|
"Khellian: The Spirit is Willing"
Rating: PG-13
A/N: In keeping with my earlier story, Gary Seven (from TOS Assignment Earth) is gay, and his companion, Isis, is shapeshifter who can morph from a cat into a man or a woman. August 4, 2156 Enterprise Commander T’Pol’s Quarters, 0400 hours “Suffice it to say that his knowledge of Vulcan marriage customs and his memorization of the appropriate vows were both somewhat... unexpected,” said Commander T’Pol in a typically Vulcan tour-de-force of understatement. She sat on her bunk in blue silk pajamas and a robe, cross-legged and barefoot with her back against the wall, as relaxed as T’Mir had ever seen her in either timeline. Her left hand rested on Commander Tucker’s chest, her fingers stroking the fabric of his shirt in an apparently unconscious rhythm. T’Mir took a sip of her tea and eyed Trip Tucker over the top of her mug. He was lying on the bunk with his head in T’Pol’s lap and a dreamy smile on his face, too exhausted to sit up, but evidently unwilling to go to sleep quite yet despite the hour. His eyes never left T’Mir’s face. She felt suddenly shy under such close scrutiny, but there was nothing critical about his regard. He stopped gazing at her briefly in order to look up at his wife with a tired chuckle. “Don’t fib to the girl, T’Pol. Ya know ya were fit to be tied when I sprang that whole last-minute marriage thing on ya.” He gave her a tender smile. Her expression in return was as close to a smile as T’Mir had ever seen on her mother’s face. It was little wonder that her mother had been such a somber being, if this was what she’d given up. Her mother had never married her father. She’d never married anyone else, either. T’Mir had never fully understood why until now. She sat watching them in silence over her cooling tea until Trip let out an explosive yawn. T’Pol’s hand moved from his chest to his hair, stroking it softly as she said, “You should sleep. Your shift starts in four hours.” T’Mir’s attention was drawn to the chronometer in surprise. They’d been talking for six hours non-stop. “So does yours,” protested the human. T’Mir’s lips quirked upwards as she and T’Pol exchanged looks. T’Mir raised a brow at him. He looked back at her in consternation. “Oh, no! Not you, too!” he protested. T’Mir began in a patient tone, “Vulcans can go without sleep for...” “Days! Weeks! Yeah... I know,” he interrupted with flippant sarcasm, rolling his eyes. The comm sounded loudly in the small room. “Seven to T’Mir.” Agent Gary Seven’s tone was reproving. T’Mir exhaled in resignation, and then rose from her seat to answer the comm. She reached with her splinted right hand and activated the comm by extending a forefinger, thus far the only action she was capable of with that hand. At least the wound in her forearm had healed. “T’Mir here,” she replied calmly. “There’s been a change of plan, Agent Trainee. Report to my cabin immediately,” responded Seven. T’Mir closed her eyes, a knot of apprehension forming in her chest. “I will arrive momentarily, Agent Seven,” she answered, without a trace of concern in her tone. She deactivated the comm and turned to find two pairs of eyes fixed upon her. “Is there something wrong, T’Mir?” asked Trip. He sat up with a concerned expression on his face. T’Pol’s concern was less obvious, but evident. T’Mir paused for a moment, unsure about how much she should tell them. “Agent Seven is awake and aware of my location,” she admitted. “He therefore may also be aware of what I have done.” T”Pol raised a brow. “And what have you done?” she asked in mild reproof. T’Mir allowed her lips twitch upward in a wistful smile. “I’ve broken every non-disclosure regulation in the book, and I’m glad I did it, but the repercussions to my career could be significant,“ she admitted. Trip exchanged a meaningful glance with T’Pol. “I dunno what you’re talkin’ about,” he said with a sly grin, “I was asleep the whole time.” T’Pol blinked, just a hair slower on the uptake when it came to blatant falsehoods. “Ah, yes... and although I thought it... logical... to invite a fellow Vulcan to my quarters for shared meditation and tea, she was singularly unrevealing about personal details. I really couldn’t say that I learned anything about her or her purposes here,” she managed, while Trip smiled proudly at her as if he’d taught her to lie himself. T’Mir raised an ironic brow at both of them. “In that case, my presence here is superfluous. Perhaps I should go and see what Agent Seven requires,” she said dryly. Trip winked at her. “You do that, darlin’,” he told her with a tired grin. “We’ll meet you in the mess hall for breakfast at 0700.” He reached out a hand. T’Mir stepped up to grasp it with her good left hand, gazing wordlessly at him. T’Pol’s hand joined theirs, covering their linked fingers. T’Mir met her eyes. T’Pol’s grip tightened, and she gave T’Mir an encouraging nod. “Go and see what Agent Seven needs, T’Mir,” said T’Pol reassuringly. “I will make sure Trip sleeps, and then we will meet you for breakfast.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Lieutenant Hoshi Sato woke suddenly from a sound sleep, her heart racing in reaction to a dream that she couldn’t remember. Abruptly alert in a manner most unusual for her at the hour of... she cautiously lifted her head to catch a glimpse of the chronometer across the room... 0407, she wormed her way out from under Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed’s embracing arm and rolled smoothly out of bed. The console on Malcolm’s desk glowed a pale green. The room was silent except for Malcolm’s barely audible breathing. She had no idea what had awakened her, but she suddenly felt an overwhelming need to go for a walk. It didn’t even occur to her to wonder at her own behavior as she pulled on the navy sweats she’d worn to pay a visit to Malcolm’s quarters the previous evening over her grey Starfleet issue bra and briefs and slipped her shoes on. She left the cabin at a brisk walk. She was halfway to Shuttlebay Two before she realized that her early morning stroll had a destination. Why am I doing this? she wondered. Her puzzlement didn’t slow her down, though. If anything, she began to walk faster. She tried to stop herself, to put brakes on her body’s near-run toward the shuttlebays, and realized that she was no longer the one in control. The sensation was terrifying. As if she were a prisoner trapped in her own body, she watched her right hand input the shuttlebay entry code. Stepping into the dimly-lit bay, she approached the supply area, involuntarily pulled an empty loading cart from storage, and watched helplessly as her arms stacked several crates of emergency rations and four deuterium cylinders onto the cart. Then she wheeled it into the center of the loading dock and stood there, waiting. A feeling of pleasure suffused her, like a mental pat of approval for a job well-done, before the supplies she’d collected dematerialized with a high-pitched whine, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the dock with a very confused expression on her face. Immediately following the disappearance of the supplies, the tactical alert siren sounded at near-deafening volume. She’d managed to make it back to the shuttlebay entryway, finally in control of her own body, when the security team found her. “Freeze! Hands on your head or I’ll fire!” said Ensign Norfleet firmly. His demeanor gave no hint that he even recognized her, despite the fact that he’d been manning the tactical station on the bridge for several shifts a week since they’d last left Earth and he knew Hoshi very well. It was typical of his dedication that his familiarity with her didn’t change his response to the circumstances one whit. Hoshi said nothing, too confused about the whole situation to offer an explanation, and frankly not at all certain that putting her in the brig was such a bad idea, all things considered. She put both hands on top of her head with an apologetic grimace. How the hell am I going to explain this to Malcolm? was her first thought as the security team escorted her to the brig. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx T’Mir sat on the single chair in the cabin shared by Agents Seven and Isis, facing Gary Seven with a stoic expression on her face. He’d said nothing since she’d arrived, merely opening the door in response to her activation of the bell and ushering her into the room with a tilt of his head. For a split second when she’d first arrived, T’Mir had thought she saw a scantily covered, long-limbed, liquid-eyed and impossibly handsome young man lying in the disheveled bunk out of the corner of her eye, but when she’d turned her head, all she’d discovered was Isis in cat form, curled up in a ball on top of the sheets. Gary was now sitting on the bed beside his partner, holding a padd in one hand and eyeing her seriously. She straightened, preparing for the reprimand she was certain was forthcoming. “We have a problem. The Betazoid isn’t dead,” was all he said. T’Mir stared at him for a moment, trying to make sense of his comment. “The Betazoid’s been recruited,” she replied in a perplexed voice. “Not that one... the one in the approved timeline,” he responded, handing her the padd. She studied it. Apparently, the research historians in their mission’s time of origin had initially believed that the Elren belonging to the approved timeline had been destroyed along with the Romulan ship he’d been imprisoned upon. T’Mir’s brow wrinkled. “But the Romulan ship hasn’t been destroyed,” she said. “Yes it has,” countered Seven. “It’s just that no one’s found the wreckage yet. Check the padd.” T’Mir gave him a tolerant look before returning her attention to the padd. An Orion salvage company would discover the remains of a Romulan warbird in the outskirts of the Kreptagh system in two weeks and three days. The remnants would make their way into the hands of Ferengi traders who would sell them to the highest bidder, a bidder who would just happen to be a Boomer with some remaining loyalty to Earth and its allies. The rest was history. “Based on the location of the wreckage and the contents of what remained of the ship, our historians assumed that Elren was aboard. One of them discovered otherwise when a connection was finally made between Elren and the drone ship which was missing from the wreckage,” Seven went on. “That drone ship is a valuable asset. The agency wants it.” “So Elren is piloting the drone?” asked T’Mir as she studied the information. Schematics of an experimental Romulan telepresence-guided drone came up on the screen. She was initially surprised by the detail until she realized that the agency must already have possession of the drone. “It’s more like Elren is the drone,” replied Seven. “Those schematics don’t do the device justice. It’s a true melding of man and machine.” “So if they already have the drone, what do they need us to do?” asked T’Mir. Seven smiled at her and shook his head. “We’ve really got to work on your temporal paradox theory, Agent Trainee. The only reason the agency has the drone is because the mission they’ve just assigned us was successful,” he replied. She looked up from the padd with a startled expression. “Another mission? You mean we’re not leaving?” Her head swam with the implications of his statement. To have the opportunity to work with the commanders now that they knew of her origin was an exhilarating and frightening prospect. They’d said they could keep her secret, but could they do it when forced to interact with her daily? “Not yet,” replied Seven. He gazed at T’Mir thoughtfully, as if trying to decide what to say. His hand went out to Isis, who uncurled herself and padded across the mattress to rub her back against the palm of his hand. He gathered Isis into his lap and began to stroke her absently. Her purring filled the room. “We all have parts of our lives that should be kept private, T’Mir,” he began. T’Mir steeled herself, waiting for the punch line. Seven looked down at Isis and smiled. Then he looked back up at T’Mir. “Provided that those parts don’t interfere with our ability to perform our jobs, I see no pressing reason to reveal them to agency authorities, do you?” T’Mir gazed back at him with her head cocked to one side, attempting to process this most surprising declaration. Agent Seven had always been a stickler for the rules. His statement made no sense in light of what little she knew of the man. Isis’ purring distracted her, though, and for the first time it occurred to her that Seven’s partner was not limited to a single form. Perhaps she hadn’t been imagining things after all. The agency frowned on sexual liaisons between working partners. Its non-fraternization policy was just as clearly spelled out as its rules for non-disclosure. The implications intrigued her. “No, Agent Seven, I don’t suppose I do,” she replied carefully. Isis abruptly stopped purring. Gary paused in his stroking and gazed into the animal’s eyes. His expression became worried, and he stood, pushing Isis off of his lap. “Come on,” he told T’Mir. “We’ve got another problem.” He headed out of the door and into the corridor at a brisk clip with Isis padding behind him. T’Mir knew better than to ask any questions when he was in emergency mode. She tagged along, feeling like a fifth wheel. The tactical alert siren began to blare before they’d even reached the turbolift. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Captain Jonathan Archer reached the bridge as the tactical alert continued to sound. He made a cutting motion wearily with one hand at the tactical station. Crewman Mitchell silenced the alert siren as Archer replaced the frightened looking lieutenant in the command chair with a nod. The young man stood at Archer’s side as he took his seat, and then made his report. “The shift was uneventful until a couple of minutes ago when the tactical alert sounded, Captain,” he said in a nervous voice. “We still haven’t figured out what caused the alarm, sir.” He eyed his compatriot at tactical with a hopeful look. Mitchell was busily reviewing the sensor logs. Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed stepped onto the bridge in full uniform, looking rested, well-groomed and fully awake at 0415. Archer grinned and shook his head, running his fingers through his hair to calm it down. Lieutenant Travis Mayweather followed closely behind, and took his seat at the helm. “The alert sounded because of an unauthorized transport from the landing bay to a location I can’t determine, Captain,” reported Mitchell. Malcolm stepped up behind him, looking over his shoulder at the sensor readings. Commander T’Pol stepped onto the bridge from the turbolift immediately following Travis. She, too, was fully dressed and ready for duty. It struck Archer as odd that Hoshi hadn’t arrived yet. She and the commander were in neighboring cabins, and so generally made it to the bridge at the same time for drills and emergencies. “Ensign Norfleet reports that he caught one of the crew stealing ship’s supplies and put her in the brig,” continued Mitchell. He looked warily over his shoulder at the ship’s Chief of Security before finishing his statement. “He says it’s Lieutenant Sato, sir,” he said reluctantly. “What the...?!” exclaimed Malcolm Reed in exasperation as he shouldered Mitchell aside. He got on the comm with a determined expression on his face. “Reed to Norfleet... what’s going on?” he demanded. “We found Ensign Sato on the loading dock, sir. She admits to pulling supplies from storage and bringing them to an open area to be transported away,“ replied Norfleet in a calm and businesslike tone. Malcolm exhaled explosively and exchanged a look with Archer. “Bring her to my ready room, Ensign. I’d like to discuss this incident before we resort to confinement in the brig,” ordered Archer firmly. Malcolm gave him a grateful look. “Yes, sir,” came Norfleet’s response. Malcolm shook his head over the situation as he skimmed the sensor logs. “There’s a sensor gap on the hull here that becomes our old friend the Romulan shuttle for 2.7 seconds before it disappears right when the transport signal ends,” he indicated to Mitchell, who stood looking over his shoulder. Archer suddenly realized the implications. Our hitchhiker is back! he thought. “I suggest that we bring Lieutenant Sato’s sensor modifications back online,” said T’Pol. Archer confirmed her suggestion with a nod to Mitchell, who got busy. “Norfleet to the Bridge,” said Norfleet over the comm. “Reed here,” responded Malcolm. “Lieutenant Sato refuses to leave the brig, sir. She claims it isn’t safe. Should I carry her?” Norfleet sounded almost hopeful. Archer smirked. He couldn’t really blame the boy for wanting a little excitement. “Of course not, Ensign!” Malcolm sounded indignant. Archer suppressed a laugh, and then his face sobered. This was no laughing matter. “Go find out what’s going on, Malcolm,” he ordered seriously. Malcolm grimaced at him ruefully, and nodded. “Modified sensors detect a signal consistent with the Romulan shuttle drone that we’ve previously encountered, Captain. It’s approximately 22,463 kilometers away and proceeding away from us at maximum impulse toward the nearest planetary system,” commented T’Pol. Archer returned Malcolm’s nod as the security officer hurriedly left the bridge, and then turned his attention toward the viewscreen. “Transfer those coordinates to the helm, T’Pol... Mr. Mayweather, follow that shuttle.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Khellian entered the outskirts of what his navigation programming identified as the Xyrillian system. The third planet from the system’s yellow sun was one of the commercial hubs of the sector, a good place to find a warp capable vessel able to give him an unwitting ride as far away from Romulan space as possible. He had to be cautious after what he’d done to the Ra’kholh. It had been self defense, but his Romulan programmed half knew that he’d eventually be pursued without mercy. His creators would consider him too dangerous now to allow him to escape. At the outermost orbit around the star, he found a belt of large, nearly planetoid sized asteroids that seemed unexplored and unmined, and managed to dexterously secrete himself within a crater large enough to conceal his presence. The power drain from his constant use of the cloaking device was considerable. He’d managed to obtain deuterium from the Earth ship, but he had no way of refueling without bringing his organic half off line. He powered down everything except the life support functions within his passenger compartment, wrote a refueling instruction protocol and implemented it, an action which required mere seconds to accomplish, and then released his other half, losing self-awareness in the process. Elren winced as the electrodes retracted from his tender scalp. The wrist and ankle cuffs binding him into the telepresence unit unlatched with a clunk, and he staggered as his legs once again bore his weight. He lifted the hood and gazed around the compartment in confusion. Something was different. There was no one here. His simple mind tried to make sense of it. He remembered the pain, and the cessation of pain. Then he remembered joining with the ship and becoming someone else. Someone smarter. Someone stronger. He liked being strong. He knew that much. He tried to step out of the telepresence unit, but he was too weak. He fell to his hands and knees on the decking, his head spinning. Suddenly, he heard a voice. He turned his head frantically to locate its source, but there was still no one there. “We must refuel,” said a flat, synthetic voice. “You will find your requirements in the crates. Open one of them, and then wait for further instructions.” Elren squinted and blinked blearily as the room came into focus. In its center was a rolling cart. On the cart was a stack of polymer crates and four cylinders with valves at their tops. There were symbols on both the crates and the cylinders, but, to his frustration, he found that he was unable to read them. He crawled with painful slowness to the cart and pulled himself to a standing position by its handles. The journey across the small room had left him breathless, so he rested for a moment before attempting to lift the top crate. It proved too heavy for him to lift, but his efforts toppled it from the top of stack to the metal decking, fortunately on the opposite side of the cart from where he stood precariously balancing himself. He heard a sharp cracking sound as the crate tumbled to the floor, and when he rounded the side of the cart, he found numerous small boxes and bags of fluid scattered over the deck, the contents of the fractured crate. He dropped to his hands and knees again and crawled to the center of the treasure trove he’d discovered. Grabbing a bag of what looked like water through the clear plastic, he ripped it open with his teeth and gulped it down messily. He was on his third bag of fluid... a viscous and lumpy green substance this time, salty and rich, when the disembodied voice spoke again. “My medical database includes much information about the care and feeding of biological organisms. It is imperative that you follow my instructions. You must eat and drink slowly or you may become ill. Waste disposal facilities are located in the rear of the compartment. Attend to your physical needs and await further instructions.” Elren squeezed the last green lump from the bag and into his mouth. He swallowed it, and then belched noisily. Wiping the residue of his sticky, gelatinous meal from his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked around the compartment again. His eyes lit on the bunks in the rear of the small chamber on either side of the telepresence unit. He’d spent the past several months either in stasis or standing upright with needles in his scalp, cuffed hand and foot. He ignored the vague feeling that he was forgetting something important that he had to do. The sheer luxury of a full belly and the prospect of lying horizontally of his own free will, without drugs or tormentors, took precedence over everything else. He crawled to the foot of a bunk, pulled himself onto it, and was fast asleep in seconds. He was sleeping so soundly that he showed no signs of awareness when the automated voice spoke again several minutes later. “Now that you have had sufficient time to attend to your needs, it is time to refuel the shuttle. The tanks on the cart contain fuel. Remove one of them from the cart and bring it to the rectangular access panel in the floor of this compartment. You will find tools to remove the access panel in the storage bin that has just opened near the waste receptacle.” A small door opened in the rear wall of the compartment, revealing a row of tools neatly stored in a grooved drawer. Elren continued to sleep, oblivious to everything around him. A short time later the voice spoke again. “Internal sensors indicate that you have not been successful in removing the access panel. You now have four hours and twenty-seven minutes to refuel before power to the life support system is lost.” The voice was calm, of course. Computer programs don’t experience fear. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed exited the turbolift on deck F. Deck F housed the armory, his favorite place to be, and he would have felt like he was coming home had it not been for the fact that his destination was the brig. Located on the deck with the largest concentration of security personnel and firepower, the brig was usually empty, and thus not generally a cause for concern. Malcolm found himself very concerned about its current occupant, however. He’d had a few moments to consider his predicament while in transit, and hadn’t decided yet whether the inkling of doubt he felt over Hoshi’s innocence was a good thing or a bad thing. He was certain that she was neither a saboteur nor an enemy agent. At least, he was virtually certain. Her recently revealed talent for role-playing, a talent he greatly enjoyed privately, was the only chink in his armor of absolute positivity. Still, Hoshi was Hoshi, and not the type of woman to voluntarily work against all humankind. He decided to proceed on the assumption that she was, in fact, innocent. This decision of itself spoke volumes about his trust in her, as it was the exact reverse of his usual assumption when undertaking the interrogation of a prisoner. As he rounded the bend in the access corridor, he heard Ensign Norfleet’s unmistakably calm and adamant voice. “I’m sorry, sir. Only authorized personnel are allowed in this area. I’m afraid that you’ll both have to leave.” Malcolm slowed and stopped before he was seen. Who was trying to get access to Hoshi, and how had they discovered where she was so quickly? He had his answer when Agent Seven replied. “It’s imperative to ship’s security that I be allowed access to Lieutenant Sato immediately. She may be under the influence of an outside force that could pose a risk to this vessel,” insisted Seven. That was all Malcolm needed to hear. He proceeded briskly down the corridor. As soon as he came into sight, both of the men standing at the entry to the brig’s antechamber turned their heads and gave him relieved looks. “Sir, I...” began Norfleet, while Agent Seven simultaneously asked, “Mr. Reed, may I...?” Malcolm raised a hand to silence both of them with a shake of his head. He noticed that Agent T’Mir stood calmly looking on without a word, her hands clasped behind her back in the ubiquitous Vulcan version of parade rest, with that bloody black cat that Hoshi swore she could talk to weaving in and out of her ankles. He decided that either the situation wasn’t nearly as dire as Agent Seven made it out to be, or that, possibly, Agent T’Mir had no idea of what was going on. The cat certainly seemed a trifle agitated. Malcolm tipped his head politely to Agent Seven. “Before I give you access to an incarcerated prisoner, I’d like to know how you discovered her location. Communication from the brig to the bridge and back again is by a secure comm channel inaccessible to the rest of the ship,” he said blandly. Seven gave him a tolerant look. “Agent Isis detected the presence of a powerful alien telepathic presence roughly five minutes ago, shortly before the tactical siren sounded, “ he told Malcolm. Then he paused, eyeing Norfleet. Malcolm caught the gesture and waved him on reassuringly. “Norfleet’s clearance level is almost as high as mine... go on,” he said. His eyes narrowed slightly when he noticed the ensign’s smirk. Norfleet immediately wiped the smirk off his face and stared dispassionately straight ahead. “Isis needs closer contact with Lieutenant Sato in order to better identify the origin of the telepathic contact,” continued Seven. Malcolm just stared at the man for a moment. “So, in essence, what you’re telling me is that ship’s security requires that I give a cat access to the prisoner,” he replied in a thoughtful tone. Seven raised a brow. Norfleet bit his lip and valiantly fought a smile. To Malcolm’s surprise, so did T’Mir. “Yes,” confirmed Seven through clenched teeth. “Very well,” Malcolm replied amiably. Then, to Seven’s evident dismay and the others’ amusement, he stepped forward and bent down, gently gathering Isis into his arms. He gave the rest of the group a polite nod, and entered the brig, closing the door behind him. Malcolm stepped into the antechamber. Ramirez stood at the door of the cell, as per regulations. Malcolm dismissed him with a jerk of his chin, and then approached the clear divider with an armful of purring feline. He looked down in surprise. Cats usually could sense his instinctive dislike of domesticated animals of all kinds, an attitude fostered by the miserable allergies of his childhood, and rarely remained in his arms voluntarily. This one seemed to like him for some reason. Hoshi rose from the bunk where she’d been sitting and approached him, smiling an apologetic smile. “Sorry for the unpleasant surprise this morning,” she said. Her hair was still mussed from sleep, she had no makeup on, and she was wearing the same baggy blue Starfleet issue sweat suit that she’d showed up to his quarters wearing the night before under the pretext of inviting him to accompany her on a late night treadmill run. She was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He couldn’t figure out how she did it. He suspected that the warmth in his groin had more to do with his clear memories of getting her out of the sweat suit than with what she was wearing, though. He smiled back at her ruefully. “Are you all right?” he asked. She nodded with a self conscious grimace. “Mrrryeour,” said Isis, and began to squirm in Malcolm’s arms. Hoshi gazed at the animal attentively for several seconds and then helpfully reported, “Isis wants to come into the holding cell with me, Malcolm.” She gave him a look of feigned innocence as he raised his brows at her expectantly. “You can come, too,” she added with an impish grin. Malcolm rolled his eyes and then put the animal down so that he could unlock the door. Isis rushed through the gap, nearly tripping him up as he attempted to enter, and began weaving in and out of Hoshi’s ankles. Hoshi picked her up and walked back to the bunk to sit down. Malcolm stood at the entrance to the holding cell watching them. It was an eerie scene. The two of them gazed at each other in utter silence. Isis had stopped all pretense of acting like a cat, and her expression was uncannily intelligent. She sat beside Hoshi on the mattress with one paw placed deliberately on the back of Hoshi’s right hand, as if the contact somehow assisted her in her task, whatever that task was. Suddenly, Hoshi began to speak. “Isis wants me to apologize for Agent Seven’s rudeness and to thank you for allowing her access to a restricted area,” said Hoshi, looking at Malcolm in puzzlement. Malcolm nodded dismissively. Hoshi’s attention returned to the temporal agent as she continued. “She’s explained to me that the telepath controlling the Romulan drone ship we encountered, first in the Kreptagh system and again this morning, is now on board the drone ship and seems to have gone rogue. He’s the one that took control of me to get supplies this morning, but he doesn’t seem to be hostile.” Malcolm nodded again, and pulled out a padd to make notes. What Hoshi had told him thus far made a lot of sense. An invisible drone ship with a transporter and a mind-controlling telepathic pilot could have done a hell of a lot more than just pirate a few supplies. The fact that no one had been injured and nothing had been damaged implied benign intentions. He looked up from his notes. “Why you? My quarters aren’t anywhere near the shuttlebays,” he asked in a perplexed tone. Hoshi’s brows went up, and she turned back to Isis. Moments later, her face took on an expression of sudden realization as she said, “Isis believes that the telepath is a Betazoid. Betazoids can only influence other telepaths from a distance. Influencing a non-telepath requires direct physical contact. Even though influencing a stronger telepath... like Commander T’Pol, for example... probably would have been easier, she would also have been able to fight his control, and has the training to block him. I’m the only completely untrained telepath on board, if you really want to grace my almost non-existent talent with that name, and Isis believes that he chose me because he didn’t want to risk being discovered before he’d gotten the supplies he needed. As it was, as soon as he exerted enough force to take control of my voluntary motor functions, Isis knew exactly where he was and what he was trying to do.” Hoshi’s mouth twisted into a wry smile as she reported this explanation. Malcolm’s eyes widened as he realized what she’d just revealed to him. “You’re a telepath?” he asked, appalled by the idea. Bloody Hell! I knew it! What does she know about me? he thought in sudden panic. His expression must have given him away, because Hoshi immediately began to reassure him. “No, Malcolm! I’m really not!” she protested. He looked back at her in disbelief, and she sighed, shaking her head. “I know what this looks like, but I promise, Malcolm... I can’t read minds. I just found out about this so-called latent ability of mine when Isis came aboard. She’s the one who says I’m a telepath... a weak and untrained one, apparently. I guess I believe her, since she says I couldn’t talk to her otherwise. She also says that the Betazoid is gone now, and that I’m not a threat to the ship.” Her eyes searched his, pleading silently for his trust. He exhaled heavily, gazing back at her pensively. She seems sincere, but can I believe her? he thought. The comm alert tone startled him from his musings. “Bridge to the Brig. Any progress, Mr. Reed?” Malcolm’s eyes never left Hoshi’s as he stepped out of the holding cell and responded. “Reed here. Lieutenant Sato and I have some information for you, Captain.” He paused for a second, considering his options, and then decided to take the leap of faith his heart was urging him to take. “Permission to escort her to your ready room for a conference, sir? It’s my opinion that confining her to the brig is unnecessary at this time.” Hoshi beamed broadly. Malcolm’s lips quirked upward just a trifle. Yes, sweetness. I trust you, he thought ironically, ... but just in case... I’ll also be watching you. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 28 Ael, Year 1618 AS Romulus, The Firefalls of Gal’gathong Toron stood looking despairingly out over the steam-filled chasm. The blazing heat of the lava flow as it tumbled into the ocean below him warmed the air, creating the equivalent of a five-kilometer wide steam bath along the observation platform. He gripped the guard rail, battling with his cowardly nature as he contemplated the action that duty and honor both required of him. He was unable to release the railing. His white-knuckled grip seemed unbreakable. A small boy approached the railing beside him, held securely around the arm by the servant responsible for his safety. The child struggled briefly in the lower caste woman’s grip, but she held firm, her strength bolstered, no doubt, by the knowledge that if the boy were injured it would mean her life. The sullen toddler stopped struggling when he caught sight of Toron’s face and stared at him in fascination. Toron gritted his teeth, staring out into the mist. It was always the same response, even from the children- an unwelcome mixture of disgust and awe. It had been only a hundred years since infants lacking forehead ridges had been routinely eliminated at birth. The “Empress’ Variant”, as the anomaly had since become known, had become so common among the members of the royal family by then due to consanguineous matings that culling the otherwise normal infants affected by it would have resulted in the effective end of the ruling clan. The Praetor and the senate had since dispossessed said clan of anything but honorary authority, but the common people still maintained a remnant of respect for their erstwhile rulers. Possessing the “variant” officially carried with it the implication that that the affected person was very likely a direct descendent of the royal family. Unofficially, though, it was still considered by many to be a blemish, indistinguishable in essence from all of the other minor physical imperfections which remained government-enforced justifications for killing thousands of helpless newborns every year. The injustice of it had tainted his interactions with everyone around him since he was old enough to understand the difference. He glanced at the harried face of the child’s nurse, suddenly reminded of poor Naneth, the woman who’d cared for him faithfully from birth until being summarily dismissed without references by his father only four days after Toron’s eighth birthday. He’d cried for weeks - in private, of course. The son of a colonel in the Tal Shiar does not cry. He’d found out years later that she’d been dismissed for failure to adequately supervise her charge. Toron had discovered the computer console in his father’s study at about that age and his gift for computers had manifested itself, resulting initially in some rather embarrassing consequences for his father – until the Tal Shiar had realized what Toron was capable of. Naneth had been replaced by a series of tutors in mathematics, computer programming, and military strategy. Toron’s first version of a self-modifying artificial intelligence capable of complex strategic military decision-making was ready for practical use before his fifteenth birthday. Once his security clearance had become even higher than his father’s, he’d tried to locate Naneth. She’d been dead by then, of course. Being dismissed without references by a man of his father’s social standing had rendered her unable to support herself. Romulus was not kind to beggars and the homeless. Nor was it particularly forgiving of errors in judgment. Your AI program’s gone rogue, Toron. It’s destroyed a warbird, or so our Orion sources tell us. The Praetor’s somehow been convinced that it was a deliberate programming error. You’ve been charged with treason. They’re coming for you. You know what that means. I’ve turned a blind eye to your activities with the Royalists, but your interrogators won’t. A noble end at your own hand, that’s what honor requires. For once, think of someone besides yourself. The message had been encrypted and unsigned, but Toron knew his father’s handiwork well. The disheartening thing about the whole situation was that his father had been right all along. His initial involvement with the Royalists had been a youthful indiscretion. He realized now, of course, that the injustices that so disturbed him under the current regime would remain under an emperor’s reign. The return of the monarchy was not the solution. He hadn’t been in contact with anyone in the Royalist movement for over two years. That wouldn’t prevent his interrogators from extracting everything he knew and using it to justify the execution or imprisonment of any of his associates they chose, not to mention their families, beginning with his own. His father’s message had been clear. He knew what he had to do. The lives of his parents, his two older sisters, their husbands, and their children depended on it. Toron released the railing and lifted his chin, clenching his teeth in determination. He heard a dismayed gasp from the woman at his side as he lifted a lanky leg above the railing, stepped over it and took one stride forward to the edge of the precipice. He looked behind him once, just to make certain that the woman was shielding the little boy’s eyes, and then dove forward into the mist. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx August 4, 2156 Enterprise Engineering, 0800 hours The status report in front of him blurred as Trip Tucker nearly dropped off to sleep for the tenth time since reporting for his shift that morning. He’d arrived ready to get his hands dirty and found that his ever-efficient staff had completed all of the required inspections and maintenance, leaving him with nothing to do but review status reports. He hated status reports, even when he’d had enough sleep. With no sleep at all, the task was worse than torture. He pushed back in his chair, grabbed a random padd from the top of his desk, and began to pace while reading. At least that way he wouldn’t be likely to fall asleep. His eyes remained open, but his attention began to wander, and his vision clouded again, with tears this time. Guess the doc was right, he thought ruefully, sniffing and wiping before anyone could come in and catch him teary-eyed for no good reason. Phlox had warned him about his irregular sleep habits. He’d told him that sleep deprivation was a central nervous system depressant, that it would reduce the effectiveness of his medication and prolong his recovery time. Doesn’t make sense that I’m sad this mornin’, though, he mused. T’Mir’s completely unexpected and lovely smile flashed into his mind’s eye. He smiled wistfully. It’s not every day a man meets his own daughter. T’Mir’s face, so like her mother’s, was abruptly transformed into the still, dusky face of a cherubic infant, dead before she’d ever had the chance to live, and his gut twisted again. T’Mir was amazing, but she wasn’t his daughter. She was only a reminder of opportunities lost and a small life wasted. He tried to tell himself that it was just as well. From what T’Mir had told them about the traumatic life she and her mother had lived after leaving Enterprise, the net result would definitely not have been pleasant had his Elizabeth lived. He had no desire to be separated from T’Pol by her duty to their child. He focused on that image, the one of T’Pol and him together, and the pain lessened to a bearable level. “Bridge to Engineering,” came the captain’s voice into the silence of the room. Trip stepped to the comm and answered it. “Tucker here.” “Command staff meeting in my ready room, Trip. Five minutes.” Archer sounded tired and fed up. “Aye, Cap’n. I’m on my way,” he replied. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “It’s the Xyrillian system, Captain,” said T’Pol with even less than her usual non-enthusiasm. Archer’s lips quirked. “Yes, Commander... I can see that. We’ll keep Commander Tucker on board this time,” he quipped. “Away team members should also be instructed to avoid fraternization of any kind, since we are still unsure of the exact mechanism of Commander Tucker’s pregnancy,” added T’Pol with complete seriousness, refusing to acknowledge the captain’s attempt at humor. Archer smiled outright at that, briefly, and then forced his expression into one of respectful attention. “I’ll be sure to take that under advisement, Commander,” he replied. She’s right, he told himself. It wasn’t funny. Trip’s life could have been endangered. The situation could have resulted in disastrous consequences. What the Xyrillian woman had done to Trip was criminal, and she’d gotten away with it simply because Starfleet had been eager to avoid a diplomatic incident. He smiled wryly. Come to think of it, T’Pol was nearly always right. He could have saved himself and his ship a hell of a lot of grief had he been willing to admit that fact in years past. It was his marriage that had finally done it, he decided. The ability to compromise and still maintain the appearance of authority was an acquired skill. He’d had plenty of practice when dealing with Elena. “The sensor trace ends somewhere in this asteroid belt, Captain,” reported Mitchell. His eyes remained focused on his display for a moment, and then he looked up in dismay. “The signal’s not transmitting anymore. I’ve got no way to track the ship.” While Mitchell was speaking, Malcolm Reed stepped through the turbolift doors with a casually dressed Hoshi Sato at his side. She looked as if she’d just gotten up. Archer realized suddenly that she probably hadn’t eaten or been given the opportunity to wash, either. He smiled at her apologetically before saying to Malcolm, “Go into my ready room, Lieutenant Commander. I’ll be there in a moment.” Hoshi stopped Malcolm with a hand on his arm and whispered something into his ear. He stared back at her for a moment thoughtfully, and then said, “Captain, I suggest you scan the asteroid belt for Betazoid life signs. If you find one, the ship should be there. I would also suggest discussing the situation with Mr. Seven.” Archer’s brows went up in surprise, but he asked no questions. He turned to T’Pol with a quizzical look. “There are hundreds of asteroids large enough to conceal a ship of that size, Captain. The scan will take some time,” she replied. He nodded thoughtfully. “Do it,” he replied. “Let me know if you find anything. I’ll be in my ready room, hopefully getting an explanation for all this.” He turned to McNamara at comm as he rose from the command chair. “Call Agents Seven and T’Mir and have them join us ASAP.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 28 Ael, Year 1618 AS Romulus, Gal’gathong Hovercar Rental and Sales, Inc. Temporal Agent Arrhae of Romulus stood beside the hovercar with a tolerant smile on his face. His partner for the current mission was in full Romulan mode: animated, aggressive, smiling and frowning at will, with her eyes flashing and her bosom fetchingly straining the bodice of her black leather jumpsuit. Her usual long auburn curls were cut short and straightened for the mission, and her unusually colored eyes were concealed behind a pair of deep brown contact lenses. Her bangs were trimmed in the V shape usually affected by smooth-browed Romulans to de-emphasize the trait. She reminded him of the girl next door from his childhood neighborhood. She’d even been quite obviously studying her Romulan, with great attention to colloquial expressions. In short, she was utterly charming, and the salesman was utterly charmed. “Of course... Tamir is it?” asked the fawning little man. Agent T’Mir nodded at him tolerantly. He smiled broadly. “For a beautiful woman such as yourself...” he eyed Arrhae cautiously, “... and her most honorable brother...” Arrahe grimaced insincerely. The salesman swallowed and gestured at the hovercar that Arrhae had chosen for them, “... my best vehicle at my lowest price!” he finished with a flamboyant wave of his arm and another groveling smile. Arrhae exhaled heavily, stepped forward, handed the man the proper number of credits, and held out one hand. T’Mir slipped into the front passenger’s seat and eyed the two of them expectantly. The salesman gave her one last longing look and then handed over the keys. Arrhae slipped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. He smirked as he glanced at T’Mir out of the corner of his eye and pulled out of the lot, shaking his head. “What?” asked T’Mir acerbically. “You’re amazing. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen you ‘be Romulan’,” he replied, amused. He hadn’t believed it possible when he’d been called away from his usual posting roughly 150 years uptime to do a special recruitment and he’d been told that Agent T’Mir would be going undercover on Romulus with him. Apparently, the two of them were the only temporal agents aware of the existence of one highly classified Romulan drone shuttle who were also capable of passing as Romulan, and thus were the only two agents trusted to recruit its programmer. “Would you prefer that I behave as I usually do and call attention to myself?” T’Mir queried dryly. Arrhae chuckled. “It’s much too late to avoid attention, I’m afraid. If we’d stayed another moment, I have no doubt that the salesman would have asked you to bear his children,” he teased. T’Mir raised a brow at him, trying to maintain her composure, but her cheeks flushed olive, betraying her embarrassment. Arrhae suppressed a knowing smirk and continued to drive in silence, allowing her to recover unmolested. In the five years that they’d known each other, he’d never once been able to refer to physical intimacy in her presence without getting the same response. At first, he’d found it endearing. She was, after all, much younger than he was in subjective years, and much less experienced in the ways of males and females together. Whenever he’d attempted to give her the benefit of his experience, though, she’d invariably given him the cold shoulder. It was frustrating. Their relationship seemed stalled at a teasing camaraderie more appropriate to siblings than lovers. Even the agency had noticed it. Any other two gender couple would have been given cover ID’s as mates, but he got to be her brother. Wonderful. As he drove, T’Mir removed a rectangular box from the bag she was carrying over her shoulder and began attaching it to the floor of the car with a small screwdriver. The screwdriver was unpowered, but she drove the screws through the metal frame of the car with ease using her right hand. Arrhae raised a brow. He’d never seen her biosynthetic hand in action before, and he’d in all honesty forgotten that her right hand wasn’t the one she’d been born with until that moment, it was such a lifelike replacement. While she was focused on her task, her demeanor reverted to her usual cold and eminently Vulcan facade. Once the power unit was installed, she began working on the force field emitters. Arrhae wondered which came more naturally to her, her freely laughing “Romulan” face, which was her human heritage set loose to do its worst, or the shell she’d had to build around herself to exist as a Vulcan. When they’d first met, he’d been certain that he would be the one she would finally allow close enough to crack that shell. While he was in the academy they’d spent nearly every waking off-duty moment together, ostensibly to “facilitate his transition”. She’d told him about her childhood on Vulcan and the years of guerilla warfare she’d lived through. He’d confided to her the long-held secret of his family’s preservation of their remote Vulcan heritage. They’d seemed to come to an understanding. She’d stopped seeing him as the enemy, or at least he thought she had, but then he’d been sent on his first training mission. He’d returned in full protective gear, so pumped up and adrenalin-loaded by the opportunity to be a part of the team assigned to protect Ambassador Spock on Romulus that he hadn’t bothered to change before going to see T’Mir to tell her about his good fortune. She’d shut down when she saw him outfitted in Romulan urban combat gear. They hadn’t had a personal conversation of any substance since. It had been nearly three years. He piloted the craft toward the most dramatic geographical feature of his home planet, entering a cloud of mist as the car dropped off the edge of the cliff. His stomach dropped briefly as the antigravity unit took over, maintaining the car’s stability as it descended into the visually impenetrable wall of steam rising from the ocean several kilometers below them. The searing heat of the lava fall only 20 meters from the passenger side of the car threatened to blister them as it flowed glutinously down the face of the cliff. It was a distinct relief when T’Mir activated the force field. Then she pulled a scanner from her pocket. “The rendezvous coordinates are five hundred meters ahead. Maintain your current altitude and a precise distance of five meters from the face of the cliff,” she informed him calmly. “Five meters? Isn’t that a trifle closer than we should be getting to hundreds of thousands of metric tons of molten rock?” he asked doubtfully. She raised a brow at him. “We have a force field to protect us... and I thought you were the one so eager to die for your convictions,” she replied dryly. He gave her an exasperated look. “Dying in combat is an honorable death. Flying a hovercar into a vertical flow of molten lava because there’s so much steam that I can’t see my hand in front of my face is just... stupid,” he groused. “Target coordinates in five, four, three, two, one meter... now,” said T’Mir, blithely ignoring him. Arrhae reduced speed, killing the engine at the precise moment required. T’Mir expanded the forcefield, stopping them cold in midair in the midst of whiteness. They sat there with the roar of molten rock meeting water in their ears, nearly deafening them. “Here he comes,” announced T’Mir. She weakened the force field, and Arrhae felt a sudden rush of warmth as a body hit the field over the rear of the car, traveling inward with the impact as the weakened forcefield acted like an invisible trampoline, absorbing the kinetic energy of the fall. Then she shut the forcefield off for less than a second, dropping their quarry into the rear seat of the vehicle, where he sat blinking in a confused manner as she reactivated the field at full strength and Arrhae veered away from the blistering heat. T’Mir climbed into the back seat of the hovercar to tend to their new recruit. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx August 4, 2156 Enterprise Captain’s Ready Room, 0940 hours Isis settled herself more comfortably in Gary Seven’s lap where he was seated at the table beside Agent T’Mir. She rubbed her head against Gary’s warm thigh and lay back to watch the humans with curiosity. Jonathan Archer sat at the head of the table. Malcolm Reed sat opposite him, with a subdued-looking Hoshi Sato at his side. Commander Tucker sat next to them, looking a bit more awake after the bombshell that Gary had just delivered. The three male officers’ obvious distrust of their female crewmate now that she’d been revealed as a telepath puzzled the temporal agent. Hoshi Sato was the most dedicated and ethical human being that Isis had met in a very long time, and Isis had met a lot of human beings over the centuries. The captain’s attitude was the most troubling of the three. Malcolm Reed loved Hoshi. Isis had no doubt of it, and so his standoffish attitude could be attributed to his surprise over the sudden revelation. Trip Tucker’s direct personal experience with telepathy must be the reason why he seemed less distrustful and more concerned about Hoshi’s safety. Archer, however, seemed angry and mistrustful, not only of Lieutenant Sato, but also of the temporal agents themselves. Isis could see the man’s ire on his face as he read the padd Gary had given him. “Let me get this straight, Mr. Seven,” began Archer coldly, shaking the padd he held in one hand in Gary’s face. “You’ve known all this time that the pilot of this shuttle was a Betazoid, and didn’t see fit to inform me of this so that I could warn Starfleet? The Betazoids have thus far refused our offer to play an active role in this war. They’re staying close to home to protect their own people. They’re closer to the Romulans than we are, so I can’t say that I really blame them for making the defense of their own system their top priority, but do you realize what an alliance between Betazed and Romulus might mean? The Romulans would be unbeatable if they could place agents in our midst that could read our minds. Having telepaths to provide intelligence would be an advantage that could change the tide of the war... and now you tell me that I’ve got one aboard I didn’t know about, and that she’s vulnerable to control by outside telepathic forces.” He paused and glanced at Hoshi with a disapproving expression. “I don’t much like that idea either,” he commented angrily. Isis felt Gary’s arms tense around her, and could sense his impending explosion. She didn’t blame him, but it really wasn’t the captain’s fault. He had only partial information. “Explain it to him, Gary. Don’t get angry,” she warned. Gary’s wordless and coolly annoyed acknowledgement of her counsel reassured her. At least there wouldn’t be any blows exchanged. “I apologize for the misunderstanding, Captain, but you don’t have full information. Allow me to explain,” began Seven calmly. Archer, somewhat mollified by his tone, simply nodded brusquely and waited with an expectant look. “First of all, this Betazoid working with the Romulans is an isolated occurrence,” said Seven. “We believe that he was coerced, and I can reassure you that the Betazoids are not destined to ally themselves with the Romulan Empire. The Betazoids will, in fact, play a prominent role in the eventual resolution of this war and in the foundation of the Federation... behind the scenes, of course,” he added mysteriously. Archer raised a brow at him, but Seven ignored the implied question and went on. “Secondly, your crew member is neither a plant nor an enemy agent. She’s merely a latent telepath, and likely would require years of training before being capable of the type of intelligence gathering you’re afraid of. As you’re well aware, she isn’t even telepathically sensitive enough to be vulnerable to the Betazoid telepathic weapon. The pilot of the Romulan shuttle could have influenced anyone on this ship with any telepathic talent at all, but he chose Lieutenant Sato because she was least capable of fighting back. Agent Isis has volunteered to teach her some shielding techniques to prevent this from happening again. Will that be enough to reassure you that she’s no danger to your ship and crew?” Archer eyed him doubtfully, and then transferred his gaze to the young woman. His eyes met hers, and Isis saw something in them that she didn’t expect. Archer looked... hurt. His lips quirked upward wistfully. “Remember when I chased you down in Brazil to recruit you, Hoshi?” he asked her softly. The young human woman returned his reminiscent look, and smiled back at him. “I thought you were crazy,” she answered, amused. “The whole idea of going out on a starship scared me witless, but I trusted you...” she added, shrugging, “... so I said yes.” Archer smiled at her with a flattered expression on his face. “You trusted me?” he repeated. “Is that the only reason you came?” She grinned impishly. “That and the fact that I was just dying to have an actual conversation with a Klingon,” she replied only half-jokingly. He chuckled once, and then his expression sobered. He gazed at her solemnly, put the padd he was holding down on the tabletop, and then leaned forward with both hands clasped on the table in front of him. “Is what Agent Seven said the truth, Hoshi, or are you lying to me?” he asked with disarming directness. Hoshi shook her head, smiling at him reassuringly. “I’ve never lied to you, Jon...,” she told him earnestly, reaching out between them to rest her hand on his and holding his gaze, still smiling, “...not when you were the handsome young lieutenant we cadets all had the hots for, and certainly not now that I’m under your command,” she said. Isis noticed Malcolm Reed’s look of displeasure and Trip Tucker’s quickly suppressed smirk, but everyone else in the room had their eyes focused on Jonathan Archer as he smiled wryly and replied, “I suppose it’s my turn to trust you, then.” Hoshi’s hand gripped his briefly, and then she released him and sat up straight in her chair, her manner abruptly transforming her from a young girl pleading for a trusted mentor’s confidence into a seasoned military officer. “Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint you,” she responded firmly. The comm’s attention tone sounded. Commander T’Pol’s calm voice filled the room. “Captain. I’ve located a ship within a crater in one of the asteroids that’s the correct size and shape to be the shuttle we’re looking for. There’s one life sign aboard. It’s faint, but I think it’s Betazoid.” “Try to get a more detailed internal scan of the ship,” responded Archer. “We’re on our way.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 28 Ael, Year 1618 AS Romulus, In a hovercar somewhere in the cloud of steam surrounding the Firefalls of Gal’gathong The roar of the ocean sublimating to steam as it contacted the lava flow should have been deafening, but it was muted somehow by the invisible dome that covered the open hovercar like a half-sphere of transparent aluminum. Toron sprawled in the rear seat of the vehicle with every bit of his exposed skin stinging and burning, still in a state of shock over his sudden and unexpected reprieve from what would certainly have been a very painful death. Despite the decision he’d made to end his life for reasons of honor, a feeling of intense relief was all he could muster. His eyes lit on the dome above him, and he collected his thoughts enough to examine it as the small woman who’d vaulted the front seat to join him in the back ran what looked like a miniature medical scanner over his body. Ignoring her for the moment, Toron reached out with a blistered finger to touch the inside of the dome. The contact sent a not entirely unpleasant tingle through him and elicited a crackle and a spark from the surface above his head. His foot brushed up against something then, and he looked down to find a half-meter sized box fastened to the floor of the vehicle with screws. Next to it was an empty carry-bag. A portable force field?! he thought with a delighted smile. The Tal Shiar had been working on something like this, but had not yet achieved this level of portability. As far as he knew, the things he’d seen this shield do could only be done using a power generator at least twice the size of the hovercar they were riding in. His attention returned to the petite and serious faced young woman beside him. He noticed for the first time that she was smooth-browed like himself, and quite beautiful. “Is the rest of your equipment so easily handled?” he asked curiously. He heard a chuckle from the driver’s seat, but he couldn’t see the driver’s face. The woman glanced from the driver to Toron with a quizzical expression. The woman’s look of puzzlement made Toron realize that he’d done it again. His tendency to focus on technology to the exclusion of niceties such as personal introductions had always annoyed his mother and offended any woman he’d been fortunate enough to come in contact with. He grimaced apologetically. “Pardon me. I am Toron,” he added belatedly. The woman raised a brow at him. He couldn’t tell if she was amused or annoyed. “We are aware of that,” she replied calmly. Tucking the medical scanner into a pouch at her belt and pulling out a first aid kit, she grasped his hand and began to apply a spray-on burn dressing. “You have second degree burns over twenty percent of your body surface area. Do you require pain medication?” she asked. He blinked at her. There was something unusual about her. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He smiled at her gratefully and nodded. There was no point in being too proud. She pressed the hypospray to his neck. Then he realized what was wrong. She wasn’t smiling back. “The medication will cause drowsiness, so I will explain what we’re doing here before you fall asleep,” said the woman in a businesslike tone. Toron leaned back in the seat, already getting just a little light-headed, and gave her his full attention. It wasn’t difficult. She was a very interesting girl. His eyes settled on her cleavage as she spoke. “As I’m sure you are aware, your life as you have known it is over. The Praetor has put out a warrant for your arrest. The charge is treason against the Empire.” Toron sighed. He so enjoyed the huskiness of her voice and its serene calmness. So peaceful. His eyes rose to her face, and he smiled blearily. She paused in her speech for a second, eyeing him in a tolerant manner, and then continued her summary. “Witnesses have just seen you end your life. You must never return to Romulus. Fortunately, my partner and I have been sent to offer you employment which will allow you to make use of your talents in a productive manner and live out a normal lifespan. You will receive further indoctrination when we arrive at our destination.” Toron fought to keep his eyes open. He wanted to ask her a question, but his lips refused to move, except to continue to smile blissfully as the burning pain finally subsided, replaced by the feeling of being warm and safe and cared for as he fell asleep. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx August 4, 2156 Enterprise Bridge, 1000 hours Commander T’Pol didn’t even raise her head from her sensor display when the door of the captain’s ready room opened, discharging the room’s occupants onto the bridge. Although technically in command while the captain held his meeting, she’d seen no reason to leave her duty station only to be forced to interpret the results of her detailed scan of the asteroid field on the smaller and less familiar display console in the arm of the command chair. She did, however, raise her head when she sensed someone behind her, and turned to discover T’Mir looking over her shoulder at the sensor display. A glance at the rest of the bridge revealed Lieutenant Commander Reed hovering over Crewman Mitchell, a casually dressed Lieutenant Sato standing behind Ensign MacNamara, and Agent Seven standing beside the command chair next to the captain. The only stations lacking double occupancy were the helm and the bridge’s engineering station, manned by Lieutenant Mayweather and Commander Tucker respectively. She raised a brow. “It’s fortunate that I chose to remain at my station,” she murmured to T’Mir. “It would be difficult to get here from the command chair in this crowd.” Her comment elicited a quirk of the lips from T’Mir, quickly concealed behind a casually raised hand. T’Mir’s response, in turn, prompted a chuckle from across the bridge. T’Pol’s eyes met her husband’s. Trip was smiling broadly at the two of them. She was sorely tempted to break her self-imposed restriction on mental contact with her husband while on duty. He winked at her. She raised both brows then, and looked back down at her sensor display with a pleased expression. He must be feeling better, she thought. Then her attention was captured by a change in the sensor readings. “What am I looking at, T’Pol?” asked Archer abruptly, gazing with a puzzled expression at his armrest display. “I don’t see any life signs.” She studied her console for another moment before responding. “You’re correct, Captain. Sensors indicate a volume of biomass in the passenger compartment of the shuttle which may represent a humanoid body. The ship has no active shields. I suggest locking on to the body and transporting it directly to the isolation chamber in Sickbay. Perhaps Dr. Phlox can still do something.” Archer nodded. “Do it,” he told her. T’Pol got busy as he activated the comm. “Bridge to Sickbay.” “Phlox here,” came the doctor’s cheerful voice. “I’m sending a patient to your isolation chamber, Doctor. If he’s still alive, it’s not by much,” warned Archer. “Acknowledged, Captain... He’s here now. I’ll do my best,” responded Phlox hurriedly before deactivating the comm to attend to his patient. “Cap’n,” put in Trip, “I’m reading deuterium in the passenger compartment. Looks like the four cylinders that were stolen... but the fuel cylinder installed in the ship is empty. Everything’s offline... even life support. I’m tryin’ to see if I can tell whether it might be safe to board her.” He made some adjustments to his display as he studied the data he was receiving. “No, it’s not safe... at least, not without respirators. The carbon dioxide levels are unacceptably high,” reported T’Pol. “A human would be unconscious within minutes, a Vulcan... perhaps another hour or two. And we have no way of knowing whether there might also be an infectious organism present to account for the state of its occupant. I recommend full AV suits.” Archer nodded, pondering his options. As he did so, a high-pitched whine filled the bridge, and Hoshi vanished from the comm station. Immediately, Lieutenant Commander Reed signaled a tactical alert, his expression one of near-panic before he managed to get his instinctive reaction under control. Archer turned to Trip. “Was that from the shuttle?” he demanded. “I thought you said everything was offline!” “It was!” Trip protested as he furiously searched his console for the source of the transporter signal. “It’s firing up atmospheric maneuvering thrusters!” “I can’t get a lock on her,” said Malcolm grimly. “The shuttle’s put shields up.” “It’s been holding auxiliary power supply in reserve,” said Trip in disbelief. “The pilot’s probably dead from lack of power to the life support systems and there’s still enough power to run the ship! Who would design a ship to sacrifice the pilot before sacrificing power to the shields?” “The cloak’s up,” said Malcolm numbly. “She’s gone.” “What about the modified sensors?” Archer asked. “Can’t we pick up the cloaked shuttle using those?” Seven exhaled heavily. He’d been silent thus far, but T’Pol could tell by the expression on his face that he had bad news. “Your sensor modification detects the transmissions between the telepresence unit occupied by the telepathic pilot and the ship’s computer. Unfortunately, the pilot is in your sickbay. The computer must be running the ship. It’s likely that in these circumstances you will not be able to detect the shuttle.” Malcolm Reed gave Seven an angry look. “Permission to keep looking anyway, Captain?” he said through clenched teeth. Archer nodded. “Permission granted, Mr. Reed.” He stared at the cluster of asteroids on the forward viewscreen. “Trip, see if you, T’Mir, and T’Pol can find a trace of those atmospheric thrusters. It won’t get far using those for propulsion.” He turned to Agent Seven as he rose from the command chair. “Come with me to Sickbay. Maybe that Betazoid pilot can provide us with some information.” He preceded Agent Seven to the turbolift with a thoughtful look on his face, adding almost as an afterthought as the doors began to close, “T’Pol, you have the con.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 28 Ael, Year 1618 AS Romulus, A forest glade in Mount Gal’gathong Imperial Preserve Agent T’Mir paused for a moment at the sound of avian voices twittering in the upper branches of the conifers. The sharp, spicy smell of the trees combined with the rich musty smell of the soil, permeating the air around her. The odor was pungent, but not at all unpleasant. She glanced over at Arrhae, who was removing the shield emitters from the opposite side of the vehicle. He seemed oblivious to the unusual beauty around him. As usual, he was intently focused on the task at hand, determined to do his duty. His intensity alarmed her at times. She had no doubt that if the occasion ever warranted it he would give his life for the success of the mission... or for her protection... without a second of hesitation. His lack of self preservation instincts seemed illogical to her. She understood his dedication on an intellectual level, of course. He’d been indoctrinated since birth to offer unswerving loyalty and obedience to authority. After his recruitment, he’d simply transferred that loyalty to the agency. She had no doubt that the agency considered him to be the perfect temporal agent. He was the perfect temporal agent. The moment she’d realized that fact was the moment she’d become fearful of getting too close to him. Men like Arrhae died young. It was quite logical self preservation on her part, she’d convinced herself. She’d watched too many people die on Vulcan... people she’d formed attachments to... people whose loss had left gaping holes in her psyche requiring years to repair just enough so she didn’t fall in. There was no reason to subject herself to that again. No reason at all. Arrhae finished with the emitter and stood, holding it in his hand and looking for the carry bag. T’Mir hastily returned her attention to her work as he walked around the side of the vehicle to slip the emitter into the bag at her feet. She could sense his body heat behind her as he leaned down to whisper in her ear. She closed her eyes. The near contact disturbed her equilibrium. “How long will he sleep? What did you give him?” Arrhae asked softly. She lifted her head to gaze at the young Romulan sleeping soundly across the rear seat of the hovercar. His burns were beginning to blister extensively. He’d be in considerable pain when he regained consciousness. “Hydromorphone and a small dose of zolpidem tartrate for sleep,” she replied quietly. “He’ll be out for several hours. He’s had a painful and traumatic day. I thought it best that he awaken in the academy infirmary.” She gazed at the young man, still a boy really, in that stage of lanky awkwardness between attaining his full height and attaining a man’s muscle mass. “He’s quite young to be so accomplished,” she remarked. “He’s older than you were when we first met,” rumbled Arrhae, still standing behind her with his body inches from her own. She slipped the emitter in the bag, stood, and turned, expecting him to step back. He stood his ground, towering over her by half a meter as was his wont to do. She tried to stare him down with an irate expression, but he ignored her. Surprisingly, though, instead of the teasing look she expected, his face was intently serious. “Is it because I’m Romulan that you dislike me?” he asked bluntly. T’Mir blinked back at him in puzzlement. “I don’t dislike you, Arrhae,” she replied, baffled by his assumption. Did the man have no concept of his effect on her? He just stood there looking down at her with a disbelieving expression on his face. He still hadn’t touched her. She found herself devoutly wishing that he would. “What’s wrong, then?” he persisted. “Why do you treat me this way?’ He raised two fingers swiftly toward her face in frustration, and she shied away, mostly startled by his sudden movement, but also inexplicably fearful of what she’d been longing for only seconds before. He gave her a challenging look, and she lifted her chin, standing her ground as his hand began to move again. Her eyes closed as his fingers brushed lightly against her cheek. She kept them closed as his frustration and raw desire were transmitted clearly to her through the barely tangible contact. “And how do you believe that I’m treating you?” she asked breathlessly. His twin fingertips seemed to burn like fire as she felt them trace a line from her cheek to the angle of her jaw. She could hear his respirations accelerate as he drew his fingers down the side of her neck. “Like a brother, or perhaps the mate of a close friend,” he complained softly. She stopped breathing as he began to trace the open neckline of her bodice. The Romulan jumpsuit was considerably more revealing than the clothing she usually wore. When his fingers reached the upper curve of her left breast, she finally opened her eyes, meeting his gaze squarely. The intensity of the emotions she was receiving from him had not diminished, but she was becoming accustomed to them. Instead of fear, she fought a stirring of arousal in response to his touch. “I would not allow this behavior if I felt that way about you,” she told him flatly. Her eyes left his to follow his hand downward, and she reached with the first two fingers of her left hand to stroke the back of his hand where he was touching her body. The dual contact intensified their emotional communion, and her breathing began to accelerate in time with his. “What is it, then?” he asked, reaching around her waist with his opposite hand to bring her body finally into contact with his. The feel of his firmly muscled thighs and abdomen against her was long-awaited ultimate pleasure and sheer torture at the same time. Her biosynthetic hand was splayed across his chest, transmitting data about body temperature and the precise number of millimeters traveled by his anterior chest wall with every inhalation. She ignored it all, overwhelmed by what she was feeling. “You’re a soldier,” she whispered, weakening. His fingers stroked her left hand from fingertip to wrist and back again, traveling around to her palm to draw a white hot line down its center. T’Mir felt as if she might very soon just spontaneously combust. “Not any more,” he countered. His hand left hers to trace her ear slowly from lobe to pointed tip, and she gasped. “You will always be a soldier,” she insisted breathlessly, “... and soldiers die young.” His mouth followed his fingers’ lead, and he began to trace her earlobe with his tongue. She whimpered. He chuckled. “And you would forgo all the pleasure we could give each other simply to avoid the remote possibility of pain?” he murmured into her ear. “How tremendously illogical of you,” he teased, smiling. She turned her head and gazed at him thoughtfully for several seconds, but could find no fault with his logic, and so she put one hand behind his head and tentatively tasted his smiling lips in human fashion. His look of utter surprise was very rewarding. She smiled back, and then pulled his head down for a second helping. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 28 Ael, Year 1618 AS Khellian’s passenger/cargo compartment The first thing that hit her when she materialized was the smell. It was the smell of an unwashed body and human waste, thick and cloying and nauseating. Hoshi was relieved now that she hadn’t eaten anything yet that day. Instinctively breathing through her mouth, she had just enough time to realize that she was now an unwilling passenger aboard a ship which had instructions on the bulkheads written in Romulan script before she became aware of the sensation of heaviness in her chest. With each breath, she became increasingly short of breath until the odor ceased to be an issue and she began to gasp reflexively for air. She fought her rising terror as her breath made misty clouds in the frigid air. The chamber was i cold /i . A voice was speaking. Initially it sounded like gibberish, until she managed to process a few of the words and realized it was Betazoid. “Place the respirator over your nose and mouth and breathe normally, then await further instructions. Place the respirator over your nose and mouth and breathe normally, then await further instructions. Place the...” Hoshi tuned out the flat automated tones of the repeating message and frantically searched the icy room, her chest heaving with her efforts to get enough air in. The first thing that caught her attention was the supply cart she’d loaded that morning, with one of the crates lying fractured on the floor beside it. No respirator there. Damn! Where is it? There were two bunks on either side of the chamber with their heads roughly one meter from the rear of the chamber and a two-meter tall vertically oriented rectangular box outfitted with wrist, chest, hip, and ankle restraints between them. The telepresence unit. There were several compartments in the back wall which hung open. A triangular mask/reservoir bag combination dangled from one of the openings by a length of tubing. Oh, thank God! Hoshi scrambled over the rightward bunk, the one not soiled with mysterious and odorous stains, and grabbed the mask with shaking hands, pulling it over her nose and mouth. Then she grasped the fixtures in the rear of the compartment for support while she pulled in breath after breath of odorless, oxygen-rich air. Her respirations slowed gradually as she considered her situation, shivering. The atmosphere in the shuttle was obviously contaminated, and the place felt like a deep freeze. Life support was evidently offline. She was going to have to figure out how to restart the life support systems. I’m a linguist, dammit, not an engineer! Then, to her surprise, the automated message changed. “Refueling is required for power to re-initialize the CO2 scrubbers and heat the passenger compartment. Detach the respirator mask from its tubing and re-attach it to the scrubber cartridge in the drawer below the mask attachment. Continue to wear the mask until you are told that it is safe to remove it.” Hoshi looked into the drawer at the base of the respirator compartment as the voice began another repeat of its instructions. She pulled a cylindrical cartridge from the drawer, tugged firmly on the tubing to detach it from her mask, and plugged the cartridge in. Then she took a tentative breath. So far, so good, she thought in relief. Rubbing both hands over her arms to combat the numbness, she looked around the compartment to locate the fuel cylinders she’d loaded on the cart that morning. Climbing back over the bunk, she manhandled one of the heavy cylinders from the cart to the deck. The computer was still reciting respirator instructions. Can it respond to requests? she wondered. “Computer, how do I refuel?” she asked aloud, addressing the room in general, speaking both loudly and clearly in Betazoid to make sure that she was understood through the mask. There was silence for a second, and then the voice responded. “The access panel for refueling is in the center of the deck. You will find tools for its removal in drawer 14C near the waste disposal unit. Retrieve them and await further instructions.” Hoshi sighed, and then climbed back over the bunk to get the tools. At least the exertion was warming her up a little. On the return trip, she tried to save time by addressing the computer again. “Okay, I have the tools. What’s next?” she asked. “Remove the stem bolts from each corner of the panel and await further instructions.” Hoshi rolled her eyes. The computer evidently was not programmed to deal with someone able to follow a series of directions. She felt like she was in kindergarten again. She felt a sudden jerk of the deck beneath her feet as she reached for the first bolt with the magnetic wrench. Her head came up. “What’s happening?” she demanded of the computer. She got no response. The shuttle jerked again. She sat back on her heels on the frigid deck, considering her options. The computer needs me to do this refueling, otherwise it wouldn’t have bothered to transport me here, she decided. She put the wrench down and sat on the deck beside the access panel with her arms crossed over her chest. Wincing to herself over the risk she was taking, she took a shot at taking charge. “Computer, tell me what’s happening or I won’t refuel,” she hazarded. “If refueling is not accomplished, life support will remain offline, and you will become fatally hypothermic within four hours,” replied the computer unemotionally. Hoshi sighed. “And once that happens, you will no longer have a passenger capable of refueling this ship,” she countered. There was silence for several seconds. “Hostile activity was detected in the vicinity, and evasive action was taken,” said the computer finally. “Evasive action? What evasive action? I thought you had no power,” said Hoshi, puzzled. “This vessel’s programming requires the maintenance of power reserves for stealth operations in enemy territory. This reserve has been used to cloak and shield this vessel. Atmospheric maneuvering thrusters use a chemical fuel supply unrelated to the main power supply. They are now depleted, but we are currently concealed and safe,” replied the computer. “You will now refuel this vessel.” Hoshi pondered the information she’d been given. The ship was now helpless and immobile, without even the minimal fuel reserves in the maneuvering thrusters to fall back on. If she failed to refuel, she might never be found until auxiliary power ran out completely and the shields and cloak went down. By that time, it was likely that there would be no life signs left to locate. She exhaled in resignation, and then reached once again for the magnetic wrench. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx August 4, 2156 Enterprise Sickbay, 1005 hours Elena Archer sat helplessly in bed in the midst of pandemonium. She wasn’t accustomed to inactivity, especially when everyone around her seemed to have something vitally important to do. Liz Cutler grabbed a rolling cart containing several pieces of complicated looking equipment and followed Dr. Phlox as he left the wall mounted comm at a near run. The sound of a high pitched whine from inside the isolation chamber told her that the doctor’s patient had just arrived. The chamber door slammed shut with a clang behind Cutler, and the room was abruptly silent. Elena stared at the closed door for a second and then flopped back on the bed with her hands over the swell of her belly, feeling useless. “It sucks to be stuck in bed, doesn’t it?” remarked Janice Hess wryly from the biobed next door. The engineer grinned sympathetically at her friend. Elena’s lips quirked upward. “It’s not like I’d be of any use to anyone,” she replied. “No one needs a lawyer out here.” She shrugged. “I suppose it’s a good thing we’re going home.” Janice sighed, giving her a dubious look. “I don’t know about that. You don’t have to tell a man you barely know that he’s going to be a father by accident,” she replied. “I think I’d rather we take our time getting back to Earth.” She cocked her head questioningly at Elena. “I would think you’d be reluctant to leave your husband. Are you really that eager to get home?” Elena thought for a moment. “I suppose not,” she replied hesitantly, “...but I’d like to have our babies at home in Houston, not on a starship out in the middle of nowhere... and I’d like to get back to work. I’ve had about all the exotic honeymoon I can stand,” she admitted. Janice nodded in agreement. “I’m about ready for things to get back to normal, myself. I guess I’ll have to apply for a posting planetside, though. Once we get home there’s no way Starfleet’ll let me ship out again until after the baby’s born, and by that time I really don’t think I’ll want to go.” She lay back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “I’m a mom now,” she said in a disbelieving tone, chuckling softly. “That just sounds so strange!” Elena laughed. “You think it’s strange! You’re what... maybe thirty? I’ll be forty-three on my next birthday, and in less than two months I’m going to have two kids to raise... pretty much by myself if I know my husband’s dedication to Starfleet. I can’t complain, though. I did this to myself... on purpose, believe it or not!” Her eyes cut to Janice, who was grinning sympathetically. “I guess you’re in the same boat with the single mom thing, though, aren’t you?” she asked Janice. Janice shrugged and grimaced wryly. “Probably,” she said. “I’m not gonna force Milo to participate in his son’s life if he isn’t ready. He didn’t ask to be a parent.” She smiled wistfully. “You didn’t either, Jan... and it’s not like you pinned him down and forced yourself on him!” protested Elena. Janice laughed at that. “That would be pretty hard to do. He’s the only man I’ve ever met strong enough to lift me and sling me around as if I weighed ninety pounds. He can even hang on to me dripping wet and slippery,” replied Janice slyly. Elena rolled her eyes and grinned. “TMI, Jan... TMI...” she teased. The doors to Sickbay swished open, and Jonathan Archer entered with Agent Seven on his heels. Elena smiled in welcome and held out a hand. With a brief and slightly embarrassed glance at Seven, Jon left the agent’s side to join his wife. He interlaced his fingers with hers and squeezed gently before speaking. “How are you this morning, sweetheart?” he asked softly. She squeezed back. “We’re all fine, Jon,” she replied, smiling as he laid a careful hand on her abdomen. Her eyes cut to the isolation chamber and then back to her husband. “I think you’ve got a crisis on your hands, though. Don’t mind me, querido. I’ll still be here when you’re done,” she reassured him. He gave her a grateful look and dropped her hand, turning to give Janice Hess an encouraging nod as the isolation chamber door opened and Cutler exited slowly, pushing the crash cart with a disappointed expression on her face. Phlox followed her out. He shook his head when he caught sight of the captain. Elena sat up in bed and began to eavesdrop shamelessly. “I’m sorry, Captain...” Phlox began ruefully, “He was just too far gone to save. He looks like he’s been starved for weeks. I believe that he was already suffering from heart failure due to protein-calorie malnutrition, and then when he was exposed to a reduced oxygen, high carbon dioxide environment and rendered hypothermic... well... his heart just couldn’t take it.” He sighed and stopped for a moment with a thoughtful expression on his face. “I think I recognize him, though. He’s so emaciated that I can’t be certain, but I think this man was the ex-monarch of Betazed.” Jon stared at the doctor in shock, and then looked at Agent Seven with a puzzled expression. It seemed to Elena that the temporal agent wasn’t surprised in the least by the news. “Elren of the Fifth House?” asked Jon. His expression became wary as he obviously made the same judgment about Seven that Elena had. “You knew about this, didn’t you?” he demanded. Seven exhaled heavily, and then nodded. “Romulans abducted him from the facility where he was being held on Betazed and used him to pilot their experimental craft. I was under orders not to reveal this information because it was thought that the knowledge would raise questions about the trustworthiness of the Betazoids that might hamper future negotiations. As I’ve said before, the involvement of the Betazoids in the resolution of this war won’t be public knowledge, but it will be vital. Nothing can be allowed to interfere with it,” he explained. Jon nodded with a pensive expression. Then his eyes returned to the doctor in puzzlement. “Why was he starved? That doesn’t make sense. It seems like they’d want to keep him healthy to pilot their ship.” “I don’t believe the intent was to kill him. It looks as if his caretakers were simply ignorant of the caloric needs of a Betazoid telepath. Telepathy requires a considerable amount of energy. They just weren’t competent enough to keep up with his requirements, and my preliminary scans showed so much brain damage that I doubt he was in any condition to enlighten them,” replied Phlox. “Brain damage? From what?” asked Jon. Phlox shrugged. “I’m assuming from the telepresence interface, but it might have been the result of his treatment by his captors.” “Did he have any infections? Anything transmissible? Hoshi’s on that vessel.” Jon’s concern was evident. Elena felt a pang of dismay. Hoshi was a friend, and now she’d been taken on board the same vessel that had captured Elena and Janice, only this time it was worse. From what she’d managed to glean from Phlox’s summary to Jonathan, it sounded as if Hoshi was in terrible danger. “I’ll have to do an autopsy to determine that, Captain,” replied Phlox. Jon nodded again, and then shook his head. “I wish he’d lived... at least long enough for him to tell us how to find Hoshi,” he murmured, half to himself. Phlox nodded sympathetically. “I’ll call you when I’ve completed my analysis,” he said. Then he turned back toward the isolation chamber. Liz Cutler followed him without being asked, carrying a medical scanner and a tray of surgical instruments. They exchanged an intimate smile at the entrance to the chamber. Then the Denobulan stepped back and gestured gallantly for Liz to precede him. Elena shook her head wonderingly. She still hadn’t figured out those two. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Stardate 3013.531 Temporal Training Academy Commencement Exercises The lean and solemn young Romulan took his diploma from the director of the academy with a proud expression on his face, shaking the grey-haired human’s hand firmly. He stepped down from the podium to join his classmates amid scattered applause. Arrhae pounded his hands together enthusiastically. He found it ironic that he felt such pride in seeing another Romulan graduate from the academy after his own reluctance to enter into military service to the Romulan Empire at a similar age. Even though Toron’s talents would undoubtedly eventually lead him toward R&D, he was an agent trainee now, one of only two in the agency of Romulan blood. Arrhae heard the sound of clapping approaching him from the outer aisle and turned his head just in time to see T’Mir slip in to the seat next to him. He was surprised to see her. She was supposed to be on a mission. He should have realized that she’d make the effort to attend, though, given her interest in Toron and his achievements. She would never smile in public, but her applause was louder than his, and more emphatic. He could sense her pride in the boy through their bond. “He’s no longer a boy,” she chided her mate silently. “He’s only four years younger than I am.” “In years perhaps, but not in experience. He’s led a very sheltered life. I’m not sure it’s safe for him to become a field agent,” Arrhae sent doubtfully in reply. “One mission... that’s all the agency requires of him. Then he’ll become a research scientist,” T’Mir reassured him. “I’m told that he’s going out to meet Agents Seven and Isis. They’ll take good care of him.” Arrhae gazed down at his diminutive spouse dubiously. “Didn’t you tell me that your first training mission involved the drone they’re sending Toron out to reprogram? Won’t it upset the timeline if he meets you?” She cocked her head up to look at him and sent reassurance, with the smallest upturn of her lips. “Haven’t you learned yet about temporal paradoxes, ashayam? I don’t remember meeting him until his recruitment, so it didn’t happen. Stop worrying so much.” Arrhae smiled, and turned his gaze politely back to the podium where the director was making his final comments. His mind wasn’t on the speech, though. “I’m on leave from my current mission for the next twenty four hours,” he sent. His sending contained not only words, but images. He felt T’Mir’s eagerness in response to his memories of their last leave together. “Tonight...,” she responded lasciviously, giving back images even more detailed than his own. For a moment, the memory of her smooth skin sliding over his with nothing in between almost made him forget where he was. He felt two fingers touch the back of his hand where it rested on his thigh. The warmth of her affection for him filled him completely, and the proprieties were observed. They sat side by side in the auditorium, fingertips touching, watching their prize pupil graduate. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 28 Ael, Year 1618 AS Khellian’s passenger/cargo compartment Hoshi stood with her hands on her hips, inspecting her handiwork. She’d changed the filthy bed linens, and the contents of the broken supply crate were stacked neatly back into the remnants of the crate and pushed into the corner along with the supply cart, leaving just enough room in the center of the compartment for her to stretch out her arms and do a few warm up exercises. The room was a few degrees warmer and the CO2 scrubbers were back online. She’d been told to remove her respirator an hour before, and then the computer had fallen silent. The smell in the room was much less pungent now, although the telepresence unit was still a source of unpleasantness. The poor pilot must have been strapped in that thing for days. She approached the unit and studied it. It had a waste receptacle which badly needed emptying and the straps were stained with what looked like dried blood. She lifted the hood and winced at the sight of dozens of fine needles on the underside of the headpiece. “Computer, how do I clean the telepresence unit?” she asked. The flat genderless voice answered, “Maintenance of this component is not in my database. Technicians should be available in this system who are capable of servicing the unit. You are now the pilot of this vessel. You must enter the unit and approach the space station orbiting the third planet to request maintenance services.” “I’m not a telepath. I can’t operate that thing!” protested Hoshi. “My previous pilot chose you to assist with the retrieval of supplies. You must therefore be a telepath. You are the pilot of this vessel,” repeated the voice. “Computer... what happened to the previous pilot?” asked Hoshi apprehensively. “He was defective. He was unable to perform his function. You are a superior model. You refueled this vessel. You will enter the unit now and perform your function.” “I’m not getting in that filthy thing! Those needles and straps have blood all over them. I’ll catch something and get sick and die, and then you won’t have a pilot anymore,” insisted Hoshi. There was a pause of several seconds. “Sensor scans of the unit indicate a removable waste reservoir. Begin by removing this reservoir and emptying it into the waste receptacle in the rear of the compartment. Protective clothing intended for use in biohazardous waste clean up can be found in storage compartment 27.” Yet another small door opened in the wall at the rear of the chamber. Inspection of the compartment revealed a yellow bucket containing elbow length gloves, goggles, a scrub brush, and a long sleeved water proof apron. Hoshi sighed. Damn. Now I’m the janitor. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx August 4, 2156 Enterprise Bridge, 1100 hours “T’Mir and I can continue the search, husband. You’re asleep on your feet. Go and get some rest,” sent T’Pol with a meaningful look at Enterprise’s chief engineer. Trip was trying valiantly to help with the search for the Romulan drone ship, but he was so sleepy that his drowsiness was beginning to affect her clarity of thought. “I’m on duty, T’Pol. I can’t just go to my cabin and go to sleep,” Trip protested silently from the bridge’s engineering station as he scanned the display monitor in front of him for traces left by the chemical fuel of the shuttle’s atmospheric thrusters. T’Pol continued her inspection of the sensor readings on the display in the arm of the command chair. T’Mir stood at the science station, simultaneously searching a separate area of the asteroid field and, like the rest of the bridge crew, oblivious to the silent debate going on between the two highest ranking officers on the bridge. “I am in command, Trip. Must I make it an order?” she sent without raising her head. His proximity was so tempting. She found it virtually impossible to block him completely when he was literally within arm’s reach, and he was so exhausted. She wanted to curl up in bed with him and sleep for hours. She needed to. Her hand came up without her volition to cover a yawn. T’Mir looked up in surprise. So did Trip. I’m makin’ ya sleepy, aren’t I? Why didn’t ya say so? he demanded without a sound, staring at her in frustration from across the bridge. “It’s irrelevant,” she replied tersely without lifting her head. “No, it’s not! You’re in command, T’Pol. You need to be alert!” he insisted. She raised her head then, and just stared at him with one brow raised. He smiled at her sheepishly. “Ah... permission to continue my shift in Engineering, Commander,” he asked rather reluctantly. “I promise that I’ll go lie down on the cot in my office until I’m needed. Will that do?” he sent. She inclined her head. “Of course, Commander,” she replied. “Sleep well, ashayam.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx San Francisco, August 4, 2156 San Francisco Fire Department Division 4, Spaceport Rescue 3, Fire Station One Milo tossed the last handful of rice into the huge bubbling pan of paella and replaced the cover, wiping his hands on the dish towel he had slung over one shoulder. Thad poked his head around the doorjamb of the fire station’s small kitchen with a hungry look on his face. Milo grinned. “Fifteen minutes, amigo. Let the others know, okay?” Thad’s chubby, boyish face broke into an answering smile. “Sure thing, Captain!” he replied cheerily before heading up the stairs to the bunk room. Milo put the cutting board in the sink and the seasonings back in the cabinet. There was no measuring cup to put away. He never used one. He’d discovered at least two things in the ten years since he’d moved out of his parent’s home in San Francisco and become a firefighter: that if he wanted to eat anything besides pizza or Chinese for dinner on the nights he was on call at the station he had to cook it himself, and that when he closed his fingers tightly, his cupped, long fingered hand, proportional to his six foot, nine inch frame, held precisely one cup of rice. He left the kitchen and strolled into the common room. It looked like Joey and Paula were up to their old tricks again. His two best firefighters sat with identically sullen looks on their faces on the extreme ends of the couch. Each had their own remote and was watching a small screen window on the opposite end of the wall-sized vid-screen. Paula was watching the news and Joey was watching a football game, but it could have just as easily been the other way around. At any given moment the two of them seemed to deliberately choose to disagree with each other just on general purposes, despite the fact that they had similar tastes in everything. They even had the same haircut, an eminently practical inches-long spike that didn’t interfere with their helmets. When he’d first taken command of the team, Milo had assumed they were an item until he found out they were brother and sister. They certainly fought like family. Why they chose to continue to work together at the same fire station was an unresolved mystery of the universe. He was pretty sure it had something to do with the fact that while they were on the job they operated virtually as a single person. He wasn’t sure whether it was a function of them being fraternal twins or whether it was just the fact that they’d been working together for so long, but words were never necessary between them. It was like they could read each other’s minds. And strangely enough, despite their constant bickering, they always seemed to know each other’s business in embarrassing detail. He eyed Paula, suddenly relieved that his instincts had kept him from making a move on her, despite the fact that she was just the kind of woman he usually went for: the no-nonsense, self-reliant, tough on the outside and ready for some TLC on the inside type. The last thing he needed was to have even more of his romantic doings become public knowledge at the station. Joey never could seem to keep his mouth shut. Besides, he’d lately discovered a distinct preference for green eyes, and Paula’s eyes were brown. “Dinner in fifteen minutes, boys and girls,” he announced to the room. Neither of them acknowledged him, but the vidphone let out an obnoxious yowl. It sounded like a drowning cat. Lieutenant Efferson had been playing with the ring tones again. Milo strode across the room to answer it. It wasn’t ever for him, but Thad’s choice of ring tone was impossible to ignore. A uniformed subspace operator faced him on the screen. “I have a subspace call for Captain Milo Alonso from Lieutenant Commander Janice Hess on board the Enterprise. Will you accept the call?” asked the bored looking young man. Milo sighed. He heard rustling from the couch and could almost hear the ears perking up behind him. The others had poked fun at him for weeks after an early morning visit to his apartment by Joey to return a borrowed basketball had surprised him in bed with a mystery woman. When they’d finally wrested the identity of his overnight visitor from him, it had only gotten worse. Quips about Starfleet officers with lovers in every port hadn’t been funny the first time he’d heard them. That had been over seven months ago. He wondered why she was calling now. Probably headed back to Earth and wants to find out if I’m still available, he thought ruefully. Initially, he’d really thought they’d had something special, despite appearances. He didn’t hop into bed with women on the first date. His mama had taught him better than that. This had been different, though... or so he’d thought. She’d been different. Unbelievably so. Then she’d shipped out, and he hadn’t heard from her again. Not a single word. Even if a subspace call was too steep for your budget, you could’ve sent her a text message, he chided himself. It was the teasing that had done it, he guessed. His pride couldn’t handle the implication that she’d just used him for some convenient shore leave recreation. He’d waited to see if she’d make the first move, and after a while, he’d waited too long. “I’ll accept it,” he told the operator, steeling himself. The operator nodded briefly. The screen went dark. He ran a hand nervously over his clean shaven scalp and neatly clipped facial hair, trying to recall if he’d remembered to shave and trim that morning, and then... there she was. He dropped his hand and took a deep breath. His eyes held hers. Madre de dios... those eyes! He’d forgotten how intensely green they were. She smiled hesitantly. He smiled back. He couldn’t help it. “Hi, Milo... I’m sorry I haven’t called sooner,” she said in a wavering voice. She sounded terrified. He looked at her more closely. She sat at a table with her elbows resting on its surface. Her strong, capable hands were clasped tightly in front of her, as if she were praying, or perhaps trying to prevent them from shaking. Her eyes were wide, like a frightened child’s, and her short blonde hair was uncombed. “That’s okay, Jan. I understand. You must’ve been really busy,” he lied, trying his best to reassure her. What in the world is wrong with her? he wondered. Her eyes shone, filling with unshed tears. She laughed. It sounded almost like a sob. “I suppose I was...,” she admitted, “...but mostly, I was just afraid to call you.” Milo eyed her in puzzlement, and then finally voiced his concern. “Are you all right, Janice?” he asked. Her smile brightened, but tears streamed simultaneously down her cheeks. “Better than all right, sweetie,” she answered him. He smiled at the endearment, still puzzled. “How would you feel about becoming a father?” was her next hesitant question. He blinked. “A father?” he repeated stupidly. His eyes widened. “But we... I mean... I used...,” he sputtered. “The doctor explained it,” she interrupted with an embarrassed grimace. “He says there’s a ten percent failure rate when they’re used alone, and I’d never had a reason to get an implant, so...” “Never?” he asked in disbelief. She shrugged, smiling ruefully. “Not much call for an over-muscled technology obsessed engineer in the romance department, and one night stands aren’t my thing,” she replied in a self deprecating tone. He studied her with a bemused expression. She really had no idea how beautiful she was. Her tears tore him up. He wanted to hold her and tell her that everything was going to be all right. A baby... he thought, still in shock. He eyed her tearful face and asked cautiously, “So... what do you want to do?” Her eyes dropped away from his, her expression crestfallen, and her arms went around her body defensively. She laughed once, a brief and bitter sound. “I guess I should’ve expected you’d ask that question,” she said sadly. He cocked his head at her in puzzlement, and then suddenly realized what she’d assumed. “No!” he protested, raising a hand to the screen as if to touch her reassuringly. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it, Jan. We’ve talked about this before!” And they had, in an unbelievable all-night marathon of heartfelt discussions on everything from family to religion to interspecies politics that had in the early hours of the morning eventually progressed to communication without words. Her head came up, her expression hopeful. “I want to raise our son on Earth, Milo. I’ve already applied for a transfer to the Starfleet Academy in San Francisco as an instructor.” A son! he thought. He smiled. Encouraged by his expression, she went on hesitantly. “I don’t expect anything from you that you’re not ready for, Milo... but we’ll be in-system in a month if the trip goes as expected. Can I call you when we arrive?” Her question didn’t even register. He was too busy coming up with one of his own. “Hey, Jan...,” he said eagerly, “...what do you think of the name Milo Arturo Alonso, Junior?” End of Episode Six, TBC in Episode Seven The story continues in Khellian: The Flesh is Weak. |
Like it? Hate it? Just want to point out a typo? Join the discussion now.
Disclaimer: Star Trek in all its various forms and its characters are the property of CBS/Paramount. No copyright infringement is intended by the authors of this site, which is solely for the purpose of entertainment and is not for profit. This site is owned by CX and was opened to the public in February 2008.