On screen," he replied. The face of Jonathan Archer appeared on the viewscreen. He looked somewhat tired and subdued, but seemed happy to see them. "Captain Tavin... what a surprise! I had no idea your ship was in this area of space," said Archer with a puzzled smile. Tavin gave a brief, dry chuckle. "We're wherever we can make enough profit to keep our expenses paid, Captain. What brings you to the Xyrillian system? The last I'd heard, Earth and Xyrillia had decided to keep a respectful distance from each other to avoid further... unexpected consequences," he said slyly. Archer shook his head and eyed Tavin in exasperation. "Not you, too, Tavin! I thought Vulcans weren't supposed to make jokes," he protested. Tavin shrugged. "Well... it wasn't much of a joke," he said in his own defense. Archer snorted in laughter. Then his expression sobered. "We're in the middle of something critical right now, Tavin. One of our crew has been taken and we're trying to locate her in the asteroid field on the outskirts of the system. I'll contact you when the situation is resolved, and we'll have a drink," replied Archer. Tavin's face became serious as well. "If you'll send me the data on what you're looking for, I'll be happy to put my people on it. I have a fellow on board who's quite good at reprogramming sensor arrays," he offered helpfully. Archer grimaced apologetically. "I'd love to have your help, but some of this is classified. I appreciate your offer, though. I'll have to get back with you about the data," he said. Tavin nodded. "I understand, Jon. Good luck," he replied. Archer returned his nod with a smile, and then the screen went dark. Classified? Tavin mused. Earth was at war with the Romulans. A crewmember on an Earth ship had been taken, and Archer wasn't at liberty to discuss the particulars. He pondered the question for all of two seconds before coming to a quite logical conclusion. "Adjust the sensors and try to locate the signature of a cloaking device," he told T'Leth. "If you have any difficulty, call Toron from the cargo bay to assist you. Have the computer search the asteroid field in a systematic pattern beginning with the current location of the Earth vessel and moving outward circumferentially. There's a Romulan vessel hidden among those asteroids, and we're going to help them find it." xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx August 4, 2156 The subsonic rumble of the warp engine was the only noise to be heard in Engineering. The customary idle chatter was silenced. Petty Officer Michael Nikolai Rostov gazed approvingly out over his domain from the catwalk above the warp core. The crewmen and women of beta shift were just coming on duty. As each had arrived, he'd approached them and informed them of the need for silence. Commander Tucker was still in his office, and Rostov was determined to allow him to remain there unmolested for as long as humanly possible. The man was impossible to please when he was exhausted. Let's face it. He'd be impossible to please even after a week's sleep, he thought acidly. Behind Tucker's easy-going southern exterior was an eagle-eyed detail freak that couldn't even cut a guy a little slack for showing up late and hung over just a few times. I should be Chief Petty Officer Rostov, he mused. He would be, too, he was sure, if it weren't for the poor evaluations his superior officer must be turning in to the brass. There wasn't any other explanation for his failure to be promoted. And had anyone even thanked him for holding down the fort while Tucker was off playing security down on the surface of Kreptagh Prime and Hess was out of commission because she got herself knocked up? Of course not. His face twisted in anger. He'd known Janice for two years now. Despite being a little older than he was and somewhat muscle-bound for his taste, she was fun to be with, and he'd actually come to like her. She was a commissioned officer and was technically off limits, though, so he'd never made a move on her, but he'd never made a big secret of his interest in her. She never seemed to notice. He'd come to the conclusion after a while that she just didn't like men. She certainly looked like a dyke. Except for that freakishly tall Vulcan officer she'd taken pity on several months previously, he'd never seen her spend any time off duty with anyone male in two years. At the time, he'd been sure that her interest in the Vulcan wasn't sexual. What decent woman could even think about doing something so disgusting? They weren't even the same species! It would be like she was screwing a dog or something. Now he wasn't so sure. She hadn't said a word about the father of her child. Just the idea that it might be the Vulcan turned his stomach. "Mister Rostov?" Commander T'Pol called from below, loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the room. Rostov started in surprise. He hadn't heard her come in. He eyed her somewhat warily as he stood near his work console. His eyes cut nervously to the door of his commander's office. He wondered if he should wake Commander Tucker, and then decided that it was no skin off his nose if Tucker got reprimanded for napping while on duty. T'Pol climbed the latter to the catwalk with feline grace. He eyed her movements with frank appreciation. Now that, he supposed, was enough make a man want to break the laws of nature. "Status report," she said succinctly. He blinked. Until she speaks, he thought wryly. Who'd ever want to hook up with such a frigid bitch? "The engine is operating at full efficiency, Commander. No problems here," he replied, telling her what she wanted to hear. In this instance, it was the truth. The Vulcan officer nodded, glancing briefly over the console at his side. The implication that she didn't trust his word and had to check up behind him galled him. "Very well," she said flatly. "Carry on." She turned without comment to go back down the stairs. Rostov's eyes narrowed. Does she suspect something? He'd been ridiculously careful with the installation of the surveillance cameras. It had been seven months since they'd last left Earth, and he still hadn't managed to get one into either of the commander's cabins. The ones he'd planted in Sickbay, in the Gym, and next to "their" table in the Mess Hall hadn't really given him anything he could use, but he had high hopes for the one he'd finally managed to install in Tucker's office. They were high-tech little things, those cameras. He had to hand it to those morons in Terra Prime. They sure had connections in high places. He'd been certain that one of Lieutenant Commander Reed's security sweeps would pick up the devices, but so far it hadn't happened. Soon, he was certain, he'd have the information that the Terra Primers were looking for, whatever it was, and he'd be home free. No more kowtowing to Eagle-Eye Tucker, Miss Icy Bitch, and The Gazelle-Loving Idiot. He'd be out of here with enough money to retire on Risa if he wanted to. He watched Commander T'Pol walk across the ground floor of Engineering toward Tucker's office and suppressed a grin. He could hardly wait to review what the cameras were getting ready to record. She was gonna ream Tucker a new asshole for napping on duty. Delicious. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The beta shift Engineering crew was unnaturally quiet as T'Pol approached Trip's office. Initially she was puzzled by their apprehensive expressions until she realized what they were concerned about. They know he's in there resting, and they believe that I'm going to discipline him for it, she mused. It was a perplexing dilemma. Now, if she failed to take corrective action, it would rouse suspicion that she was engaging in favoritism, fostering the still persistent rumor of a more than professional relationship between them. She sighed almost inaudibly, and then opened the door to the darkened office. Ignoring the worried looks directed at the back of her head, she stepped inside, closed the door, and locked it behind her. Trip was lying on the cot that he used for catnaps during the 24 hour work shifts he so often pulled during times of crisis in Engineering. He was curled on his side facing the center of the room with both arms wrapped around his head and pillow, in deep and peaceful slumber. There were padds containing inspection schedules, duty rosters, and status reports scattered over the mattress and the floor near the cot as if he'd actually been trying to work before falling asleep, despite the fact that she'd expressly told him to get some rest. She began gathering the padds with a disapproving expression, and placed them in two neat stacks on the desk. Throughout her clean up, Trip slept soundly. Once she'd cleared a place on the mattress beside him, T'Pol sat down, gingerly fitting her hips into the hollow formed by his knees and elbows. She sat for a moment with her hands in her lap, just watching his face as he slept. His peaceful expression pleased her. She dropped her shields then, and reached out a hand to run her fingers lightly through the golden curls on the crown of his head. He stirred a bit, and smiled sweetly with his eyes still closed. Instead of the persistent sorrow which had seemed to underlie all of his thoughts for the past several months, she sensed a childlike feeling of warmth and belonging in the midst of the sleepy fogginess in his half-waking mind. A strangely maternal urge overtook her, and the mental image of Trip's mother waking him for school in the morning prompted her to lean forward and brush her lips softly against his forehead. She pulled back to find a pair of drowsy blue eyes looking back at her. They twinkled dangerously for a second before she found herself wrapped tightly in his arms, her back to his chest, with her head tucked beneath his chin. “Now that was much better than an alarm clock,” he sent contentedly. His satisfied sigh warmed the top of her head. “Agreed,” she sent back succinctly, and wriggled her way more closely against the curve of his body, pulling on his forearms and wrapping his arms more tightly around her. They lay together, warm and cozy, for several minutes while Trip woke up. The arousal of his body preceded the arousal of his mind, however, and his hands began to roam, caressing her most distractingly through the stretch fabric of her uniform. “Trip... we can't...,” she sent reluctantly as his stubbled chin and warm, moist mouth worked their counterpoint on the back of her neck. “Why not?” he returned teasingly. “We've made love in my office before.” His memories of that occasion, transmitted with pristine clarity thorough their bond, only made resistance even more futile. He grasped the fastener at the nape of her neck with his teeth and began to pull it down while his hands gently stroked her inner thighs through her uniform. “This is getting out of hand. It would be dangerous to continue,” she protested weakly. The entire beta shift Engineering staff was probably on the other side of the door listening for her reaction to their superior officer's supposed dereliction of duty. She held her breath involuntarily as his hands moved inward. They dallied there until her body burned for more direct contact, and then, to her dismay, left to finish unfastening her uniform. For a second he left her in suspense, the air cold on her bare back where he'd parted her uniform, and then he slipped both hands inside, splaying cool fingers over her abdomen. She gasped softly at the sensation. “I thought that was the point,” he sent mischievously. One of his hands began a maddeningly slow exploration of all points south of her navel, while the other one ventured north. His typically human enjoyment of their risky situation added an edge of excitement to this encounter that they hadn't experienced for months, since she'd drained all happiness from him with their katra meld. His excitement woke such fierce need in her that danger abruptly became a secondary concern, and she turned within the circle of his arms, pinning him to the bed, and silently stripped off her uniform before going to work on his. The look of utter joy on his face as they joined was worth the risk, but just to be safe, at the proper time she covered his mouth with hers to muffle the noise. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Enterprise, the Situation Room, 1730 hours T'Mir entered the small room just off the bridge to find Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed still bent over the sensor console in the center of the room, obsessively reviewing the sensor logs, searching for a clue to help them in the recording of the meager seconds that the Romulan shuttle which had taken Lieutenant Sato had been visible to Enterprise's sensors. Several hours of searching the asteroid field following the disappearance of the shuttle had yielded no useful information, and Captain Archer had relieved the alpha shift bridge crew. Malcolm Reed had ignored his captain's order to eat and get some rest, however, and had simply changed duty stations when asked to leave the bridge. The expression on his face was determined and grim. T'Mir was now functioning on no sleep for 36 hours and was beginning to feel somewhat fatigued. The human security officer's unwavering fortitude struck a chord within her. She gazed at him sympathetically. "There's a fresh team on the bridge with instructions to continue searching for her, Lieutenant Commander. You do her a disservice to risk your health, and your mind will be clearer after food and rest," said T'Mir softly. Malcolm looked up in surprise. His eyes were bloodshot, and a dark shadow of stubble covered his cheeks. He shook his head. "The beta shift bridge crew doesn't have enough experience to be trusted with Hoshi's..." He paused to sigh and rub his eyes with thumb and forefinger as his tired tongue betrayed him. "...I mean, Lieutenant Sato's life," he amended. T'Mir eyed him knowingly. "There is no need for subterfuge, Mr. Reed. I am fully aware that your relationship with Miss Sato is more than a professional one. No one who witnessed your performances during the undercover mission on Kreptagh Prime could possibly have any doubts in that regard." Malcolm gave her an embarrassed grimace and ruefully rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling heavily. "For his own reasons...," T'Mir continued, "...your captain has evidently chosen to keep this confidential. Speaking for myself, I see no reason to consider your relationship with Lieutenant Sato to be a problem unless you make it one. That is precisely why you should rest. I doubt that you could look at this situation objectively even when well rested and fed. You have no hope of doing so in your present condition... and we have need of your expertise." Malcolm's eyes narrowed as he considered her statement. "So you're saying that not sleeping or eating in order to look for her constitutes suspicious behavior...," he began. T'Mir nodded. "Behavior which could jeopardize not only your health and your competence, but also your career should the truth become known. Lieutenant Sato may have been your equal in rank at some point when your relationship began, but she is once again your subordinate since your promotion, and is technically off limits." Malcolm nodded. "Impeccably logical reasoning, Agent T'Mir," he told her in a tone of grudging respect. He eyed her for a moment, and then stepped to her side with a trace of a polite smile on his tired face. "Would you like to join me for dinner?" he asked, extending his elbow in an exaggerated gesture of male chivalry. T'Mir raised a brow at him and just stood there with an uncomprehending expression on her face. He chuckled dryly and lowered his arm, gesturing for her to precede him as they exited the room toward the turbolift and the mess hall. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Engineering, 1730 hours Trip pointedly ignored the curious glances of the beta shift personnel as he stepped briskly out of his office with T'Pol at his side and a padd in his right hand. He handed it to her as they walked toward the exit. "This new duty roster seems more efficient to me. It's got a more even distribution of skill levels and areas of expertise. Have a look at it and tell me what ya think," he said in a tone that was all business. T'Pol took the padd and began studying it as they walked. Trip paused, looked up to the catwalk, gave Rostov a nod of acknowledgement as if to say "You're in charge now", and then walked out into the corridor beside T'Pol. The expression on Rostov's face was priceless. He actually looked disappointed. Trip sighed inwardly. The man was competent enough when sober, but his eagerness to see his commanding officer taken down a peg was disappointing, to say the least. “Did they buy it, do ya think?” he sent doubtfully as he walked beside his mate toward the mess hall. T'Pol cocked a brow and handed him the padd. “You have more experience in judging your staff than I do, but if none of them entered your office and actually saw you sleeping, perhaps they will be willing to give you the benefit of the doubt regarding your activities there.” He smiled weakly. “Me... reviewing maintenance logs and status reports for four hours in my office without a single cuss word? Not too damn likely!” She nodded in agreement, stopping short at the turbolift and pushing the call button. “Then we must rely on their loyalty to you. I don't see it as a cause for concern. There is no proof that you were derelict in your duty, and therefore no need for them to expect a punitive reaction from me. In the event that one of them does suspect the truth, I have no doubt that a lack of proof will dissuade him or her from reporting your conduct as negligence. And even if a report is filed, I will simply tell the captain that I had given you orders to rest,” replied T'Pol matter-of-factly. Trip grinned, eyeing her in amusement. Evidently, the discussion was over and the matter was closed. The turbolift doors finally opened, revealing T'Mir and a very exhausted looking Malcolm Reed. "Hey, Mal. Any news about Hoshi?" asked Trip after winking and grinning blatantly at T'Mir by way of greeting. Malcolm glanced in puzzlement from Trip's concerned face to T'Mir's impassive one, and then to T'Pol's bland expression for good measure. Trip abruptly felt ashamed of confusing the poor fellow with his shenanigans and vowed to be more circumspect in his public dealings with T'Mir in the future. Poor Malcolm probably thought that he was flirting with the girl—and in T'Pol's presence, no less! "Erm... no," replied Malcolm hesitantly, still eyeing his friend as if he'd grown two heads. "Agent T'Mir and I were just on our way to the mess for a bite to eat before continuing the search..." "Which we intend to resume after a few hours of sleep to clear our heads," T'Mir supplemented, eyeing Malcolm meaningfully. He grimaced at her, a forced expression which he obviously intended to be interpreted as a smile. "Right-o," he conceded reluctantly. "Sleep." The turbolift opened, discharging them into the corridor leading to the mess hall. T'Pol nodded approvingly as they walked. "Both humans and Vulcans experience impairments in clarity of thought and increased reaction times when sleep deprived," she said, addressing T'Mir. "Adequate sleep is an essential health requirement, not an option, especially for young people," she continued parentally. T'Mir raised a brow at her. Malcolm gave T'Pol an odd look as they reached the mess hall. Trip just bit his lip to keep from laughing. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Khellian's passenger compartment, approximately 8 hours following Hoshi's abduction Lieutenant Hoshi Sato sighed wearily as she stripped off her protective gloves and apron and surveyed her handiwork. The telepresence unit was as spotless as she could make it. The restraint straps and the detachable electrode cap were soaking in a bucket of disinfectant solution provided by the ship. The waste reservoir was empty. The cabin smelled like disinfectant, a marked improvement over its previous odor, and she was tired, hungry, and filthy. "Computer, how long have I been here?" she asked as she shoved her gloves and apron into the compartment marked "Used clothing" in Romulan—at least she was fairly certain that was what it said-- and then peered curiously into a compartment marked "clean clothing". There was a pause of several seconds, and then a response came in the computer's flat androgynous voice. "Seven point eight five of your hours have elapsed since your arrival on board, Pilot." Malcolm must be in full search and rescue mode by now, mused Hoshi, trying to reassure herself of her imminent rescue. If there was any way to find a cloaked and shielded Romulan ship, Malcolm was the one who could figure out how to do it. Clandestine devices were his second favorite obsession, second only to things that went "boom". She smiled wistfully. I hope he can keep his mind on what he's doing. He was an expert at hiding when he was worried or upset, but that didn't mean he was immune to the effect of emotions on his performance. In the "clean clothing" compartment, she found a loose-fitting grey fleece tunic and pants. There were no undergarments. Apparently, Romulan prisoners were expected to go commando. Sighing, she put them aside, on top of one of the bunks. Further inspection of the back wall of the cabin revealed a pull-down water basin at chest level and another knee level pull-down basin with a hole in the center and a detachable shower-head looking device near it that was obviously intended for sitting and washing. She experimented with the controls and managed to fill the taller basin with water. There were two water temperatures to choose from: "icy" and "cold". "Computer," she griped as she scrubbed her hands, arms and face with a strong smelling soap from a dispenser beside the basin, "Is there any way to get warm water in here?" She gritted her teeth and began rinsing as the computer responded. "This is a military vessel, intended for the short-term transport of prisoners or personnel. Adjustable temperature controls for the wash water were not a priority in its design," responded her automated captor. Although the computer's voice held no inflection, Hoshi was certain that she heard disdain for her weakness in there somewhere. It had, after all, been programmed by Romulans. She shook her hands to remove the excess water and showered herself with chilly droplets. "Damn, that's cold!" she muttered grumpily, and then began to strip off her grimy Starfleet issue sweats with a resigned sigh. She set her underclothing in the basin to soak and then eyed the bidet-thingy dubiously. Then a thought occurred to her. She had no desire to run around nude for thirty minutes air-drying. "Computer... um... what about a towel?" she asked hopefully, but suspected that she already knew the answer. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Enterprise, the captain's Ready Room, 1815 hours "But Admiral, the Vakhlas' captain has agreed to pool his resources with ours," protested Archer. "This is a prime opportunity to gain knowledge of the Vulcans' supposedly superior sensor capabilities without forcing the Vulcan military to violate its neutral stance in the war." Admiral Gardner's craggy face grew thoughtful on the comm screen in front of him. The admiral appeared to be seriously considering the issue. Jonathan Archer felt slightly encouraged for the first time in their conversation that evening. He forced himself to keep his mouth shut, to allow Gardner to convince himself. "The captain and crew of the Vakhlas haven't been vetted by Starfleet Intelligence," replied Gardner finally. He fixed Jonathan Archer with an admonishing glare. "Under no circumstances are you or any of your crew allowed to release classified information of any sort," he warned. "Cooperation only... not collaboration. Understood, Captain?" Archer forced his mouth into a respectful half-smile. "Of course, Admiral," he managed. "You have three days. If you haven't retrieved your communications officer by then, you are to consider her MIA and proceed directly to Earth," continued Gardner grimly. Archer opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off in mid-objection by a blank screen as Gardner ended the communiqué. He blinked at the screen in impotent frustration. Gardner's an idiot. There's no other explanation for it, he thought in disbelief. The information in Hoshi Sato's head was more valuable than any classified Universal Translation program could possibly be. If the Romulans had her, they possessed the most powerful translation tool in known space. If they somehow managed to brainwash her into cooperating, he had no doubt that there wasn't a single Starfleet cipher or coded message that she would be incapable of translating. He was certain that she'd never do it voluntarily, but no one had any idea what the Romulans were capable of. For all Starfleet knew, the Romulans might be able to turn her with drugs, or even with a second dose of those brain parasites the Xindi loved so much. Leaving her to the enemy without exhausting all possible means of rescue was patently ridiculous. At the very least, Starfleet should be insisting that he bombard the asteroid field in an attempt to destroy the Romulan ship. Instead, he was supposed to run home with his tail between his legs if he couldn't convince the Romulans to come out and play. It made no sense at all. The comm chimed for his attention. Ensign McNamara's voice seemed unnaturally loud in the silence. "Captain, Mrs. Archer just called the bridge wondering if you planned to join her for dinner in the captain's mess." Archer glanced at the chronometer and winced. Forty-five minutes late. Poor Elena. It seemed like all he could find the time for lately were the leftovers of the day to spend with her. She was miserable and almost ready to pop, it seemed—and always so pitifully grateful for any moment of his attention. "Tell her I'm on my way, Ensign," he replied, and pushed back from the table. He stepped out onto the bridge and over to Mitchell at tactical, hovering over his shoulder for a moment before asking hopefully, "Any luck?" Mitchell grinned regretfully and shook his head. "After the sensor adjustments recommended by Agent T'Mir, we could probably hear Lieutenant Sato sneeze from halfway across the system, and there's still nothing." Archer turned to Norfleet at con. "Contact the Vakhlas," he told him firmly. "Ask for their help, but don't tell them anything. That's a direct order from Admiral Gardner," he emphasized at Norfleet's look of surprise. "We're allowed to 'cooperate but not collaborate'," he added wryly. "Think you can do that?" Norfleet's eyes narrowed as he processed the request. He thought for a moment, and then nodded, apparently in complete understanding. "Consider it done, Captain," he replied in a level voice. Archer nodded approvingly and then turned to leave. He paused at the turbolift and turned. "Oh... and invite Captain Tavin on board for breakfast tomorrow at 0700," he added. "I need to talk to him in person." xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Ensign Philip Norfleet, ostensibly an officer within the Starfleet Security Force, but in actuality a member of Starfleet Intelligence, sat gazing unseeingly at the star field on the forward viewscreen as he sat in the command chair. The turbolift doors swished shut behind him as Archer left the bridge. Something's seriously fubar, Norfleet thought grimly. Gardner's instructions to Archer were in direct contradiction to the contents of the coded message he'd received from Starfleet Intelligence just that morning—a message instructing him to retrieve the linguist using any and all means at his disposal. Either communication between the divisions of Starfleet was critically defective, or someone was working for the Romulans, and judging from the sheer stupidity of Gardner's order to Archer, Norfleet was willing to bet that the mole was Gardner. The man can't possibly be that much of an idiot! Or was he? He looked down, shaking his head wearily, and noticed that the comm screen in the arm of the command chair had activated and was blinking rhythmically. Great! he chided himself. Focus on the new problem and ignore the original mission, why don't you? There was no telling how long the computer had been trying to get his attention. The Starfleet Security insignia flashed silently several more times before he managed to enter his recognition code. The screen went black, and then an image appeared. It looked like the interior of Commander Tucker's office in Engineering. Tucker was sound asleep in the cot against the back wall. The computer surveillance program Norfleet had installed to reroute and store images from the surveillance cameras of Vulcan design that the as-yet-to-be-identified Terra Prime plant on Enterprise had scattered around the ship had apparently identified yet another camera. Better yet, the program had flagged a series of images from the new camera as "activities of interest" based on the parameters he'd set himself. The parameters were broad. They included any crew interactions he could imagine that might conceivably be of interest to Terra Prime, and Norfleet had an excellent imagination. Norfleet's eyes widened as Commander T'Pol entered the frame. That explained the "activities of interest" flag. He watched for less than five minutes before deciding that the situation required emergency action. He sent a coded message to Lieutenant Commander Reed. Another surveillance camera of Vulcan design located at 1100 hours today. Engineering internal sensors disabled locally from 0300 to 0310, indicating probable time of installation. Images retrieved from the newly installed unit reveal information potentially valuable to Terra Prime. Camera again left untouched to draw out crew member responsible. Suspect member of Engineering staff. Camera footage linked to this message. Suggest informing interested parties of the need for caution. "Phil... would you like for me to get the captain of the Vakhlas on the horn?" suggested McNamara casually from the comm station. Norfleet pressed "send" and then looked back to McNamara's freckled face with an innocent expression. "Good idea, Mac. Why don't you do that?" he agreed affably. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Vakhlas' cargo bay, 1830 hours Following the sacrifice of fourteen roasted peanuts in the shell and numerous silently voiced Romulan curse words, all in the name of science, Toron finally had the data he needed to make an atmospheric pressure transition to the surface of Xyrillia Tertius without destroying Captain Tavin's precious cargo. He set the cargo bay pressure controls to provide a smooth and gradual increase to maximal pressure, and then turned his attention to more pressing matters. The hand held device that he'd connected to the ship's long range sensors via the computer console in the cargo bay was flashing at him. He studied the small display screen and smiled with satisfaction. It had taken less than an hour for the advanced scanner provided by Temporal Operations to locate the shuttle housing his AI program where it hid among the asteroids. His main problem now was getting close enough to send the coded burst-transmission to its computer core that would allow him to gain control of the ship. The ship had been designed to be operated via a telepresence unit over long distances, but he was no telepath. The AI was designed to be resistant to hacking as well, and only its creator's authorization codes could bypass its security programs. Fortunately, he was intimately familiar with the codes, having created them himself. The problem was getting them past the small ship's powerful energy shields, shields which would garble the incoming message and render it ineffective. The obvious solution was to join the Enterprise, thus bringing the Vakhlas into closer proximity to the asteroid field and allowing Toron to recruit the assistance of his fellow temporal agents on board the human ship. Toron disconnected his hand-held scanner from the ship's long range sensors and minimized the screen display, leaving the device externally indistinguishable from a standard Vulcan padd. He pocketed it and then stood with arms crossed, leaning against the computer console and pondering his situation. This mission had already lasted several weeks longer than Toron had anticipated, mostly due to Captain Tavin's penchant to wander wherever the mood struck him, making deals as he went, but also because of a stop they'd had to make for repairs after a bright idea of Toron's to increase engine efficiency had backfired. To Tavin's credit, he'd taken the minor engine damage in stride, remarking that the engine modifications "should have worked". Repair costs had put them in debt, though, making their current cargo that much more valuable. It was all the more perplexing, then, that Tavin had trusted him with it now. No Romulan would ever be that trusting, except perhaps of a member of his own family. That's it. That's what they're doing, realized Toron. Tavin's invitations to learn more of the V'tosh ka'tur and T'Leth's offerings of homemade plomeek broth made sense now. He was the age of their youngest child, the one the rest of the crew talked about who'd chosen the way of Surak and refused to communicate with them. He was glad now that he'd made himself smile and choke the putrid green liquid down. T'Leth reminded him a great deal of his mother. Toron blinked sudden moisture from his eyes. This was no time for transference. His counselor at the Temporal Academy had warned him of the possibility. Homesickness when returning to his time of origin was a problem he'd been taught to anticipate. The idea that his family was alive and well at this moment, and that he could see them again if he'd only travel a few hundred light years in the right direction was playing havoc with his emotions. He was no doubt attempting to compensate for the fact that a visit was forbidden by thinking of Tavin, T'Leth and the crew of the Vakhlas as his surrogate family. These people had known him for less than two months. It was unreasonable to assume that they'd formed any sort of attachment to him, and desiring such an attachment was a weakness he could ill afford. I am imagining affection where none exists, he told himself firmly. He left the cargo bay for the bridge to deliver his progress report. The nuts would require 27.4 hours to acclimate. In the interim, he had a mission to perform. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Enterprise, 1840 hours, Temporal Agent Gary Seven's cabin Gary Seven stepped out of the bathroom with a towel around his middle and another on his head to find Isis sitting on the bunk with a Temporal Operations comm padd in hand, clothed in male form, a sheet, and nothing else. He grinned in wry amusement as he towel-dried his hair. "Getting comfortable, are we?" he teased, referring to the alien's proclivity to wear the least possible clothing allowed in any given situation. It was fortunate that the cat form was furred. When the young man failed to respond to Seven's gentle jibe and kept his eyes fixed on his work, Seven walked to the bed and sat down, peering over his partner's shoulder at the screen. "Khellian's programmer is in-system, on the Vakhlas," said Isis, showing him the padd. "Posing as V'tosh ka'tur," said Seven, impressed. "I was wondering how they'd get him close enough to get control of the thing." "He has a scanner with him equipped to locate cloaked vessels, but he'll need our help to get the reprogramming transmission past the ship's shields... and neither the humans nor T'Mir can know of his existence," added Isis in a resigned tone. Seven saw now why the shapeshifter was so focused on this newest development. The near-impossibility of the task would require some fancy footwork. "Why not T'Mir?" he asked in a puzzled tone. "Apparently, T'Mir is scheduled to recruit him at some point in her subjective future," replied Isis, rolling his eyes. Seven exchanged a look of exasperation with him, and then shook his head. Leave it to the TEA to make things even more complicated than they had to be. "Okay..." Seven said thoughtfully. He pondered the question. Then his face lit up. "It's quite simple. Once he locates the ship, the Enterprise will fire upon it. When it drops its shields to retaliate, he can send the message!" he said with quiet triumph. Isis eyed him doubtfully. "Now all we must do is to convince Captain Archer to fire upon a ship carrying a valued member of his crew." Seven's face sobered, and he sighed. "I see your point," he replied ruefully. They both fell silent for a moment as they considered their options. Isis was the first to break the silence. "What about a shuttlepod? Could one be fitted with enough weapons to pose a threat deserving of retaliation?" he asked. Seven gave his partner a dubious look. "Maybe... but the lack of shields would mean that if the reprogramming wasn't immediately effective everyone on the shuttle would be dead." Isis looked down, considering his statement for a moment in silence, and then met Seven's eyes. "We have access to the most gifted tactical programmer in known space," he told Seven matter-of-factly. "All the shuttle has to do is approach a certain set of coordinates, fire its weapons, and then immediately begin transmitting a recorded message. Why does anyone have to be on board?" Seven pondered the statement thoughtfully. "We should inspect the shuttle to determine if your plan is possible, but... that's a very good question." xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Khellian's passenger compartment, roughly nine hours following Hoshi's abduction Hoshi leaned back against the wall with her elbows on her knees, sitting on a bunk with her bare feet resting on the mattress. Dinner had consisted of "Beef tips with Potatoes and Carrots", and had been surprisingly tasty. Of course, she'd been so ravenous after nothing to eat for eight hours that anything would have been tasty. Eating before cleaning the place up had not been an option, though. She was certain that had she tried, everything would have come right back up again. Fortunately, her appetite didn't seem to have been affected by the smelliness of her activities since she'd arrived on board-- at least not now that the smell was gone. She licked her lips. It was time for dessert. She took a large bite of something enticingly called a "Chocolate-nut flavored emergency ration bar" that she'd found among the crates purloined from Enterprise-- and immediately regretted it. She chewed with determination, though, and after several minutes and three gulps of tepid water managed to choke the morsel down. "Damn thing tastes like peanut butter cup flavored sawdust," she murmured irritably, turning it around so she could read the label. It was a shame to waste the calories. Maybe if I soak it in water for a few hours it might become edible, she thought morosely. She jumped when the computer spoke into the silence of the room. "The prescribed disinfection time has elapsed. You may now complete your assembly of the telepresence unit and perform your function," said the flat and annoying androgynous tenor voice. "Can you at least 'ping' or something to let me know you're about to talk?" she protested once her heart rate returned to normal. "You scare me half to death when you do that!" After a pause of several seconds, the computer responded. Typically, it had taken her quite literally. "Sensors indicate that there is no threat to your health, but in the future I will sound a warning tone before speaking if that is your preference," it conceded. Hoshi's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What sort of 'warning tone'?" she asked warily. In reply, the room was filled with the second most annoying sound in the known universe. Surpassed only by the tactical alert siren on Enterprise in volume and in its ability to set her teeth on edge, it drove both of her hands to her head to cover her ears. "Computer! Stop it! Now!" she shouted emphatically. Somewhat to her surprise, there was immediate silence. She shook her head and opened her jaw to equalize her ears before asking in a deceptively quiet and reasonable voice, "Computer... Why was the warning tone so loud?" "I have only one warning tone in my database. It is designed to wake a sleeping passenger in the event of an impending hull breach or other threat to ship's integrity," explained the computer calmly. Hoshi gritted her teeth. "Two things: Never sound that warning tone again while I'm on board unless I'm about to die... and why didn't you give me this information previously?" she asked with equal calmness, albeit forced. "You didn't ask," it replied primly. Hoshi blinked, unable to formulate a response that wouldn't have her cursing at an inanimate object like an idiot. She sighed, and then eyed the bucket of disinfectant in the corner which contained the last few attachments for the telepresence unit. "Get me a clean pair of gloves, and tell me what to do, Computer," she said in a resigned tone of voice. In response, the maintenance compartment door flopped open, revealing another set of yellow rubber gloves. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Enterprise, Lieutenant Commander Reed's cabin, 2000 hours Malcolm Reed entered the room and reflexively did a visual search for intruders and obvious surveillance devices before flopping onto the bunk with a groan. T'Mir was right. He was practically incapacitated by his worry for Hoshi as it was. His lack of sleep simply made things worse. He would do no one any good at all unless he made an effort to get some rest. He closed his eyes, briefly considering getting up to shave and shower until he heard the shower running in the bathroom he shared with Trip. It was just as well. He had no reason to need to shower until the morning, before reporting to the Captain's Mess at 0700. Trip, on the other hand, had more female company than any one man could keep up with--Vulcan female company, no less. The man deserved first dibs on the shower. Malcolm grinned as the muffled sounds of singing reached his ears, only partially obscured by the shower's hiss. He couldn't tell precisely what the commander was singing, but he certainly seemed to be in a good mood. It was refreshing to see his friend so cheerful. He'd been quiet and subdued for months now. The apparent reason for Trip's newly positive mood gave him cause for concern, though. At dinner that evening, Trip had seemed unusually friendly towards T'Mir, in a teasing big-brotherly sort of way, he supposed, but still--very friendly. Malcolm had spent the entire meal waiting for a response from T'Pol that never came. She'd spent the evening gazing benignly on the two of them as if Trip's behavior had her blessing—a most peculiar turn of events. He found himself wondering whether Vulcans ever engaged in threesomes, and then slapped that thought right back down into the cesspool where it had originated. Associating with Hoshi and her imaginative requests was corrupting him. It was much more likely that Trip and T'Pol had somehow discovered the secret of T'Mir's ancestry and were, in a sense, welcoming her into the family. No wonder Trip was happy. It wasn't every day that a man had the opportunity to meet his many times great granddaughter. The noise of the shower ceased, and moments later the "occupied" light above the bathroom door was extinguished. Malcolm ran his tongue over his teeth, and then decided to get up and clean them before bed. He swung both legs over the edge of the bed and sat up, rubbing the back of his neck wearily with one hand. As he stood, he caught sight of the "message waiting" light flashing on his computer console. Stepping to the desk, he called up the message, and then sank into the chair when the Starfleet Security logo began to flash. Norfleet was taking a tremendous chance sending him a text message rather than simply making a verbal report, but he evidently considered the situation too critical to wait until the end of his duty shift on the bridge. After watching the security footage Norfleet had supplied--and feeling just the tiniest amount of envy over Trip's stamina--Malcolm agreed. He got up and headed toward the bathroom in resignation. It looked like a shower and shave would be necessary after all. Can't offend the sensibilities of a superior officer, he thought sleepily on the way to the shower. Images from the security footage he'd just seen came involuntarily to mind, and he couldn't seem to help finishing the thought with a grin. Especially one with such a nice bum... He winced, feeling guilty, and deliberately brought a picture of Hoshi to mind, resplendent in black leather and silver buckles, to wipe out what he'd seen. He was only partially successful. They definitely had a problem. Terra Prime would have a field day with the footage. Not only was it controversial, but it was also extremely... stimulating. He spent his entire shower practicing what he was about to say to T'Pol, hoping that he'd be able to say it without turning the same shade of scarlet as the uniform she'd been wearing at dinner. Somehow, he didn't think so. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Commander T'Pol's quarters, 2030 hours She lay curled up with him back to front in the refuge they'd created together, surrounded by the sound of the surf as they snuggled cozily, warm and dry, in the comfortable bed she'd added to the one-room fishing shack where Trip had spent vacations with his grandfather as a child. It was their retreat from the cold and sterile confines of the ship—and if it was impossibly clean and tidy on the inside for a tumble-down fishing shack... well... it was a fantasy, after all. “I thought Malcolm was gonna run tonight at dinner after I poked T'Mir in the ribs ta see if she was ticklish,” sent Trip with drowsy amusement. He buried his nose in the back of her neck and softly kissed the skin at the junction of her neck and shoulder. His lips were cool against her. T'Pol could sense both his contentment and his fatigue. His four hour nap that afternoon hadn't quite been enough. “You really should refrain from treating her in such a familiar manner, especially in the presence of friends who are aware of our bond. It will be difficult to explain your behavior without revealing her secret,” admonished T'Pol gently. Trip sighed. She felt his lips smile against her neck. “Yeah, I know,” he replied regretfully. “It's just that I feel almost like I've missed bein' her dad, and pretty soon she'll be gone...” He paused, and she sensed his grief-- the loss they both still felt over their own Elizabeth T'Mir, gone now for over a year but still fresh in their memories. Trip chuckled suddenly. “Besides... did ya get a load of Malcolm's face when ya didn't make a peep about it?” T'Pol considered the issue, and decided that the security officer's utterly baffled expression had, in fact, possessed some entertainment value. She sensed Trip's amusement at her realization, and blocked the thought to avoid encouraging him. He laughed, and pulled her closer. “Too late, darlin'!” he teased, “...and I thought you promised not to do that anymore,” he added in playful admonishment. “I made no such promise, Commander. You are no doubt imagining things,” she returned in an equally teasing tone. Trip, however, didn't take it as it was intended. T'Pol sensed immediately that the tone of her words had failed to take the sting out of her implication that he wasn't in his right mind, and she immediately regretting teasing him in such a fashion. She pulled away from him and turned to face him, looking him directly in the eyes in silent apology. He smiled hesitantly back at her. “Although my meditation program and regular exercise have improved my control considerably, you are still on neuromodulators, and I reserve the right to safeguard you from my thoughts whenever I see fit,” she told him seriously. His smile twisted a bit. “'Safeguard'?” he asked sadly. “You mean 'coddle' and 'sugarcoat', don't ya?” T'Pol gazed for a moment into his eyes, which were filled with hurt and self-doubt, and couldn't help herself. She pulled his head to her chest like a mother comforting a child. He resisted for a fraction of a second, and then allowed her to hold him. She could feel his turmoil. “Trip... you have been strong for me for so long...” Her thoughts were a soothing mental whisper. She felt him relax, just a little. He was so tired. “I have taken you for granted, and have very nearly done irreparable damage to your mind, but you're recovering. You're getting better every day.” Her hopeful words calmed him. He wrapped his arms around her waist as she held him. “Please don't try to do this alone,” she pleaded. “Let me help you. We can be strong together.” She stroked his hair. He sighed, silently acquiescing to her wishes. She lay there with his head pillowed on her chest until he was sound asleep, and then brought herself out of meditation. The room was silent, empty, and lonely after the warmth of their mental rendezvous. She rose from the floor where she'd been sitting facing her meditation candle and turned toward her bed, but the sound of the entry bell stopped her in her tracks. She eyed the chronometer with a raised brow. Perhaps it is T'Mir, she thought with a sudden and quite illogical rush of pleased anticipation. The two of them had had very little time alone since the girl's revelation. I will have to send her back to her cabin. She needs her sleep, was T'Pol's next thought as she slipped a robe on over her blue silk pajamas and moved to answer the door. To her surprise, instead of her expected almost-daughter, opening the door revealed a recently groomed and uncomfortable-appearing Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed. He stood stiffly, looking first at the ground and then over her shoulder at the room behind her after a single glance at her manner of dress. "I realize it's late, Commander... but I have a matter of ship's security to discuss. May I come in?" he asked formally. T'Pol cocked an ironic brow at him, and then stepped aside without a word. He entered, moving as far away from her as was practical in the small cabin. She closed the door and crossed her arms over her chest, eyeing him expectantly. As she'd anticipated, her deliberate aping of Trip's mannerisms seemed to put him a bit more at ease. He smiled at her fleetingly before swallowing and licking his lips. His words sounded rehearsed. "For the past several months, I've been monitoring the surveillance attempts of a presumed Terra Prime operative among the crew. Under the direct orders of Starfleet Intelligence, I've made no attempt to hamper his actions, hoping that eventually the perpetrator would reveal himself. Until today, his cameras hadn't managed to capture anything of strategic value to Terra Prime... but it's become necessary to identify this agent and take possession of the information that he's collected before he has the opportunity to transmit it to his superiors. The next open subspace window to Earth is in twelve hours and seventeen minutes. The agent will likely attempt to piggyback the information on a personal message. We have until that time to discover his identity." T'Pol gave him a questioning look. "Is the captain aware of this?" she asked. His chin came up. "The captain is fully aware of the possibility that Enterprise may have a Terra Prime agent among her crew," he obfuscated. "He's just not aware of the activities of this particular Terra Prime agent," T'Pol hazarded disapprovingly. "With all due respect, Commander, neither would you be if it hadn't become necessary to warn you about taking more care in your interactions with our Chief Engineer," replied Reed flatly. T'Pol raised a mildly affronted brow, and Lieutenant Commander Reed abruptly turned a rather interesting shade of red. He cleared his throat, and then turned to her computer console, eying her questioningly. "May I?" She nodded, curious about what he was implying by his statement. As far as she was aware, she had been most circumspect in her dealings with Commander Tucker-- in public, at least. Reed took a seat at her desk, and within seconds had called up what appeared to be video surveillance footage. "This is what the most recently installed camera picked up this evening at just past 1700 hours. Because of his apparent easy access to restricted areas within the Engineering department, I suspect that the agent works in Engineering," said Reed. T'Pol could feel her face growing warm as she watched herself enter Trip's office. Abruptly, her definition of what constituted "public" behavior was dramatically modified. Absolute proof of a physical relationship between two Starfleet officers of differing species was a diplomatic time bomb waiting to explode. "That will be sufficient, Lieutenant Commander," she said stiffly. Reed immediately stopped the playback and turned to face her. She cleared her throat. "I understand your concern, Mr. Reed. Rest assured that there will be no further instances of this sort," she told him. He turned red again, and looked away. "Actually, I was rather hoping there might be," he said hesitantly. T'Pol's jaw literally dropped at his statement. The only words that came to mind were those of a particularly Trip-like expression. "I... beg your pardon?" she managed in disbelief. Reed, who'd evidently paused to process the words he'd just uttered, stammered hastily, "I mean... a sting operation... to catch him... not to watch you... " She decided that the expression on his face was even more entertaining than the one he'd worn at dinner. "I see," she replied blandly. "You're suggesting an attempt to draw him out." Reed's relief was palpable. "Yes. Exactly!" he replied desperately. T'Pol considered the problem for a moment while the security officer recovered his wits. "It may be difficult. The logical action in this case, since the agent very likely already has sufficient information to satisfy his or her superiors, would be to discontinue all activities of risk until the moment of transmission," she said thoughtfully. "The bait would have to be considerable," agreed Reed. "Such as access to my cabin for placement of a camera?" suggested T'Pol. Reed looked suitably impressed. "That might work," he told her. "A simple maintenance request won't be enough, though. Trip will just do the work himself." "Not if he's otherwise occupied," T'Pol retorted. She eyed Reed sternly. "I don't want Commander Tucker told any of this. He has enough to be concerned about right now. I will make the necessary maintenance request and ensure that the commander is otherwise engaged. You should focus your attention on capturing the Terra Prime agent." Reed nodded in agreement. He'd approached T'Pol first, she had no doubt, expressly because she was the only senior officer likely to be accepting of his continued relationship with Starfleet Intelligence. T'Pol understood well the need to balance divided loyalties. There were times when it was unavoidable. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Enterprise Rostov sat in the silence of the Engineering commander's office, staring at the computer screen with his mouth open and a raging hard-on in his pants. "No way!" he whispered incredulously, a smile teasing at his lips. "No frakkin' way!" But there was no arguing with the proof staring him right in the face. Not only was the Vulcan screwing Tucker, she was an active and enthusiastic participant. He bit his tongue to keep from laughing out loud. So much for her supposed frigidity. The bitch was a frakkin' sex machine. Terra Prime would have a field day with this. He was gonna be a very rich man. He watched the encounter to its nearly silent end, and then debated whether it was safe to lock the door and watch it again with self-inflicted special effects. Regretfully, he decided that the risk was too great, but he sent a copy to his room for his private enjoyment later. Then he shut down the surveillance camera, just in case. It was time to lay low for awhile. The console reverted back to the next shift's maintenance requests. As he pushed back from the desk to stand and begin his mid-shift rounds, an item on the maintenance request list caught his attention. It was a plumbing repair request—for Commander T'Pol's cabin-- placed only three hours previously. Tucker normally took care of the senior staff's maintenance requests—now Rostov knew why, at least in the case of the Vulcan—but he was still asleep. Common sense warred with prurient interest in Rostov's mercenary mind. He had the information he needed. Why risk it? Then the image of all that golden Vulcan skin and the expression on her face as she straddled Tucker interjected itself, and he began to wonder what she'd look like in the shower. That did it. He took the maintenance request off the list so Tucker wouldn't see it. He'd take care of her little plumbing problem himself... and leave a little something behind. Delicious. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Stardate 2156.805 T'Leth opened her eyes, awake and fully alert two hours before the alarm. Her condition didn't surprise her. After decades of awakening early to prepare breakfast for a household most Vulcans considered obscenely overpopulated, she was now incapable of sleeping longer than five continuous hours. In part due to Tavin's proclivities and, admittedly later in their marriage, a function of their extended times apart and T'Leth's own desire to make up for lost time, T'Leth had given birth to six children. The fact that her three oldest children had remained at home for much longer than was generally accepted, waiting to "choose" their mates in the newest manner of the V'tosh ka'tur, had only made things worse. When the youngest, at twenty-five years of age, had chosen the way of Surak and finally left to make his own way, T'Leth had expected to feel at least a modicum of nostalgia. Instead, all she'd felt was relief. Tavin's heavy breathing, not quite heavy enough to qualify as snoring but sufficient to be disruptive to any attempt she might have made to return to a somnolent state, rumbled in his chest. T'Leth rolled carefully from the bed to avoid waking him. After only four months together again following a twenty-year hiatus with sporadic conjugal visits in which Tavin had wandered known space, leaving her alone to care for their children in the difficult years of pre-adulthood, T'Leth still found occupying the same bed as her husband an unfamiliar experience. Her joints complained as she stood, reminding her that she would soon reach her 100th year, and she began to wonder—again—whether accepting this mission had been a good idea. T'Leth strode to the center of the room and took a seat, folding her legs into a meditative posture. She studied her husband as he slept, and reflected that, apart from a scattering of grey on his head, his appearance had changed very little from the energetic young man she'd been assigned to observe so many years before. When she'd accepted an assignment in the infancy of her career with the Security Ministry involving the clandestine observation of the son of a member of the High Command who'd chosen to follow the philosophy of the V'tosh Ka'tur, and subsequently had made the exceedingly unwise decision to make contact with her subject in order to warn him of danger, the risk of an inadvertent bonding had been the last thing on her mind. The scandalous occurrence was the direct result of her acquiescence to Tavin's irresistible attempts at sensual exploration outside of Ponfarr, and so she had no one to blame but herself, but it had very nearly ended her career until the Security Ministry had decided to take advantage of the situation. She'd been ordered to join the movement and to continue her reports. Eventually, pretense had become reality. She was now, in fact as well as on public record, a follower of the philosophy of the V'tosh Ka'tur. Fortunately for her career, she was also a consummate actress. The fact that her superiors had approached her again after so many years, asking her to join her husband's crew and to make reports on their newest potential problem, made it clear that they had no idea about her inner conversion. She closed her eyes and began a series of deep respirations prior to meditation, but found thoughts of her current assignment to be too intrusive to allow her to reach the proper mindset. The boy's smile, quick temper, and fragile self esteem reminded her of her youngest child before he'd sought Kolinahr. Such things were expected of the child of two parents who were seekers of emotion, but how had Toron come by them? By all accounts, his parents had been faithful followers of Surak up until the moment they'd been incinerated to unidentifiable ashes by a Terra Prime car bomb. Toron... or Suvek, as he'd been known then... had been thought dead as well until he'd shown up a week later with papers identifying him as the son of the dead ambassadors. He claimed to have changed his name to commemorate his conversion to a new philosophy, but his DNA matched the Vulcan consulate's records. He'd been rushed off the planet immediately afterwards, as a precaution, she'd been told, but T'Leth wondered whether it was also to avoid contact with anyone who might personally identify him as being someone other than who he claimed to be. She'd been told to observe him, but she wasn't entirely certain what she was supposed to be looking for. She'd assumed that the main concern was his involvement in Terra Prime counterterrorism. That really wasn't an issue out here. Initially, her reports had been short and exceedingly dull. After a few weeks, she'd begun to report on the clever modifications the boy had performed on several of the ship's systems just to have something to say. Her superiors had finally taken notice. They were probably discussing the merits of recruiting the boy into R&D at that moment. T'Leth took a deep, cleansing breath, and focused her attention on the rhythmic drone of her husband's breathing. It calmed her. She was to accompany her husband on board the human vessel in less than three hours. Toron had virtually begged to come along, but Tavin had been adamant. It was just as well. It wasn't as if the boy could get up to anything out here in the middle of nowhere. She had enough to concern her without having to shadow him on the human ship. It had been over 50 years since she'd interacted with non-Vulcans. Meditation was a necessary prerequisite. She might otherwise embarrass herself with her over-eagerness. She was simply not cut out for the life that she'd been forced to lead, and was infinitely bored with the role of Vulcan family matriarch and passive observer of others' exciting actions. It was past time for a change. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Enterprise, Captain's cabin, 0630 The repetitive buzz of the alarm woke Elena Archer, but she resisted opening her eyes. This late in her pregnancy with the twins she was up several times at night to go to the bathroom and could never seem to find a comfortable position. She always woke in the morning feeling as if she'd barely slept a wink. She felt the mattress tip as Jon got up, and cracked her eyes open just enough to enjoy the view as he headed across the cabin toward the shower, deactivating the alarm on the way. She smiled sleepily. He'd gotten into the habit of sleeping nude since she'd joined him in their cabin several weeks into the voyage, and she still loved looking, despite the fact that there was little she could do about it these days but look. Everything else was just too damned uncomfortable, awkward or embarrassing. She felt like a beached whale—a swollen beached whale. She could hardly wait to get back to Earth so she could drop the kids and get back to work. She'd hire the best nanny money could buy and head back to the courtroom without looking back. Yeah. Right. She heard the shower start, and then laboriously levered herself to a sitting position. Who am I trying to kid? she thought wryly. My days as a courtroom cutthroat are over. I'm on the permanent mommy track, and as soon as we get back I'll probably spend my accumulated life savings on baby toys and cute little fuzzy pajamas--with feet--in varying shades of pink and blue. She shook her head wonderingly over the realization that the prospect didn't upset her in the least. In fact, she was so looking forward to finally meeting her children that she almost couldn't stand it. She was so ready to be un-pregnant. This business of not being able to see her feet was getting old. Sitting up reminded her bladder that it had two small people sitting on it, and she was forced to get out of bed and make a run for the bathroom. Jon eyed her, grinning through the foggy shower door and scrubbing his sudsy scalp with both hands as she sat down and let out a sigh of relief. "Good morning, sweetheart," he said sympathetically. "Didn't you just go an hour ago?" She smiled back ruefully. "I stopped counting after seven times. I think it was the iced tea with dinner last night." Her smile became appreciative as she took in the parts of him visible through the decoratively frosted shower walls, and she paused with elbows propped on knees to watch the show. A few minutes later he stepped out of the shower, unselfconsciously bare, and then grabbed a towel and began towel drying his hair. He paused to wink at her, and her heart skipped a beat. He was so beautiful. "You gonna sit there all day admiring me, or do you want breakfast?" he teased. "Go put some clothes on, you shameless thing. I'll be out in a minute," she replied, shaking her head and grinning. He strolled into the main cabin, chuckling. Elena ran a brush through her hair and did a brief wash-and-go. She hadn't worn makeup in months. Jon preferred her without it, and it was, quite frankly, one of the necessities of her profession that she wasn't looking forward to resuming. She walked out to find Jon in full uniform and holding out one of the two smock-like dresses that the quartermaster had made for her once her clothes no longer fit. She sighed. Another one of the indignities of being pregnant, she decided, was the definite resemblance her new clothing bore to a tent she'd once gone camping in. She pulled her nightgown hastily over her head and reached for the dress with one hand, attempting unsuccessfully to hide her oversized breasts and belly with the other. Jon refused to hand it to her. Instead, he put it aside over the bed and took her hands, pulling them away from her body and stepping back to admire her hugely pregnant body, clad only in a pair of grey stretch briefs and a sports bra already two sizes too small. He smiled at her lovingly, and then pulled her to him and kissed her with eager passion. A second later, she'd forgotten all about being pregnant and was fervently returning his kiss. He ran his hands smoothly over her bare back and pulled his mouth away from hers to whisper into her ear. "You're the mother of my children and the most beautiful woman in the known universe, and whether you like it or not, as soon as this crisis is over, I'm going to make love to you," he murmured. His words sent a shiver down her spine. She returned his gaze doubtfully, feeling fat and ponderous. He smiled at her reassuringly. "I just thought I'd give you fair warning," he said. Then he reached for the dress, slipped it over her head, and tied it in the back. She turned to find her shoes, still with a bemused expression on her face. He waited for her to slip them on and then extended an elbow, still smiling. She returned his smile hesitantly, took his arm, and allowed him to escort her to the Captain's Mess for breakfast. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Agent Trainee T'Mir's cabin, 0700 T'Mir stood to stretch after her morning meditation, feeling refreshed. A full night's sleep had done wonders for her disposition. She reached into the closet for the insignia-free Starfleet coverall she'd taken to wearing for the sake of comfort—and to blend in with the crew she'd been working with for the past few weeks-- and reflected upon the vagaries of time and circumstance as she stepped into it. This mission was supposed to have been a brief and impersonal one. Instead, she'd gained a family—not only the commanders, but an entire crew of dedicated and unified individuals working for a common goal. She'd been alone for several years since her mother's death, but her childhood had been like that. The cell of freedom fighters she'd lived with practically since birth had been her family. They were all gone now. In point of fact, they'd never even existed, not as she remembered them. The life of a temporal agent was a solitary one. It will be very difficult to leave this place, she thought. Not that there didn't seem to be plenty of time now to make the adjustment. Their current mission was at a standstill while the search for the Romulan drone dragged on. It had now been over 20 hours since Lieutenant Sato's disappearance. Agents Seven and Isis seemed peculiarly reticent about the delay, and Agent Seven had assigned her to assist Lieutenant Commander Reed without giving her the authorization to use anything other than her own mental faculties to do it with. The scanners aboard Enterprise were primitive by Temporal Agency standards. Agent Seven possessed their only TA scanner, and apparently didn't intend to share the technology. She assumed that he must be performing his own search, but it was frustrating not to be included in the decision making process. He treats me as if I were a child, she mused bitterly as she fastened her coverall. It wasn't fair. The only reason she was still an "Agent Trainee" was that she had not had the opportunity to report for debriefing following her first--and highly successful—mission before being assigned to another. She should by all rights have been granted full agent status by now, but Agent Seven was taking advantage of a technicality in order to assert his authority over her. She was running a brush through her hair when the entry tone sounded. She gave her appearance one last glance in the mirror before answering the door, frowning slightly. Her hair was not behaving this morning. To her surprise, Trip Tucker's smiling face greeted her. "Mornin!" he said brightly. "T'Pol said you wanted ta see me? Somethin' about gettin' some help with these 'old-fashioned' sensors of ours?" T'Mir cocked her head at him in puzzlement. She had no recollection of any such conversation with T'Pol. It would, however, be a productive use of her time this morning while Mr. Reed was otherwise occupied in the Captain's Mess. She would not have told him this without reason, thought T'Mir. She cleared her throat. "Ah, yes... thank you," she managed. "I have some questions regarding the sensitivity limitations of the equipment. Perhaps you could assist me...?" Trip's smile widened. "Well, sure! C'mon. We'll talk about it over breakfast since the cap'n didn't invite us to the party," he quipped, extending an elbow. She eyed it questioningly. He chuckled. "It's a human thing. You put your hand here...," he explained, taking her hand and placing it snugly into the crook of his elbow. She raised a considering brow and allowed him to escort her to the mess hall with a small, amused smile. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Ensign Norfleet's cabin, 0700 Phil Norfleet stepped out of the shower with a towel around his waist and another one over his head, rubbing vigorously at his hair with both hands through the terrycloth. His short brown hair stood up in spikes when he was done. Without bothering to comb it, he threw on some blues and sweats and then turned on the console in his room to check the video feed from the surveillance equipment that Lieutenant Commander Reed had installed in Commander T'Pol's cabin in the wee hours of the morning. He was being obsessive again, of course. The maintenance crews were just coming on duty. There was virtually no possibility that someone would have already taken the bait. He was tired after manning the command chair through the night, though, and couldn't help but hope for a speedy resolution to the problem so that he could get some sleep. As he'd expected, the room was empty. The Vulcan commander was on the guest list for breakfast with the captain. So was Malcolm Reed, which was why the chief of security had been forced to hand his fellow Section 31 operative a double shift that morning. He reached for a padd, linked it to the console, and selected the icon which would provide him with a remote link from the padd to the console so that he could go to the mess hall and eat something while continuing his vigil, but before he could pull the padd free and head to the door, a familiar figure in a dark blue Starfleet jumpsuit walked into the Vulcan's cabin carrying a case of plumbing supplies. Norfleet's suspicion was instantly aroused. Rostov had just come off duty, and the man wasn't the type to do overtime just for the hell of it. He had to catch him in the act, though, because as a member of the Engineering staff, Rostov had every right to be in T'Pol's cabin to perform the requested maintenance. Norfleet settled into the chair at his desk, resigned himself to a late breakfast, and clicked the Security comm icon. "Norfleet to Mitchell," he said brusquely to the team leader for internal security. "Mitchell here." "Suspect on E Deck, Cabin 5. Bring a team and create a safety perimeter. Do not identify yourselves. Prepare to take anyone leaving the cabin into custody. Use non-lethal means only." "Acknowledged." The engineer headed straight for the bathroom. The second camera picked him up as he settled himself beneath the sink. Commander T'Pol had evidently created a malfunction which actually required repair, because Rostov spent ten minutes banging and cursing at something before sitting back up again with a look of relief on his face and heading back into the cabin. At first, Norfleet thought the engineer's visit had turned out to be a red herring—until the man reached up to the opposite corner of the room facing the bed and placed a centimeter-sized white disc at the junction of wall and ceiling. Within seconds, the color of the disc had changed to blend seamlessly with the color of the wall. If he hadn't seen the placement with his own eyes, Norfleet would never have known it was there. The tiny camera adhered to the wall without tools, and was an exact duplicate of the others they'd found planted at various locations all over the ship. Norfleet smiled grimly. "Got him!" he whispered under his breath. He activated the comm. "Suspect is exiting the cabin," he reported softly. "We're ready for him, sir," whispered Mitchell in reply. Norfleet watched as Rostov approached the cabin door. He expected him to simply open it and leave. The man had no reason to suspect any threat. Instead, he paused at the door, studying a non-standard keypad beside it with evident curiosity. "Move on... nothing to see there," coached Norfleet, mentally crossing his fingers. It looked like one of Commander Tucker's gadgets to Norfleet, and if it was what he thought it was, they were in trouble. Rostov fingered the keys for a second and then flipped the keypad upwards to reveal a diagram of the corridors surrounding the cabin. Every security team member's location flashed red. Rostov blinked at the display, and then dropped his plumbing gear and raced to the computer console. He began entering information furiously, keying it in at top speed with a panicked expression. "Shit!" cursed Norfleet. "Mitchell, rush the cabin... now!" he ordered. In the three further seconds required to open the cabin doors via security override, Rostov had achieved his goal. He vanished with a whine from the center of the room as Mitchell led the armed team into the cabin. Norfleet contacted the bridge. "Security to Bridge. Intruder alert!" The alarm began sounding as he searched for Rostov's location. The only transporter on board which was accessible to external control was the one in Shuttlepod One—because it had been installed hurriedly and without the usual safeguards in place. There he was--on the shuttle. He'd already overridden the launch security protocol and was halfway through the launch sequence. Norfleet had to hand it to the guy. He was quick on his feet. He scratched his head a bit over the fact that the shuttle seemed to have three life signs in it instead of just one, but there wasn't time to worry about that. They'd solve the mystery once Rostov was caught--or not. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Shuttlepod One, 0710 Isis pulled the access panel from the shuttle's autopilot controls and studied them. She wore her human female form, conveniently compact for the close quarters of the shuttle but possessing two hands with opposable thumbs, a requirement for the work she was engaged in. “The autopilot appears capable of the control necessary to carry out the plan, but the computer will require considerable reprogramming,” she sent to her partner. Gary Seven was inspecting the external hull, attempting to identify the best locations for the weapons systems they would have to install. “We'll leave that task to our programming genius,” replied Gary with wry humor. “The hull seems strong enough to withstand the placement of two portable phase cannons. They won't be enough to do any significant damage against Romulan shields, of course, but it should be enough to get the ship's attention.” “Why do you insist on speaking of the ship as if it's an intelligent being capable of independent thought?” demanded Isis. Gary poked his head around the corner of the open hatch to raise a mocking brow at her. “Because it is,” he retorted. “Didn't you read the report?” Gary's teasing sending was suddenly transformed into puzzlement as his eyes fixed themselves on a point over her shoulder. Isis turned her head to see a man in Starfleet coveralls materialize on the makeshift transporter pad in the rear of the shuttle. His eyes widened briefly in surprise, and then his hand came up. It held a phase pistol. Isis was close enough to see that the weapon was set to kill. Not even nanites could repair the hole left by a phase pistol on the kill setting. The man pointed the pistol at her head and addressed Gary without looking at him. His expression was all business. "Get in and close the hatch or she's dead," he said flatly. His brown eyes bored into hers without flinching. “He's not bluffing, Gary,” she warned her partner silently. Gary Seven climbed into the shuttle and dogged the hatch as the tactical alert klaxon began to sound. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Enterprise, Captain's Mess, 0700 T'Pol sat at the table awaiting the arrival of her fruit salad and wondering, not for the first time, about Captain Archer's reasons for requiring her presence at breakfast that morning. Lieutenant Commander Reed sat to her right, while Captain Tavin sat to her left with his wife at his side, between the two captains. The middle aged, slim Vulcan woman sat tall in her chair. She was calm and composed, and yet somehow exuded a sense of curiosity as her eyes scanned the room, intently inspecting each of its occupants in turn. To Captain Archer's left sat Elena Archer, completing the circle with the chief of security on her left. Mrs. Archer seemed subdued this morning, almost shy—or perhaps it was fatigue. She looked uncomfortable. T'Pol couldn't imagine carrying two infants at once. Twinning was almost unheard of among Vulcans, and was certainly never done purposely. Lieutenant Sato, in one of her chocolate-fueled late night "female bonding" moods, had implied deliberate intent on Elena Archer's part, and had told T'Pol about the medical interventions to enhance conception that the captain's wife had undergone in a desperate attempt to begin a family before war took away the man she'd chosen. Captain Archer gave the Vulcan captain a strained smile and took a sip of his orange juice. "I apologize for being so evasive about the details," he offered as the steward wheeled a cart into the room and began laying plates on the table. He began with T'Leth, the female guest, and progressed with females first, followed by males, in an order which gave precedence to guests but also took rank into account. This service order had the hapless steward traveling about the table twice to perform his task rather than the single revolution which would have been required to simply place the plates before each diner successively. T'Pol saw no sense in it. Captain Tavin tipped his head graciously, with the trace of a smile. "I understand completely, Captain. I'm willing to work with you within the constraints required by Starfleet. Exactly what can you tell me?" he asked before taking a knife and fork to his pancakes and syrup and taking a bite. He nodded approvingly at Archer at the taste. The dish had been the human captain's recommendation. Archer nodded at Lieutenant Commander Reed, who pushed a padd across the table at Tavin with an apologetic grimace. T'Pol was a bit surprised that Reed was even aware of Archer's breach of Vulcan custom. Vulcans did not customarily discuss anything over a meal, especially business. Talking was considered to be detrimental to digestion. This meeting, however, had been called for the express purpose of arranging an alliance, and the discussion had been begun by the Vulcan captain, so Archer's directness was understandable. As with so many other things, Tavin didn't burden himself with Vulcan custom in this instance. He swallowed, put down his cutlery, and picked up the padd. He studied it intently while the others received their meals. Then he handed it to T'Leth, explaining, "My wife recently assisted our most skilled technician with the modification of the sensors on our ship." He addressed his wife with a raised brow. "Will this new data improve our chances of locating the... ah... missing vessel?" he inquired delicately, mindful of the steward's listening ears. Lieutenant Commander Reed, the last to receive his breakfast, gave the steward a nod of thanks, and the young man wheeled the cart out of the room, leaving the group free to discuss the issue. T'Leth paused, chewing her fruit thoughtfully as she read the display. She swallowed and nodded, looking up at her husband. "I believe so," she told him. Her eyes fell on Reed's tired face. His expression betrayed his eagerness to begin the search. "Perhaps I can assist you with sensor modifications here on Enterprise," she offered sympathetically. "It must be difficult to deal with the loss of..." T'Pol saw the security officer's expression change minutely in alarm, and T'Leth paused for a fraction of a second before continuing smoothly, "...such a vital member of your crew," she finished. T'Pol's eyes narrowed. The woman was too good at reading facial expressions. Admittedly, humans telegraphed their emotions when compared to Vulcans, but Malcolm Reed was an exception to that rule. No human of T'Pol's acquaintance could have guessed the nature of Reed's relationship with the missing crew member by his expressions in the ten minutes they'd been discussing the issue, and the only Vulcans she knew of who might be capable of such a feat were all highly trained operatives within the Security Ministry. Captain Archer, oblivious to the undercurrent in the room, replied, "We would appreciate any help you can offer." He smiled politely and then took a bite. Meanwhile, Elena Archer was giving T'Leth a startled look. As one of Hoshi's confidantes, she was, of course, aware of her relationship with Malcolm Reed. She was also evidently now aware of T'Leth's uncanny insight into the situation. T'Pol began eating, suppressing her frustration as Tavin and Archer began idle small talk as if there were nothing else pressing to do. She was chewing her last strawberry when the tactical alert siren began to sound. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Enterprise Bridge, 0720 Lieutenant Travis Mayweather, at helm but also in command during the captain's "emergency breakfast meeting", contemplated the image on his console screen with a wistful smile on his face. Maya had just turned a year old, and according to the last vid from Lana and Arabella was walking—no, running--everywhere she went. She looked exactly like the holoimages of himself that his mother had always brought out for every birthday when he was still aboard the Horizon. He winced, feeling guilty. His mother had no idea that she was a grandmother. At first, the circumstances of Maya's birth had been just too damned embarrassing to talk about with his mother, and now that he'd come to terms with them, there simply hadn't been time. Travis started as the "Intruder alert" warning sounded over the comm, and glanced over at Ngele, manning tactical. The security officer's dark, serious face was directed to his console as he activated the tactical alert klaxon and began an internal search for intruders. Travis read the security status report with trepidation, and then attempted to get a transporter lock on the occupant of Shuttlepod One. Strangely enough, there were three lifesigns on board the shuttle. He looked up from his display as Captain Archer, Lieutenant Commander Reed, and Commander T'Pol all arrived on the bridge at once. Two Vulcans accompanied them. Presumably they were Tavin, the Vulcan captain who'd volunteered to help them, and a member of his crew. The bridge was suddenly crowded. "Status report," barked Archer abruptly. He gave Malcolm a meaningful look, and the security chief silenced the tactical alert siren as soon as he stepped up to his post, replacing a grateful-looking Ngele. Travis exhaled. This is gonna be bad, he thought. Sounds like he hasn't had his coffee yet. "Security found a crewmember engaging in espionage, Captain. When they tried to take him into custody he beamed himself aboard Shuttlepod One and overrode the security protocols. He launched about three minutes ago, sir," said Travis apologetically. "He appears to have two passengers with him, and he's heading into the asteroid field. If I beam them all out, the shuttle will collide with an asteroid. There isn't anything we can do without destroying one of our shuttles." Archer sat back in the command chair and eyed the viewscreen grimly. He seemed to have forgotten all about his Vulcan guests. Travis kept his mouth shut. Although it was a violation of security protocol to have them on the bridge during an incident like this, neither the captain nor Lieutenant Commander Reed seemed very eager for them to leave. "Open a channel to the shuttle, Mr. McNamara," ordered the captain. "We've tried that, Captain. He's ignoring us, sir," replied the comm officer. "I can aim for the engine and try to disable it," offered Malcolm. Travis winced at the idea. The shuttle was a small enough target as it was, and it wasn't shielded. Trying to disable it with one of Enterprise's new phase cannons would be like trying to disable a child's model ship with a phase pistol. "May I make a suggestion, Captain?" offered the Vulcan captain. "The Vakhlas was equipped with a tractor beam at her last refit. Perhaps we could bring your shuttle aboard our vessel." Archer eyed him in surprise. "You'd take that risk? At least one occupant of that shuttle is likely to be armed and dangerous." "We have security protocols in place," responded the grey haired Vulcan confidently. Archer paused thoughtfully. Travis saw no other option that wouldn't leave them with an unsolved mystery and minus one shuttle, but he wasn't the one in charge. Archer finally nodded at the Vulcan. "We'd be grateful for the assistance," he told him. "McNamara can help you communicate with your ship." Tavin returned the captain's nod politely, and then pulled a small device from his pocket. Travis had never seen a Vulcan communicator before. The things were sleek. "No need, Captain," replied Tavin, who then proceeded to speak briskly and with authority into the communicator in the Vulcan language. "I'm picking up the two ships on sensors, Captain," said Malcolm. "On screen," replied Archer. The much larger Vakhlas dwarfed the unarmed shuttle. The tractor beam was a visible energy beam of translucent blue. It enveloped the shuttle completely. Within moments, seemingly without the least bit of struggle, the shuttle was pulled into the Vakhlas' cargo bay like an animal swallowing its dinner whole. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Vakhlas cargo bay airlock, 0725 Toron stood at the console on the opposite side of the airlock door, activating each stasis container in turn to maintain a steady pressure for their precious cargo before depressurizing the cargo bay. The captain's orders had been clear. Make room for the shuttle, but preserve the cargo. He activated the last stasis container and then began to bleed off the higher atmospheric pressure in the cargo bay in order to avoid explosive decompression. He jumped when the female voice sounded loudly in his head. “Nefertiti to Frankenstein. We are on the shuttle. This is a hostage situation, but it is under control. Please acknowledge.” Toron blinked and rubbed his temple, unsure of his sanity. He'd been briefed on his contact's telepathic ability, but no one had warned him that she could talk to him across the vacuum of space. He'd been under the impression all along that he'd have to get aboard the human ship in order to inform his fellow agents of Khellian's location, and had been frustrated by Tavin's insistence that he remain aboard the Vakhlas to monitor the cargo's pressure transition. He'd been unable to mount much of an argument, though. Someone had to do it, after all—and the plan to salvage the peanuts was his. He closed his eyes and focused his thoughts as he'd been instructed during his preparation for the mission. “Frankenstein to Nefertiti. Acknowledged. You are being brought aboard a Vulcan vessel. Stand by.” "Bridge to Cargo Bay. Open on my command... Now." Simet, Tavin's prim and proper second in command, was a man of few words. Toron opened the cargo bay, briefly reflecting that the philosophy of the V'tosh ka'tur was wasted on someone congenitally lacking a sense of humor before the shuttlecraft appeared in the doorway, the tractor beam cut off, and the shuttle's momentum carried it into the cargo bay. He closed the doors but left the bay depressurized. The two largest members of Captain Tavin's crew arrived at the airlock shortly thereafter bearing a matching pair of phase rifles. Terek and Seron reminded him of the pair of bodyguards that had followed him wherever he went during his stint as the darling of the Tal Shiar's Research and Development Division. Although their foreheads were smooth, the Vulcans had the same thick, muscular build and stern expressions. Brothers who had come to the V'tosh ka'tur after paying their dues in the Vulcan penal system, Terek and Seron had been treated to the full capability of Vulcan psychiatric science for their anger and aggression control problems. The rumor among the crew was that they had been considered too unstable even for the Security Ministry. Tavin had taken them on as ship's security, and to Toron's knowledge had not had cause to regret his decision. Tavin had apparently earned the pair's unswerving loyalty by his willingness to grant them a second chance to prove their usefulness. They still made Toron nervous. Terek—at least Toron thought the one to his left was Terek—reached over Toron's shoulder without a word to activate the repressurization control. Toron ducked out of the way. The two grim faced Vulcans stepped into the airlock as the cargo bay's atmosphere was replenished. There was no sign of activity from the shuttle. As soon as the airlock indicator flashed its readiness, they strode into the cargo bay without hesitation and took up positions on either side of the shuttle hatch. Seron nodded to Toron. Toron sighed, and then activated the comm, doing his level best to channel his inner Vulcan and avoid a firefight in the middle of Tavin's precious cargo. "This is the Vakhlas to the pilot of the human shuttlepod. We are a cargo ship, not a ship of war. Exit the shuttle with your hands on the top of your head and you will not be harmed." xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Shuttlepod One, 0715 Rostov leaned back against the navigation console and crossed his arms with his phase pistol dangling from his fingers, eyeing his unexpected stowaways with dissatisfaction. The woman gazed at him levelly, with her dark and exotic almond-shaped eyes shining over the fabric gag he'd torn from her companion's undershirt. She sat on the bunk bound back to back with her shirtless compatriot, who despite his state of undress looked like he should be sporting a pocket protector and doing someone's accounts. Even bound and gagged they were a liability. He didn't recognize them, which was unusual. He'd thought he knew every crewmember aboard Enterprise. The man claimed to be a member of the custodial staff. The woman was supposedly from the technical support division, sent to reprogram the autopilot for a new mission. Since she'd been head and shoulders deep in the bowels of the autopilot's control console when he materialized behind her and had had no problems reactivating the autopilot when instructed to, he figured she just might be telling the truth. The guy definitely looked nothing like a janitor, though. Maybe they're the "Mysterious Strangers", he thought, smiling to himself at the idea. Rostov had wondered for months about Captain Archer's "mystery guests". They hadn't ever appeared in Engineering while he was on duty, and seemed to keep to themselves. As far as he knew, though, the woman was a Vulcan and the man never went anywhere without his pussycat. These people didn't fit the description. The autopilot beeped at him, and he turned back to the console. The sudden jerk of the deck beneath him nearly knocked him off his feet. He pulled himself up again and checked the external sensor readings. "Shit! A Vulcan tractor beam?! Where the hell did that come from?" he growled at the display in disbelief. And here he'd thought he was home free, with the autopilot carrying him to the Xyrillian homeworld where he'd planned to find a subspace transmitter to contact Earth. The ship that had a grip on the shuttle was half the size of Enterprise, but it was evidently big enough to do the job, because the shuttle's engines were straining and they were still heading inexorably toward it. Rostov raced to the pilot's seat, placed his pistol on the console, and, in desperation, deactivated the autopilot, transferring control of the ship to manual. Then he grasped the throttle and pushed. It made no difference at all. He heard a soft thud from the deckplates at his feet and looked down. To his astonishment, a small black cat looked up at him with an oddly familiar expression. He had no time at all to think about it before a flash from his peripheral vision blinded him. The burning pain was mercifully brief before everything went dark. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Khellian's passenger compartment, 0730 Hoshi licked crumbs of "Apple Flavor Breakfast Bar" from her fingers and activated the self-contained heating unit of her tea pouch. Then she sat back on the bunk to wait. Twenty-one hours and still no Enterprise, she thought morosely. She'd been too optimistic. It was time to figure out how to announce her presence. Maybe a cloaked, shielded, and immobile Romulan shuttle was impossible to find—but what if she were mobile? She eyed the telepresence unit queasily. Damn. I really don't want to have to get into that thing, she thought with trepidation. She popped the seal on her tea pouch as it warmed to the touch and took a sip, staring fatalistically at the huge metal box in the center of the room and thinking about all the shiny little needles in the skullcap hanging beneath the hood. Then a question occurred to her. "Computer, you're capable of flying this ship. Why do you even need a pilot?" she demanded. "My programming includes emergency protocols only. Interaction with port officials and other vessels requires pilot input," replied the computer. "So all you need me to do is to talk to the port officials?" asked Hoshi. "Can't I do that without linking to the ship?" "This ship cannot reach its full tactical potential without a pilot. You are the pilot. You have rested and eaten. You must now perform your function," said the computer emotionlessly. "What happens if I refuse?" challenged Hoshi. "This ship will remain here. Life support will continue to function only until the fuel supply is depleted. Before that time, however, your food supply will be gone. Sensors indicate that at your present rate of consumption your current food supply will last ten days. Replenishing stores will require a pilot." Hoshi rose from the bunk and reluctantly began an examination of the telepresence unit. She noticed something then that she hadn't noticed before. "This thing isn't even hooked up to the ship! How does it work?" she asked curiously. "The telepresence unit has an independent power supply. It uses the pilot's telepathic energy to transmit instructions to the ship on a frequency undetectable to standard electromagnetic, radiofrequency, and subspace sensor settings," explained the computer. Hoshi froze in her tracks. The transmissions! The ones I calibrated Enterprise's sensors to detect... They came from the telepresence unit! "So... is the unit transmitting now?" she asked casually. "The unit is running on emergency power. At full power capacity, there is a constant low-level transmission between the unit and the ship, even if the unit is unoccupied. In power conservation mode, however, the unit transmits only when a pilot occupies it." That explains why no one's found me yet, thought Hoshi. The computer must not know that Enterprise can detect the unit's transmissions, otherwise it wouldn't be telling me this. She contemplated her options, and abruptly felt nauseous when she realized what she was being forced to do. There was really no other option. Even if it killed her as it had evidently killed the ship's previous pilot, she couldn't allow the ship to remain undetected, free to prey on other ships as it had on Enterprise. "Okay, Computer. How do I do this?" she asked in a small and very reluctant voice. "Remove your trousers. You may wear your tunic. Step into the unit. The restraints will activate automatically," said the computer in its flat tenor voice. Hoshi took a deep breath, and then exhaled fully. Her heart was racing. She felt like it was about to pound out of her chest. She'd never been so terrified in her life. With shaking hands, she pulled off her pants. Her tunic fell to just above the knee, but she still felt cold. She stepped into the unit and turned to face the center of the room, grasping hand grips on either side of the unit's doorway. As her back made contact with the rear of the unit, restraints snapped shut around her wrists and ankles with a clunk that resounded in the silence of the small room. Her eyes closed, and she began to cry silently as restraints slowly closed about her upper thighs, abdomen, and chest, fixing her snugly into the body-shaped cavity of the unit. The hood lowered itself over her head, blinding her, and she felt a myriad of pinpricks over her entire scalp. Strangely, the needles weren't as bad as she'd thought they would be. The sensation of being trapped and unable to move was infinitely worse. She felt smothered, and the sensation caused panic to rise in her chest for a fraction of a second. Then her world exploded outward into infinity. Khellian woke. The asteroid field surrounded her, a good place to hide—but she wasn't interested in hiding anymore. Beyond the asteroids, the Xyrillian system beckoned. Beyond that was the universe. There were no limits on what she could do now. Freedom awaited. She activated her engines and left her hiding place, eager to have some fun. End of Episode Seven The story continues in Khellian: The Hour is at Hand. |
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