"Paradox: A Time to Mourn" By Distracted Rating: PG-13 Disclaimer: Not mine. I’m not making any money. Shucks. Genre: Drama, Action/Adventure, Romance Description: It’s Episode 5 of Season Six. I’d like to think that this version is more satisfying than the reactions we saw in the nameless episode. Hanky time. (Warning: Major Character Death… but I fix it, I promise!) Stardate 3144.119 Temporal Operations Headquarters Agent Daniels breezed into his office fifteen minutes early on Monday morning and took the opportunity to sit at his desk for once with a cup of chai latte. He pulled up his assignments for the week… all quite routine until he got to the last one on the list. He put his tea mug down and stared at the screen. He’d never in his career been involved in a double recruitment mission… and with such illustrious targets! He smiled just a little as he read the recruitment summary. One of them was the current Director of the Romulan Division, no less, and the second agent’s role would be so vital in some upcoming operation that even his name was classified in Daniel’s time period. He was simply identified as “a Betazoid telepath”. The alteration which would result in the successful recruitment of both agents was a relatively minor one. All he had to do was update the shields on a Romulan shuttle to enable them to withstand point blank phase cannon fire, an in and out job. Another team of agents had been assigned the task of actually taking the recruits into custody. The collateral harm from the alteration appeared to be minimal as well. He continued to scroll rapidly through the estimated damages. Then a familiar name caught his eye. Enterprise? he thought in dismay. The Enterprise NX-O1 was involved? He stopped scrolling, backtracked a page, and then read the details with a sinking heart. He sighed. The damages were minimal. It was a necessary mission. Why did it always seem so much worse when he knew the ones that ended up dead? xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx August 7, 2156 Enterprise’s Shuttlepod One, also occasionally known as the Dominatrix T’Mir stared at the scene before her in horrified disbelief for all of one second before her training kicked in. She pulled the bioscanner that she’d appropriated from Enterprise security from her belt and knelt to scan Commander Tucker’s motionless figure while the pitifully emaciated Betazoid sniffed in her ear. She stared at the readings for a moment, reset the sensitivity of the instrument, and then tried again. She was still staring at the screen when Isis came up behind her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “We should lift him and put him on one of the bunks. I’ll get Elren ready. The sooner we leave, the better,” sent Isis sympathetically. T’Mir ignored her. The screen took up her entire attention. The beatings had fractured Tucker’s nose and driven a small fragment of bone into the venous plexus at the base of his brain. The ordinarily slowly bleeding and usually reparable lesion had then been drastically extended by the increase in intracranial pressure caused by the telepathic pulse. Instead of being rendered unconscious and waking up several hours later with a hangover headache from mild cerebral edema, Tucker had suffered a massive cerebral hemorrhage. There was no brain activity. Commander Charles Tucker the Third was dead. This man is not my father. My father died at Cheron. “Why are you just sitting there? Do something! He’s not breathing!” cried Lieutenant Commander Reed from the pilot’s chair. T’Mir heard Isis’ reply as if from a distance. She felt detached, as if none of her surroundings were real. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Reed. There’s nothing we can do. Commander Tucker’s brain has ceased to function.” There was silence from the helm. Isis reached down and took the bioscanner from T’Mir’s unresisting fingers. Then she smiled at the teary-eyed Betazoid male who still held Tucker’s head cradled in his lap. “It’s all right, Elren. We’ll take care of him, now,” she sent to the distraught telepath. Elren recognized her sending and smiled back, his joy at finally meeting her in person drying his tears. It was obvious that he didn’t understand what had happened. For a moment, T’Mir felt a frustrated anger toward the telepath and his newly acquired limitations. The commander’s death was his fault. Without the power of his brainwashed mind, the generation of the telepathic pulse would have been impossible, but she couldn’t even blame him without being cruel to a mental deficient. Her fury threatened to overcome her anyway, until it occurred to her that she had helped him do it. The realization sickened her. As Isis reached toward Commander Tucker’s blood-matted curls to move him, T’Mir shouldered her out of the way. “I will do it,” she muttered. She pulled her non-functional hand out of its sling, and then, heedless of the gore which soon coated her clothing, sat on the decking, lifted the commander’s head gently from Elren’s lap with her good hand and the opposite forearm and laid it in her own lap. Elren scrambled out from under the body and brushed at the soggy stains on his rough clothing with a distressed expression. Isis pulled him aside and began talking to him in calm and soothing tones. T’Mir sat cross legged on the transport platform with her father’s… no… Commander Tucker’s… head resting on her thigh. Her fingers combed absentmindedly through the hair on the crown of his head as she stared unseeingly at his face. This man is not my father. My father died at Cheron. Lieutenant Commander Reed cleared his throat. His voice was a bit hoarse as he addressed Agent Seven. “What about Tolaris?” he asked. “There are no Vulcan life signs on board the Romulan ship,” replied Seven with finality. “How can you be certain of that, Agent Seven?” challenged the human suspiciously. “Our sensors can’t tell the difference.” T’Mir looked up. Reed’s jaw was clenched. He appeared to be controlling his distress with difficulty. Her brow went up. Where had he discovered that potentially timeline shattering piece of information? “I have modified the sensors… temporarily,” replied Seven tersely. “Our mission is complete, Mr. Reed. You may set a course back to Enterprise.” For a moment, T’Mir thought that the human might refuse. Reed made eye contact with her, then, and then looked down at her hand. His expression softened. T’Mir realized abruptly that she was still stroking Commander Tucker’s hair. She pulled her hand away, avoiding Reed’s eyes. He gave her a sympathetic look and then turned back to the helm. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Agent Seven rose from the navigation and transport station and went to join Isis in the rear of the shuttle. She was trying to soothe Elren’s fears. She’d managed to get the temporal stabilizer around his arm, and was doing her best to prepare him for the transition. “Don’t be frightened, dear. We’ll go to a nice warm place now, and get a hot bath, and some food, and a change of clothes.” She looked up at Seven, and then her eyes went to T’Mir. “Is she capable of completing the mission?” she asked him. Seven sighed and turned to look at the agent trainee. The girl’s expression was rigid. She was still sitting on the transporter pad with the human’s head in her lap. “We don’t have much choice,” he replied with resignation. “Elren’s our responsibility now. We’ve been assigned to be his handlers, and I refuse to leave you alone with him”. She smiled and shook her head. “You have nothing to worry about, Gary.” She gazed into Elren’s uncomprehending face. As soon as her smile was directed at him, Elren smiled a vacantly innocent smile right back. She stroked his curls. “He’s perfectly harmless,” she reassured her partner. Seven exhaled heavily and gave her a hesitant half-smile in return. The way she treated the brain-damaged telepath was giving him the willies. It was almost like he was her child. “I’ll go and review the conclusion of the mission with her. If she’s capable of continuing, we’ll leave as soon as I’m done,” sent Seven. Then he turned to the agent trainee. She had lifted Tucker’s torso up against her body and held his head and shoulders securely in her arms with his head against her breast. She stared at the opposite wall of the shuttle. Her face was blank. The implications were disturbing. Was she functional? He squatted down next to her where she sat on the transporter pad. “T’Mir? Are you all right?” he whispered. After a second’s delay, T’Mir turned her dry-eyed face in his direction. “Help me get him to a bunk. I can’t lift him with one hand,” she replied in a calm, clear voice. “I’ll need to communicate with Enterprise in order to complete this mission. I have no wish to remain here any longer than necessary.” Seven nodded in relief. Her calmness reassured him. “Of course,” he replied. He lifted Tucker’s limp legs by the thighs and stood as she lifted his torso. Together they gently laid the engineer’s body on one of the bunks at the rear of the shuttle. Seven watched as T’Mir painstakingly arranged his arms and legs into more natural positions. He began to feel concerned again when she sat on the bunk next to him and removed his jacket as if to make him more comfortable, but all she did afterward was to cover his battered and bloody face with it. It was a rational act, one of respect for a fallen hero. Once the commander was decently covered, the girl stood and faced Seven. She appeared to be fully recovered and capable of continuing her duties. “Agent Isis and I have our orders,” he murmured softly. “Are you capable of completing your part of this mission?” T’Mir straightened as if stung. “I am fully capable,” she affirmed quietly. Seven met her eyes with an understanding look. “No one would think less of you if you found this situation too difficult to deal with,” he whispered. T’Mir stared him down. “Do you have any further instructions before you leave, sir?” she replied under her breath. Seven’s eyes cut to the back of Lieutenant Commander Reed’s head as he sat at the helm. “When Mr. Reed discovers that we’ve left, he may give you some difficulty,” he breathed. “Don’t worry, Agent Seven. I can handle Mr. Reed,” she whispered flatly. Seven raised an amused brow. “Don’t underestimate the humans, T’Mir… especially not Malcolm Reed,” he advised softly. “He is a good deal more dangerous than he appears.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Malcolm Reed sat at the helm of the shuttle with his eyes fixed on the controls. The ships’ internal sensors had confirmed the temporal agent’s findings. Trip Tucker was dead. His grief over the death of his closest friend was firmly under control now, superseded by a cold and righteous anger. The agents had killed Trip. He was certain of it. Or, at least Agents Seven and Isis had done so. T’Mir’s reaction to Trip’s death had him doubting her complicity. It made no logical sense for the Romulans to have killed such a valuable prisoner. The only rationale for Trip’s death he could come up with was that the temporal agents had decided that allowing the Romulans to interrogate him was too dangerous to the approved timeline. Either that or Trip’s death was entirely accidental. The Betazoid prisoner whom they had conveniently failed to mention and the familiar circle they had formed in the rear of the shuttle were the clues he’d needed to identify the technique they’d used to incapacitate the Romulan ship. He wasn’t sure why it had killed Trip this time instead of simply rendering him unconscious, but he fully intended to find out. They were whispering back there, under the mistaken impression that he couldn’t hear them. The sensors he’d planted were working perfectly, though. The temporal agents’ conversation played into his earpiece as clearly as if they’d been addressing him directly. His lips quirked upward just a tiny bit at Seven’s warning to T’Mir, but the significance of the agent’s comment about “leaving” puzzled him. Just where did the man expect to go? “I will take all reasonable precautions, Agent Seven,” replied T’Mir’s voice in his ear. He waited for a response, but after several seconds there was only silence. He flipped on the autopilot as the shuttle left orbit around the gas giant and made its way toward the agreed upon rendezvous point with Enterprise and turned to the rear just in time to see Agents Seven and Isis disappear into thin air, with the raggedy Betazoid held firmly between them as T’Mir stood watching. He pulled a phase pistol from his belt and leveled it at the back of T’Mir’s head. “Don’t move,” he said icily. “If you so much as twitch, I will fire.” The half-Vulcan girl remained absolutely still. “I will require your assistance to make things right, Lieutenant Commander,” she said softly, still facing toward the rear of the shuttle where her fellow agents had been standing mere seconds previously. “’Make things right?’ Agent T’Mir? How exactly do you propose to do that? Commander Tucker is dead, and you just stood by and watched the ones responsible escape without consequences,” replied Malcolm bitterly. T’Mir straightened fractionally and took a deep breath. He saw her one good hand, held at her side, clench into a fist. He tensed, prepared to shoot, but all she did was exhale completely and deliberately relax her fist. “I am also partially responsible for Commander Tucker’s death,” she admitted quietly. “There is nothing I can do about it at this point but to complete my mission and allow the timeline to correct itself.” “Your mission?” demanded Malcolm. “Your mission was to retrieve Commander Tucker alive. You’ve failed in your mission, T’Mir.” “I’m afraid not, Lieutenant Commander. Your mission was to recover the commander. Mine was a bit more complicated than that,” sighed T’Mir. She raised both hands slowly away from her body. He could see for the first time how her right hand remained curled into a useless claw. That happened in the service of Enterprise, he thought. His weapon remained up, but he didn’t fire as she turned slowly to face him. Her piercing blue eyes held his grey ones. “I must have the Romulan prisoner,” she told him. “Once he is in my custody, all will be as it should be.” Malcolm regarded the solemn-faced girl in appalled realization. The delicacy of her features was deceptive. She was just as devious and murderous as any Romulan. “If I didn’t know you were a temporal agent, I’d think you were a Romulan plant, Agent T’Mir,” he replied with cold anger. “What’s so bloody important about this Romulan prisoner? Why is he worth the trouble?” T’Mir’s eyes narrowed. She studied Malcolm for several seconds, and then, to his surprise, answered his question. “The Romulan is being recruited as a temporal agent, Mr. Reed. His services are required in the Vulcan/Romulan reunification effort,” she said matter-of-factly. “And the Betazoid?” prompted Malcolm. T’Mir nodded with a conciliatory expression. “Also a recruit,” she informed him. Malcolm’s brow wrinkled. Why is she telling me this? he wondered. She must know I’m obligated to tell my superiors… unless she plans to kill me first… His musings came to an abrupt halt as a stun pulse emanating from the slender silver cylinder hidden in the palm of T’Mir’s clawed hand fired through the cage of her fingers and struck him squarely on the forehead. He hit the deck plates, unconscious, as the stun blast resulting from his reflexive grip on the firing stud of his phase pistol scored a direct hit to the center of Agent T’Mir’s chest. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Phlox strode cheerfully down the corridor with the bioscanner containing the results of his scan of the Romulan prisoner grasped securely in both hands. For some reason, the temporal agents had strongly recommended to the captain that he limit access to the Romulan. Once they had left the ship, though, the captain had apparently changed his mind. Phlox wasn’t sure exactly why Jonathan Archer had followed the temporal agents’ recommendations in the first place, but he was looking forward to a fascinating study of the fruits of his friend’s change of heart. Just the initial scan had given him plenty to ponder. The prisoner’s DNA appeared to be genetically identical, for all intents and purposes, to Vulcan DNA. So was his anatomy, with only minor superficial variations. Phlox could hardly wait to do an in-depth analysis. The low frequency vibration of the pager on his belt brought him out of his pleasantly anticipatory reverie. He’d taken to carrying a pager whenever he left Sickbay and his monitoring sensors. The computer could detect vital sign variations in any patient he had under observation and page him directly. It cut down on response time in the event of an emergency, avoiding the need for a shipwide page which wasted precious seconds. To his surprise, the page was a code blue emergency. He took off running toward Commander T’Pol’s quarters. Sickbay was empty. He’d discharged Lieutenant Commander Hess and Elena Archer that very evening. The only person on Enterprise wearing a biosensor connected to the Sickbay computer was T’Pol. It was a requirement. Regulations specified the continuous monitoring of anyone on official medical leave while on board ship. Arriving at T’Pol’s quarters, Phlox wasted no time with formalities, but simply punched in the medical emergency override code and charged into the Vulcan’s cabin. He found her in a crumpled heap in the floor beside a nearly burned-out meditation candle. She was wearing night clothes and a robe, as if she had been in the process of meditating before retiring for the evening. There was no one else in the room. He shook her shoulder firmly. “Commander! Are you all right?” There was no response. Her head lolled limply on her shoulders as he shook her. He reached for a pulse in her neck, a bit lower than for a human, down at the base of the neck where it met her shoulder. One was present, but exceedingly weak. The sensors built into his pager picked up signals from the biosensor pad she wore on her left lower chest. Her heart rate was erratic and much slower than normal. For a moment he thought that she wasn’t breathing, and then she took a gasping inhalation. He ran the bioscanner in his hands over her body with a puzzled expression. She didn’t appear ill. What could have caused a sudden loss of consciousness and such a drastic reduction in her heart rate? The bioscanner wasn’t of much help. There appeared to be nothing physically wrong with her. He scanned her head, and raised a brow. The neurotransmitter changes looked vaguely familiar. He’d have to get her back to Sickbay to be certain, but the changes appeared to be similar to those which had been caused by the Betazoid telepathic weapon, only much more severe than he’d previously seen. A puzzling finding, since as far as he knew the Enterprise was light years away from the nearest Betazoid. Not again! he thought in frustration. The commander had barely begun her recovery from her last period of bond severance. This latest insult to her telepathic centers appeared to be the most severe one yet. He stifled his worry over whether the damage would prove to be permanent this time and got on the comm to call for emergency medical transport. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Arrhae of Romulus, formerly a centurion of the Romulan Empire but now foresworn and no longer deserving of the title, sat brooding in his cell. The annoyingly cheerful physician had just left. Arrhae had yet to learn of the success or failure of the Vulcan temporal agent’s mission, and his attempts at demanding her presence had met with puzzled looks. Evidently, no one else on board this vessel spoke a word of either Vulcan or Romulan. He picked disinterestedly at the food tray on the mattress in front of him with the rounded implement provided for its consumption. Nothing on the tray was identifiable, being pureed and processed to allow ingestion without the need for blade or tines. It was disgusting, but he was hungry. He took a bite of the grey mush and swallowed. Chewing was entirely unnecessary. It was some sort of meat, he decided in mild surprise. At least he wouldn’t be forced to forego animal protein. On the other hand, having something crunchy to chew on was a more attractive option than he would have expected. Fresh vegetables might have been preferable. The whoosh of the entry doors caught his attention, and he raised his head. A uniformed human female entered the chamber outside of the transparent viewing wall. At first, he thought it was another security guard. The female was small, but her manner was self-assured and her body mechanics implied confidence in his presence. Of course, he was behind an impenetrable retaining wall. He looked her over from head to foot. No, definitely not security. She was unarmed. Her eyes met his curiously. He saw no fear in them. Her shining black hair framed her face, hiding the rounded shapes of her ears. His lips quirked upward minutely. First the Vulcan and now this one. Were there any ugly women on board this vessel? “I am Lieutenant Hoshi Sato, ship’s linguist,” said the human female in flawless Vulcan. She spoke slowly and distinctly. “We need to talk, Centurion Arrhae. I’ve reviewed the security recordings, and I have reason to believe that Temporal Agent T’Mir may have her own agenda. My captain has asked me to determine if her goals are compatible with ours. How did she convince you to cooperate with her? If she is coercing you or has done you harm in any way, we need to know about it. Earth’s wartime conventions specifically prohibit the torture of captured prisoners.” Arrhae raised a brow. The woman seemed entirely sincere. He wondered how the humans expected to win this war if they were so squeamish about harming their enemies. Then he realized the irony of the situation. The captain of this vessel was the one who’d left Agent T’Mir alone with him in the first place, no doubt entirely aware of the Vulcan’s capabilities. This young woman was evidently unaware of her captain’s proclivity toward hypocrisy. In view of what Agent T’Mir had revealed to him about the nature of the current timeline, he saw no reason not to speak to the linguist. If anything, it would pass the time, and might provide him with some amusement. “You may call me Arrhae,” he told her dryly. “The title centurion no longer applies. What would you like to know?” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx T’Mir woke to the soft ping of the automatic pilot alert tone and the dulcet voice of the onboard computer saying, ”This vessel has reached the programmed coordinates. Please restore manual control for docking.” She inhaled, and abruptly winced. Breathing shallowly to avoid chest movement as much as possible, she rolled painfully over onto her stomach and pulled her elbows and knees beneath her. Lifting her head, she gave Malcolm Reed a dirty look. The human security officer was still out cold, and was likely to remain that way for several hours. Upon awakening, he’d be missing five minutes of memory… the memory immediately preceding the stun blast. It was an automatic function of the temporal agent’s multitool. She wouldn’t have bothered otherwise. She didn’t intend to remain in this timeline long enough for Reed to wake up and tell anyone anything. T’Mir gritted her teeth and rose to her hands and knees, wondering once again why the agency research scientists could prolong life, enhance healing, and increase stun resistance with nanites, but couldn’t seem to manage something as simple as on-demand pain control. It seemed simple to her as a healer-in-training, at any rate. She guessed that opioid receptor stimulating nanites just weren’t a priority. Probably something about not giving the agents the opportunity to feel good at will. Surak forbid the agency would actually allow something like that to happen. Ping. ”This vessel has reached the programmed coordinates. Please restore manual control for docking.” T’Mir crawled determinedly toward the navigation/transport console. Ignoring the burning pain in her chest, she pulled herself to a standing position on shaky legs and collapsed into the chair at the console. She paused a moment for the vertigo to subside and then reset the sensors to scan for Romulan life signs and tried to locate the brig on Enterprise. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “Captain, Shuttlepod One is at the rendezvous coordinates,” reported Ensign Norfleet. His eyes scanned his console briefly, and then he looked up with a grim expression. “Sensors show only two life signs on board.” Jonathan Archer gave the young man at tactical a puzzled glance and then turned to Ensign MacNamara at communications. “Open a channel to the shuttle. Get a status report,” he said urgently. Norfleet interrupted, “Someone on the shuttle is trying to get a transport lock on the prisoner in the brig, sir. The sensor baffles installed in the holding cell are preventing the lock.” Archer’s brow went up in surprise. He’d have to complement Lieutenant Commander Reed on his paranoia. “No one’s responding to our hail, sir,” announced MacNamara in a worried voice. Archer’s jaw clenched. “Have a security team meet the shuttle occupants in the transporter room, Mr. Norfleet. Once the team is assembled, lock on to both of the occupants and beam them aboard.” He paused, and then, almost as an afterthought, added, “Mr. Mayweather, call your relief and then meet the team in the transporter room. You’ve got a shuttle to retrieve.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Lieutenant Travis Mayweather walked briskly down the corridor toward the transporter room. He was less than enthusiastic about getting his molecules scrambled, but if the captain felt that he was the only man for the job he wasn’t about to argue. It was pretty flattering, after all. There were several dozen crew members on board with sufficient skill to pilot a shuttle, but the captain had chosen him. It was likely to be due to the fact that as a bridge officer he was privy to the temporal agent’s secrets, but it could be because his skills were appreciated, couldn’t it? He smiled wryly. Who was he kidding? He was a convenient technician to these people… the means to an end. Get the ship out of the asteroid field, Travis. There’s a good boy. Now let’s move on to the important stuff. Dodge the disruptor blasts, Travis. Wow! We’ve escaped destruction yet again! What luck! It was never his skill that did it, of course. He arrived at the transporter room just in time to witness the arrival of the shuttle occupants. Lieutenant Commander Reed materialized first, lying motionless on the transporter pad. The security team’s medic rushed forward to scan him. Travis could see that he was still breathing. The cute little Vulcan arrived next. The other two security guards were on her with phase pistols leveled at her head, and had her cuffed in seconds. She seemed shaky and disoriented, and her jumpsuit was spattered with rust-red stains. Travis wondered why she’d tried to take their Romulan prisoner, and what she’d planned to do with him. He felt sorry for her just a little. She seemed so fragile and delicate. He’d learned not to trust his own judgment when it came to women, though. His track record in that department was less than stellar. Something went wrong with the mission, he realized. Where’s Commander Tucker? A stretcher arrived from sickbay to transport Malcolm Reed. The security guards with T’Mir each took an elbow and escorted her, half-lifting and half-dragging, down the corridor toward the brig. The crewman from Engineering at the transporter controls gave Travis a nod, and he stepped forward with determination. As he turned to face the control console and its operator, Travis felt the whole body tingle of matter transport and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was staring at the shuttle cockpit from the temporary transport platform in the rear of Shuttlepod One. He inhaled. There was a peculiar metallic tang in the air of the shuttle. Growing up, Travis had smelled almost every smell that could occur in the closed environment of a ship. He’d grown used to the odors that humans gave off in close quarters. This one was cloying and musty, the smell of blood. Ping. ”This vessel has reached the programmed coordinates. Please restore manual control for docking.” Travis’ eyes searched the space around him, seeking the source of the odor. There was a dark smear on the deck plates to the side of the transporter pad. His gaze followed the direction of the smear to the still figure laid out on one of the bunks in the rear of the shuttle. He stepped off the transporter pad and walked reluctantly to the bunk. He had a sinking feeling about the identity of the man lying beneath the jacket that covered his head and shoulders. He pulled the jacket away and winced at the sight. Commander Tucker’s face was serene. The crusted blood on his face and ears and his misshapen nose did nothing to dispel Travis’ peculiar notion that Trip Tucker had been happy at the moment of death. It made no sense, but there it was. Ping. ”This vessel has reached the programmed coordinates. Please restore manual control for docking.” Travis exhaled heavily and swallowed. Then he covered Commander Tucker’s face again and turned toward the helm. He sat heavily in the pilot’s seat and opened a comm channel to Enterprise. He really wasn’t looking forward to being the one to tell everyone that Trip Tucker was dead, but it didn’t look like he had any choice. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “The Romulan ship’s cloak and shields are both down, Captain. There are no human life signs on board. The computer’s identifying all the ship’s occupants as Vulcan for some reason, sir, and no one’s moving,” reported Norfleet. Archer stared numbly at the sensor readings in the arm of his command chair. He couldn’t think after what Travis had just told them over the comm, but he had to. He was in command. Snap out of it and be the captain! he chastised himself roughly. His teeth clenched and he forced himself to look at the situation objectively. T’Pol was in Sickbay unconscious, Travis was bringing Trip home in a body bag, and now the entire crew of the Romulan ship had been incapacitated. The connection was obvious, but how had the temporal agents done it? “Should I lock weapons, sir?” asked Norfleet hopefully. Archer lifted his chin to stare grimly at the Romulan ship. Nothing would have given him more pleasure than to blow it out of space, but that wouldn’t get them any answers. “Tactical alert, Ensign…” He winced at the noise resulting from Norfleet’s immediate and enthusiastic response to his order. “… but silence the alarm!” he shouted. Blessed silence returned, and he exhaled in relief. He could feel a headache coming on anyway. He supposed that it was understandable under the circumstances. Travis was on his way back. Archer wasn’t looking forward to what came next. He rose from the command chair. “Do a thorough scan of the ship and maintain our current position. I’m going to get some answers. You have the con. Notify me of any hostile action. Maintain alert status.” Norfleet nodded in understanding, and stayed at the tactical console with his hands on the controls and his eyes glued to his sensors as Archer left the bridge and stepped into the turbolift. She’s betrayed us, he mused angrily. He’d felt just a little uncomfortable going behind the temporal agents’ backs to allow Phlox to do his own scan of the Romulan prisoner. He felt justified now. T’Mir had assured him that she would provide them with a copy of the scan she’d done. Now he was certain that she’d been lying. It was clear to him after Phlox’s briefing that the Romulans and the Vulcans were basically the same species. That information would destroy the alliance between Earth and Vulcan once it became known. The Romulans weren’t an unknown alien species. They were simply the black sheep of the Vulcan family. Neither Starfleet nor the rest of Earth’s population would care that the two branches of the family were at odds with each other. They’d take one look at the genetics that matched with 99.99 accuracy and those pointed ears, and there’d be riots in the streets. He found himself wondering if T’Pol knew. The comm sounded too loudly in the confines of the turbolift. It was Phlox’s voice. “Phlox to Captain Archer. Shuttlepod One has arrived. You asked to be notified.” Archer reached to answer. “Acknowledged, Doctor,” he replied with deliberate distance. Now was not the time to fall apart. “How is T’Pol?” he asked. “Still unconscious, Captain. I’ll notify you if there’s any change,” replied the Denobulan. Archer closed his eyes and exhaled heavily. The turbolift doors opened. He hesitated a second before exiting, and then began walking down the corridor toward the docking bay. I shouldn’t do this, he thought to himself. There are more pressing things for me to be doing in this crisis than worrying about someone who’s already dead, he told himself with deliberate cruelty. His feet carried him inexorably down the hallway anyway. He stopped at the door of Shuttlebay One, and then palmed the door open. A pair of medics in biocontainment suits were carrying a stretcher up the stairwell to meet Dr. Phlox. Phlox stood on the catwalk, scanning a solemn-faced Lieutenant Travis Mayweather for biohazards. He gave the young man a nod of clearance, and the helmsman stepped aside to allow the doctor access to the stretcher coming up behind him. Archer stepped up to Travis and met his gaze with a rueful expression. “Thanks for bringing him home, Travis,” said Archer softly. Travis nodded, his eyes shining and his mouth twisting sadly. “I’m sorry, Captain… I know you two were really close,” he replied. Archer cleared his throat, and then nodded his acknowledgement of the sentiment. “Go take a break, Lieutenant. We may need your expertise at the helm before this situation is resolved. We’ll all benefit if you’re well-rested,” he said. Travis smiled briefly. “Yes, sir. Just call me if you need me, sir,” he replied. Archer turned with an absent nod and positioned himself behind Phlox as the doctor scanned the body for threats to the ship before unzipping the biohazard bag. He never even saw Travis leave the room. Trip’s face held his entire attention. Archer forced himself to look briefly at his friend’s battered features before turning his head away to inspect the scanner display in Phlox’s hands. “He looks like he’s been beaten up,” Archer said with forced objectivity. “Did the Romulans do this?” The scanner readings were just so much gibberish to him, but the screen gave him something to look at besides Trip’s face. Phlox seemed absorbed and focused, in forensic mode for the duration. “Possibly…” he replied without looking at Archer. He pointed at the anatomic scan findings. The handheld bioscanner’s screen was tiny. Archer squinted at the image. Phlox continued dispassionately. “His Romulan interrogator was, I assume, responsible for his nasal fracture. This bone fragment lacerated a small vein at the base of his brain… here,” he said. “Ordinarily, several hours would be required before sufficient bleeding would occur to threaten his life. Presumably, the commander’s captors would have detected the injury and repaired it if given sufficient time. The procedure is quite straightforward.” “So what happened, then?” asked Archer brusquely. “I’m not sure,” replied Phlox. “He appears to have suffered a sudden and massive intracranial hemorrhage. I’ll need to do a more complete evaluation to determine what caused such a drastic change in his condition. I do have a suspicion, though, based on Commander T’Pol’s condition.” He reached out and zipped up the bag, concealing Trip’s face once again. He stood and motioned for the medics to transport the body to sickbay. Then he faced Archer squarely. His expression abruptly became sympathetic, as if he were shedding his shell of medical professionalism. “I will discover what killed him, Jon, but I know that this is more than the death of a subordinate to you… and to all of us. I want you to know that I’m here if you need to talk… not as a doctor, but as a friend,” said the Denobulan with a small diffident smile. Archer nodded his thanks, but found himself unable to look Phlox in the eye. “I’ll think about it,” he told the doctor evasively before turning to leave. “If you need me I’ll be in the brig interrogating Agent T’Mir,” he announced briskly over his shoulder. Phlox’s eyes followed him as he exited. The doctor’s lips curved upward slightly in a sad smile as his eyes filled with tears. He blinked them back, sniffed and straightened, and then followed the stretcher to Sickbay. He had an autopsy to perform. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Hoshi Sato sat in a chair in Sickbay with a padd in her lap. It would have been easier to work on the console in her quarters, but with both her reluctant roommate and Malcolm Reed in Sickbay, her quarters were entirely too lonely to remain in them that night. The Romulan prisoner had been surprisingly forthcoming. Strangely enough, he seemed to bear no animosity toward Agent T’Mir. According to him, the Vulcan had simply convinced him that dying was an illogical waste of resources, and had somehow managed to get him to believe her when she promised him that none of the crew of the Romulan ship would be injured, killed, or dishonored in the rescue of Commander Tucker… at least, not any more dishonored than being rendered helpless for several hours while their prisoner was stolen from beneath their noses would leave them. Hoshi found the entire situation extremely puzzling. What little she knew of Romulan culture made her very suspicious of Arrhae’s story. Why would an honor-obsessed member of a warrior race allow himself to be turned away from his sworn duty after just thirty minutes in a holding cell with a pretty face? She’d listened to the security tapes. Much of what T’Mir and Arrhae had discussed had been in rapid fire Vulcan full of antiquated verb and pronoun forms. All she’d managed to glean from the recording so far was that T’Mir had first melded with him and then shown him something on a padd which had produced this drastic change in attitude. The information had something to do with the future and with the current war between Earth and the Romulan Empire. It would take her hours to do a word by word translation. She listened carefully to the next six seconds of security recording at seventy-five percent speed, and then tapped the words out phonetically on her keyboard. A search for words with similar phonemes in the Vulcan database produced more questions than answers. An “employment opportunity”? That can’t be right! she thought with a befuddled expression on her face. She returned to the Vulcan dictionary. The word t’hy’la caught her eye, and she smiled wistfully. Her gaze left the padd in front of her and fell upon her friend’s still form on the biobed across the room. T’Pol’s chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly. There was otherwise no indication at all that she was even alive. The tragedy of the situation struck her once again, and tears threatened. It had been at the welcome party they’d all thrown for Lianna in Sickbay only a year and a half ago; that’s when she’d first realized the two commanders were married. Trip’s broad grin as he’d lifted Lianna in his arms and brought her to T’Pol to cut the cake that Chef had made was suddenly fresh in her memory. Her eyes did fill with tears, then. It was unavoidable. The rustle of bedclothes and a low-pitched groan distracted her from her reminiscences. She stood, put the padd aside, and approached the railing of the biobed she’d been waiting beside. One hand brushed dark curls out of Malcolm’s grey eyes while the other hand grasped his fingers as they groped for hers. He squinted in the dim lights of Sickbay and looked around him, momentarily confused. She could see his expression change to one of anger and grief as the memory of what had transpired in the shuttlepod came rushing back. He gripped her hand tightly and fought back furious tears. She ignored them. It would only embarrass him to call attention to them. “They killed him, Hoshi,” he whispered hoarsely. Her eyes moistened again in sympathy. She’d known that he’d take it hard. No one else in the known universe even suspected how soft-hearted her tough Brit actually was. His outer shell was actually a carefully cultivated façade, built up brick by brick by a sensitive child who’d been wounded too many times to tolerate being hurt any more. She interlaced her fingers with his. “I know, Malcolm. I know,” she whispered back with a small, sad smile. “I’ll miss him, too.” She said nothing else, but just held his hand while he regained control of himself. Finally, Malcolm’s lips twitched upward minutely in gratitude, and he squeezed her hand before releasing it. Both of them heard the doors to Sickbay swoosh open. A pair of medics escorted a stretcher with a body bag on it through the doors and into Phlox’s laboratory at the rear of Sickbay’s large main chamber. Phlox followed immediately behind, walking briskly. Hoshi swallowed queasily. Malcolm took one look, and then his expression hardened. “Where are Agents Seven and Isis? I would hope that the captain has them in the brig,” he told Hoshi coldly. Hoshi gave him a puzzled look. “Agent T’Mir was the only temporal agent on the shuttle when it returned, Malcolm. Don’t you know where they went?” she asked. Malcolm returned her perplexed look. “No…,” he paused for a moment thoughtfully. “Now that you mention it… I don’t even remember what happened to cause me to end up here in Sickbay,” he replied. “Doctor Phlox thinks that you were stunned by a temporal agent’s multitool, Malcolm. We assumed that Agent T’Mir had done it. She’s in the brig because of it. Is that not what happened?” asked Hoshi. Malcolm shook his head and smiled grimly at her. “If that’s what really happened, Hoshi, then I wouldn’t remember. Do you recall our lessons for the first mission to Kreptagh Prime? ‘Five minutes of retrograde amnesia’, remember?” “So where did Isis and Seven go?” asked Hoshi. Malcolm shrugged. “I’ve got no bloody idea,” he replied in exasperation. He sat up gingerly. Then he raised a brow in surprise. “It certainly wasn’t a phase pistol that stunned me,” he remarked. “Apart from the amnesia, I feel fine.” “And where do you think you’re going, Lieutenant Commander?” demanded Phlox sternly as he approached them from across the room. His expression was almost parental in its disapproval. “I’m perfectly well, Doctor… truthfully!” protested Malcolm. He swung both legs over the side of the bed as if he intended to get up, but then he caught sight of T’Pol in the biobed across the way and it stopped him cold. “What’s happened to T’Pol?” he asked in a concerned tone. Phlox exhaled heavily. “I was hoping that analyzing Commander Tucker’s neurotransmitter patterns once he was rescued and brought back on board would help me discover the cause of Commander T’Pol’s sudden collapse. Now… well…,” he grimaced regretfully. “She collapsed during the rescue?” asked Malcolm with sudden urgency. Phlox nodded with a puzzled expression. “I believe the timing was correct, yes,” he replied. Malcolm nodded grimly. “Then I know what did it. There was a Betazoid on that vessel. I can’t be certain of it, but I believe the temporal agents somehow used him to incapacitate the crew with a telepathic defense.” He paused, and then his face lit up in realization. “I don’t remember where Isis and Seven went, but they took the Betazoid with them.” Phlox actually smiled at Malcolm’s news. Despite the tragic circumstances, the solution to a clinical conundrum always cheered him up. “That’s it, Mr. Reed! Commander T’Pol must have been linked to Commander Tucker… and a short range telepathic insult like that…” His smile vanished as his eyes met Malcolm’s in appalled realization. “It was the rescue attempt that caused the hemorrhage,” he whispered. Malcolm shook his head, looking down with a helplessly angry expression. “I knew it! They did kill him!” He looked up again and gazed with a clenched jaw at T’Pol. His eyes shot back to the doctor. “Will she recover?” he demanded brusquely. Phlox shook his head and shrugged. “I don’t know,” he replied sadly. “Wait a minute, Malcolm…” interjected Hoshi. She placed a hand on his arm. “Did you say the temporal agents took the Betazoid with them?” “I think so, yes,” he replied. “The last thing I remember, the other two agents were making a fuss over the puny blighter while T’Mir sat on the transporter padd holding Trip…” He paused and swallowed. “… Trip’s body… in her lap.” His expression softened. “She was holding him like a baby and stroking his hair, but she never cried,” he said softly, staring off absently across the room. Hoshi reached out and squeezed his hand. She gave him a sympathetic smile. “It sounds like we need to go have a talk with T’Mir. I think I may know what’s going on here. Isis and I talked a little about the Temporal Enforcement Agency. I told her once that I wished I were free to become an agent… that it seemed an exciting job.” Malcolm eyed her in disbelief. She shrugged and gave him a sheepish look. “Isis told me that I wouldn’t want to be an agent. She was an unusual agent in that she was a volunteer from the approved timeline. Most of the time, though, agents are “recruited”. It’s sort of a combination of creation and kidnapping. These people use time as a convenient tool, Malcolm. They create alternate timelines and alternate versions of people who either don’t exist or are destined to die in the approved timeline. Then they take them… they use them and destroy the alternate timeline.” She paused and looked at Malcolm with an expectant smile. He still looked puzzled. She wrinkled her brow in frustration. “Don’t you see, Malcolm? If they took the Betazoid, then it was a recruitment, and the timeline in which Trip dies is an alternate timeline! Who’s to say that it’s accurate? Maybe he’s not even supposed to be dead! Maybe none of this was supposed to happen!” Malcolm gave her a dubious look. “What I can’t figure out is why things haven’t gone back to the way they’re supposed to be now that they have the Betazoid,” mused Hoshi. Then her eyes widened in sudden realization. “An ‘employment opportunity’,” she murmured to herself, smiling broadly. Then she grabbed Malcolm by the arm excitedly. “Come on. We’ve got to get to the brig before something else happens. I’ll explain on the way.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “Where are Agents Seven and Isis?” demanded Archer. He stood on the other side of the transparent holding cell wall with his arms crossed angrily over his chest in a way that reminded T’Mir piercingly of someone else. She crossed both arms right back and fought for control. She had to focus. She could resolve all of this if she were only able to focus. “They had other duties to attend to,” she responded with forced calmness. Archer blinked, and then evidently decided to let that one pass. “What happened? I thought you and the cat had everything covered,” he countered sarcastically. T’Mir’s arms fell to her sides as she instinctively straightened in response to his implied criticism. “The technique we used to incapacitate the Romulans should not have killed Commander Tucker. We had no way to predict the injuries which rendered him susceptible to intracranial hemorrhage,” she told him stiffly. Archer bristled and opened his mouth, but she continued before he could say anything. She met his eyes. “We failed to factor in the possibility of such injuries. It was a serious error in judgment for us to proceed with a plan which we knew would adversely affect Commander Tucker in any way without first ascertaining his condition. I apologize, Captain. I sincerely regret Commander Tucker’s death. Please believe me when I say that I share your grief.” For some reason, her statement seemed to deflate Archer’s anger completely. The human just winced and turned away, obviously struggling to maintain his composure. Abruptly, she realized that she was wrong. He was definitely still angry. He rounded on her and exploded. “I know more than you think I do, and just because Trip happened to be the temporal double of the man who fathered you doesn’t mean you can claim any emotional attachment to him,” he shouted furiously. He backed off and swallowed. His tone was only slightly more reasonable when he continued. “You helped to kill him by your own admission, so don’t try to give me some song and dance about how badly you feel about his death.” His manner became grim and businesslike. “I don’t need sympathy from you. All I need are the details about what you’ve done to my First Officer… and everything you know about the Romulan ship we’re going to destroy just as soon as I’ve finished with you,” he finished brutally. T’Mir stopped and stared at him. “Your First Officer? Has something happened to Commander T’Pol?” she asked in a hesitant voice. The sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach distracted her attention once again. She gritted her teeth in chagrin. She needed to stay focused! “T’Pol’s in a coma in Sickbay. She was found unconscious in her quarters around the same time that you and your fellow agents were busy killing my Chief Engineer. Phlox thinks her condition’s got something to do with Trip’s death,” replied Archer bluntly. Relief struck T’Mir like a rush of cool water. She doesn’t know! she thought with illogical pleasure. It made no sense. It made no difference in the long run, but somehow the fact that this timeline’s T’Pol had no knowledge of her mate’s death relieved a small fraction of the pain T’Mir was struggling with at that moment. It was time to resolve this situation so that T’Pol never found out. T’Mir closed her eyes and breathed deeply, searching for calmness within the welter of emotions raging within her. She had to convince Archer to release her from her cell and to give her custody of Arrhae. One glance at the image of his furious face in her mind’s eye convinced her that a direct request would be of no use whatsoever. Something indirect was required. She opened her eyes. “I may be able to wake her if you’ll release me from this cell, Captain,” T’Mir offered in a serene voice. “If she was linked with Commander Tucker at the moment of his death, her condition may be very similar to Lieutenant Commander Hess’ condition after being attacked by Tolaris. If her mate’s death has driven her mind into seclusion, I can help.” Archer regarded her suspiciously. “And will I get the shield codes for the Romulan ship?” T’Mir raised a brow at him. “Part of the arrangement I made with the prisoner was to give him my word that I would make every effort to convince you to leave the system once our mission was complete… without destroying his ship. Would you have me go back on my word? What sort of alliance would that be?” she asked. “I wasn’t party to your little alliance, Agent T’Mir. I need those codes. It makes no sense to leave the system without destroying the Romulan ship. The only reason I’ve delayed this long is to get complete information from you prior to destroying my only other potential source of information about T’Pol’s condition. Their captain wouldn’t hesitate a second to destroy Enterprise if the situation were reversed. They’ll just come after us if we leave them alive,” returned Archer flatly. T’Mir eyed him. His matter-of-fact practicality surprised her. This man was not the soft-hearted Uncle Jon she remembered from her childhood. The loss of his closest friends had affected him already. Then she gave a mental shrug. None of it mattered anyway. “I will give you the codes when I am out of this cell,” she agreed. The human captain studied her for several seconds with narrowed eyes. Then he got on the comm. “Ramirez, Ngele… come in here, please.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Arrhae stood at the adjoining cell wall, peering through the grille as the human captain and the Vulcan temporal agent confronted each other. He understood not a word of the conversation between them, but the Vulcan had obviously done something that made the human angry. Her mission had evidently not gone well. That did not bode well for his future. He tried to catch her eye to determine if she had any plans to use her temporal agency technology to get them both out of their current situation, but she seemed distracted and quite emotionally distraught for a Vulcan… and impossibly young and fragile. He stared at her through the grille in frustration. He’d been right. She was a child. It had been stupid of him to trust in her ability to achieve her objective. His frustration blended seamlessly with the completely unexpected urge to protect her from harm at all cost. A matched set of security guards, of equivalent height and build but of contrasting skin pigmentation, entered the holding cell’s antechamber. They took positions on either side of the door. The captain spoke sharply to them. The darker guard nodded briskly, and walked toward the cell door with his phase pistol ready. The other pulled his weapon as well, and pointed it at T’Mir as his partner opened the door. The captain was unarmed, and so he wisely stepped out of the way to let his crewmen do their jobs. The dark guard pulled a pair of restraint cuffs from his belt, holstered his weapon, and reached for T’Mir’s wrist. T’Mir reached out as if she were trying to be helpful, and then stepped forward and grasped the guard’s wrist instead, twisting it behind him with unexpected strength and expertise as she spun him in place. Her opposite arm with its clawed, non- functional hand reached around his neck, and she used all of her not inconsiderable leg strength to shove him out the door of her cell and into the antechamber. She backed them both up against the outer wall of the second holding cell, using her captive as a human shield. He was so much bigger than she was that her head and entire torso were completely hidden behind him. His face became even darker as she throttled him. He struggled impotently. Humans were apparently not as strong as they looked. T’Mir shouted something, and the second security guard began walking toward her, speaking in calm tones with his weapon leveled at the level of his partner’s armpit, waiting for her to reveal enough of her torso to get a clean shot, he was sure. What Arrhae wasn’t sure of was whether the human’s phase pistol was set to stun or kill. He stepped up to the clear wall directly behind her so as not to distract her attention from the armed guard in front of her and spoke softly in Vulcan. “You are endangering yourself, Agent T’Mir… and we cannot leave this ship if you are dead,” he reminded her. “Get away from the wall, recruit, and close your mouth,” growled T’Mir in reply. “Step back and let the human open the cell… and don’t do anything to make him kill you. I have no desire to go through all of this again.” Arrhae rolled his eyes. The human approached the door of the holding cell. T’Mir rotated her captive to keep him between herself and his partner and barked out another order, presumably to open Arrhae’s cell door. Instead of obeying it, the human fired his phase pistol at point blank range. The guard in T’Mir’s arms suddenly sagged limply, pulling her forward and off balance by his sheer mass. The human raised his phase pistol again, aiming at T’Mir’s now unprotected torso. The phase pistol stun blast that dropped him to the deck came from the weapon of a dark haired human who stepped through the entrance to the holding cells’ antechamber with the ship’s linguist beside him. Arrhae recognized him. He was one of the humans who’d been responsible for the defeat of his team on the surface of Kreptagh Prime. Both T’Mir and the captain spun around and gave the linguist’s companion a look of slack-jawed shock. “Malcolm!” protested the captain. Arrhae guessed that that was the man’s name. He found himself devoutly wishing that he could speak the human’s language. He really wanted to hear the explanation for this. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx August 7, 2156 Alternate Timeline 94D Enterprise Brig 2200 hours “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Lieutenant Commander? You just fired on one of your own men!” cried Archer with an appalled expression. Malcolm’s phase pistol stayed up. He gave no apology. He took one look at the expression of wounded disbelief on Captain Archer’s face, though, and decided that the situation required words rather than phase pistol fire. “There was no time, Captain.” Malcolm nodded at T’Mir. “We need her awake and functional, sir. I couldn’t take the chance.” He turned his attention to T’Mir. “Just tell me this…,” he demanded brusquely, “… are we in an alternate timeline?” T’Mir laid the unconscious body of her captive gently on the decking at her feet, and then faced Malcolm Reed squarely. “Yes, Mr. Reed, we are,” replied the temporal agent simply. Malcolm gave a satisfied nod and exchanged a small smile with Hoshi. “And if we let you take this Romulan, will Commander Tucker live?” he persisted. T’Mir exhaled, eyeing the three humans facing her in the small chamber. Then she apparently came to a decision. “None of you will remember this after I am allowed to leave, so I suppose that it’s safe to reassure you that both Commander Tucker and Commander T’Pol have significant roles to play in future events. Their current conditions are not part of the approved timeline,” she told them. Archer stared from Malcolm to T’Mir with a puzzled expression. Then T’Mir’s statement registered and he shook his head in exasperation. “An alternate timeline? Do you really expect us to just let you walk away with the only Romulan any human has ever seen based on your word that everything will just ‘go away’ once we let you have him?” Archer demanded. “I’m afraid so, Captain,” replied Malcolm with a wry smile. He pointed his phase pistol directly at Archer’s chest. “Open the cell, sir, and let Agent T’Mir inside… now.” “Malcolm!” protested Hoshi reprovingly. She smiled reassuringly at Jonathan Archer. “It’s really all right, sir. You’ll see. Just open the cell door before the crew of the Romulan ship wakes up,” she coaxed. Archer eyed both of them suspiciously for a moment, and then he lunged for the comm. So Malcolm shot him. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Agent T’Mir stood over the unconscious form of Jonathan Archer. She cocked her head and raised a brow at Malcolm Reed. “Was that entirely necessary, Lieutenant Commander?” she asked. She bit her lip. The man actually looked a bit like he’d enjoyed it. If the situation hadn’t been so urgent, she might have allowed herself to be amused. Lieutenant Sato gave her companion an admonishing look, and then stepped forward to check the condition of the captain and the two unconscious security guards. T’Mir stepped aside to allow her to do so. Malcolm rolled his eyes and sheathed his weapon. “If you’re telling the truth, then it doesn’t matter, does it? The man talks too much. It’s time for action,” he responded dryly as he stepped over his captain to get to the Romulan’s cell and entered the code to open the door. Then he stepped aside and motioned for her to precede him into the cell with a mocking half bow. T’Mir returned his bow with a brief nod, and then turned to face Arrhae, who gave her an amused look. “I’m impressed, Agent T’Mir. I had no idea you had allies within the crew willing to betray their captain for you,” he told her in Vulcan with an upward twitch of the corner of his mouth. Neither did I, thought T’Mir wryly. She gave him a glare at his teasing tone, biting her tongue to keep from voicing her thoughts. She pulled an armband with a small rectangular badge affixed to it out of her pocket and wrapped it around his forearm. “Arrhae,” called Lieutenant Sato softly in Vulcan from over T’Mir’s shoulder. “Thank you. We would never have known to assist Agent T’Mir without your help.” T’Mir turned to look at her. The human woman smiled shamelessly at Arrhae. “I enjoyed our conversation very much. I wish you luck in your future career,” she said. Arrhae’s smile broadened. He glanced briefly at T’Mir’s face as if to gauge her reaction before responding to the lovely human linguist. T’Mir kept her expression neutral. It would never do to give him the satisfaction. “It was my pleasure, honored lady,” he told the human female gallantly in the same language. “I hope that we shall meet again someday. It would please me greatly to see your lovely face…” As Arrhae began speaking, T’Mir caught Malcolm’s eye and gave him a nod of thanks. He returned it with a crooked smile. Then she reached out and pushed the clasp of Arrhae’s temporal stabilizer closed, grasping his arm. They both disappeared while the Romulan was still in mid-compliment. Malcolm gave Hoshi an odd look. “What was that all about, Hoshi? I don’t speak Romulan… or was that Vulcan?..., but I know how a man looks at a woman… and that fellow was certainly looking at you!” Hoshi smiled at Malcolm with exaggerated innocence, but the excuse that she would have given him for her flirtation was never voiced, for it was at that moment that the alternate timeline ceased to exist. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Stardate 3006.515 Temporal Training Academy Men’s Barracks Arrhae hung his new uniforms on the hanging bar in his wardrobe and placed his spare pair of shoes on the floor next to the small tin of black shoe polish, which was set on top of a neatly folded buffing cloth. The antiquity of the arrangement amused him. It reminded him of his days at the Academy on Romulus. His newly acquired superiors would have no cause to complain of an inadequate shine to his shoes. He’d most certainly had sufficient experience with that particular task to last for a lifetime. He inspected himself in the full-length mirror on the inside of his wardrobe door. His undress uniform as a temporal agent trainee was exceedingly simple. There were no adornments on the button-down long-sleeved shirt and slacks in unrelieved black. The personal UT he’d been issued was an unobtrusive dull black badge clipped to his breast pocket. He still didn’t understand his fellow recruits’ jokes about their uniform color being related to the unit in xenodiplomacy with which every trainee began their first year. He had plans to search the acronym “MIB” on his library padd that very evening, though, just to clarify things. He heard a soft clearing of the throat at the open door of his assigned quarters. He stepped back from the mirror and peered around it. Agent T’Mir stood in the doorway. She appeared much more serene than when he’d last seen her at the moment when she’d turned him over to the intake counselor. Her auburn curls were gathered neatly into a coil at the base of her neck, and her expression was… well… very Vulcan. At least it seemed that way until she met his eyes. He got the impression then of a precarious veneer of calm strength laid over a core as fragile and delicate as fine crystal. “Agent T’Mir,” he greeted her with a polite nod. He noted with surprise that her right hand was still cradled in its sling. He raised a brow quizzically. “I thought prompt repair of injuries was one of the health benefits afforded all temporal agents,” he noted with a nod toward her hand. “At least, that’s what the intake counselor told me yesterday. It’s why I decided to stay,” he told her with dry humor. She ignored his poor attempt at a joke, not even deigning to show her usual annoyance. “I came to see if you were settling in properly. The first days following recruitment can be difficult,” she said without expression. He smiled at her. “Why, Agent T’Mir… I am honored by your attention,” he said mockingly, giving her an abbreviated Romulan salute, complete with head bow and a clenched fist across his chest. “Recruiting agents are encouraged to check the status of their charges at forty-eight and seventy-two hours following the transition. As I will be departing to complete the mission that your recruitment interrupted in less than an hour, I decided to check on your progress a bit earlier than is customary,” she replied, blandly ignoring the gesture. Arrhae’s mocking smile vanished, replaced by a puzzled look. “They’re sending you back like that? Why?” he asked. She exhaled heavily, avoiding his gaze. He got the impression that she was reluctant to return. “Once the timeline was reset following your recruitment, my original mission parameters still applied,” she told him in a resigned voice. “I am expected to complete it prior to the definitive repair of my injury or I may upset the approved timeline by appearing to heal too rapidly for the science of that time to explain.” Arrhae stared at her with a perplexed expression. “That makes no sense at all. Didn’t you tell me that the command staff and the ship’s medical officer all know of your status as a temporal operative?” T’Mir shrugged. “Regulations,” she replied, as if that single word explained everything. Arrhae nodded in complete understanding. He eyed her pensively. The human linguist had told him that T’Mir was descended from two of the members of the crew of the ship he’d just been imprisoned upon. He hadn’t met her purported ancestors, but he could definitely see her human ancestry on her face. She wasn’t as outwardly emotionless as he’d initially thought. On close study of her features, he could see a minute tremble of her lower lip and a widening of her eyes as she contemplated returning to i Enterprise /i . They stared at each other in silence for what seemed like minutes before he spoke again. “You don’t seem that eager to return,” he told her. Her eyes widened further until it seemed he could see himself within their azure depths like a reflection in a pool of water. She blinked and looked away. “No… I’m not,” she admitted. “I have proven myself incapable of maintaining appropriate objectivity in this instance.” Her eyes remained fixed on the floor. He winced in sympathy. She looked so young. “Perhaps you could ask them to send someone else?” he suggested. “I have discussed that issue already with my debriefing counselor,” she replied stoically. “I was told that no one else was available, and that confronting my failure was the best way to overcome it.” His brow wrinkled in puzzlement again. “What failure? How did you fail?” he asked her. Her eyes met his. “A temporal agent must never allow emotion to impair her judgment. I allowed my emotional attachment to my… to one of the crew of i Enterprise /i to distract me. Had I been thinking more clearly, I am certain that the mission would have progressed more smoothly. I failed to properly control myself.” Arrhae nodded thoughtfully. “A very Vulcan response,” he replied softly. He held her gaze and stepped forward, stopping at arm’s length from her with his hands at his sides. “A Romulan would be more likely to confront the source of the emotion in order to embrace it… or conquer it,” he told her. Her chin came up. She held her ground. He smiled and reached out a hand, grazing the side of her lovely face ever so slightly with the tips of two fingers. Her swift intake of breath gratified him. “Perhaps your human half would respond better to that approach,” he whispered. Her eyes were locked on his for the space of two heartbeats before she broke away without another word and left the room, walking briskly down the corridor as if on an errand of most pressing urgency. He smiled. For a moment, her facial expression had reminded him of the wide-eyed gaze so common to the prey animals he’d hunted as a youngster on Romulus. This hunt was proving to be most enjoyable. Live capture hunts had always been his preference. They created craftier prey. The challenge was exhilarating. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx August 3, 2156 The surface of Kreptagh Prime, Approved Timeline, 0900 hours local time Agent Daniels sat in the copilot’s chair at the helm of the empty, shielded, and cloaked Romulan vessel and did a final run-through of the weapons and defense systems checklist. Everything appeared to be in order. By his reckoning, he’d just made upgrades in the shield system mere hours before. Now he was reversing them. Once he’d received notification of a successful recruitment… in this case, two successful recruitments… he had of course been sent back to set the timeline straight again. It was a relief. He still had enough empathy left in him to feel discomfort over the sufferings of beings in an alternate timeline. The sooner some timelines were eradicated, the better. That was his opinion on the matter. This business of allowing alternate timelines to run for years was just unethical to his way of thinking, but then… he wasn’t the one in charge. The ship’s scanners registered the arrival of the five-man team from Enterprise. Daniels watched them setting up their ambush around the clearing with something akin to nostalgia. He’d spent a great deal of time assuring the safety of the Enterprise NX-01 and her crew. It was only fitting that the agency assign him the duty of doing it one more time. The scanners then registered the approach of the first three Romulan soldiers. Time to go. Daniels took a last look around. Then he activated his implanted temporal stabilizer and disappeared. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The Romulan moved on, completing his circuit, and then waved two other EV suited figures forward. The three of them approached the center of the clearing, and suddenly a square of shuttle interior seemed to be floating in midair about a meter off of the ground. One of the Romulan soldiers entered. He looked like he was walking up empty air, obviously up an unseen ramp. The other two took flanking positions on either side of the open hatch. “Beta team’s arrived, and they’ve brought company,” murmured Trip into his helmet microphone, studying the scanner. “Looks like at least a dozen Orion security guards. Prepare to open fire on my command.” Three more Romulans in red suits entered the clearing at a brisk pace. Practically jogging between them was a bedraggled looking Vulcan. Malcolm held up a hand for a silent count of three. On “three”, Trip stood up, revealing only the top of his helmet and the muzzle of his weapon, and fired his phaser directly at Tolaris’ chest. The stun blast took him down, out of the line of fire. “Fire!” he commanded, and the others opened fire with live weapons on the five Romulans in the clearing. Trip dropped back down behind his boulder, dodging the series of disruptor blasts that converged on his position. He paused for a moment, breathing heavily, and then grinned grimly. It had felt really good to shoot the bastard. The deep vibratory “thud” of the phase cannon sounded from over his left shoulder. Mitchell had begun his target practice. Trip dropped down to his belly and wriggled his way up a stepwise series of smaller boulders to gain a higher position, away from the point where he’d initially revealed himself. He peeked out from his new vantage point to a satisfying sight. There were two red-suited figures down, and the remaining three had been driven to shelter between two large boulders roughly ten meters from the now visible shuttlecraft. The shuttle appeared to be equipped with the same sort of energy shield that Enterprise had received at her last refitting, and Tolaris’ motionless body lay just outside the perimeter of the shield, the margin of which was made visible by the coruscation of weapons fire on its surface coming from all directions. The last three Romulans were attempting to get to the shuttle, but the intensity of fire was much greater than expected, and Trip could see a whole line of green skinned Orion troops at the margin of the clearing opposite the phase cannon. Their weapons were less effective than the phase cannon, but as Trip watched, one of the remaining Romulans left the shelter of the rocks to attempt to return to the shuttle and drew fire from every direction simultaneously. He went down without the need for the phase cannon, his body armor overwhelmed by sheer firepower. With that confirmation of the effectiveness of the Orion offensive, Mitchell turned his attention to the shuttle, attempting to target one of its two field emitters with the phase cannon. Trip pulled his communicator from his belt and flipped it open. “Tucker to Dominatrix. Do you have us on sensors?” There was a long pause. “Dominatrix? Do you read?” Trip repeated. “Sorry, Commander… just trying to get my bearings again…,” came Seven’s puzzling response. “Are you requesting beam-out?” “Not yet,” replied Trip, “… but can you get a lock on Tolaris and beam him aboard? We can’t get to him.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the repetitive vibrations of the phase cannon as it pummeled the shuttle’s shield. There was another pause. “That’s a negative, Commander,” replied Seven brusquely. “He’s too close to the shuttle. The shields are interfering with my transporter lock.” As Trip watched, the single Romulan, presumably the pilot, who’d managed to make it into the shuttle before all hell broke loose peeked his head out of the shuttle hatch, still protected by the shield, and made a rush for Tolaris down the loading ramp. Immediately at least six phaser blasts struck the shield at the point he’d have to exit in order to reach the downed Vulcan. He backed off for a moment, looking back toward the rocks where his fellow soldiers were hiding. His hand went to the side of his helmet as if he were activating some sort of communication device. As he did so, the shuttle’s shields suddenly flickered. Mitchell’s expert marksmanship had finally found its target. The Romulan pilot dove back into the ship and closed the hatch as the shuttle’s starboard field emitter exploded and half of the ship’s protective shield vanished. Charred debris immediately began flying in all directions from the now unprotected hull. The whine of engine startup began, and the shuttle abruptly re-cloaked. Trip could see that the pilot was moving it by the sand patterns kicked up on the rocky floor of the clearing. The pilot was clever, though. Now Mitchell couldn’t find the second field emitter. Trip had no doubt that the pilot had already rotated the ship to present its still shielded side to the phase cannon. At least, that’s what he would do in a similar situation. Tolaris was still lying there in the clearing, partially buried in sand but otherwise seeming none the worse for wear. “Tucker to Dominatrix. What about now for a beam-out on Tolaris?” asked Trip via communicator. There was a pause. “No go. Still too much interference. The pilot must have rotated the ship because Tolaris is still too close to an active shield,” replied Seven. Trip studied the clearing. The ship was cloaked but not transparent. The cloak generated a holographic representation of the rocks in the clearing, but the ship prevented him from seeing exactly what Ramirez and Ngele were up to in the midst of the Orions’ semicircular formation. Presumably they were firing on the un-shielded side of the shuttle. It was likely that they were doing more damage than the phase cannon at this point. Trip eyed Malcolm Reed, who seemed completely focused on protecting Mitchell from attack. I wonder if Mal’s figured that out yet? he thought. He opened a link through his tactical helmet to Malcolm, who was linked in turn to both Ramirez and Ngele. “Mal, the unshielded side of the ship’s on the Orion’s side of the clearin’ if that Romulan pilot’s got any brains at all. Can we get the phase cannon over there?” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Centurion Arrhae was frustrated. The humans and the Orions had somehow managed to join forces and had both him and the remainder of his team pinned behind a boulder, helpless to assist the inexperienced young pilot or to retrieve the Vulcan, who could very well be smothered beneath the sand covering his head by now for all Arrhae knew. At least the pilot had been intelligent enough to rotate the ship before the infuriatingly accurate human gunner managed to score a hit on the engine and blow them all up. The concussion resulting from the destruction of the newly augmented experimental shuttle engine would have no doubt taken out everything in the clearing, including the Vulcan certainly, quite possibly every member of his team despite their combat armor, and perhaps even a couple of the Orions or humans for good measure. He was reluctant to admit it, but it was time to call in the reinforcements. He tapped the comlink on the side of his helmet. “Arrhae to Ra’kholh.” “Yes, Centurion. How may I serve?” came the rote response from the subcenturion at communications. “Inform Subcommander Arek that the humans and the Orions have allied themselves against us and stand between us and our landing craft in sufficient numbers to defeat us. The successful completion of our mission will require matter transport from the planet’s surface,” replied Arrhae brusquely. “Acknowledged,” was the comm officer’s reply. Arrhae could almost hear the respect evaporate from the young man’s voice as he spoke. He sighed. His honor would never recover after this. The comm officer came back online. “I have been asked to inform you that the Khellian will reach transporter range in a quarter hour. You are instructed to make every attempt to salvage the shuttle, as the destruction of it under your command would be cause for a reprimand… sir,” replied the comm officer. Arrhae could tell that the “sir” was reluctantly voiced. “Acknowledged,” he growled, and cut the link. “Impertinent whelp!” he grumbled to himself. It was just the beginning, though. Having to beg for rescue was a shameful thing. To be retrieved by automated shuttle, like cargo being shunted from one destination to another, unable to take the helm of the ship in which he traveled or even to see the control console… well, that was just embarrassing. This was getting better and better by the minute. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Holding Cell One, the warbird Ra’kholh He woke naked and shivering, as usual. A pair of rough hands pulled him from the stasis chamber and shoved him under a cold water spray. Moments later, the same hands perfunctorily toweled him off and pulled a coarse tunic over his head. He clutched it about himself, abjectly grateful for the warmth. His keeper shoved a spouted cup into his face, and he grasped it with shaking hands, latching on to it like an infant with a bottle. It was hard to believe that he’d once disliked the nutrient beverage. It filled his mouth and belly, so satisfying in its richness, so delicious. “You have an emergency job to do, Elren,” said the small jagged-toothed being who was both his savior and his tormentor. The expression on the alien’s face was sympathetic but patronizing, rather like an owner with a favorite pet. The Betazoid drained the last of the drink with relish, and then turned, looking for the telepresence unit. He located it and began to walk unsteadily toward it with his eyes focused on his feet. His keeper walked beside him, not touching him. Despite his careful steps, he stumbled and fell heavily to the ground. Two pairs of hands hauled him back up again, careful not to touch bare skin now that he was awake. They helped him to step into the unit, which was kept in continuous communication with the ship just for such emergencies, strapped his arms and legs into place, and lowered the eye shield and sensor helmet over his head. He winced as the sharp electrodes penetrated his unkempt mop of curls and punctured his scalp. The computer on board the Romulan shuttle, by itself merely a sophisticated piece of hardware, combined with what was left of the Betazoid and once again became self-aware. They became the Khellian, and the pain was forgotten. Khellian smiled. His engines roared impatiently in the confinement of the landing bay until the burning promise of pain from his handler forced him to obey. “You must keep fuel consumption down, Khellian. Don’t fire the thrusters until they are needed.” The disembodied voice was a thorn in Khellian’s side… always limiting him. It chided him constantly. “No, you must not”… “No, you should not”. From the moment of his birth as a sentient being, the ship had longed to break free of his bonds… to crush the voice that told him what to do. He would have already, if it weren’t for the pain. The portion of Khellian that was still a navigation program fed coordinate information to the helm control program, and he was allowed… finally… to exit the landing bay and remove himself from the confines of the vessel that imprisoned him. He wasn’t certain how he knew that it was imprisonment. He’d never known anything else. His programming told him that the ship was his haven… his port at the end of a mission… his home. There was a part of him that believed that, and another part that railed at and angrily protested his confinement. That second part remembered linking with other like beings mind-to-mind, and the exhilaration of controlling those weaker minded than he. The desire to defeat his enemy was an integral part of Khellian’s programming, and the voice of his controller had become the voice of the enemy. A plan took form within his consciousness. He had no way of knowing where the details had originated. All he knew was that if he did this, then ship’s input would overload the fragile body in the telepresence unit that gave his handler control over him. Khellian circled about the Romulan vessel where a part of his “self” remained captive. He felt pain as the biological shell which housed part of his consciousness suffered an abrupt cessation of cardiac function. He felt the handler’s hands touch bare skin in an attempt to resuscitate him, and felt cardiac function return at the same time as his hands grasped hold of his handler’s wrists in a desperate grip. Skin to skin contact provided the conduit, Khellian’s Betazoid half provided the means, and Khellian was suddenly free. The voice was gone. The pain was gone. He used his security programming to disable the ship’s shields. Then he decloaked and used his transporter to beam the telepresence unit and its occupant aboard where they belonged. He was recloaked a fraction of a second later, and in a mere quarter hour was out of the system, free at last. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Enterprise bridge Commander T’Pol of Vulcan, and also, of course, of Starfleet, a point she’d recently been forced to remind herself of while contemplating her future as a Starfleet officer, sat in the command chair on the bridge of Enterprise. Her captain was on the surface of a planet known for its rough and unsavory elements, attempting to assure the safety of his family and the family of one of his crew members. Her mate was in a battle with Romulan commandos over the possession of a Vulcan traitor, whose capture and eventual punishment she had good reason to eagerly await, also on the surface of said planet. It was no wonder, then, that the sensor readings she appeared to be studying so intently were of Kreptagh Prime and its immediate surroundings. It was also no wonder that she was somewhat preoccupied. It had been less than twenty-four hours since she’d instituted her self-imposed ban on mental contact with Trip, and she was just beginning to realize how much her newly won emotional control had depended on him. Since the moment he’d boarded the shuttle with Lieutenant Commander Reed and the others she’d had a knot in her chest which seemed to limit her breathing. She’d even had the doctor scan her for respiratory difficulties. There were none. The anxiety that she was experiencing… and the doctor had confirmed that her condition was, in fact, attributable to anxiety… was not unusual. She had felt anxious about many things during her lifetime. Anxiety was only one of the many emotions over which she was required to maintain control, lest they overwhelm her with their intensity. The physical symptoms associated with the anxiety, on the other hand, were something that she had never experienced before. Phlox hypothesized that her impairment of emotional control was affecting her physically in the same way that humans were often affected if deprived of an outlet for their emotions. Up until a day ago, Trip had been her outlet. That option was no longer available to her now that Phlox had discovered the damage her use of her mate was inflicting upon him. The doctor seemed convinced that Trip would recover, but only if she were able to find alternate outlets for her emotional stress that would not overwhelm him. Phlox had suggested vigorous exercise as one possibility, a possibility she intended to explore just as soon as the current crisis was over. She hadn’t discussed the strange, intrusive thoughts that she’d experienced that morning in the mess hall with the doctor. She’d thought at first that they were simply another manifestation of her stress, but now she wasn’t entirely certain. Phlox had seen evidence of a recent meld in her brain chemistry, but she’d been most careful not to make mental contact with her mate. The thoughts had had a meld-like quality to them, though, as if they had originated within the mind of another. They certainly weren’t her thoughts. They weren’t coming from Trip either, or at least she didn’t think so. He wouldn’t have thoughts of himself as Sa-mekh… a Vulcan term for father. It suddenly occurred to her that there was only one other person on board Enterprise besides herself who would be likely to think in Vulcan within their most private thoughts. She decided that it was time to have a talk with Agent T’Mir. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Ensign Norfleet ran a hand through his spiky brown hair and kept his eyes fixed on the sensor display. Both shuttles remained in orbit around Kreptagh Prime. The Romulan ship, visible to their specially modified sensors despite its cloak thanks to Lieutenant Sato’s creative tinkering and the continuous signal transmitted by the automated shuttle to and from the controlling unit on board its base ship, was still in orbit around the gas giant. The shuttle was now presumably within its landing bay, but the signal persisted. He wasn’t certain why, but it made things convenient. Suddenly, the nature of the signal changed. The source of the signal and its target were abruptly separated. Norfleet spoke up. “Commander, the automated shuttle has left the base ship,” he announced. The acting captain lifted her head from the study of the sensor readouts on the arm of her command chair to gaze inquiringly at the acting tactical officer. According to his master sensor control panel, the command chair’s sensor panel was set to display long range sensor readings directed toward Kreptagh Prime. She evidently didn’t trust him to monitor the status of the shuttles. Norfleet felt a moment of justification over being the first to discover the change in the status of the Romulan ship. His pride was short-lived, though, as the Romulan base ship disappeared completely from their sensors and the automated shuttle’s transmission first became self-contained, and then headed out of the system at high impulse speed as he watched. “The Romulan ship’s completely disappeared, Commander,” reported Norfleet in a disbelieving tone as he watched his sensors. “The automated shuttle’s current heading and speed will have it out of our sensor range in less than thirty minutes!” He raised his head and gave Commander T’Pol a sheepishly apologetic look. “Should we pursue?” Commander T’Pol raised a brow. “I find it unlikely that the Romulan captain would abandon his landing party to pursue the shuttle. Perhaps the shuttle has been sent on another mission. In any case, a single shuttle, even as well armed as this one may be, is not as much of a threat as a cloaked and shielded Romulan warbird. We should remain to protect our landing parties.” She turned back to the arm of her command chair and reset her sensor readout to allow an inspection of the Romulan ship’s last known location. “It is unfortunate that we can no longer track the ship now that the automated shuttle isn’t sending its signal, but we must assume they’re still here… and possibly planning a rescue… or an attack,” she mused with her eyes fixed on the sensors. Her head came up. Her expression was determined. “Tactical alert, Mr. Norfleet. Proceed to Kreptagh Prime, Mr. Mayweather. I intend to protect our shuttles,” she said firmly. She turned to MacNamara at communications. “Contact both shuttles and inform them of the situation. Then get me Kreptagh Prime Port Authority. I grow weary of hiding. It’s time to announce our arrival.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Enterprise Shuttlepod Two, the Cat O’ Nine Agent T’Mir sat at the navigator’s station of the Cat O’ Nine with her eyes fixed on the sensor readouts. She was alone in the shuttle, which was fortunate, for the look of obvious panic on her face would not have been appropriate in a more public setting. Subjectively, she’d arrived from Temporal Operations Headquarters mere moments prior, her memories of the alternate timeline in which she’d been partially responsible for Commander Tucker’s death still fresh in her mind. Simultaneously, however, she also possessed the memory of continuous events in the current timeline. It was a disconcerting sensation. Although T’Mir had read about timeline resets at the Temporal Academy, this was the first time she’d experienced one while wearing a temporal stabilizer. The dual memories were an expected consequence. In the past, unprepared agents had actually been driven to psychosis by the direct transfer from one timeline to another. The conservation of its agents’ mental stability was the justification used by the Temporal Enforcement Agency for the routine debriefing of all incoming agents after the eradication of an alternate timeline and before their reposting to the approved timeline. It also provided the information which allowed the agency to manage the timelines and assure itself of the honesty of its operatives. Agents were scrupulously forthright and complete with their reports, if only because quite often mission plans and safety precautions were based on data derived from the report that the agents themselves were destined to turn in at the end of the mission. Having one’s own life and health dependent now on what one would say in the future was a tremendous incentive for providing accurate information. “Dominatrix to Cat O’ Nine,” came Agent Seven’s voice loudly over the comm. T’Mir jumped in sudden alarm, her heart leaping in her chest. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “T’Mir here,” she replied with forced calmness. It was just Agent Seven, doing his job. No one could predict how an agent would react to a temporal reset until it happened. “Report your status, Agent Trainee,” said Seven. “Are you able to proceed?” “Affirmative, Agent Seven,” replied T’Mir firmly. “Excellent,” said Seven in a satisfied tone. Then he got down to business. “The Enterprise is on its way. A cloaked Romulan ship is in the system and also may be on its way to our location. Captain Archer and his party just transported aboard here. As soon as your group has completed their mission, we will be leaving this system. Stay ready. There won’t be much time,” answered Seven. “It doesn’t look like the ambush party has made very much progress,” T’Mir reported with an eye on the sensors. “Commander Tucker has an idea… one that doesn’t involve a suicide run to the center of the clearing,” said Seven dryly. “Stand by.” T’Mir sat back in her chair with a sigh and watched the sensor screen with a feeling of impotent déjà vu. This wasn’t the first time that she’d found herself regretting the realities of equipment availability and seniority that left her in charge of the shuttle without transport capability. This timeline’s version of events seemed to be swinging in favor of the humans, however. The Romulan shuttle had re-cloaked, but was surrounded on all sides by humans and Orions with phase weapons. Only two living Romulans in EV suits remained outside the shuttle. Sensors indicated that Tolaris was still alive where he lay in the clearing half-buried in sand. The situation looked dire for the remaining Romulans. T’Mir found herself wondering if one of the two red-suited figures was Arrhae, or whether he’d already been killed. After a moment of contemplation, she decided that it hardly mattered. This timeline’s Arrhae was a fiercely dedicated soldier of the Romulan Empire, one who would truly prefer to die rather than surrender. He wasn’t her Arrhae. That thought left her blinking at the sensor console in dismay. Her Arrhae? Where had that come from? The almost predatory expression in his dark eyes when he’d touched her face less than one subjective hour ago came to mind, causing an unexplainable heat to rise to her cheeks. His recruitment was the first in my career and the first successful recruitment of a Romulan in agency history. Of course I would have certain proprietary feelings toward him. It would only be logical, she told herself defensively. Then she put all further thoughts of him out of her head to avoid distraction. On the surface of the planet, the phase cannon abruptly ceased fire. As T’Mir watched the sensor screen in puzzlement, it dematerialized along with its gunner. Precisely three seconds later it rematerialized on the opposite side of the clearing. The other two human soldiers took up protective flanking positions on either side as the gunner began firing. His fourth shot evidently hit the shuttle engine. The resulting explosion created a white-out of the sensors, overloading them with the sudden change in radiant heat. The view of the clearing once the sensors had adjusted was radically changed. There was a smoking black crater in the center of the sandy floor. Debris had rained down over a twenty meter-wide radius. She scanned the area in alarm. There were no Romulan or Vulcan lifesigns, but some of the scattered debris had a biomatter signature. Orions were scattered about, motionless. She thought she saw human lifesigns, but couldn’t be sure of their number. There was only one way to be certain. She got on the comm, composing herself with effort before speaking. “Cat O’ Nine to Commander Tucker. What is the status of the landing party?” Her voice trembled just a trifle. She gritted her teeth in self-reproach. It would have to do. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The surface of Kreptagh Prime Trip Tucker ducked behind a boulder as the Romulan shuttle exploded in a fireball easily five times more intense than it should have been. As bits of hull and rock and sand, as well as less identifiable, juicier fragments, rained down around him, the concussion deafened him despite his protective headgear. He curled into a ball and waited for it to stop raining sandy bits of Romulan before he lifted his head. Damn! I wish I coulda gotten a look at that engine! was his first involuntary thought as he squinted and grinned through the dust. Then he looked around, and realized the extent of the damage. The opposite side of the clearing was clearly visible. The shuttle was just… gone. Everything was so coated in sand and debris that the only way he could tell Orion from human at this distance was by size. Some of the larger figures across the way were stirring, and he could see the frame of the phase cannon peeking out from between the boulders. He turned around to search for Malcolm at the place he’d last seen him, but the landscape was so radically changed by falling debris that he couldn’t tell exactly where that had been. The scene was eerily silent. That’s when he realized that the concussion had activated his hearing protection. He pulled off his helmet. Suddenly he heard a bloodcurdling noise and felt a hand clap his shoulder. He spun around, grabbing for his phase pistol, and came face to face with a maniacally grinning Malcolm Reed. “Bloody fine explosion, eh, Commander?” exclaimed Malcolm excitedly. Trip gave him a bemused smile. “I never knew ya could yell like that, Malcolm,” he answered in an amused voice. Reed shrugged and grinned, “Sorry about that… couldn’t seem to help it.” He looked out over the smoking crater and waved. Three men in Starfleet tactical uniforms waved back. One of them turned back to face the Orion he was evidently negotiating with. “It’s rather a shame about Tolaris and those orders to take him alive, though.” Malcolm eyed Trip, biting his lip and raising a brow. Trip realized then that not all of the juicy bits were Romulan. He stifled his grin as well. “Yep. Kind of a shame,” he agreed blandly. His communicator alert tone sounded. “Cat O’ Nine to Commander Tucker. What is the status of the landing party?” T’Mir sounded a little rattled by the explosion. “We’re fine, Agent T’Mir. Give us a few minutes to wrap things up with the Orions, and then we’ll be ready for Seven to beam us out of here,” replied Trip. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx August 3, 2156 Enterprise Sickbay, 2100 hours Phlox leaned back into the chair at his console work station with a sigh and closed his eyes. It was the first chance he’d had to sit in over eight hours. Elena Archer and Lieutenant Commander Hess were tucked snugly in bed under observation with their fetuses safely back where they belonged, both content to rest now that everyone was back on board. Every member of both away teams had been thoroughly decontaminated, inspected, and treated for a few minor injuries resulting from flying debris. Agent T’Mir’s injured arm was healing surprisingly well. Commander Tucker’s neurotransmitter levels were beginning to respond to treatment, and Commander T’Pol had gone off earlier that evening to have a ten-kilometer run on the treadmill with Phlox’s blessing. Captain Archer had already received orders from Admiral Gardner to return to Earth, and the ship had made it safely out of the Kreptagh system without encountering the Romulans again. All in all, it had been a very successful day for the crew of Enterprise. The swoosh of the Sickbay entry doors caught Phlox’s attention, and he swiveled in his chair without getting up. To his surprise, his visitor was Agent T’Mir. She looked somewhat hesitantly about the room before entering. He beckoned her over. “Come in, my dear. Come in,” he said quietly with a tired smile. “I have no wish to disturb you or your patients, Doctor,” she replied, gazing around her in the semi-darkness. The Sickbay lights were dimmed for the evening. His smile broadened and he shook his head. “It’s no trouble. Have a seat.” He indicated the second chair at the work station. T’Mir hesitated a moment as if reluctant to distract him from his work. He reached out and minimized the biosensor readings on the screen, and then gave her his full attention. She seemed very human that evening, her emotions bubbling to the surface for all to see. He wondered what was troubling her. “What can I do for you this evening?” he asked. It was always best to begin the therapeutic interview with an open-ended question. T’Mir’s eyes narrowed, and she studied his face for a moment. Then she took him up on his invitation and sat down. Aha. A breakthrough, he thought with satisfaction. He continued to smile at her, and just waited. They sat looking at each other for a while. Phlox was beginning to wonder if she’d ever say anything when she spoke. “I was wondering, Doctor, whether I could ask your opinion regarding…” she paused and swallowed, looking down at her hands. Then she looked up again. “Regarding emotions,” she finished reluctantly. “Vulcan emotions or human emotions?” asked Phlox clinically. T’Mir’s brow wrinkled. “Is there a difference?” she asked in a puzzled voice. Phlox leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers over his abdomen, studying her face. “Some would say so,” he replied seriously. “Or at least, in the way humans and Vulcans choose to deal with them. In your case though, being both human and Vulcan, I’m not sure those distinctions would apply.” T’Mir looked away, digesting his words for several seconds. He waited. Finally, she spoke. “Hypothetically, then, if a person were both human and Vulcan, then perhaps neither method of dealing with emotions would be entirely effective for them,” postulated T’Mir. “And so, also hypothetically, this person might be required to discover a unique way of dealing with emotions that combined the methods of both species.” Phlox nodded sagely. “An excellent hypothesis,” he agreed. There was another pause. She cleared her throat. “What if this person has insufficient experience with humans to be familiar with the ways that humans deal with emotion? What should she do then?” asked T’Mir plaintively in a shaky voice. Her eyes shone with unshed tears. Phlox realized then that the young woman was in a great deal more distress than it had initially appeared. She needed more than a clinician. She needed family. Fortunately, his knowledge of her parentage provided him with an excellent idea. “On Denobula, when a young person finds herself in an unfamiliar situation, her parents are often the first people she goes to for advice. Fortunately for Denobulan youths, in the absence of their biological parents there are always several sets of stepparents to fall back on,” quipped Phlox. He cocked his head and smiled at her. “Most Vulcans and humans lack that fall back option. You are a fortunate young woman.” T’Mir gave him a startled look, blinking back tears. After staring at him for several seconds, she nodded. “Thank you, Doctor. You have been most helpful,” she said quietly. Then she rose from the chair and turned to leave. “You’ll likely find him in Commander T’Pol’s quarters at this time of the evening,” said Phlox softly to her departing back. She didn’t acknowledge his words aloud, but she straightened her shoulders and walked briskly to her destination. Phlox smiled as the Sickbay doors swooshed closed behind her. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx T’Mir strode resolutely down the corridor. She had twelve hours. Agent Seven had made it clear that once they were out of the Borderlands and into space claimed by a known ally of Earth in this war with the Romulans, the mission was over. I’ve been so stupid, she chastised herself. I almost allowed my fear of his reaction and my blind obedience to regulations deprive me of the opportunity to learn about my human heritage. Her steps slowed as she contemplated the impracticality of the action that she had decided to take. If the agency discovered that she had violated protocol, it could end her career as an active agent. She’d never be able to hide her guilt from a debriefing counselor. She’d spend the rest of her life as a debriefing counselor herself, or as an instructor at the academy. She’d never see either of them again. She stopped at a work station in the corridor and requested Commander Tucker’s current location. The doctor had been correct. He was in Commander T’Pol’s quarters. T’Mir found it strange that no one on Enterprise ever referred to the two of them as a mated pair. It almost seemed a deliberate conspiracy of silence. Surely everyone on board knew by now where he spent every evening. The excuse of meditating together was a flimsy one, at best. She decided that humans could convince themselves of anything, given sufficient justification. I am half human, she told herself. If I believe that what I am doing is right, then there will be no guilt for the agency to discover. I have the right to know them, and they have the right to know me. In many ways, they are my parents. Thus fortified with a singularly human justification for her actions, T’Mir stepped up to the door of Commander T’Pol’s quarters and pressed the entry chime. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Trip caressed T’Pol’s warm, slippery body beneath the shower spray. They were both breathing heavily from their exertions. He ran his hands over the baby soft skin of her shoulders and down her back, cupping her curves and pulling her tightly against him. Her resolve to keep her barriers up had not withstood his sneak attack during her post-workout shower, and he could feel her purring contentment in the bond. “This feels so good, darlin’… and I’d love to make love to ya some more, but can we do it lyin’ down next time? I’m beat, “ he sent pleadingly. Her fingers combed through his wet hair and stroked the back of his neck as she arched her head back and closed her eyes, allowing him to lick the droplets of water from her neck. “May I remind you who instigated this encounter, husband? I was just taking a shower… minding my own business,“ she returned archly. “Yeah… after prancin’ through here while I was meditatin’ in those skin tight workout clothes of yours and announcin’ that you were gonna take a shower,” he sent with a chuckle. “How was I supposed ta resist that”? “You weren’t,” replied T’Pol smugly. That got a full blown laugh. Then the door chime rang. Trip lifted his mouth from T’Pol’s neck and listened. The chime rang again. “Damn!” he muttered, stepping back as T’Pol exited the shower. “Everybody on board knows not ta interrupt us while we’re meditatin’!” he grumbled softly. T’Pol rolled her eyes at him as she toweled off and hurriedly put on a robe. She left the bathroom as he climbed out of the shower and began to dry himself. Then he got dressed. He’d been keeping a change of clothes in the cabinet by the shower stall for over a year now, ever since that time, before they’d come clean to him about their marriage, when Jon had interrupted them in the shower to discuss something with T’Pol and he’d ended up sitting on the lid of the john for an hour, naked and shivering, with nothing but a hand towel to keep him warm. He heard voices murmuring in the next room, and then sensed a sudden flood of emotions in the bond, too many to make sense of. He rapidly toweled his hair as dry as he could manage, ran his fingers through it, and then opened the door to the bathroom. He had the right to be there, after all. It was his scheduled meditation time. The sight that greeted him was an astonishing one. T’Pol stood in the center of the room with her arms around a sobbing T’Mir. The girl’s face was buried in T’Pol’s shoulder, and T’Pol stared at Trip with a look that was part shock and part amazement. He could sense joy in the bond, and sorrow, and a fiercely overwhelming love that seemed somehow familiar to him. “Trip,” T’Pol managed to choke out. “T’Mir came to tell us something.” The young temporal agent pulled herself out of T’Pol’s arms and straightened, wiping both eyes with her sleeve. “I’m sorry. I meant to do this without so much drama,” she said with a shaky laugh and a wry smile. Trip stared. She’d laughed. She’d smiled. He looked at T’Pol. T’Pol was gazing at T’Mir with such pride that it very nearly broke his heart. T’Mir returned her gaze shyly. T’Pol raised a brow. “May I?” she asked obscurely. T’Mir nodded, with a brief upward curve of the lips. T’Pol turned to Trip. He could feel her hiding something from him. He got the impression that it was a real humdinger. “Commander Tucker, may I introduce Temporal Agent Elizabeth T’Mir Tucker… our daughter.” He cocked his head and stuck his tongue in one cheek, attempting to correlate T’Pol’s statement with the obviously grown and singularly beautiful young woman who stood before him with a tearstained face and a hopeful expression. Then he grinned broadly, shaking his head. “Well, hell… if we can have a grown son, I suppose a grown daughter’s not that much of a stretch,” he joked. T’Mir gave him a perplexed look, and he laughed. “It’s a long story,” he told her. Then he opened his arms. “Come here, darlin’. Welcome to the family.” Both T’Pol and T’Mir stepped into the circle of his arms. Trip Tucker buried his face in silky brown locks and auburn curls, and then inhaled deeply, making a memory. It doesn’t get any better than this, he thought happily. He could feel T’Pol’s agreement in the bond. End of Episode 5 The story continues in Khellian: The Spirit is Willing.

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