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"To Go Boldly – Part 1"
Rating: PG-13
A/N: It’s still not done. The Hoshi/Malcolm storyline’s taken on a life of its own. I made up Joey and Paula, but Tex Wormald is quite real. He even speaks Xhosa...and he’s still single last I heard. ; ) The old man’s breathing was heavier than it had been. The dimmed lights and stone colored curtains gave his bedchamber a cave-like atmosphere which stifled T’Len. The room lacked ventilation, and smelled as sickrooms always smelled when a patient was too ill for anything but sponge baths. The young physician hung the second bag of emerald green cupricytes, inspected his patient’s infusion site, no doubt to assure himself that it was still flowing well, and then stepped away from Minister Kuvak’s bedside. He then turned and beckoned to her. She rose from her customary chair and followed him out of the room, carrying her sewing draped over one arm. In the hallway, the doctor handed her a data padd. “When the second bag is completed, you’ll need to assess him for fluid overload and administer a diuretic if he shows signs of pulmonary edema,” advised the doctor. T’Len nodded, saying nothing. She knew the old man’s prognosis. The transfusion was intended only to buy him time. The youthful physician paused as if searching for an appropriate way to phrase his next statement. “You have been his nurse for over a year now. He trusts you. Is there no way to talk him out of this ill-advised plan?” he asked tentatively. T’Len eyed him sympathetically. Even at nearly 100 years his senior, she could understand the young man’s dilemma. Minister Kuvak was an infinitely stubborn individual. He’d chosen this young doctor precisely because he was the only physician the minister could find who would let him have his way. The young man was concerned for his patient, but also very concerned for his career. One word of disapproval from the minister could end it almost before it began. Still, he objected—carefully. “He is quite determined to see his son before sickness takes him, and equally determined not to inconvenience the boy by forcing him to leave his place of employment for the months that a trip to Vulcan and back will require. He is resolved to die on Earth, and seems convinced that the reduced gravity and increased ambient oxygen concentration will lengthen his life,” she replied coolly, disliking the implication that this boy knew what was best for “her” patient. She was merely a nurse, that was true, but she’d been one for nearly twice as long as this child had been alive and had cared for helpless charges at every stage of life. In this instance, however, the boy might be right. There was no guarantee that the minister would even live to see his son again. Whether he waited here on Vulcan and sent for Kov or boarded a vessel to Earth to visit as he planned, the chances of him surviving another month were less than fifty percent. The doctor raised a brow, considering her statement in evident surprise. “I hadn’t thought of that. You said that the transport vessel maintains Earth standard atmosphere and point eight standard Earth gravity?” T’Len nodded once in confirmation. The young physician regarded her thoughtfully. “That could make a difference...” he mused to himself as he turned to leave. He stopped and added, almost as an afterthought, “I will be available for consultation until your departure. The padd contains information for the medical officer aboard the Earth vessel. When Minister Kuvak wakes, please inform him that I have done all that I can to prolong his life, and that I wish him a good death when the moment arrives.” His face was solemn. T’Len nodded once again. “I will do so, Doctor. I wish you peace and long life,” she returned soberly—without the accompanying gesture. Her hands were full. “Live long, and prosper,” returned the doctor reflexively. He glanced at the closed bedroom door as if he were finally realizing that his illustrious patient would certainly do neither, and then turned brusquely. He didn’t look back as he exited the house. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Commander Trip Tucker sat alone in the Captain’s dining room at 1750 hours awaiting the rest of the going away party. The room’s lights were dimmed in keeping with his somber mood. He sipped his tea morosely, staring into the cup. Chamomile. The stuff wasn’t too bad. At least he could sleep after he drank it. T’Mir hated it. She preferred root beer. He’d confiscated six bottles from the mess hall for their party. They stood in a row on the table in front of him with droplets of moisture pearled on their brown necks. He smiled a bit at the memory of T’Pol’s reaction to T’Mir’s discovery that root beer went admirably well with peanut butter, syrup and banana sandwiches. He’d held his tongue during T’Pol’s five minute lecture about the sucrose content of the diet and dental caries. T’Mir had rolled her eyes. We’ve hardly had the chance to meet her, and now she’s leaving, he thought wistfully. He took another sip, and then the door opened. He looked up, and for a moment he thought T’Pol stood at the threshold, but the woman standing silhouetted in the light from the hallway wore an unadorned blue coverall rather than one of his wife’s form-fitting uniforms. T’Mir’s auburn hair was bound tightly at the back of her neck, forced into a smooth, severe style quite unlike her usual barely disciplined curls. Her face was solemn and composed—very Vulcan. Only her piercing blue eyes betrayed her human heritage. She nodded in greeting without smiling. “Good evening, Commander,” she told him. He smiled sadly, and then rose to meet her, tapping the illumination control on his way to brighten the room. “You’re awful formal tonight, darlin’,” he replied. “What’s the occasion?” T’Mir’s serenity broke for a moment, and she regarded him with a forlorn expression before regaining her control. She cleared her throat, staring at the deck plates. She’s just a kid. Saying goodbye’s probably harder for her than it is for us, Trip realized suddenly. “I am leaving soon. I must return to the discipline of my training or I will betray myself at my debriefing. When I return, you must be only Commander Charles Tucker, Chief Engineer of Enterprise to me,” responded T’Mir. Trip sighed. Exactly like her mama... “All right, then, ma’am,” he teased gently, returning to the table and pulling out a chair for her. “Come sit down next ta me and tell this complete stranger what yer plans are after ya leave Enterprise...if it’s not all top secret, that is,” he amended. He gave her an expectant look. She hesitated for a moment, and then gave him a small sheepish smile as she approached the table. “I suppose it is stupid of me to ruin our last hours together by overreacting, isn’t it?” she replied quietly. His smile broadened and he pushed the chair snugly beneath her. Then he twisted off the cap of the first bottle of root beer and handed it to her as she sat down. She closed her eyes as she took the first swallow, abandoning all pretense of Vulcan control in her enjoyment of the taste. He chuckled. Finally giving up on the tea, he pushed it aside and opened his own bottle. They sat side by side for a moment, savoring the opportunity to share something singularly theirs. T’Mir swallowed and put her root beer deliberately on the table, as if she were trying to make it last longer. She sat back in her chair, seeming completely relaxed for the first time since she’d entered the room. “When I leave here I’ll be debriefed first,” she began softly. “They do that first so you don’t forget the details. Then they’ll keep me basetime for a while to readjust. I’ve already been assigned to what the human students at the Temporal Academy used to call ‘babysitting duty’.” She raised an ironic brow and deadpanned, “I’ve never understood the reference, as performing such an assignment never involves being seated on or even in the general vicinity of an infant of any species.” Trip nearly choked on his mouthful of root beer laughing at her joke. When he was able to speak without dribbling on his shirt, he asked curiously, still grinning. “So...who’re ya babysitting?” She paused as if considering how much she should tell him, and then picked up her root beer again. “A Romulan recruit,” she said blandly, and then took another swig. Fortunately for Trip, his mouth was empty when she dropped that bombshell. “A Romulan?!” he echoed in disbelief. “And they gave the assignment to you?!” He shook his head wonderingly. “What do they want, another war on their hands?” She raised a brow. “In my adopted basetime, Romulans, Humans, and Vulcans have been at peace for well over five hundred years.” “But you grew up fightin’ ‘em, T’Mir! They killed millions of your people. How can the TEA expect you to be objective about dealing first hand with one of ‘em?” he protested. T’Mir tipped her head in acknowledgement of his statement. “Ordinarily I’d agree with you,” she admitted, “But this Romulan is different. I’ve had the opportunity to study him. He’s had a most unusual upbringing.” Trip eyed her suspiciously as she took another sip and swallowed. “In fact, I find many of his qualities quite admirable,” she concluded succinctly. Then she said nothing for several seconds. Trip studied her expression with his tongue firmly tucked into his cheek, trying to decipher her meaning. Is it a “I’ve decided to postpone killing him for now” sort of admirable, or a “get ready for bumpy-headed grandkids” sort of admirable? he wondered. He still hadn’t quite decided which when the acting captain, the third guest invited to their exclusive going away celebration, arrived—uncharacteristically several minutes late. Trip smiled at T’Pol in welcome and got up to pull out her chair. She gave him a tolerant look and sat down. She was cool and collected appearing, as usual, but he sensed tension in the bond. “Yes, darlin’...I know you’re perfectly capable of pullin’ out your own chair,” he sent teasingly, repeating a long-standing joke between them regarding her complete befuddlement over his old-fashioned southern manners. Her amusement lightened the mood, but she still seemed preoccupied. “I apologize for being late. Captain Archer asked for a detailed status report when I visited him in Sickbay. Following that, he insisted that I admire his offspring and assist with the feeding process. Afterwards, I had to stop by my cabin for a change of clothing. Young Maria has formula retention issues,” she announced dryly to both of them. Trip chuckled. T’Mir smirked a bit. “I noticed that earlier,” she said. Trip pushed back from the table, glancing at T’Pol without a word. I’ll call for dinner. Talk to T’Mir. She’s upset about havin’ to leave. T’Mir, oblivious to his comment, took another swallow of her root beer. T’Pol sat calmly with her hands clasped before her on the table gazing evenly at T’Mir. Neither of them said anything. Trip rolled his eyes and stepped to the comm. “Tucker to Chef. We’re all here and ready when you are.” “Of course, Commander. Crewman Prudhomme is on his way with the cart.” Trip grinned. The dinner would be delicious, he was sure, but steward and part-time pastry chef Prudhomme made pecan pie good enough to die for. He turned back toward the table to find his wife and pseudo-daughter staring at each other across the table. He could sense T’Pol’s reluctance to speak. He felt both an overwhelming sadness and a sense of pride and respect in the bond. “So...” he said nonchalantly into the silence of the room as he took his seat again, “How’re the captain and his family doin’, T’Pol? And how’s Hoshi?” T’Pol disengaged her attention from T’Mir’s face with seeming difficulty to address his question. Her face was calm, but Trip sensed her turmoil. He realized that her grief over the impending loss of the young woman they’d come to accept as their daughter was warring with her parental pride over the girl’s very Vulcan response to her upcoming departure. Unlike Trip, T’Pol fully understood T’Mir’s need for a return to discipline, and was supporting her efforts in the only way she could. “Mrs. Archer has awakened and seems to be mentally intact, although still physically weak,” replied T’Pol. “Hoshi was also weakened by her ordeal, but is recovering, thanks to Agent T’Mir’s healing skills.” She gave the girl a nod of gratitude, calling her by her title without a trace of familiarity in her manner. She fell silent after her brief status report, and her eyes fixed themselves on T’Mir’s face. Abruptly, Trip felt grief welling in the bond again. T’Mir seemed to sense her foster mother’s struggle, for she gave T’Pol the tiniest of sad smiles and reached out over the table to lay a hand over the older woman’s hands where they were clasped together on the table. “Commander... I’m sorry,” began T’Mir hesitantly. T’Pol shook her head minutely and opened her hands to grip the girl’s fingers in hers. “Do not apologize,” she murmured. Her posture was erect and her gaze was steady. She said emphatically, “You have done nothing which requires an apology.” T’Mir sighed, shaking her head. “You’re wrong,” she countered gently. “I’ve been very selfish. To spare you this pain, all I had to do was remain silent.” Her statement hung in the air for almost a full second before Trip shot it down. “Finding you and then losin’ you is a damn sight better than not ever knowin’ you at all,” he told her firmly. He reached over and laid a hand on top of theirs. His eyes met his wife’s for a moment, and she silently confirmed his statement. He turned back to T’Mir in full paternal authority mode. “You believe me now, girl... I’m tellin’ you the truth. We both love you like you were our own Elizabeth. Don’t you ever feel bad about tellin’ us who you are, is that clear?” T’Mir’s lips twitched upward just a fraction. “Yes, sir,” she replied. The entry tone sounded loudly in the quiet room. Trip pulled his hand away. The women followed suit just in time to present a respectably professional picture for the steward who walked in pushing the cart. Trip closed his eyes and inhaled as his plate was placed before him. The smell was heavenly, just like home. He opened his eyes, licking his lips. T’Mir eyed her plate hesitantly. “What is it?” she asked. Trip grinned at her. “Red beans and rice, mustard greens and cornbread...the meatless meal of champions!” he replied enthusiastically. “Go ahead and dig in, but save room for dessert!” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Arabella of the Sixth House stared out of the window of the cabin she shared with the newly appointed commanding officer of the Saber of Betazed. The flagship of Betazed’s defense fleet had never been intended as a warship, and when the message from Starfleet had arrived by subspace transceiver mere days following the departure of the starship Enterprise, the Saber of Betazed had been pulled off defense duty to serve once again in a diplomatic capacity. Arabella had been content to remain at home, raising her daughter and managing her household, a task that was, in her mother the Matriarch’s opinion, beneath her—and more appropriately performed by a low ranking male. Of course, her mother had never approved of her partnership contract with Lana. Captain Lana of the Fifth House, she amended with a secret smile. The two of them completed each other, and if her mother would never understand that, then at least her father was supportive. Galen had been horrified when both Lana and Arabella had announced their intention to travel to Earth together and to take their daughter Maya with them, but his wife’s wishes had prevailed, as usual. The Saber was traveling to Earth so that Marella, Arabella’s older sister—the smart one that their mother loved best, could attempt to instruct a group of human telepaths in the defense technique that she’d developed which had allowed Enterprise to defeat an entire Romulan attack force in orbit around Betazed. They would be in the Sol system for at least a year. Likely longer, if that dumpy little ambassador mother likes so much is the most powerful telepath they could find, thought Arabella spitefully. She’d had no intention of remaining behind and under her mother’s thumb without Lana for a whole year. The prospect was intolerable. To her surprise, her mother had agreed with her. After the Matriarch’s assertion that “no place could be safer than a starship crewed by the best telepathic defense team on Betazed traveling two hundred light years away from the Romulan front”, Galen had been forced to agree with her, and Arabella had promptly been charged not only with the care of her own daughter, but also with the almost six year old heir to the Sixth House and probable eventual Matriarch of all Betazed if she chose to be, her niece Lianna. She heard a rustle behind her and turned in the dimly lit room. The two girls were already asleep, curled together in the cubbyhole bed they shared. Lianna turned restlessly as if she were dreaming and then settled down again. Her fair skin contrasted with Maya’s dusky beauty. The two of them were so unlike, and not in the ways that Arabella had expected. Maya was just over a year old now, and everything concerning her was a struggle. Arabella had always thought that age two was the age when the “no’s” began. Maya was evidently very precocious. Lianna was actually a help with her younger cousin. The older child was such a scarily powerful telepath that Arabella had initially feared she would be uncontrollable. Surprisingly, Lianna was an easygoing and amiable little girl, wise beyond her years. It would have been easy to become jealous of her and the close relationship she seemed to have with her grandmother, a relationship that Arabella had never been able to cultivate. Irana was as loving and open with Lianna as she was rigid and disapproving of Arabella, and nothing Arabella could do seemed to change that. She couldn’t bring herself to hate the little girl, though. She was simply too sweet and lovable to dislike for very long. Arabella lifted the timepiece she kept suspended around her neck and looked at it yet again. Lana was very late. She wondered what was keeping her this time. It wasn’t as if they were in a war zone. They were traveling through Vulcan space now, and were almost to their destination. What could she possibly be doing that kept her away from their cabin every evening until the wee hours? Arabella had asked, and all she’d gotten were excuses about being “new to this captain business” and having to “live up to the Matriarch’s expectations”. Arabella knew that Lana had been promoted two ranks at once in order to gain command of the Saber, and that some in the fleet believed that nepotism had played a role in her promotion. Arabella found it unlikely. The Matriarch had promoted Lana herself, in spite of rather than because of her relationship with Arabella. Irana vehemently disapproved of the two of them together, but apparently just as vehemently had insisted that Lana be in command of this diplomatic mission despite her youth. It was ridiculous, but there were times when Arabella was jealous of her own spouse’s relationship with her mother. Lana had served under Irana before her elevation to Matriarch, when Irana herself had been nothing more than the commanding officer of the Saber, and the trust she bore for Lana evidently knew no bounds. It was that trust that drove Lana to perfect her command skills, and her obsession with perfection that kept them apart. Arabella sighed. Even here in the vacuum of space her mother was in control. She shook her head and gave up waiting. It would be a long day tomorrow. The girls usually woke early. She dimmed the lights further and climbed between the sheets. She’d barely closed her eyes when she heard a whimper from the far side of the room. When whimpering became sobbing, she opened her eyes again with a resigned sigh and turned toward the small bed set into the wall, part of an automatic escape pod designed to protect the girls in case of depressurization. Maya was still out cold, but Lianna sat bolt upright in bed, sobbing quietly. Arabella shook her head ruefully. She’d been waiting for this since they’d come aboard. Both of Lianna’s parents had died aboard this ship while she’d been traveling with them almost two years previously. The ship had undergone extensive refitting since then, but much of the interior decor remained the same. It had only been a matter of time, Arabella was sure, before Lianna would at least unconsciously make the connection. “Lianna, baby, come here,” sent Arabella gently. “What’s wrong?” The child’s wide black eyes contrasted sharply with her pale complexion in the darkness. She stared at Arabella solemnly, sniffing back her tears. “They’re coming...,” she sent ominously, the childish purity of her thoughts contrasting sharply with the sheer power behind them. The strength of her sending made Arabella wince. “The bad people are coming.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx T’Pol stood beside the table where the leavings of their supper lay. Trip stood at her side, but she barely noticed the warmth of his mental presence. Her attention was entirely focused on the young face in front of her. She is not my daughter, and yet she is... And now we must say goodbye. The thought sent pain through her. Her right hand lifted of its own volition to touch an auburn curl that had escaped T’Mir’s hair elastic. Their eyes met. T’Mir grasped T’Pol’s hand and held it in place, simultaneously extending her own hand to touch the older woman’s temple lightly with the tips of three fingers and her thumb. She hesitated a moment with a questioning look on her face. T’Pol realized what the girl was offering, and nearly stepped back apprehensively. Mind melds with anyone other than her bondmate were not on her list of preferred activities. The hurt expression on T’Mir’s face at her hesitation made her reconsider. Perhaps just a surface meld...to say goodbye, she decided. As the thought occurred to her, her barriers fell, and she sensed Trip’s presence in her mind. T’Mir extended her opposite hand and rested her fingertips on the side of Trip’s head as well. “You all right, T’Pol?” His concerned sending reached her just as she nodded once, maintaining eye contact with T’Mir, and deliberately spread her own fingers over the girl’s temple. She closed her eyes as T’Mir’s muttered words sounded in her ears. “Our minds are merging. Our minds are one...” T’Pol steeled herself for the invasion that, based on all of her previous experiences, a mind meld with anyone but her mate was sure to involve. Even T’Pau had hardly been gentle. Instead, she sensed a hesitant mental presence, almost childish in its desire for acceptance and approval, hovering tantalizingly out of reach. “T’Mir?” she ventured, dropping the last of her shields. T’Pol opened her eyes and found herself on a brightly white sandy beach with the surf pounding rhythmically to her left and dunes covered with sea grass waving in the salt-scented breeze to her right. The deserted shore extended without end before her. “Hey, darlin’!” Trip’s voice called from behind her. She turned to find her husband, dressed for the occasion in a loudly floral shirt and ragged khaki shorts, walking arm in arm with a slender girl dressed in a halter top and a sarong skirt in a matching floral print. The girl possessed a wind-tousled head full of auburn curls which so effectively hid her brows and ears that it took T’Pol a moment to recognize her smiling face. T’Mir held out a hand. “Come and wade with us,” she invited. T’Pol had never seen her so relaxed... so human. T’Pol studied both of them. She’d never really noticed before how much T’Mir resembled Trip when she smiled. They truly looked like father and daughter, except for the fact that Trip looked too young to have a daughter T’Mir’s age. “I’m not dressed for wading. You two go ahead,” she demurred. Trip dropped T’Mir’s arm and stood with hands on his hips, staring at T’Pol in consternation. “T’Pol! Just change!” he insisted with an incredulous smile. T’Mir gave her an understanding look. “I retrieved a memory of the proper attire for this setting from Commander Tucker. Perhaps you could do the same,” she suggested. “Just let him decide what you should wear.” T’Pol’s eyes narrowed as she inspected Trip’s irrepressibly mischievous expression. She decided not to take the chance, and in a blink attired herself in an outfit to match T’Mir’s. Trip’s smile broadened. She sensed his approval and his desire as he gave her a once over from head to foot. “Behave!” she sent teasingly, flattered by his attention despite herself. Trip’s tongue took up residence in his cheek, but he nodded once in mocking acquiescence. T’Mir smiled with delight and extended her hands. Trip and T’Pol each took one, and they turned toward the surf. Being Vulcan, T’Pol possessed an infallible inner time sense, and although that sense told her that mere minutes were elapsing, somehow the three of them subjectively spent a long, lazy, sunny afternoon at the beach—talking, wading, and enjoying each other’s company. At the end of several subjective hours they sat on the sand sipping imaginary virgin pina coladas and watching the sun set in vivid hues of orange tinged with pink. “I wish...” T’Mir began wistfully. She sighed and stopped mid-sentence. She looked thoughtfully out over the water for several seconds, and then she smiled a bit. Sea birds squawked in the distance. The surf struck the shore in an irregular rhythm. Trip reached out and clasped T’Pol’s hand, his eyes fixed on the girl’s face as if he were memorizing her features. T’Mir turned to face them. “I have a story to tell you both,” she said, with an expression on her face that promised good things. “It’s about my temporal mechanics instructor at the academy. He was a base-timer.” At their puzzled expressions, she continued. “That means he was born in and lived in the approved timeline. He wasn’t an agent. He went home to his family at night,” she explained. Her smile grew broader and her eyes twinkled. “The man was a stickler for detail, but he really knew his subject.” She paused. T’Pol raised an expectant brow. T’Mir bit her lip as if to keep from laughing, and then, all in a rush, said, “...And his ears were pointed because he was part Vulcan and his name was Charles Sorak Tucker. He said he was named after two very famous ancestors.” T’Pol blinked, absorbing the information she’d just given them. “Sorak was my father’s name,” she said. T’Mir’s grin broadened. “Exactly,” she said with relish. Trip stared at them both. His face split in a delighted grin. “So... you’re sayin’ that T’Pol and I... that we...” “Of course, despite this unusual coincidence...” interrupted T’Pol with emphasis, eyeing both of them with admonishment, “... you are unable to tell us more without risking your position within the TEA and potentially affecting the approved timeline.” T’Mir’s face sobered—to a point. Her eyes still sparkled with suppressed merriment over their reaction to her news, but her expression changed to one of polite attention—an expression more appropriate for a Vulcan. “You are correct, Commander,” she confirmed gently. With the slightest of wistful smiles, she set her empty glass down in the sand and stood up. Her clothing suddenly morphed into the dark blue coverall she’d been wearing before their impromptu vacation had begun. The sun, setting behind her, backlit her curls in burnished copper tones. “Take care of each other,” she began softly. Trip scrambled to his feet. T’Pol could sense his dismay over T’Mir’s imminent departure, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he held out both arms and smiled invitingly. T’Mir raised a brow at him, and then abandoned her attempt at Vulcan decorum to step up and throw both arms firmly about him, eliciting a pained grunt. “You be careful, now,” Trip managed to whisper, and squeezed back. They released each other finally, and T’Mir turned toward T’Pol. There was truly nothing to say except the obvious. “Peace and long life, T’Mir of Vulcan,” whispered T’Pol. She fought the urge to shed the tears her heart was demanding, and remained dry-eyed—or at least she remained so here in her imagination. A part of her could sense the wetness on her cheeks as she stood in the Captain’s dining room locked in a meld with the girl she’d come to accept as her daughter. “Live long and prosper, Commander,” replied the girl stoically. She stood proudly and solemnly, staring at T’Pol for several seconds before she broke down and threw both arms around T’Pol’s neck. “I will see you both again if it is within my power to do so...I promise!” T’Mir whispered fiercely into T’Pol’s shoulder. It was too much. Tears spilled over then, but T’Pol felt no shame. She wrapped both arms around her daughter and held on tight. Trip stepped up and enveloped them both, and they embraced until their tears were dry. It seemed a mutual decision when they broke the meld and found themselves back in the Captain’s dining room. T’Mir stepped back, gave them both her wry little smile, activated the temporal stabilizer she had wrapped around her upper arm, and vanished, leaving them standing with empty arms. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx An Introduction to the Use of Tele-Empathic Resonance Techniques and Their Effects on Latent Telepaths. Marella sighed. She’d revised the title of her course syllabus seven times and it still seemed awkward and pretentious. Maybe I should just call it “Gorking Romulans 101”, she thought, only half-jokingly. The comm call signal sounded. She reached across the desk in her quarters to activate it. “Marella here,” she responded, expecting a request for a headache remedy or something similar. In addition to her newly acquired position as the Betazoid medical ambassador to Earth, she was still serving as ship’s medical officer. “’Rella? It’s me.” Marella smiled knowingly. Lana must be working late again, she thought. Arabella only used the childish nickname when she was lonely or she wanted something. “Is there a problem, ‘Bella?” she responded teasingly. Arabella had always hated the fact that their names rhymed, but, for once, her baby sister completely ignored the jibe. “Ummm... should I be concerned that Lianna can’t sleep because she’s sure that something terrible’s about to happen?” she asked hesitantly, sounding worried. “She’s probably just finally associating this ship with her parents’ death,” Marella reassured her. “That’s what I thought at first, too,” replied Arabella, “...but she’s trying to send me what she’s sensing, and I’ve never felt anything like it before. She’s scaring me!” Her voice shook and she sounded on the verge of tears. Marella rolled her eyes. Her sister could be such a drama queen. “I’m on my way,” she replied tolerantly, grabbing her medical kit from the chair beside her. Lianna was probably fine, but it sounded like Arabella needed something to help her sleep. As she pushed back from the desk in her quarters an alarm began to sound, blaring rhythmically. When she opened the door it became nearly deafening, reverberating down the corridor. As she made her way at a rapid walk toward the cabin Arabella shared with Lana and the girls, the ship shuttered as if colliding with a massive object. The impact nearly knocked her off her feet. “Arabella!” she sent as forcefully as she could as she approached her sister’s cabin. Arabella met her at the door in a panic, eyes wide and hyperventilating. Behind her, both Maya and Lianna were screaming. “They’re here! They’re here!” cried the little girl over her infant cousin’s wails. Her shrill voice was piercing, but it was nothing compared to what she was broadcasting mentally. Now that Marella was in the same room with the child she could sense what Lianna was sensing, and the import of it made Marella’s blood run cold. She grabbed Arabella by one arm and pulled her toward the emergency pod that doubled as a crib for the children, speaking firmly and clearly to her sister in an attempt to penetrate her panic. “We’re under attack. Get inside. Take care of the girls. I need to get to Sickbay,” said Marella, making eye contact with the younger woman. Arabella turned her head toward the emergency pod as if to comply, but when Marella moved to leave she felt desperate fingers clutching her sleeve. “Don’t leave me!” Arabella begged. As Marella reached to pry her hand away, the comm system began broadcasting an automated alarm. “Decompression alert. Decompression alert. Emergency bulkheads activating. All hands report to emergency escape pods.” Marella tore her arm out of Arabella’s grip and raced out of the cabin. As she reached the corridor, she saw the emergency bulkhead slam shut. “Rings and sabers!” she cursed. There was no way to get to Sickbay now. She turned to the comm station on the wall. “Marella to the bridge.” There was no response, only ominous static. She pressed the button again with a sinking heart. “Marella to Sickbay.” Still nothing. She pressed the all-call button. “This is the Chief Medical Officer. Can anyone hear me?” More static crackled, and then a voice replied in a husky whisper. “This is Chief Engineer Donata. Stay off the comm and get to the nearest emergency pod, Marella. We’ve been boarded. The bridge is destroyed, warp engines are disabled and my controls are fried. I’ve set the core to blow manually. Get off the ship now. You have one minute.” Marella winced sympathetically. Donata was a tough old bird, difficult to get along with on the best of days, but she didn’t deserve to die like this—of course, neither had the bridge crew. Arabella was going to be hysterical when she found out. “Acknowledged, Chief. Good luck,” replied Marella sincerely. It took her only a few seconds to make it back to Arabella’s quarters. She ran across the room and dove into the small pod, sealing the hatch behind her. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?” Arabella demanded. Marella ignored her, following the prompts as rapidly as she could manage to detach the pod. With a hiss and a sudden jerk, the explosive bolts fired, propelling them away from the ship. The pod rotated nauseatingly as it was pushed several kilometers in just a few seconds by automatic thrusters. Maya, who’d been clinging to her mother, began to cry. Lianna remained strangely silent. After her initial fearful outburst, the child had curled herself up in a ball in the corner of the mattress which formed the floor of the small pod, clinging to a handhold with an expression much too serious and solemn for a normal child her age. Marella felt certain that she knew precisely what was going on. The chamber jerked sharply as the stabilizer jets kicked in, stopping their spin just in time for Marella to get a ringside view through the porthole of the Saber exploding silently in the vacuum of space, taking a Romulan warbird with it. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Trip followed T’Pol down the corridor solemnly, one step behind her, as if the two of them were proceeding to a staff briefing that neither of them wanted to attend. He was grieving over T’Mir’s departure, and was certain that T’Pol was, too. It had been mere minutes since she’d left, just long enough to have the steward clear the meal and for them to come up with a reasonable excuse for T’Mir’s absence. Not even a Vulcan recovered that quickly. Her shields were impenetrable, though, her face unreadable. She stopped at the door of her quarters and met his eyes with a cool expression. “It’s late. I’ll meet you for breakfast at 0730,” she said calmly, and then turned to enter her cabin. The iciness of her manner chilled him to the bone—and then made him angry. He stepped forward, grasped her upper arm and whispered emphatically, “Oh, no...You’re not gonna do this, T’Pol! It’s only 2100 hours. Lemme in and let’s talk.” The physical contact allowed him to break past the most superficial of her barriers, and he felt the grief seething within her. His anger fled immediately, replaced by concern. “You can’t stuff this. You need to share it or it’ll eat you up inside,” he told her softly, gazing sympathetically into her eyes. He smiled wryly. “That’s what husbands are for, T’Pol. Let me do my job.” She said nothing, but she yielded, stepping aside to allow him entry before shutting the door. “Shared grief is a human custom. Vulcans don’t indulge in it,” she told him stiffly, standing with her hands clasped behind her as he faced her from across the room. “You did when Elizabeth died,” he challenged. “Why is this any different?” She winced visibly at his comparison. He immediately felt remorse over bringing up the subject. But somebody’s got to make her deal with this, dammit! he thought. “T’Mir is not dead. She is simply...unavailable,” replied T’Pol stoutly. “There is no logical reason for grief.” Trip smiled sadly, shaking his head. He stepped forward and placed both hands on her shoulders, brushing them gently down over her upper arms the way he knew she liked. “No reason? T’Pol, we’ll probably never see her again! It’s perfectly normal to miss her,” he protested. She closed her eyes; a stricken expression was on her face. “I’m in command. I can’t allow anything to distract me now.” He continued to stroke her arms softly, smiling down at her. “Even an acting captain needs the occasional distraction, T’Pol. ‘All work and no play...’ and all that, ya know.” T’Pol opened her eyes and raised a brow at him. Her hands came to rest palm down on his chest. “That is a most illogical concept, husband,” she replied mildly. He bent his head and took the tip of her right ear between his teeth. She inhaled sharply, closing her eyes again. He chuckled, and followed the line of her jaw with soft kisses until he reached her lips. “Maybe so...but it’s true,” he countered into her mouth, smiling. He held back from contact, trying to tempt her into opening up to him. He could feel her barriers falling. Her hands slid over his chest, causing shivers to run up his spine before locking behind his head. The movement brought her lush body in full contact with his. He groaned, and was about to give up and just kiss her when she tugged firmly on the back of his head and did it for him. The sensation of her hot tongue in his mouth and her sudden passionate presence inside his head made him cry out. There was no more discussion as their clothes were discarded. Grief brought tears to his eyes. She kissed them away. Sadness was replaced by joy as they joined, despair replaced by hope. They belonged together. They completed each other, and they were destined to continue to do so, at least for a while. It was enough. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “Captain, I’m getting an automated distress call. I don’t recognize the ship’s ID code, but I don’t think it’s human or Vulcan.” Paul Mayweather looked up from his list of passenger requests and gave the helmsman a harried look. The Vulcan female passenger was at it again. This time she wanted a five degree increase in the temperature of the minister’s cabin. It was already set at 37 degrees Celsius. The radiant heat alone would fry every computer terminal in the vicinity. Despite his boy-with-a-toy glee over the brand new warp 3 engine Starfleet had installed on his ship in exchange for the Horizon’s new tour of duty, he found himself nostalgic at times for the simplicity of the Dreylax/Vega run. Dilithium ore never complained. “Check the Starfleet diplomatic registry, Johnny,” he told the tow-headed young man. “Any ship legitimately traveling in this area of space should be on it.” He watched as the baby-faced adopted son of his second cousins did a proficient data search and smiled. Young Mr. Orcutt was adapting quite well to his change of posting. Although he lacked the family resemblance, his parents had apparently managed to impart the family skills. “It’s a Betazoid diplomatic courier, sir... the Saber of Betazed,” the boy confirmed. “It’s an escape pod beacon,” he added in alarm, looking up from his terminal. “The main ship’s beacon isn’t registering.” “How far is it from our present heading? How much time will we lose?” asked Mayweather. He’d been told in no uncertain terms by both Starfleet Command and the Vulcan High Council that his passenger’s timely arrival to Earth took top priority. He could see why. The old guy had seemed on the brink of death when he’d boarded the ship in Vulcan orbit. It was possible that the minister would die enroute, Mayweather had been told. Not if he could help it. The Horizon was no hearse. Helmsman Orcutt did some quick calculations. “Only three hours at warp 3,” he replied with a hopeful look. He’d grown up on a Boomer freighter too, and was positively beside himself over the Horizon’s newly acquired capabilities. Warp 3 was their theoretically maximum speed with the new engine. To preserve structural integrity, though, they’d been traveling along at a not inconsiderable warp 2.8. Although their current speed was still a full order of magnitude faster than their previous engine had been capable of, Johnny’s puppy dog expression spoke of his sincere desire to stretch his wings. “All right, son,” replied Mayweather just a little indulgently. He grinned back at Johnny. “Let’s see what this baby can do!” He reached out a hand and activated the ship’s comm. “Bridge to engine room. We’re responding to a distress signal. I need maximum warp!” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “Maximum warp!” grumbled Rianna as she monitored the new engine’s readouts. “As if this were some sort of battle cruiser!” Sometimes her oldest son was just too big for his britches. She brought up the internal scanner’s datastream and set alarms to monitor structural integrity. The engine might be new, but the ship herself was almost as old as her chief engineer and sometime medic, and Rianna knew from personal experience just how old that was. At this speed something was likely to fall right off at any minute. She picked up a wrench and had to think for a second before she remembered what she’d intended to do with it. The subspace message she’d received from Travis had her rattled. She’d expected a message about wanting to see them again now that the Horizon was frequenting the Sol system. Instead, she’d gotten the surprise of her life. She hadn’t known whether to cry or laugh over the vids of her half-Betazoid granddaughter. The child was so much like Travis at that age. Rianna finished loosening the bolts she was working on, laid aside the wrench, and yanked the access panel free to climb behind it and lie on her back, performing the necessary maintenance without even having to think about it. How could he have done something like that? I taught him to take precautions! And then, to leave his own child on an alien planet to be raised by strangers! She sat up again and reached for the wrench, viciously yanking on the stem bolts that held the panel in place to close it, taking her frustration out on the inanimate objects around her. Guess not all of them were complete strangers..., she thought with a rueful chuckle, shaking her head. He hadn’t been very forthcoming about the circumstances of the infant’s conception, but both of the young women on the vids Travis had sent were very beautiful. It was a peculiar situation, but she seriously doubted that he’d been forced into it. She sighed and climbed laboriously to her feet with a crackle from her creaky old knees and back despite the ship’s point eight standard gravity. The worst part of the situation, she supposed, was never being able to meet her own granddaughter. She didn’t see how she’d ever be able to go to Betazed. Even after this war was over fuel costs would be prohibitive, and even at warp 3 it would take them over a year to get there. Maybe I should ask Starfleet if I can hitch a ride the next time Enterprise heads in that direction? she mused with a wistful smile. Paul would probably love to get rid of me and hire a chief engineer who’ll take his orders without argument. Try as she might, she never seemed to be able to forget that “Captain Paul Mayweather” was also her baby boy, and their interactions often amused the rest of the crew. She hadn’t told Paul about Travis’ message yet. His reaction was going to be interesting, to say the least. He didn’t think much of Travis’ maturity or stability, and this situation wasn’t going to help matters at all. Maybe it was time for her to retire. She wondered what the weather was like on Betazed. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Marella woke yet again to the sound of soft, hopeless sobbing. Both Lianna and Maya were finally asleep, curled up together on their little corner of the mattress, exhausted from the day’s adventures. Arabella had pestered Marella until she’d told her what she knew. Marella regretted it now. Lana had been a treasure. They’d all loved her. Her loss was tragic, as was the loss of the rest of the crew. She’d known that Arabella would grieve. She just didn’t realize she’d do it so loudly. Marella rolled over and curled around her sister where she lay sniffing and hiccuping in the fetal position. The physical contact enabled her to reach past the shields Arabella had erected to protect the children. “I’m here, ‘Bella, sweetie. I’m here...,” she sent blearily, half asleep. All Marella could sense from her was raw grief and the sincere desire to die. The first was expected. The second woke her up completely in alarm. She sat up and opened the medical kit she still wore over one shoulder. “None of that, now. Lana wouldn’t want that. The girls need you,” Marella soothed. She set the hypospray and pressed it to her sister’s neck. Blessed silence ensued. Marella tucked the hypospray back into her medical kit and then craned her neck to look at the clock. They’d been in the escape pod for six hours. That left roughly another twelve hours before oxygen levels would start to run low. It wasn’t designed for a lengthy occupancy, only granting enough time for rescue during a battle situation when it was assumed that other ships would be in the vicinity to render aid. Marella sighed and laid her head back down. A person at rest consumes less oxygen, she reminded herself firmly. Go to sleep. Despite her fatigue, though, her eyes stubbornly refused to close. She focused her gaze on the wall in front of her and willed her breathing to slow. The soft susurration of air traveling between the parted lips of the four occupants of the pod was the only sound she heard. She concentrated on the hypnotic rhythm until her eyelids flickered shut... The blare of the proximity alarm jerked her awake with a sudden start. Maya woke as well, and began to cry. Lianna, surprisingly, reached for her infant cousin and soothed her with remarkable maturity. Arabella slept a drug-induced sleep, oblivious. Marella sat up to look out of the porthole. The pod had no transmitter other than its emergency beacon, and so she had no way of communicating with their rescuers, but it was obvious that they’d been discovered. The outline of the ship was unfamiliar to her, but the name painted on the hull was in English, the language she’d been studying for the past several weeks. The ship’s name was Horizon. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Lieutenant Commander Janice Hess waddled into Sickbay with a wide grin on her face. Her shift was over. It was baby time. “Good evening, Lieutenant Commander!” called Phlox with even more than his usual cheerfulness as he walked out of the lab where his menagerie was housed. “Ready for your checkup?” Hess grimaced. “I forgot it was time already,” she admitted. She walked to a biobed and awkwardly hoisted herself onto it. She gazed longingly across the chamber at the curtained alcove which was now the Archers’ domain as Doctor Phlox scanned her hugely pregnant abdomen. “Young Milo is strong and healthy!” he announced with a broad smile. He showed her the screen and she admired her son, who weighed over six pounds now and was at that moment sucking his thumb. It was difficult to tell from a scan, but it certainly seemed as if he resembled his father. “He’s very long for a 38 weeker!” exclaimed Phlox. Hess smiled to herself. Definitely like his father! she decided. “Any contractions?” asked Phlox as he put the scanner into its niche and downloaded the images. He turned to a nearby work station to input his exam findings and paused, looking at her inquiringly with his fingers over the keys. “A few,” admitted Hess. “Mostly when I exert myself. I had three or four back to back after my workout yesterday. I was about to call you, but they stopped,” she shrugged. Phlox smiled and chuckled as he keyed in her history. “You may want to hold off on the workouts if you really expect to have this baby in San Francisco,” he replied. Hess looked dismayed. “You really think so? I’m not due for two weeks, and we’re supposed to be at Jupiter Station in five days. I’m gonna make it, right?” Phlox shrugged. “I have no idea. The estimation of due dates is far from an exact science, Lieutenant Commander. You could have this baby tomorrow, or not for another month. In humans, the 40 week gestational period has always been plus or minus two weeks.” He grinned sympathetically at her alarm. “If exertion triggers contractions, I can put you on medical leave,” he offered. “That might buy you some time.” Hess laughed and shook her head. “No thanks, Doc. I’d go nuts in my cabin for another five days. I will stay out of the gym, though.” She slid down carefully from the biobed and looked over at the opposite end of the room. Cutler must have heard her arrive; she’d pulled back the curtains and the captain was helping his wife into a wheelchair. Hess grinned brightly and headed off toward the trio. “Thanks, Doc! Time to babysit!” she called over her shoulder. “Is that you, Jan? Don’t tell me you’ve come to visit me again?” Elena Archer squinted across the room with a smile. Her vision was still affected by the eclampsia, but Phlox had reassured them that the change wasn’t permanent. The captain flipped her footrests down with practiced skill, guided her feet into them, and then stepped behind her chair and started pushing her toward the exit. Cutler followed them carrying a padd to record her physical therapy notes. “You? Why would I visit you? I’m here for my baby fix!” teased Janice as she stooped to give Elena a one-armed hug and a kiss on the cheek where they met mid-way across Sickbay. Captain Archer chuckled. “We appreciate your diligence, Lieutenant Commander. We’ll be in the gym if you need us.” “Take your time!” returned Hess blithely, making a beeline for the incubators. To her disappointment, the infants had apparently just been fed. Maria had a blissful expression on her chubby face. She burped in her sleep, dribbling milk. Jon Jr., on the other hand, was calmly awake and alert. Compared to his sister he was small and lean. Since he was awake, Janice had no qualms about scooping him up and having a seat in one of the rocking chairs that she and Commander Tucker had cobbled together. The baby held her gaze with an expression that seemed oddly wise for a week old infant. She stroked his peach-fuzz covered head with one hand. It fit within her palm. He was getting bigger by the day, but still weighed less than four pounds. “Hello, sweet boy! My little Milo’s already bigger than you!” she whispered fondly. Jon stared back at her, as solemn as a Vulcan. She laughed. “But you’re a smart one, aren’t you?” she teased. Young Jon smiled—or perhaps it was just a gas pain. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Phlox had to forcibly restrain himself from jumping up and down with glee. The evidence was unmistakable. His experiment was a success. He bounced subtly on his toes as he watched Liz Cutler exit with the Archers. As fond as he was of the girl, it would hardly do to involve her in his not-exactly-sanctioned research. Once Janice Hess was occupied with the infants, oblivious to her surroundings, he stepped to the curtained alcove where Hoshi Sato slept. Lieutenant Commander Reed had already made his rounds for the evening. The coast was clear. Phlox had to be careful. Although he’d been given no specific orders to the contrary, had he actually asked permission to do the research he’d been doing in the months since the surgical transporter had come into their possession, he was virtually certain that the answer would have been no. So he hadn’t asked. As far as he was concerned, until he delivered the device into the hands of Starfleet researchers it was his to do with as he pleased. How do the humans put it? “Finders, keepers?” he thought with a grin. He hadn’t been entirely truthful with the captain. Although it was true that he’d never operated the surgical transporter for obstetric purposes, he had been doing some less drastic experimentation on his own. In the early hours of gamma shift when the ship was being operated by a skeleton crew of less experienced personnel, Phlox, without the human need for sleep, had been investigating the potential uses of the device they’d picked up in the Kreptagh system. Combat injuries were on the rise. Particularly deadly were the plasma burns and coolant leak burns which would eat away the victim’s skin and soft tissue, leaving them at risk for secondary infections and sepsis. Synthetic skin replacements and cultured skin graft materials were available, but they couldn’t replace lost muscle and subcutaneous fat. Phlox’s first thought when he’d seen what the surgical transporter could do had been—what if we could replace lost tissue with the transporter? His first experiment had involved a pair of furry little animals humans called guinea pigs. Their varied fur patterns had been ideal for his purposes. It hadn’t seemed to bother them at all when he’d used the transporter to exchange a patch of skin and subcutaneous tissue—with attached fur—from the gold colored animal to the black one and vice versa. Unfortunately, the animals’ immune systems rapidly recognized the exchanged tissue as foreign, and both animals now would require daily doses of immune suppressants for the rest of their short little lives to prevent rejection of the tissue. So he’d tried again. For the second experiment, he used the recipient’s own cells as the source material for the transport so the DNA would match, and used the pattern of the donor stored in the buffer of the transporter for the structure of the tissue, reasoning that if he used the pattern of the recipient there’d be no way to tell the difference and no way to determine if the experiment had been a success. He’d achieved his goal after several attempts. The gold guinea pig had ended up with a neat black patch in the middle of his back—no rejection. Last night he’d done an entire limb. The replacement functioned just as well as the original, and the recipient was still alive, without a trace of rejection. It was the medical breakthrough of the century. All he had to do now was write up his findings. Starfleet medical would no doubt want to continue his work. Perhaps in a year or so human trials for skin grafting might be possible. He hummed cheerfully as he took a seat at his console to begin writing. Medicine was just so much fun. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Liz Cutler trudged wearily down the corridor to her quarters. These evening physical therapy sessions were exhausting. Mrs. Archer tried her best, but she was still so weak that Liz ended supporting half of her weight. The captain tried to help, but most of the time he just got in the way—and made “suggestions” about how he thought she could do her job better. It’s a good thing that we have less than a week left of this, thought Liz irritably. Otherwise I might just end up in the brig next to Rostov for assaulting a superior officer! She entered the door code and stepped into the cabin. A shower was going to feel so good! As the door shut behind her she turned with great anticipation toward the entrance to the bathroom, but stopped when she noticed the “message waiting” icon traveling across the screen of the computer console on her desk. She plopped down in the chair with a puzzled expression. Who would be calling her now? She’d just talked to her sister the day before to plan her visit home. It was all arranged, money was tight back home, and subspace calls were expensive. She clicked on the icon, and her heart skipped a beat when the Starfleet Security seal materialized in the middle of the screen. The message was encrypted, and for a panicked moment she completely forgot the decryption code she’d been given the last time they’d left Earth. She’d almost forgotten the encounter altogether. She hadn’t even seen the face of the agent who’d asked for her help. It was real, she reminded herself. He said they’d be contacting me if their operative needed confidential medical assistance. There had been no time for questions. She didn’t even know which member of Enterprise’s crew was the intelligence agent she was supposed to help. Okay, Liz...chill, she told herself, closing her eyes and exhaling. The code came to her, and she entered it. A text document came up, no video. Her eyes widened as she read. This information is Top Secret. Do not divulge it to anyone without explicit permission from Starfleet Intelligence. It has come to the attention of our research and development division that your ship’s Chief Medical Officer has been engaging in unauthorized medical experiments using equipment which is the sole property of Starfleet Intelligence. He is considered a security risk at this time due to the escalation of conflict between humans and non-humans both in-system and out. You have been assigned to determine the exact nature of this research and to communicate any and all findings to the following address. After you have done so, stand by for further instructions. Below the text was a subspace address, but Liz didn’t see it. She was too busy fuming. They want me to spy on Phlox! That had never been part of the deal. If the guy who’d initially recruited her had suggested it she would have said not only “no”, but “hell, no”. Obviously, Starfleet Intelligence had known that. That’s why they’d waited until now to tell her what they really wanted from her. They knew she didn’t have a choice unless she wanted to flush her career right down the toilet. She stared at her orders, too angry to think straight. Despite their mutual decision to end their short-lived romantic relationship, Phlox was an irreplaceable part of her life now—a friend, mentor, and an endless source of encouragement. There was no way in hell that she’d ever betray him. Now she just had to figure out how to avoid it without trashing her career. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Paul Mayweather strode into Horizon’s compact sickbay and stopped short. A crying toddler bearing an uncanny resemblance to his baby brother at that age ran straight at him, colliding with his legs before running around behind him to escape his mother. “Maya...,” coaxed Rianna Mayweather in an oddly tender tone. “Come here, sweetheart. I won’t hurt you.” She knelt in the center of the room, laid the medical scanner she’d evidently been trying to use on the child on the deck beside her, and held out her arms. A curly haired little girl stood beside her. The girl’s eyes were black on black. She looked maybe five or six years old. She said nothing, staring at the teary-eyed toddler. Then she held her hand out imperiously. The baby released his legs and walked reluctantly forward with a pouting expression. At first he thought that she was obeying his mother until she went straight to the black-eyed girl, put out her tiny brown hand, and grasped the older girl’s paler fingers. “Please don’t be insulted. Maya is shy with strangers,” said a soft female voice with the trace of a lilting accent. He turned his head to find another set of all-black eyes, this time in a lovely adult face framed by ebony ringlets. The woman smiled at him politely, but looked tired and sad. “Marella of the Sixth House, Saber’s medical officer,” she said, extending her right hand in human fashion. He grasped it reflexively. “Paul Mayweather. I’m the captain of the Horizon,” he replied warmly. “Welcome aboard.” Her unusual eyes intrigued him, and he held on a bit longer than was entirely appropriate while he studied them. Her brow went up in surprise, and her smile became genuine. “Charm is a family trait, I see,” she murmured in an amused voice. He eyed her hesitantly, and then turned toward his mother, who was holding the baby tightly in her arms and rocking her from side to side while she wailed, reaching for a second young woman who lay unresponsive on a stretcher behind them. “My sister Arabella. She and the girls were passengers. She should wake up any time now. I gave her a sedative about six hours ago. Her spouse, the captain, was killed when the ship was destroyed,” explained Marella sadly. Paul grimaced sympathetically. The sleeping woman was little more than a girl. “Is this everyone that survived?” he asked softly. “Did you pick up any other escape pod signals?” asked Marella. “The Saber had a crew complement of six in addition to myself, my sister, and the girls.” Paul shook his head regretfully. “Yours was the only signal. Everything else is debris,” he replied. She nodded in comprehension, dry-eyed. He found himself admiring her composure. “The diplomatic registry indicates that your destination was Earth,” Paul told her. “As the only surviving crew member, it’s your decision whether to continue to your destination or to request transport back to Betazed, but I’m afraid you’ll have to go with us to Jupiter Station either way. I’ve got a high priority passenger and I can’t delay our return to bring you to another system,” he continued apologetically. “Maya?” said Arabella sleepily. The baby squealed, Arabella grunted, and the two looked up to find the young woman sitting up in bed with a much happier toddler wrapped snugly around her, squeezing the wind out of her mother. Their contrasting complexions surprised him. The child seemed familiar to him, but she looked nothing like Arabella. “Arabella is Maya’s mother, then?” he asked curiously. Rianna, who was busy checking both mother and daughter with a medical scanner, glanced at her son almost guiltily. ”Let’s not bother them with too many questions, Paul. I’m sure they’re tired after all they’ve been through. Why don’t you show Marella and young Lianna to their cabin?” she suggested, indicating the little girl, who blinked solemnly up at Paul. She still hadn’t said a word. Paul stared quizzically at his mother for a moment, and then decided that she was probably right. Questions could wait until later. They had nearly a week before their scheduled arrival at Jupiter Station. He smiled charmingly at Lianna. “Hello, Lianna. Want to see where you’re going to stay?” he asked. The little girl looked him up and down for several seconds before speaking for the first time in his presence. “You don’t look much like Uncle Travis,” she said nonchalantly. “He’s much prettier.” Paul Mayweather blinked, staring at the child in puzzlement. “Uncle Travis...?” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The ancient grey-haired Vulcan was gaunt and weak, but his bearing remained regal. He sat, as was his wont each evening, propped by pillows in a chair by the side of his bed with a reader in his lap, purportedly studying the Kirshara. Moments before, he’d been snoring. “You may leave now, Nurse. I am capable of preparing for bed without assistance,” he announced. T’Len eyed him dubiously. The higher ambient oxygen concentration and lower gravity of the human courier vessel Horizon had produced a surprising improvement in her charge’s stamina, but he hadn’t been able to change into his nightclothes without assistance for weeks, being unable to stand without support. “Minister Kuvak,” she protested mildly, “I am responsible for your safety. Is it logical to risk a fall and broken bones less than a week before arriving at our destination?” Kuvak lifted a brow at her and then deliberately set his reader on the side table. He gripped the arms of his chair, and to her well-concealed astonishment pushed himself slowly upright—with obvious effort, to be sure, but still upright—and in a moment stood completely without support. “I am stronger today,” he said matter-of-factly. She felt a twinge of illogical sadness. Death was a normal biological process. Vulcan philosophy discouraged grieving over the end of a productive life well-lived. The man before her was old and had accomplished much, but he was far from ready to die. It seemed unjust that his illness would take him so soon. He was still mentally alert and had so much to contribute. She forced herself to stay where she was as he shakily stepped toward the bed and reached out to catch himself. Once he had a good grip, she went to the closet and got out his night robes. She laid them on the bed beside him. “Your night clothes are ready, Minister,” she replied respectfully. She nodded at the medical alert pendant around his neck. “Please call if you require assistance.” Kuvak’s eyes sparkled as he nodded in return, but he didn’t thank her. It never occurred to either of them that the situation required it. As the door closed behind her and she stepped into the corridor, the human captain approached her. Following him were a small child and a young woman, apparent refugees from the detour the captain had chosen to despite direct orders from both the Vulcan High Council and Starfleet Command to proceed to Earth without delay, according to Minister Kuvak. The minister had been surprisingly supportive of the captain’s decision despite this, and had murmured something about the “needs of the many” after she’d told him of it and before closing his eyes for an afternoon rest. The captain smiled thinly as he approached. T’Len acknowledged him with a grave nod. “Captain Mayweather,” she said. “Good evening, T’Len. How is Minister Kuvak tonight? Is his cabin temperature acceptable?” inquired Mayweather politely. T’Len raised a brow in mild surprise. The captain had been studiously avoiding her for the past 72.45 hours, and now he was solicitous of the minister’s comfort? Her eyes cut to the woman and child standing in the hallway. Their expressions of respectful interest solved the mystery. Human males weren’t so unlike Vulcan males, after all. The need to impress females transcended species boundaries, it seemed. “The minister is much improved and quite comfortable. It is...kind...of you to ask,” she attempted in response. Human social niceties were not her strong suit. Mayweather’s smile broadened, and the woman who accompanied him stepped forward with an inquiring look. The child hung back, staring at T’Len with an unfathomable expression and pupil-less black eyes. Mayweather indicated the woman beside him as he began introductions. “T’Len, may I introduce Chief Medical Officer Marella of the Sixth House and her niece Lianna,” he said. The woman smiled and nodded but didn’t offer to shake hands. T’Len was relieved. “Marella... Lianna,” continued Mayweather,”This is T’Len of Vulcan, nurse to Minister Kuvak, one of our passengers.” T’Len returned her nod, encompassing the child in her greeting. If she’d learned anything in her years as a caregiver it was the value of treating children with courtesy. Too many adults simply ignored them. Ignoring a child resulted in unruly behavior as the child attempted to gain attention for his or her actions. As she solemnly greeted the little girl, she felt an odd tingle between the eyes, deep in the center of her head. The female medical officer turned and gave the child a reproving look through identically featureless midnight eyes. She looked as if she were communicating silently with the little girl. T’Len finally made the connection. Betazoid telepaths, she thought uncomfortably. She’d heard of the species and that they were dangerous. The curly-headed moppet certainly didn’t look that way, though, with that shamefaced “caught in the act” expression. Although there was no physical resemblance, the penitence on her face reminded T’Len of the first child she’d had in her charge in the years after her own children were born. Was it sixty years ago or more? T’Pol had been such an impulsive child. There had been uncountable opportunities for her to wear such an expression, but it had never lasted very long. She’d been a challenge, but their time together had never been dull. “Lianna, you know better than to try to read someone without their permission!” chided Marella. “Apologize this instant!” Instead, the little girl’s face transformed itself into a very convincing imitation of Vulcan solemnity, and she raised her right hand in a flawless ta’al. “Peace... and long life, T’Len of Vulcan.” T’Len was a bit taken aback by the child’s unnatural maturity, but she hid her discomfort. She returned the gesture. “Live long and prosper, Lianna of Betazed,” she replied. “And may your family prosper as well,” she added, the typical addition to the greeting when made by an adult to a child. The little girl’s Vulcan façade cracked a little as her chin came up. Her eyes shone with tears, but she didn’t cry. She sniffed once. “My Aunt Lana’s dead just like mama and papa... and my Aunt Arabella just cries and cries,” she confided sadly, with disarmingly childish candor. T’Len blinked, and then blinked again. How could there be something in her eye in the enclosed environment of a spacegoing vessel? She took a deep breath and then went to one knee so that she was eye-to-eye with the little girl. It was an unfortunate truism that war was always hardest on the children. The conventional response seemed inadequate, but she made it nonetheless. “I grieve with thee, Lianna.” The little girl gave her a wistful smile, and then leaned over to whisper in T’Len’s ear. “You’re just like my T’Pol and my gramma all put together,” she murmured, almost inaudibly to any but Vulcan ears. “I’ll tell T’Pol you miss her when I see her again.” Then her smile brightened and she stepped back to take her aunt’s hand. Marella stood looking down at her for a moment with puzzlement clearly written on her face as T’Len struggled to contain her own surprise. “It looks like I’ve got a budding diplomat on my hands,” said Marella, sounding both amused and surprised by her niece’s knowledge of Vulcan protocol—and fortunately oblivious to the rest of the child’s surprising knowledge. “Indeed,” agreed T’Len dryly as she stood up again, eyeing the little girl warily. Captain Mayweather cleared his throat. “If you ladies are done, I’m sure Lianna here is a very tired little girl,” he said in a patronizing tone. Lianna shot him an annoyed look, quickly suppressed. T’Len, inwardly amused, watched the trio as they continued down the hall. Perhaps she would look for a childcare opportunity when her current assignment was complete. Children did tend to keep one alert. She turned toward her cabin, and was left to ponder the captain’s next question, easily heard by Vulcan ears from several meters down the corridor and around the corner. “So...Lianna...how did you meet my brother Travis...and why do you call him ‘uncle’?” Was the child acquainted with every intelligent being in known space? xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx For a moment, when Liz showed up in Sickbay in the middle of her sleep cycle and pulled him into the isolation chamber after deactivating all of the monitors, Phlox had the fleeting notion that she intended to resume their physical relationship. The prospect alarmed him, as she had been the one to end things. He’d agreed wholeheartedly once he’d realized how much she was hurt by the idea of being forced to share him. Despite her best efforts, she’d never become comfortable with the facts of Denobulan family life. He felt great affection for her, and would never deliberately do anything to harm her, so he was relieved at the first words to come out of her mouth once they were securely locked in. “Starfleet knows about your research,” she said reprovingly. He looked back at her, nonplussed. “I made no attempt to hide it. I just didn’t ask permission first,” he replied nonchalantly. “Phlox, honey!” she protested. “We could get arrested for treason! Starfleet Intelligence just sent me a document that proves that you had direct orders to put that thing in storage and leave it there unless you were authorized to use it. Why didn’t you tell me?” He grinned jauntily, shrugging. “I didn’t want to get you into trouble. If you didn’t know we weren’t supposed to use it, then you weren’t responsible,” he told her lightly, with a fond expression. “Besides...it’ll be easier just to ask forgiveness after the fact, especially once they see my results,” he bragged. Liz sighed heavily and gave him an exasperated look. “Starfleet Intelligence thinks you’re planning to sell your results to the highest bidder,” she told him. “They’ve recruited me to spy on you and to send them your data.” Phlox stared at her in dismay. After so many years of service to Starfleet Medical, did they still mistrust him? Was it because he was non-human? “My intent was never espionage!” he protested. “I’ve almost completed my report to Starfleet Medical!” Liz smiled with satisfaction, nodding. “I thought they were imagining things,” she replied in a relieved voice. Then she paused, chewing on the inside of her cheek as she contemplated the problem. After a moment, Phlox realized her dilemma. She’d been assigned to obtain information from him in a clandestine fashion, and had probably been warned not to reveal herself to him. They had to get his research findings to Starfleet Intelligence in a way which made it appear that she was doing what she’d been told but didn’t give anyone reason to believe that Phlox planned treason—or that he’d even been told of her interest in his highly irregular research. An idea suddenly occurred to him, and his smiled broadened. “I’ve got it!” he told her brightly. “Here’s what we’ll do. You’ll send them your version, and I’ll send them mine. Come and have a look...” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Ensign Phillip Norfleet, publicly of Starfleet Security but currently acting in his capacity as an agent of Section 31, sat back on his haunches against the back wall of the holding cell and stared morosely at Petty Officer Michael Nikolai “Nick” Rostov. The man sat on the bunk against the opposite wall drooling on himself. The creative tinkering Norfleet had done with the cell monitors would only last another seventeen minutes, and he had yet to get any useful information from the psychotic engineer. The Section was counting on his ability to glean enough details about the man’s contacts to follow through with their plans for infiltration of Terra Prime, but not even the drugs from his interrogation kit had made a dent in the wacko’s solid wall of complete incomprehensibility. There was no way he would be able to pass himself off as Rostov if he couldn’t even get a coherent sentence out of him. His ears perked up as the traitor began to speak. “Bitch fried my brains,” slurred Rostov indistinctly. His head lolled as he sat half slumped over on the bunk’s thin mattress. Finally, something understandable! “A woman, Nick? Did she do something to you?” asked Norfleet urgently. “Where did you meet her? Was she on Earth or on Enterprise?” “On Enterprise? Where?” repeated Rostov in a sudden panic. He was instantly awake and on guard, scrambling into the corner of the bunk to cower in a fetal position, shaking and gazing in abject terror over the tops of his knees at nothing in particular. Well, now...that’s an interesting response, thought Norfleet ironically. And then an idea occurred to him. He hesitated for a second. It was cruel and inhuman, but then, so was the man in front of him—and Norfleet certainly hadn’t advanced this far within the ranks of Section 31 by being merciful. So he decided to use the ammunition that fate had provided. “Yes, Nick...she’s here, right outside the cell...waiting...” he whispered ominously. Rostov’s eyes roamed wildly and he began to whimper. A sudden smell in the air made Norfleet wrinkle his nose. The guy had pissed himself! “I can protect you, though,” Norfleet added hastily, afraid that Rostov’s utter panic might trigger a seizure or something worse. “Just tell me everything you know about Terra Prime, and I’ll never let her touch you again,” he promised soothingly. It was a very fruitful seventeen minutes. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Commander Trip Tucker strolled into Sickbay that morning thirty minutes before the beginning of alpha shift with four steaming hot mugs of sweetened tea, two in his right fist and two in his left, and a self-satisfied expression on his face. It had been a week since he’d stopped his neuromodulator and, despite missing T’Mir, he felt just fine. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s grown and I know she’s doin’ what she wants to do with her life that makes this so much easier than the first time I had to let go of her, he mused. He was, at least in his own estimation, doing better than T’Pol when it came to letting go of their pseudo-offspring. The flashes of grief he kept getting from his wife through their bond would occasionally make him wince. She, of course, denied experiencing anything of the sort. He glanced over to the side of Sickbay now curtained off and popularly known as “Archer territory”. Twin wails issued from behind the curtain, and he could hear both Jon and Elena’s voices as they attempted to silence them. He grinned wryly. There was something to be said for skipping the infant stage altogether and gaining a full-grown member of the family, he decided. He approached the uniform clad gathering at Lieutenant Sato’s bedside and handed out mugs with an affable smile. T’Pol accepted hers with a small nod of thanks. Hoshi, who was sitting up in bed looking a little pale but otherwise seemed fine, smiled shyly and murmured her gratitude as she took the steaming cup. Malcolm looked a bit taken aback over being served by his acting XO. “Decided to become a steward in your spare time, sir?” he teased, blowing over his mug before taking a tentative sip. Trip shrugged and grinned over his own cup. “The acting captain ordered tea. I figured it would be impolite not to bring enough for everybody,” he said casually. No one in the group commented on the fact that Commander T’Pol had voiced no such order. T’Pol raised a brow and sipped. Hoshi hid her grin in her mug. Malcolm rolled his eyes, and Trip ignored him. He was feeling too good today to let teasing over being “whipped” bother him in the least. He did things for T’Pol because he wanted to. The others were just jealous. “You were saying, Lieutenant Commander?” prompted T’Pol. Trip drank his tea and gazed at Malcolm with interest. It looked like he’d interrupted something with his impromptu morning beverage service. Malcolm cleared his throat. His eyes cut to Trip before he began to speak, obviously continuing an attempt at persuading his commanding officer. T’Pol looked unimpressed. “As Enterprise’s Chief of Security, I believe that I have a better grasp of the extent of the security risk, if any, posed by Lieutenant Sato’s return to active duty than some bean counter sitting behind a desk at Starfleet headquarters, Commander,” insisted Malcolm. “I want it on record that I think Starfleet Command is grossly overreacting when they recommend that Hoshi be confined until after she’s been debriefed and cleared by security personnel on Earth. If Romulans have in fact entered Human space, she’s our best chance of discovering what they want and how to stop them. She should be on the bridge, not confined to quarters.” “Lieutenant Commander, my original orders were to confine her to the brig,” countered T’Pol patiently. “I managed to convince Admiral Gardner that your security precautions are quite adequate, and that her quarters would serve. Only thirty minutes ago I received confirmation of a Romulan attack on a Betazoid diplomatic courier on the outskirts of Vulcan territory...as Admiral Gardner put it, ‘right in Earth’s back yard’.” She paused, gazing at him sternly. “Answer this question... were the lieutenant someone with whom you did not have an intimate relationship, would you be so willing to trust her unconditionally after the length of time she’s spent mentally joined with a Romulan artifact?” Malcolm looked like a huge offended catfish as he stammered, attempting to come up with a civil response to her question. Trip just bit his tongue and winced, waiting for the explosion he knew was coming. The question was a low blow. He wondered whether T’Pol understood how insulted Malcolm was going to be by her implication of unprofessional favoritism on his part. Fortunately, before Malcolm was able to come up with a reply that would have probably landed him in the brig for insubordination, Hoshi came to his rescue. She cleared her throat. Her voice was a bit hoarse. “Ummm... Commander? Can I assume by the fact that you’re having this discussion in front of me that I can say something?” she asked hesitantly. Malcolm opened his mouth, but T’Pol raised a hand abruptly. Trip winced again, smiling ruefully, and stepped back a little. T’Pol was finally getting into this command business, a little too enthusiastically, to his way of thinking. He didn’t want to be in the way if Malcolm decided he’d had enough. To the security officer’s credit, though, he seemed to be holding it together. He stood stiffly at attention with his features carefully blank. Military training was a wonderful thing. Insulted or not, Malcolm was still a professional soldier in the presence of his commanding officer. “Yes, Lieutenant. Of course you may speak,” conceded T’Pol. “Although I appreciate the Lieutenant Commander’s confidence in me...,” began Hoshi with an apologetic glance at Malcolm, “... and I know a little bit about what’s happened to my brain since I was linked with the Romulan shuttle, I’m not sure yet about what it all means. Doctor Phlox said he’d explain when I was ready,” she admitted. She looked from Malcolm’s protesting expression to Trip’s sympathetic smile, and finally returned T’Pol’s solemn gaze with a hesitant half-smile. “Maybe we should ask Doctor Phlox what he thinks?” she suggested diffidently. As if her words prompted his appearance from thin air, Phlox rounded the corner from his lab, whistling cheerfully. He stopped in his tracks with all eyes fixed on him. “May I help you?” he asked hesitantly, looking from one intense face to the other in puzzlement. “We’re discussing Lieutenant Sato’s return to duty, Doctor,” explained T’Pol delicately. “Do you have any advice regarding the best action to maintain both her safety and the safety of the crew?” she asked—very diplomatically, Trip thought. Phlox’s eyes widened. “Ah...” he said with an uncomfortable grimace, “...I see...” He paused for a moment, hesitating. “It’s all right, Doctor. You can tell them. As my friends, they should know before Starfleet does... and you said yourself that it might not even make that much of a difference,” prompted Hoshi with a weak smile. Phlox returned her smile sympathetically and nodded. “Very well, Lieutenant,” he replied. He exhaled heavily, and then stepped to his work console to bring up what looked to Trip like scans of the brain. Trip exchanged a worried look with Malcolm, who seemed equally clueless. “This is a neurochemical scan of the lieutenant’s brain activity prior to her encounter with the Romulan shuttle,” Phlox began. He gestured at the more colorful areas. “Aside from increased metabolic activity in both the language center and the limbic areas, which control human telepathic activity, this is normal human brain activity.” Guess I’ll take his word for it, thought Trip wryly. Malcolm looked impatient. T’Pol inspected the image as if she understood what she was looking at, but Trip could see that she was curious despite the shields that hid her emotions from him. Phlox pulled up a second scan. “Here’s an image from yesterday,” he continued. It was a little less colorful than the first. “You’ll notice that the language center remains quite active, but the activity in the limbic centers has decreased by half. In fact, after testing yesterday, Lieutenant Sato’s telepathic ability rates in the low normal human range. That is to say, for all intents and purposes, it is zero. Linkage with the Romulan device seems to have damaged the telepathic centers of her brain. The damage is likely to be permanent, as it involves the death of brain cells, which do not regenerate in adult humans,” he finished flatly. “And what does this have to do with allowing her to return to duty, Doctor? Lieutenant Sato has never functioned as a telepath in her role as Communications Officer,” said T’Pol, puzzled. “I must disagree, Commander,” replied Phlox in a conciliatory tone. “It’s likely that at least a portion of the lieutenant’s gift with real-time translation is a result of her unconscious use of telepathic skill. It is probable, however, that her intelligence and training will compensate well enough for her to do an excellent, if perhaps no longer miraculous, job...and as a non-telepath she is no longer a security risk to this ship should another telepath attempt to contact and control her as has occurred in the past. I know that the possibility of another such incident must weigh heavily on the minds of those in Starfleet Intelligence who spend their careers worrying about such things.” T’Pol raised a brow. Trip could feel intense relief leaking past her barriers as the import of the doctor’s words registered. Malcolm smiled at Hoshi. She returned his smile a little wistfully. Malcolm turned his attention to Phlox. “So, you’ll report this to Starfleet Command, then?” Malcolm’s statement sounded more like an order than a request. “The report is already on its way,” replied Phlox in a self-satisfied tone. “Once Lieutenant Sato is well enough for duty, it is my opinion that she should be allowed to return to her station. Her linkage to the Romulan device has not resulted in an increased risk to this ship. Quite the contrary, as a matter of fact.” He stepped forward to the bed and lifted his bioscanner, gently shouldering the group aside. “Now, if this matter is settled could I please ask you to take this meeting elsewhere? Lieutenant Sato needs her rest,” he said with his attention wholly focused on the scanner. T’Pol stared at the back of Phlox’s head with a startled expression, and then turned to leave without comment, placing her tea mug neatly on the breakfast service cart on her way out the door. Malcolm followed suit. Trip chuckled and did the same, shaking his head. No one argued with Phlox in his domain. Not even the acting captain. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Arabella opened her eyes and turned her head, expecting to find Lana sleeping in the bed beside her. Instead, Maya’s sweet drowsy face greeted her, and beyond her the protective railing of a Sickbay biobed. Then reality hit, and Arabella closed her eyes again with a whimper. A tiny sticky hand patted her cheek, and then a pair of small warm arms encircled her neck. She wrapped her own arms around the snuggly, squirmy bundle plastered to her chest, buried her face in the short springy cushion of hair atop Maya’s head and sniffed back the tears. “Po’ Mama,” voiced Maya sadly. Arabella blinked and pulled back to stare at her daughter in surprise. At 15 months, Maya had a necessarily limited vocabulary. This was an actual sentence—one she hadn’t heard before. “Did you say ‘Poor Mama’?” she asked in disbelief. Maya patted her cheek again with one small, dark hand, staring at her seriously with deep brown pupil-less eyes. “It awwite, Mama,” she said reassuringly in her infantile lisp. “Don’ cwy.” Arabella began to laugh through her tears. Evidently, association with her preternaturally precocious cousin was starting to rub off on the child. Maya smiled back, giggling. “Well, good morning! I’m glad the two of you are feeling better.” A warmly maternal voice sounded from across the room. Arabella turned to find a smiling middle-aged woman with dusky skin, short salt and pepper hair, and a still slim and muscular figure. She looked very familiar. Arabella’s puzzlement must have been obvious, because the woman immediately introduced herself, extending a hand in human fashion. “Rianna Mayweather... engineer, medic, and part time momma to the entire crew of the Horizon. We found your escape pod. It’s a small universe, isn’t it?” she offered with a grin. Arabella gripped her hand, searching her face. Surely the name wasn’t a coincidence. The surface thoughts she picked up from the woman confirmed her suspicions. “You’re Travis’ mother...?!” she ventured, amazed. “Sure am!” Rianna confirmed cheerfully. Then she paused, waiting expectantly. To Arabella’s surprise, she sensed nothing but acceptance and welcome from the woman. Had Travis not told her of their arrangement? “Arabella of the Sixth House...,” she began. Eyeing Rianna cautiously, she said, “My spouse Lana is... was... the captain of The Saber of Betazed.” She winced inwardly at the admission of Lana’s death. It still seemed unreal. Rianna grimaced sympathetically. “I know... I’m so sorry for your loss,” replied the human sincerely. Her eyes fell on Maya, who was still tucked under Arabella’s chin. “She’ll need lots of reassurance. Little ones always do when they lose a parent. Maybe I can help,” she offered hopefully. Arabella blinked, taken aback by the offer. She half-smiled, hesitantly. “I suppose Travis told you, then, about how he helped us.” Rianna chuckled, holding out her hands. Maya, to Arabella’s surprise, detached readily from around her neck and went to the older woman of her own accord. “I think it’s pretty obvious he had something to do with this one,” said Rianna fondly, lifting the baby into her arms and studying her features. Maya reached up and stroked the human woman’s short clipped cushion of hair as if she recognized its similarity to her own. Arabella felt a twinge of jealousy, but she sensed no threat from the human, only joy at finally being with her granddaughter. Perhaps that was why Maya had gone to her so easily. She recognized that she and the human belonged together. Not for the first time, Arabella wondered how growing up on a planet where she was physically different in appearance and perhaps even deficient in ability from everyone she knew would affect her daughter. There were times when her own mother’s admonishments to “think before you act” came back to haunt her. “Can you say ‘Momma Ri’?” whispered Rianna to the child in her arms. Arabella smiled wistfully. She’d never known her own grandmothers, who had died before she was born. Maya grinned, grabbed a handful of the short springy grey-sprinkled hair with which she’d recently become so fascinated, and pulled. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Commander T’Pol of Vulcan proceeded down the corridor to the turbolift with her security officer on her heels. Trip followed them. She kept her shields up, as was her usual habit whenever possible while in command, and maintained her composure despite the obvious anger radiating from the man at her side. As she stood waiting for the lift to the bridge, however, her eyes cut to Lieutenant Commander Reed’s rigid expression. He still said nothing. She glanced past him toward her bondmate, who was gazing at her with a fondly exasperated look on his face. Curious about the source of his emotional response, she dropped her shields. His thoughts surprised her. “You do not approve of the way I spoke to Mr. Reed,” she sent, puzzled. Trip smiled minutely, and raised a brow in unconscious imitation of his wife. “You were kinda hard on him, darlin’.” The lift arrived. The three of them stepped in. “Engineering,” said Trip. “Bridge,” said T’Pol. Malcolm said nothing. “I was merely pointing out the flaws in his thought processes,” she retorted silently. “It is illogical to assume that he would capable of complete objectivity where his mate is concerned.” Trip rolled his eyes. The doors opened to the Engineering level. “Just because you couldn’t do it doesn’t mean he can’t, T’Pol,” he sent. Then he stepped out, giving both of them a mocking wave. The doors shut, leaving T’Pol alone in the turbolift with Malcolm. She eyed him warily. He never even looked at her. She exhaled heavily, staring at the doors. It was going to be a very long day. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Hoshi Sato stepped into her cabin for the first time in nearly a month. The room was considerably neater than when she’d left, thanks to—according to Malcolm—a thorough going over by the security detail that had been charged with looking for clues related to her disappearance and the subsequent clean-up he’d ordered after they’d literally trashed her cabin. It felt strange to enter the room, almost as if she’d been gone years instead of weeks. It might as well have been years, she mused bitterly. I’m not the same person as I was the last time I was in here. Even though she hadn’t even been aware of her telepathic talent until the temporal agent Isis had begun to instruct her, its loss was affecting her much more profoundly than she would have expected. On the one hand, she felt relief over the fact that she was no longer any more vulnerable to telepathic influence than any other human aboard Enterprise. On the other, she feared what the lack of telepathic talent would do to her linguistic abilities. Her gift with languages was her only asset—the only thing that set her apart from the ordinary. It defined her as a person, and had since she was a child. If her ability to translate depended on telepathic skill, then she was no longer capable of doing her job. Even worse, she was no longer herself. The possibility terrified her. Taking a shaky breath, she took a seat at the desk and activated her computer console. The doctor had released her from Sickbay earlier than he’d initially planned so she could take this incoming subspace call in privacy. There was no point in wasting the subspace window woolgathering about scary possibilities. She opened the video comm channel. McNamara’s freckled face appeared with the bridge’s science station in the background behind him. “All right, Ensign. Put him through,” she said with a sigh. The view shifted. A frail looking grey-haired Japanese man dressed in a traditional plain white kimono appeared. Behind him, paper screens painted with stylized cranes and stalks of bamboo provided a backdrop. In the silence she could hear the rush of water from an unseen fountain. The man smiled broadly. “Hoshi-chan!” he said enthusiastically. His voice brought back memories of her childhood. “Hello, Jijii. You’re looking well,” she replied, smiling fondly. He seemed much healthier than when she’d left after her last visit. Of course, he’d had nearly two years to recover from her grandmother’s death. They’d been married over sixty years. The shock had nearly killed him. “Papa says you’ve moved into the Shintobuddist monastery. Are you happy as a priest?” she asked curiously. The news had amused her, but she hadn’t been surprised. Her grandfather had always seemed to glide through life, half in the real world and half somewhere else—the proverbial absent-minded professor, even when he’d been chairman of the Department of Eastern Philosophy at the university. The priesthood had been an understandable next step. At least he had others around him to remind him to eat and wash now that his wife wasn’t there to do it. “I am very content,” replied the old man complacently, “...or at least I will be once you come to visit me.” With just a hint of mischief in his eyes he said, “You must bring your young man so that I may bless your union, and then you should leave this war to the warriors and begin the process of making my great-grandchildren as soon as possible. Your father tells me that he believes things are serious between the two of you, since all you ever speak about in your calls is the brave Lieutenant Commander and his noble devotion to duty,” he continued teasingly. “Jijii!” protested Hoshi laughingly, “I do not! I tell Papa plenty of other things!” She stopped laughing then, and told him seriously, “And you mustn’t call him ‘my young man’. Starfleet has strict regulations about such things. You could get us both in a lot of trouble.” The old man nodded wisely. “I see,” he replied slowly. He pursed his lips, obviously concocting something. “Well, I would still enjoy meeting him,” he said innocently. Hoshi laughed, shaking her head at her grandfather’s transparent matchmaking. “Don’t worry, Jijii. We’re both coming. Papa already told me that he wants to meet Malcolm, too.” She gave her grandfather a pleading look. “Just try not to embarrass me, okay?” she begged. The old priest gazed back at her with mock effrontery. “Now why would I ever do that?” he asked. He paused, evidently for dramatic effect. “By the way...how much Japanese does the heroic Mr. Reed understand?” Hoshi gave him a puzzled look. “Just a few words...Why?” she asked hesitantly, waiting for the punch line. “Oh...no particular reason,” he replied airily. “I was just wondering if I could get away with a Shinto fertility ritual or two, just in case.” “Jijiiii!!!” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Fifteen minutes after the end of his duty shift, Lieutenant Commander Malcolm Reed was in the gym having an up close and personal confrontation with a punching bag that, in his mind’s eye, sported a pair of pointed ears and a smugly superior attitude. His pace was a steady “jab...punch, punch”, and he’d been at it so far for ten minutes without a break. He found the experience liberating. Commander Tucker entered the gym and tossed a grin and a casual “Hi, Mal!” over one shoulder before stepping up on a treadmill. Malcolm ignored him. This wasn’t something he felt comfortable discussing with his friend. There was no way for Trip to take either side. Talking about it with him would accomplish nothing. So he clenched his teeth and kept hitting the bloody bag. Fifteen minutes later, he added roundhouse kicks to his repertoire. “Jab, roundhouse...punch, punch” became the new rhythm. He was dripping with sweat, his breathing harsh. Still, he continued without a pause, alternating sides for the kick. He heard Trip finish the cardio portion of his workout and step off the treadmill. The rhythmic clink of weights soon followed. “So, Mal... what did that poor punchin’ bag ever do to you?” Malcolm paused, his rhythm thrown off by his friend’s joking question. Trip sat on the weight bench across the room doing one armed curls and grinning at him. Surprisingly, the gym was otherwise deserted. Malcolm smiled back at him reluctantly, wiping his sweaty forehead with the hem of his soaked grey t-shirt. “It’s an insufferably superior and hypocritical punching bag,” he replied ironically, breathing hard. “I decided to take it down a peg.” Trip chuckled and switched the dumbbell to his other hand. “Yep. I’ve noticed that about punchin’ bags. When they’re new they’re kinda stiff. Takes some time for ‘em to get seasoned before they’ll give ya a good workout without hurtin’ ya some,” he replied half-jokingly. Then his face sobered. “Doesn’t mean they aren’t good equipment, though,” he said sincerely. “Ya gotta give ‘em a chance to get pounded inta shape first.” “This one’s been here for some time. I would have expected it to be well-seasoned by now,” Malcolm countered disapprovingly. Trip nodded, smiling wryly. “I see your point.” He shrugged. “I guess some need longer than others ta get there. I suppose it depends on what they’re like as...um...punchin’ bags to begin with,” he attempted, stretching the metaphor a little, Malcolm thought. Dropping the discussion for a moment to lie back on the bench, Trip grasped the barbell in both hands. Malcolm walked across the room to spot him without being asked. They’d done this so many times by now that it was a reflex, like breathing. “I suppose I could try giving this one a bit more time,” Malcolm conceded as he stood at the head of the bench while Trip did his reps. There was silence for several seconds. Trip grunted as he pushed the barbell up for the final time and laid it to rest. He looked up at Malcolm and grinned, sticking his tongue in one cheek before taking their conversation to a previously unattained pinnacle of silliness. “That’s not ta say that a punchin’ bag couldn’t benefit from a little advice now and then,” he said. Malcolm rolled his eyes and sighed. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” he replied dryly. They switched places. As Malcolm lay back on the bench and grasped the barbell, Trip changed the subject. “So, are ya really gonna go to Japan with Hoshi to meet her dad?” he asked. Malcolm exhaled forcefully as he pushed the weight off of his chest. “Her father and her grandfather, the Shintobuddist priest,” clarified Malcolm in a slightly strained voice. He lowered the barbell as Trip let out a low whistle. “Boy, Mal...when you decide ta meet the family you don’t mess around, do ya?” he marveled. Malcolm smiled weakly as he did another rep, but said nothing. “So, I guess this means things are gettin’ pretty serious between you and Hoshi,” Trip probed. The silence was deafening. Malcolm pushed the barbell up and down two more times before he spoke. “I was going to...you know...pop the question,” replied Malcolm with a grimace. “But that was...unh...when she was considering joining the Intelligence...unh...Department on Earth.” He pushed the weights up for the final time and brought them to rest. He looked up to find Trip staring at him. “She’s gonna leave the Enterprise?” he asked, dumbfounded. Malcolm sat up. “Well...yes,” he admitted. “That was the general idea.” He shrugged. “If we plan to marry, at least one of us would have to. She felt that I had more to offer a combat vessel, and so she volunteered to be the one to leave...but I’m not sure what will happen now.” He sighed, resting both elbows on his knees and looking down at his hands. His fingers laced themselves together and twisted, almost of their own accord. “She’s not sure now if Starfleet Intelligence will have her,” he said softly. “She may not be able to transfer back to Earth if she can no longer translate effectively, and I’d much rather have her here than on another combat vessel.” “Whaddya mean, ‘if she can’t translate’?” Trip asked in a puzzled tone. Then his eyes widened in realization. “Oh...the telepathy thing...” Malcolm nodded, smiling wryly. “Yes. ‘The telepathy thing’,” he confirmed. A laughing group of junior crewmen entered the gym. The group was composed of four girls and one muscular young man with impossibly sun-streaked blonde hair and a winning smile. The girls gathered around him admiringly as he walked to a weight bench and settled himself. He joked and flirted with them all with impartial enthusiasm as he began a set of biceps curls with a well laden dumbbell. Malcolm had no idea who he was, but he was envious of the kid. Life was simple for boys like him. Trip crossed his arms over his chest and stuck his tongue in one cheek, studying the newcomers with a thoughtful expression. Malcolm eyed him suspiciously. The engineer looked as if yet another wild idea was percolating. “Know who that kid is, Mal?” Trip asked in a speculative tone. Malcolm stared at him quizzically. “No,” he answered bluntly, very puzzled by his friend’s sudden complete change of subject. Trip smiled slightly, still staring across the room. “His name is Tex Wormald. He’s a junior crewman from Engineering. He loves to tell stories to the ladies. The other day, Janice Hess told me an interesting one.” Malcolm stared at him. What was he getting at? “A hundred years ago, Wormald’s great grandfather was instrumental in saving at least six species of South African antelope from extinction by feeding them during the nuclear winter that followed World War Three. He’s a tenth generation South African, and in addition to English and some Afrikaans, his family and their neighbors, the descendents of a small indigenous African tribe, are the only living beings anywhere who speak an African language called... lemme see if I can get this right... Xhosa.” Malcolm blinked. “Gesuntheit,” he replied jokingly. The name of the language was pronounced like a cross between a cough and a sneeze. Trip chuckled. “Sounds sorta like Klingon, doesn’t it?” he quipped. He grinned broadly, looking directly at Malcolm, and raised a brow. “I’ve checked before, just out of curiosity. Xhosa isn’t one of the languages on Hoshi’s two page list of claimed fluencies. We’ll assign him to help her to prove she still has her skills and forbid him to speak anything but Xhosa in her presence. Wanna bet she’ll be conversing with him like a native before we hit Jupiter Station in three days?” “Let me clarify this plan, Commander,” countered Malcolm in disbelief, pointing at the muscle bound fellow. “You want me to purposely allow that bloke access to Hoshi?” “Mal! He’s a boy! Hoshi’ll never go for him,” Trip reassured him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about... and think of what it’ll do for her self-confidence. She won’t have any doubts about whether Starfleet Intelligence will take her, so she’ll ask for the transfer and the two of you can get married.” Malcolm studied the young man doubtfully with a wrinkled brow, still puzzled. “Why ‘Tex’?” he asked finally. Trip shrugged, grinning. “The girls tell me it’s a family name. I think his great-great-grampa was obsessed with American westerns. Besides...I’m told that women really go for the cowboy type.” Malcolm sighed and rolled his eyes. “Bloody wonderful!” he said. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “Harder,” said T’Pol in a pained voice. “Push harder.” Trip sat on his heels straddling her upper thighs. He wore a blue t-shirt and a loose pair of grey sweatpants. She was lying face down on a row of meditation cushions laid out on the floor, clad only in the bottoms of her blue silk pajamas. He pushed with the heels of both hands into her bare back, bearing down with all of his weight. “You’re so wound up tonight I could probably jump up and down on ya and not make any headway with these knots,” he complained. “Relax!” “I am attempting to do so,” she protested. He removed his hands from her back, rocked backwards on his heels, and threw himself forward, leading with the points of his elbows. “...but I would prefer if you would push harder...unh!” The impact of his elbows knocked the wind out of her for a second, and then she melted limply into the cushions with a blissful sigh. He collapsed on the floor next to her, breathing hard. “Better?” he asked softly. He lifted a hand and brushed it lightly along the curve of her spine, marveling yet again about how something so fragile appearing could be so strong. “Yes...,” she whispered sleepily. He began to knead the now relaxed muscles of her upper back with smooth, firm strokes. She sighed. He could sense very little from her except fatigue, she’d gotten so good at shielding her emotions from him. “Rough day at the office, dear?” he murmured half-jokingly, trying to draw her out with humor as he rubbed. Her emotional isolation worried him, in part because of the grief he knew she’d been battling since T’Mir’s departure, but also because he knew that she was still not entirely comfortable with being in command after the debacle at Azati Prime. She was silent for several minutes, breathing deeply as his fingers probed for trigger points. Finally, she spoke. “You believe that I was in error when I assumed that Mr. Reed would be incapable of objectivity regarding Lieutenant Sato,” she said softly. It was a statement, not a question. Despite her shields, he heard the self-doubt in her voice. He sighed. So that was it. “Not necessarily,” he replied as he continued down her back. “It makes sense for a captain to be worried about objectivity, especially considerin’ what you know about the two of them. It’s just...” Trip paused, trying to think of a diplomatic way to say what needed to be said, and sighed again. “You never seem to take emotions into account when you deal with people under your command,” he said finally. “I’m not certain that I understand you,” she replied in a puzzled voice, rolling over to look at him. He grinned, enjoying the view, and then shook his head. “It’s like this... Mal knows his judgement’s probably compromised. He probably even agrees with you. But you, his captain, basically called him an unprofessional idiot in front of his girlfriend and his actin’ XO and verbally confirmed a major violation of Starfleet regulations in front of witnesses.” She cocked her head at him, looking very confused. “But everyone in the meeting was aware of the relationship and its possible ramifications,” she said, sounding baffled by his statement. Trip exhaled in frustration. “I know that! But knowin’ about it and talkin’ about it are two different things, especially comin’ from you or from me, since we’re basically in the same situation. It makes you sound like you think you’re better than he is, and you end up soundin’ like a hypocrite,” he explained, wincing as he did so. There just wasn’t any better way to put it. “I am in command. It is my job to point out violations of Starfleet policy when they occur and to prevent them from interfering with the orderly operation of this vessel,” she returned stiffly. He could tell that she was starting to get angry. Her shields were weakening. The increased respiratory rate made her bare chest heave very nicely, which made it difficult for him to concentrate, but he did his best. “You’re right,” he conceded. “It’s your job...but couldn’t you have just as easily discussed it with him in private?” She contemplated his question in silence. One brow went up. “I could have,” she agreed reluctantly. “Unfortunately, it never even occurred to me to do so.” Trip gazed back at her sympathetically. “So...are you gonna let me help now, or not?” She gave him an uncomprehending look. He grinned wryly. “I’m well now. The doc says so,” he said, “...so droppin’ your shields won’t hurt me. I’m also your best information source for human social interaction.” He spread his arms wide, his face suddenly earnestly serious. “I’m here for you, T’Pol. I’m supposed to be your second in command. Drop the damned shields and use me! I can give you advice. You can forget the fact that we’re married while we’re on duty if you want to. Just don’t block me out anymore!” T’Pol’s brown eyes were wide and liquid as they searched his face. He gazed at her pleadingly, and suddenly felt something break through the barrier between them. T’Pol reached out and grasped his hands in hers, and the jumble of gratitude, fear, sorrow, and regret that she’d been hiding from him poured out. It nearly broke his heart. Without a word, he picked up her pajama top from the floor and helped her put it on, his eyes never leaving hers as he buttoned it. He took her by the hand and led her to the bed, and she curled up within the circle of his arms. He held her, trying his best to help her with her efforts to master the maelstrom of emotions she’d set loose. Peace settled on both of them, an acceptance of their deep-seated need for one another, and the fatigue of a long day caught up with them. It wasn’t long before they were both sound asleep. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx It was unusually quiet in the fire station. San Francisco Spaceport Rescue was a slow division these days, what with the limitations on private off world travel mandated by Starfleet Command. The only vessels coming in or going out were military, and their safety protocols were strictly by the book. Joey Ponsello ran a hand over his bristle cut head, yawned, and stepped out the back door of the station. His sister Paula, similarly shorn and alike enough to make it obvious that they were twins, stood waiting for him with a duffle bag over one shoulder. She looked better rested than he felt. Of course, she’d been off duty the night before. There was a brisk breeze blowing, and the beginning of an autumn coolness that September morning despite the sunshine. “Did the captain see you leave?” asked Paula worriedly. Joey chuckled derisively, shaking his head. “Milo’s still in bed. He was up late last night taking a subspace call from his alien-loving girlfriend. She’ll be in system in three days, and, according to the lovesick raving I was treated to last night, is about to drop his kid at any minute. He’s not paying attention to anything now.” Paula exhaled in relief. “Good. I’ve got the stuff. Let’s go.” They walked to the garage. It was deserted. The runway rescue response vehicle was prepped and ready to go, as always, filled with cylinders of fire-suppressive foam. With Paula’s help, Joey pulled out two of the heavy cylinders to get to the bed of the truck. He opened one of the long storage bins, which were filled with blankets and first aid supplies, the sorts of things that were needed after the cylinders were depleted and more easily pushed aside. He pulled out one of the first aid kits, dumped the contents out onto the truck bed, and began replacing them with items from Paula’s bag. The hypospray unit she handed him looked just like the standard pain relief hypospray included in every first aid kit, but it contained succinylcholine, a paralytic agent that worked even better on Vulcans than on humans. Once metabolized, it was virtually undetectable, and the victim would appear to have simply stopped breathing. It was fast acting, too. They’d only be near the Vulcan minister for a few minutes, so speed of onset was important. “So... did they tell you why they want to off this guy?” he asked Paula. She grinned and shrugged. “Does there have to be a reason to get rid of a Vulcan?” she returned lightly. To Be Continued in Part 2. The story continues in To Go Boldly – Part 2. |
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