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"To Go Boldly – Part 2"
Rating: PG-13
A/N: Well, this is it, ladies and gents... the end of the neverending story. It was a wild ride, and I hope you all had as much fun as I did. During the course of writing this last installment, I did a bit of research about the traditional belief systems of the Japanese people. I discovered that the co-observance of both Shintoist and Buddist traditions is extremely common in modern Japan among those people who still choose to observe their traditional faith practices. For that reason, in this story I have hypothesized the official union of the two in Japan. I hope that this doesn’t offend. It was my intent to show the resilience of the Japanese people in preserving their culture despite the changes that would inevitably occur after a third World War and reconstruction. Lieutenant Travis Mayweather walked with trepidation down the central corridor of the outermost ring of Jupiter Station, looking for apartment 167. It had been two days since his mother had contacted him on Enterprise to tell him that she’d meet up with him at Jupiter Station—two days since she’d casually mentioned that the Horizon had come across a stranded quartet of Betazoid refugees, and “My, isn’t it a small universe, Travis! You’ll never guess who we picked up!” His mother’s news about Lana had saddened him. Of his daughter’s two mothers, she’d been the one who, in his opinion, was the more stable and rational. Arabella, on the other hand, was flighty, self-serving and shallow. She also loved their daughter without reservation. That fact gave him some small comfort while he contemplated the fearful prospect of his mother spending time in the girl’s company. The deceptive Betazoid charmer had apparently had two weeks to work her devious magic on his mother and turn his behavior with her and her partner—the behavior that had resulted in Maya’s conception—into something for which his mother would never forgive him. The arrival of Enterprise at Jupiter Station had been a quiet event, unpublicized for reasons of security. The non-essential civilian inhabitants of the Station had all been evacuated at the first news of Romulan encroachment into human space, and so the reception committee had consisted of a contingent of Starfleet Intelligence officers assigned to debrief the crew before they were allowed to set foot in the quarters assigned to them on the station. Travis had gotten away easy; a mere four hours later and here he was, free to have lunch with his family. The rest of the bridge crew would likely be stuck on the ship for a while pending extensive debriefing interviews—especially Hoshi. He didn’t envy her in the least, although the last time he’d seen her she’d seemed to be having a grand old time talking gibberish with that wanna-be beach boy crewman from Engineering she’d attached herself to for the last couple of days of their trip home. It was pretty strange. Travis had always thought that Hoshi and Lieutenant Commander Reed had a thing going. Guess not. Apartment 166...167. His steps slowed a bit, and then he was there. He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and pressed the buzzer. He had time to wonder fleetingly whether Arabella’s father Galen had kept his promise to show Maya the vids he’d sent, vids in which he’d made a total fool of himself gooing and gaaing for his infant daughter’s entertainment. He’d been too embarrassed to send them directly to Lana and Arabella, but he’d told them he was sending them, at least. The fact that he’d never lied to the women who were bringing up his daughter was, according to Galen, the main reason why Galen had decided to champion his cause. Then the door opened. His mother’s smile was wide and delighted. “Travis! Come in! We’re about to sit down to eat.” He could see the table from the doorway, loaded with food. She didn’t seem angry with him in the least as she embraced him. Across the room, his brother turned from his conversation with a familiar looking Betazoid woman and smiled his welcome as he walked toward them. Travis returned his mother’s enthusiastic squeeze with a hesitant smile. His eyes searched the room over her shoulder. “DA-DEE!” The squeal came from under the table. A small whirlwind launched itself from beneath the tablecloth and came barreling across the room, finally materializing into a breathless toddler clinging with both arms to his leg. He laughed down into his daughter’s grinning face as his mother stepped back, watching the two of them with eyes which were suspiciously moist. His brother watched as well, with a tolerant expression. Travis bent down and hoisted Maya to his chest with both arms beneath her bottom, holding her eye-to-eye. “Hey, baby girl,” he said wonderingly. Galen had kept his promise. Maya giggled, then wrapped both arms around his neck and clung like a monkey. Over the top of her head Travis caught sight of Arabella on hands and knees coming out from under the table with Lianna at her side. Arabella almost looked like a child herself, her black curls tousled, barely as tall as his shoulder when standing upright. The dark circles beneath her eyes stood out in contrast to her porcelain skin, but in Travis’ eyes she looked even more beautiful than the day he’d met her. When she stood and met his gaze from across the room, her sorrowful expression almost made him pity her—but he’d been fooled before. “Hey, Travis. You’ve got some explaining to do, bro,” said his brother half-jokingly as he pulled Travis into a one-armed hug designed to avoid crushing the child hanging from around his brother’s neck. “Yeah...I guess I do,” replied Travis with a shamefaced grimace. “The explanation is quite simple,” piped Arabella from behind Paul. Both men turned to look at her expectantly. She’d discarded the sad expression Travis had seen a moment before, replacing it with an irresistibly flirtatious grin that Travis found painfully familiar. “He was the best candidate for the job,” she said brightly. Paul grinned back at her, obviously taken in by her act. Travis gave her a puzzled smile. “Hello, Arabella,” he said. She smiled back, a bit more subdued, and reached up to give him a kiss on the cheek. Maya detached from around Travis’ neck and reached for her mother, so Travis transferred her without breaking eye contact with Arabella. Maya sat for a second in Arabella’s arms, studying first one face and then the other with a serious expression, and then squirmed to get down. Arabella released her, maintaining eye contact with Travis the entire time, lowering Maya to the ground where she ran off happily to join Lianna back under the table. The rest of the room watched the interaction with interest. “I’m sorry about Lana,” he continued sympathetically, ignoring the kiss. It was just like Arabella to publicly display affection she didn’t feel. She was undoubtedly up to something. His best guess was that she was trying really hard to make his family like her for some reason. Arabella’s smile suddenly looked more like a grimace. Her eyes filled. She cleared her throat. Despite his conditioned cynicism where she was concerned, learned the hard way after her deception had destroyed his trust completely, he pitied her. “You okay?” he whispered, feeling the remnants of his original attraction to her emerge despite himself. Her tears spilled over, and she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face in his chest. “She’s dead, Travis... I’m all alone,” she whimpered. Travis sighed and awkwardly patted her on the back. Looking over Arabella’s head, he saw his mother smile approvingly. Travis’ heart sank. So that was it. He smiled weakly back at his mother. He was really in trouble now. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “I trust you’ve reviewed the mission parameters. Any problems?” Harris’ question was rhetorical, Phillip Norfleet was certain. He stood at attention before the vid screen. “No, sir. None whatsoever, sir,” he replied with stiff military correctness. Harris was—well, there was no being anywhere in known space with more power over him than Commodore Jeffrey Harris. His career—his very life, even—rested solely on this man’s whim. He stared straight ahead, trying his level best to project do-or-die enthusiasm. To his surprise, Harris chuckled. “Your fervor is appreciated, Ensign, but this is a strictly voluntary mission. At ease... and tell me if you’re really prepared to do this,” he said almost affably. At Norfleet’s puzzled silence, his smile vanished. “Not that we really have another operative with your skills available to take your place... and, of course, you understand that the successful completion of this mission will ensure your advancement within Starfleet Intelligence...” Norfleet relaxed marginally. Now this was the Harris he was accustomed to. “I understand, sir,” he replied. His lips quirked upward. “As long as someone’s available to make me pretty again when it’s all over, sir,” he quipped. Harris chuckled again at that. “Our medical advisor assures me that the procedure is fully reversible, son,” he replied in an amused tone of voice. “As for pretty, well... we don’t claim to work miracles.” His face sobered again. “Your support team is in place, and the necessary DNA records have been modified planetside. Once the exchange has taken place you’ll be on your own until your scheduled pickup.” He paused, eyeing Norfleet sternly. “I expect results. It’s time to take them down.” Norfleet stiffened again to full attention. “Yes, sir. You can count on me, sir,” he replied emphatically. The vidscreen went dark before he’d finished his sentence. He blinked. So that was it. It was time. Norfleet took a deep breath, and then left his cabin to keep his debriefing appointment. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Phlox surveyed his domain with a dissatisfied expression. Two unfamiliar security guards stood at attention flanking the biobed where Nick Rostov lay sedated and restrained in preparation for transfer. At least he’d convinced them to allow him to sedate the man himself with proper monitoring equipment instead of relying on a partially trained medic to dose the prisoner with something in the brig. Another two guards flanked the medical transporter in his laboratory, waiting for the technicians from Starfleet Medical who were coming soon to dismantle and remove it for study. A third pair stood flanking the entrance to Sickbay, ostensibly preventing the entry of unauthorized personnel into what had now become the area of highest security risk on the ship. Poor Elena Archer and her twins looked out of place in the midst of all the firepower. Phlox didn’t like it one bit. Sickbay was no place for weapons. It was a place of healing, not of destruction. That was why he had to bite his tongue to prevent harsh words when yet another armed pair of close-clipped bulletheads in uniform stepped through the doors. Two white coat clad science types, one male and one female, followed them in. The woman, a dark haired athletically built human, stepped forward toward Phlox with a smile and an extended hand as her silent shadows stepped around him, heading directly for his laboratory. He eyed them warily, turning his head to follow them. The woman stood patiently, waiting for him to acknowledge her. When all the uniformed pair did was show ID to the men guarding the medical transporter and then pull tool kits from the hip pouches he’d assumed contained weapons, it finally occurred to him that they were the tech team. The woman cleared her throat, diverting his attention back to her. “Dr. Phlox! I’m Doctor Wynona Wong with Starfleet Medical,” she said with artificial brightness. “Is there a place we can talk privately?” Phlox realized then that this woman was his assigned debriefing officer. He sighed. It was all in his reports. An in-person debriefing was a complete waste of everyone’s time, but at least they’d sent someone capable of understanding the significance of his research. He smiled politely. “I’m afraid I’m on duty, Doctor. My medic is being debriefed, and I can’t leave Sickbay unattended,” he said in his best attempt at an apologetic tone. He certainly didn’t feel apologetic. He hated it when bureaucratic types made it impossible for him to do his job. “We’ve got that covered, Doctor,” she replied with a determinedly polite smile. “Dr. Louer, here, is fully certified in xenological medicine. He’s a staff physician at the station’s medical facility and is your assigned relief during our session.” The thin, balding, quiet man beside her nodded briefly, gave Phlox a rather cold look in response to the Denobulan’s momentary look of aggravation, and offered a padd which proved to contain bonafide orders requiring Phlox to yield control of Sickbay during his debriefing. Phlox bit his tongue again, and then nodded reluctantly, studying the padd. “Very well,” he replied brusquely. He pulled the stylus from the side of the padd and entered information for several seconds. Then he handed the padd back to his replacement. “You’ll find everything under control at present, Doctor. As you’re probably aware, the occupants of biobeds two and three and the two incubators are scheduled for transfer to the station’s medical facility today. If any new problems come in, the access code I just gave you will enable you to pull up a schematic of the supplies and equipment available in the department. If you have any questions, you know where to find me.” He smiled very briefly, almost imperceptibly for a Denobulan. Being evicted from his Sickbay mid-shift didn’t sit well with him. Louer didn’t seem to notice. “Thank you, Doctor, but I don’t anticipate any problems,” replied the human, as expressionless as a Vulcan. Phlox studied him for a moment. There was something familiar about the man, but he couldn’t place it. Perhaps it was just the coldness in his eyes. That was it. The “doctor” was also a soldier. He supposed it was to be expected at a military facility. “Shall we go? We’re on a tight schedule,” prompted the woman expectantly. Phlox, distracted by his study of the man he was expected to trust with his patients, turned toward her and caught sight of Elena Archer over the female physician’s shoulder, dressed and sitting in the chair near her bed rocking one of the twins. With a pang, he realized that if the trio were transferred in his absence he might not see them again for years. His chin came up with determination and he pushed past Doctor Wong, walking toward Elena and the babies. Some things were more important than a bureaucratic timetable. “In a moment, Doctor. I have something to take care of first,” he said over his shoulder, leaving the two of them standing flatfooted in the middle of the room. His smile broadened as he walked, but he resisted looking over his shoulder at the expressions on their faces. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Commander T’Pol’s interrogator was a bored looking middle-aged female of equivalent rank. She tapped a stylus rhythmically on the tabletop as she studied T’Pol’s report. “What do you know about these so-called temporal agents? Did they show you proof of their identities?” she asked absently with her eyes still fixed on the screen. “They had no verifiable credentials, but based on our previous experiences with temporal agents we had no reason to doubt their claims of legitimacy,” T’Pol replied patiently. She sighed inwardly. The two of them had been face to face, going over her report line by line, for two hours and seventeen minutes thus far. Did the woman think that the facts would change if she asked questions about each one several times in different ways? “What about the young one... the Vulcan? She remained aboard for several days longer than the others. You and Commander Tucker both report spending quite a lot of time with her, and yet we have almost no information regarding her identity. In what century was she based? Did you speak with her about how close Starfleet might be to developing the technology used by her employers? “That’s information none of them would divulge. It might have interfered with the proper timeline,” T’Pol answered flatly. Her questioner looked up from the screen and fixed T’Pol with a surprisingly acute look for someone who’d seemed so bored just a moment before. “And then she just disappeared without warning. Did she give you an explanation? Did you record everything in your report?” she persisted. T’Pol succeeded in keeping her facial expression under control, but the woman’s line of questioning was beginning to alarm her. “Her mission was over, and so she left. I am satisfied with the completeness of my report,” replied T’Pol. Her statement was the unvarnished truth. Trip would become a target if the existence of a future Tucker with Vulcan blood were known. That possibility was unacceptable. Just the thought made her acutely uncomfortable. “Relax, darlin’. I’m not goin’ anywhere. We’ve gotta make at least one little Tucker eventually, remember? It’s part of the true timeline. T’Mir won’t let anything happen to me.” Trip’s silent contribution to her inner struggle for control made her jump minutely. Her interrogator didn’t appear to notice. “T’hy’la, I’ve asked you not to do that. It’s very disconcerting when you offer commentary in my head without warning,” she remonstrated mildly. In reality, his mental presence soothed her, calming her discomfort. The woman continued to study T’Pol’s report with great concentration. “Sorry, darlin’,” Trip replied, but the emotions she was picking up from him in the bond didn’t feel the least bit contrite. He was bursting at the seams to tell her something, but he’d gotten so good at shielding that she couldn’t tell what it was. He was doing it deliberately, she knew. He enjoyed tormenting her. Or rather, he enjoyed her reaction when she objected to his teasing. T’Pol sat with forced serenity opposite the intelligence officer and tried her best not to allow the impatient curiosity she was feeling to slip past her shields. It was a losing battle, and she could sense what amounted to Trip’s mental chuckle as he realized how eager she was to learn his news. “I am in the midst of my debriefing, husband,” she reminded him. “Distractions could make me careless.” “Ah...so you think I should just tell ya my news... that way ya won’t be distracted, right?” Trip replied archly. “It would be the logical solution,” she returned reasonably. “Or I could just wait until you’re done...” There was a frustratingly tantalizing pause, and then, “That would probably be best. ‘Bye, hun!” he finished cheerfully. To her consternation, his barriers came up completely. “All right, Commander. That’s all. I’ll call you if I need you again,” said the woman briskly. She pushed back from the table and stood up. T’Pol nodded regally, but said nothing as the intelligence officer left the room. As soon as she was alone in the conference room, T’Pol abandoned her serene facade, pushed to her feet with an irritated expression, and hurriedly departed to find one very aggravating Chief Engineer. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Captain Jonathan Archer, who’d been closeted in his ready room in the hours since his first-on-the-list debriefing, stood to receive a Starfleet legend, the indomitable Admiral Ezra Black. The old admiral entered the room slowly and stiffly, as if moving too rapidly caused him pain. He was even grayer and grimmer than the last time Archer had seen him in publicity footage touting the new Daedalus cruisers as the workhorses of the “New Starfleet”. The idiots in public relations had come up with that one, to boost public confidence during the war. Unfortunately, all the campaign seemed to have accomplished was to warn the Romulans that the new ships were coming. Since Archer’s arrival to Jupiter Station he’d been studying confidential Starfleet intelligence reports provided by the officer who’d debriefed him. The tide had been turning in recent battles—in the Romulans’ direction. He was just beginning to realize how much information about the progress of the war had been unavailable to him—or perhaps deliberately kept from him—in recent months. Archer pulled out a chair for the admiral and seated him before taking his place at the table. To his surprise, they were alone in the room. The padd the intelligence officer had given him sat on the tabletop between them with the most recent battle statistics on the screen. Admiral Black looked briefly at it with a sour expression and then got right to business. “I see you’ve finally read the reports,” he said tersely, almost as if he were accusing Archer of something. The younger man’s heart sank. This didn’t look like it was destined to be a pleasant visit. “Ah...yes, sir,” he replied with a rueful expression. “I had no idea things had gotten this bad.” “That’s because Starfleet’s had you swathed in cotton wool for the past year, son... but I’m here to set you straight,” replied the admiral disapprovingly. Archer took a deep breath, swallowed, then gave the old man a sickly half-smile and his full attention. The shit was about to hit the fan. “A year ago when we discovered your diplomatic screwup with the Betazoids, I advised Starfleet Command to relieve you of command of the Enterprise and just send you to Betazed rather than send the entire ship and its crew on a diplomatic mission,” began the admiral bluntly. At Archer’s look of offended surprise, Black clarified without apology, “That would have left Enterprise free to engage the enemy with the rest of the fleet.” Archer nodded in sudden understanding. As much as he would have hated the idea on a personal level, it did seem tactically sound. It was strange that no one had even broached the subject with him at the time. “Starfleet Command dismissed the idea,” continued the admiral. “Apparently, a few of its more conservative members were of the opinion that trusting Enterprise to an inexperienced captain was too much of a risk, and that keeping an NX-01 class starship ‘in reserve’ and out of the action would be Earth’s best defense in the event of a strong push by the Romulans—never mind that it cut our offensive capability by a considerable margin—and that soon the Enterprise was gallivanting all over the sector, no where near close enough to Earth to provide any meaningful defense but still at risk, engaging in solo battles against Romulan ships without any support from Earth forces...” Black shook his head, obviously frustrated. “But, sir... I was never even offered the option of stepping down from command,” protested Archer. “I know that!” retorted the admiral, “Why do you think this situation’s been such a thorn in my side? It’s the admiralty that’s the problem. Sometimes I can’t decide whether some of them are too stupid to see what’s right in front of them or whether they’re deliberately trying to sabotage our efforts. They won’t make use of their resources, and now look where it’s gotten us.” He gestured to the dismal battle statistics on the padd in front of him with a disgusted expression. “At first, I accepted the losses as the cost of learning unfamiliar battle tactics, but we’ve had time now to learn the Romulans’ weaknesses...” He paused, glaring at Archer as if the whole thing was his fault. The captain of the Enterprise did his best to look appropriately attentive, but he was beginning to be concerned about the old man. That much anger and frustration couldn’t be good for him. Finally, Archer raised a brow like a Vulcan, waiting. “They don’t have any weaknesses to speak of, according to our most recent analyst reports. What’s your opinion of that?” asked Black in challenge. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I can think of at least two right off the top of my head,” replied Archer earnestly. “Their warp cores are inadequately shielded... and they tend to fight to the last ship even against impossible odds. Retreat generally isn’t an option for them unless their mission is strictly reconnaissance, and the Enterprise has even had armed conflicts with ships which I assume were reconnaissance vessels. From that I have to conclude that their culture frowns upon retreating from combat even when the odds are unfavorable for engagement. We can use that to our advantage, can’t we?” Black paused, eying the younger man with a surprised expression. Jonathan Archer wasn’t sure whether to be insulted or not by the admiral’s obvious assumption that he was a tactical idiot. He’d been the captain of a warp-capable starship longer than anyone else on Earth. He had to have learned something on the job. “Yes...” replied Black cautiously. “Actually...I’ve been trying to tell our strategists that for months now,” he said, eyeing Archer with the trace of a smile. “Where’s your tactical station? We need a holographic display to consolidate our ideas. We might as well be in agreement when we go before Starfleet Command to propose a damage control plan.” He eyed Archer with a calculating expression. “You’re their golden boy, after all. If you can get them to listen to us, maybe we might even have a chance to win this damned war.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Jacob Louer watched the Denobulan doctor reluctantly leave Enterprise’s Sickbay, herded by Wynona. It was too bad he wasn’t human. Any human male would have been only too happy to spend two hours closeted alone in a room with the curvaceous Doctor Wong. As it was, it had been like pulling teeth to get the guy to leave with her. “We’re ready, Doctor,” said Watsky. “Team Two is on its way.” Louer turned to find one of the two young medics charged with the operation of the medical transporter standing at his shoulder, extending a device toward him. The young man’s buzz cut made him look more like a soldier than a healer, but that was all right by Louer. He nodded, took the bioscanner from Watsky’s hand, and then walked over to the sedated prisoner. At his order, Rostov was transferred from the biobed to a mobile stretcher and wheeled to the lab to take his place beside the medical transporter. No consent had been asked from Petty Officer Michael Nikolai Rostov for the procedure he was about to undergo, but Rostov was guilty of treason, so his ass belonged to Starfleet to do whatever was required in compensation for his crimes. What Louer was about to do was a damn sight better than execution, and the psychotic engineer would get the best medical care Starfleet could offer for the rest of his life in exchange. Louer was military through and through. The ethical grey areas in which he operated no longer disturbed him. He knew his duty. Louer scanned Rostov’s body slowly, and then checked the image in the bioscanner for errors. As he did so, the main doors of Sickbay burst open. Louer pulled the curtain shut about the prisoner. “Where’s Phlox?” shouted a burly young man. He had an unconscious crewmate slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. The name badge on his uniform said “Mitchell”. He was followed in by two security officers in Jupiter Station uniform. Louer stepped forward and directed the crewman to an empty stretcher, where the muscular fellow rather unceremoniously unloaded his limp companion. “Doctor Phlox is in debriefing. I’m Doctor Louer. What’s happened here?” he asked the agitated young man. As the crewman began to speak, Louer eyed the pair of guards reprovingly over the young man’s head. “Norfleet was walkin’ out of the debriefin’ room while I was walkin’ in, and then he just collapsed!” explained Mitchell in a concerned voice. “Crewman Mitchell insisted on carrying Ensign Norfleet to Sickbay rather than waiting for a stretcher to become available,” clarified one of the guards in a neutral voice. “I see,” replied Louer dryly. He turned to the figure on the stretcher and passed the bioscanner over Ensign Norfleet’s body. As far as he could determine, the intelligence officer he’d been assigned to assist was in perfect health. Despite this, a convincing performance was required for security reasons. Fortunately, Jacob Louer was an excellent actor as well as a proficient surgeon. His expression became gravely concerned as he studied the bioscanner images. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave, Crewman. Your friend has sustained a brain hemorrhage from a cerebral aneurysm. I’ll have to operate immediately.” Louer beckoned to the two guards standing outside of the curtain shielding the operative transporter and Rostov’s stretcher, and they moved forward to take possession of Norfleet’s stretcher, whisking it within the curtained alcove and out of sight. Mitchell stood there with a stricken expression on his face. He obviously considered Norfleet a friend. It was enough to move anyone to pity, or at least almost anyone. “You may return to your duties, Crewman. I should know more about the ensign’s prognosis in an hour or two,” said Louer brusquely. Then he turned toward the curtain. There was no time to coddle the boy. He had to complete his task before Phlox returned. Behind the curtain, Norfleet opened his eyes as Louer scanned his body with the bioscanner and then stepped to the medical transporter. Space was cramped within the small lab. The two medics checked the instrument settings a final time. “Are you ready?” asked Louer respectfully. He outranked Norfleet, but anyone willing to do what Philip Norfleet was about to do deserved respect. Norfleet took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and replied, “Go ahead.” There was a low frequency hum as the figures on the stretchers appeared to exchange places. A pause of several seconds followed, and then “Rostov” opened his eyes. Louer stepped toward his stretcher and began scanning his body for transcription errors. The medical transport of skin structures was a science in its infancy, and he’d had only two weeks to extend Phlox’s work with prevention of transplant rejection from guinea pigs to humans. For two years he’d been working with a standard transporter modified by Starfleet R&D. The technology had this far saved the lives of twelve crewmen and women with otherwise fatal plasma burns who’d made it back to Earth after battles with the Romulans, but the results had been far from perfect, and frequent rejection of the transplants had been a major drawback. This unit was orders of magnitude more precise than anything he’d ever worked with before, and Phlox’s novel technique would no doubt revolutionize the field once it was published in the medical literature. Louer would otherwise have never attempted what he’d apparently just succeeded in doing—a complete epidermal exchange with facial transplant in two otherwise healthy subjects. “Will you do the procedure soon, Doc?” whispered “Rostov” to Louer. He gazed around the curtained alcove with a bewildered expression on his face. His eyes widened when he caught sight of the occupant of the neighboring stretcher. “Oh...” he added, looking a bit unsettled. Then he swallowed, and stared straight up at the ceiling again. “Good job, Doc. I’m ready to go, now,” he said firmly. Louer smiled wryly. You’ll do, son, he thought approvingly. You’ll do. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “The transport comes for us tomorrow at 0900. We’ll be staying in the Betazoid Embassy in San Francisco,” reported Marella, who’d been in conversation with Paul Mayweather to the virtual exclusion of everyone else in the room for the entire meal. Lianna and Maya were playing in the next room with the door open, having made swift work of their lunch. Small voices and high pitched laughter wafted in from time to time, making the adults smile. Travis was flanked by his mother and Arabella, who’d both been unusually quiet since they’d finished helping the girls from the table, seemingly content to eavesdrop on Marella’s conversation with Paul. Travis couldn’t talk to anyone. His mouth was full. He reached across the table, speared the last resequenced protein patty with his fork, brought it to his lips, and took a huge bite, savoring the familiar taste with a smile. He had no idea why his crewmates wouldn’t ever touch the stuff. It tasted like home to him. “I knew you’d missed my protein patties, Travis,” said his mother approvingly under her breath. “Your brother thought you’d be spoiled for fresh foods by now, since Enterprise always gets the best provisions, but I knew better. My patties were always your favorite.” She smiled at him fondly as he chewed. Out of the corner of his eye, Travis noticed Arabella cutting a small piece from the untouched patty on her plate and tentatively taking a bite. He smirked a bit at the expression on her face and took another huge bite of his own, smiling back cheerfully at his mother. He supposed they were an acquired taste. “The seasoning is...distinctive,” coughed Arabella as she reached for her drink and took a healthy swig. “What do you use?” Her eyes were wide and a bit watery from the spices, but she actually sounded sincere. Travis sighed. Now his mother was going to think the girl wanted to cook for him! “It’s an old family recipe of hot peppers, allspice, and thyme...one version of what’s commonly known as Caribbean ‘Jerk’ seasoning,” confided Rianna, laughing as Arabella fished a cube of ice from her drink and popped it into her mouth to cool her tongue. “Don’t tell me there’s no pepper on Betazed?” she teased. Arabella smiled sheepishly. “We have many herbs we use for cooking, but I don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything quite like this before,” she replied, a little indistinctly around the melting ice cube. To his dismay, Travis found the resulting lisp endearing. He tried to ignore her and focused on his plate, chewing determinedly. “I’d like you to show me how to make it sometime. I really enjoy learning new recipes,” Arabella continued, her eyes cutting toward Travis as she smiled shyly. Rianna beamed. Travis groaned inwardly. This was really going too far. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and pushed back from the table. “Arabella, let’s go for a walk,” he announced firmly. “We have some things to discuss.” Arabella’s eyes widened in alarm. “But, you just got here...and you haven’t seen your family in months, and I have to watch the girls!” she protested. “Nonsense! Go ahead, you two! We old folks’ll still be here when you get back! The girls’ll be fine,” insisted Rianna with a broad smile. She rose from the table, watched in apparent approval as Travis pulled Arabella reluctantly to her feet, and practically pushed them out the door. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx From his usual table in the back of the room, over the remnants of his lunch, Trip Tucker watched his friend and crewmate Malcolm Reed enter Enterprise’s dining hall. The security chief had a preoccupied expression on his face. He collected food and drink and sat down to eat at the closest table with the air of a man on automatic pilot. Trip was worried about him. Their master plan to get Hoshi stationed planetside had not gone well. Hoshi had applied to Starfleet’s Intelligence division, all right—and had promptly been advised of her new position as head of the real-time translation team to be stationed on Starfleet’s yet-to-be-announced flagship. Her new posting would be taking her not only away from Earth, but into the thick of battle, where Starfleet Intelligence had hopes that she would be able to crack the codes the Romulans were using for transmissions during combat. It was a phenomenal opportunity for her to use her skills and a major career advancement. He knew that. Malcolm knew it, too. It was just that the promotion had thrown a monkey wrench into the Englishman’s carefully considered and long-anticipated marriage plans, and Trip wasn’t sure if his friend’s spirit could take the shock. Just the idea of Hoshi going into combat on a ship which didn’t include the rest of them in its crew complement had thrown all three of them for a loop. Trip rose from his table and moved toward Malcolm’s, intending to offer commiseration and the sort of support only a man in a similar fix could provide. Sometimes being in love with a military officer in wartime seriously sucked. He paused when he saw Hoshi, looking tired and pale, walking slowly toward Malcolm’s table with a drink and a food tray in hand, and realized that three was a crowd. Depositing his used dishes in the recycler on the way to the door, he left the dining hall at a brisk walk, having decided to take advantage of the last few minutes of his lunch break to run an errand. The Jupiter Station engineering team was scheduled to inspect and overhaul Enterprise’s warp and impulse engines starting at 1300 hours, and he had no intention of allowing them to touch anything without his approval. He had just enough time beforehand to check with the captain to see if Starfleet Intelligence would allow crew members to leave the ship while debriefings were still ongoing. His plans that evening depended on the presence of all of their friends at a surprise gathering onstation. He grinned broadly as he walked. T’Pol was gonna freak. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx They were silent on their way to the section’s observation lounge. Arabella eyed Travis’ grim expression warily as they walked. His face appeared sculpted from flawless metal, bronzed in the manner of some ancient Earth statue, and even more beautiful. His anger was unmistakable. She deserved it, she supposed. What she’d had done to him was inexcusable among both their peoples. He’d been a good sport about it for Maya’s sake, but he’d never understood the whole picture. Lana had never understood either. Arabella wasn’t certain she really comprehended it herself. Before Lana’s death she’d been certain that her attraction to Travis was a purely biological thing. Lana was her soul mate. Travis was... what? Her one night stand? Her guilty pleasure? Merely the father of her child? It hadn’t been an issue at home on Betazed. No Betazoid male had ever caught her attention. They were weak...spineless. She’d wanted a take-charge partner like Lana. Gender was honestly less important than a certain personality...that sparkle of energy, that drive that Lana had possessed. Now, the sparkle had been extinguished for...had it been only two weeks? And she recognized a similar drive in Travis, the personality that, along with his breathtaking beauty, had prompted her to allow him to father their child to begin with. She felt dirty, guilty to feel this way so soon. It was as if the feelings had always been there, waiting for the correct environment to come forward. As she grieved for Lana, she longed for Travis to comfort her, and felt ashamed of herself for her fickleness. When they arrived at their destination, the lounge was deserted. No one on board the station had time to just sit and look at the stars anymore, thought Arabella. Everyone who wasn’t vital to station operations was already planetside. Travis stopped walking only when he was virtually nose-to-nose with the observation window. She stood beside him, looking up at his profile. The top of her head barely reached his broad shoulders. He stared out at the unblinking stars, still avoiding her gaze, and his expression softened as if he were seeing old friends. Then he sighed. “Beautiful,” he whispered wistfully. “Very,” she replied softly, not sparing the window a second glance, smiling sadly as she watched his face and the interplay of emotions on it. His deep brown eyes met hers, and she saw his puzzled frustration at her double meaning. “Just what is it that you want from me?” he asked plaintively. Arabella blinked at that, taken aback by his directness. She studied his face for several seconds, contemplating her answer. The main problem was that she really wasn’t sure what she wanted—except that she wanted time to figure it out. “A second chance?” she ventured hesitantly. “To do what?” he replied suspiciously. Arabella looked down then, unable to bear his hurt and anger anymore. His fists were clenched at his sides. She took one strong dark hand in both of hers and teased it open. Then she interlaced her fingers with his and turned toward the observation window. “To gain your trust,” she said simply. They stood side by side for a moment, looking at the stars. He’d ship out again in less than a month, she knew that. He was the father of her child, and her only source of physical comfort left in the universe; she knew that, too. He said nothing. She wasn’t sure yet what his answer would be, but at least his fingers still gripped hers. It was enough for now. It had to be. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx After discovering that her husband was too busy in Engineering guarding his beloved engines from nefarious Jupiter Station personnel to discuss his tantalizing exchange with her earlier that day, and following being waylaid by an excited Captain Archer and his new mentor concerning the presentation they planned to make to Starfleet Command on their return to Earth—after several hours of strategic discussion—T’Pol had decided to retire to her cabin for meditation when the call from San Francisco came in. She activated the viewscreen. Ambassador Soval appeared very concerned. As a matter of fact, although it had been some time since she’d interacted with members of her own species, it certainly seemed to her that for a Vulcan he seemed genuinely distressed. “May I help you, Ambassador?” she inquired, forgoing a greeting as an illogical waste of time in the midst of a crisis. “I have just been informed by Jupiter Station authorities of the presence of Minister Kuvak of the High Council in their medical facility, reportedly in guarded condition,” replied Soval, just as abruptly. “The physician there has requested permission to transfer him to our compound here in San Francisco via Starfleet medical transport immediately, primarily because—and I quote—he ‘doesn’t want him to die so far away from his own people’. Minister Kuvak, on the other hand, is insisting on being transported to Houston Hobby Spaceport instead. He’s refusing to take my calls and will not listen to reason. I understand that his son lives near Houston, but Vulcan-knowledgeable medical professionals are difficult to find in Houston. I require your assistance with a compromise.” T’Pol gazed back at him in concern. Barring the Chief Minister herself, Kuvak of Vulcan was without doubt the premier statesman of Vulcan, one of the few remnants of the old regime, a visionary who’d adapted to the newly revealed teachings of the Kirshara with surprising flexibility for such an old man. His death would be a great blow to all of Vulcan, especially if it occurred prematurely on Earth due to a lack of available facilities. “I asked my superiors why I was not informed of the minister’s plans to visit Earth,” continued Soval. “I was told that it was a personal voyage unrelated to his duties, and that he’d been placed on permanent medical leave from the High Council over six months ago. Do you have knowledge of this?” T’Pol raised a brow. That shed some light on the situation, at least. A permanent medical leave was granted only in the case of incurable terminal illness. Minister Kuvak had known of his imminent death for at least six months. That explained his insistence on Houston. He was racing the clock of his impending demise in order to get to his son. Unfortunately, that fact would not make his death without access to adequate medical care any less of a diplomatic disaster. “I do not, but I will speak to the minister and find an acceptable alternative,” promised T’Pol. Soval relaxed visibly at her confident tone. He nodded, acknowledging her statement. His gratitude was obvious but unspoken. “I will await your report, Commander,” he told her. The screen went dark. T’Pol stared at the screen for a moment, wishing that she felt as confident as she’d acted for Soval’s benefit. Then she rose and left to find the captain. From the tales Trip had told her, Jonathan Archer had had firsthand experience with a stubborn and terminally ill father. Perhaps he could be of assistance. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Jonathan Archer, released finally from his hours-long strategy session with Admiral Black, stopped for the third time at a directory on his quest for the location of the station’s medical center. Enterprise was still considered a high security area, and all civilians had been removed by order of Starfleet Intelligence. Elena Archer and her children, being yet in somewhat fragile medical condition, had been transferred to the station infirmary. Archer had also discovered, to his dismay, that one of the crew had collapsed following his debriefing—some sort of brain aneurysm, he’d been told—and had been transferred off the ship. Not only that, but Minister Kuvak of the Vulcan High Council had arrived and had somehow ended up occupying a bed, and Janice Hess was under observation for suspected early labor. Archer was off to visit all of them, provided he was able to find the place. Jupiter Station was huge. He’d set out in the company of his second in command. T’Pol had asked him some rather personal questions about his father’s final days without giving a reason for her sudden curiosity. He’d done his best to engage her in conversation, thinking that maybe she’d finally begun to process her mother’s death and hoping that she would open up in return. After only a few minutes, though, they’d been offered a ride by one of the station security officers in one of the small electric carts that station residents used to get from place to place. T’Pol had hastily accepted, seeming to be in a hurry for some inscrutable reason she chose not to reveal, but he had foolishly turned it down, thinking that a walk would do him good. Two kilometers and twenty minutes later, he was hopelessly lost. Archer was standing in front of the directory display scratching his head when the hum of an electric vehicle came down the corridor. He turned to find a cart full of familiar smiling faces. “Need a lift, Cap’n?” Trip asked. He was riding shotgun with Travis, who piloted the cart with an air of familiarity, steering with one hand while holding a wide-eyed infant with a definite family resemblance on one knee. A beautiful young Betazoid woman was squeezed between Travis and Trip. She also had one hand on the infant, but her huge dark eyes were on Travis. On Trip’s lap sat a very familiar little girl with black on black eyes and a head full of dark curls. She’d grown quite a lot since Archer had seen her last. She smiled at him impishly. “We saved you a seat in the back, Captain. We’re gonna go surprise T’Pol. Wanna come?” Lianna asked. Archer laughed. The second seat of the three-seated cart held Rianna and Paul Mayweather and a Betazoid woman who was familiar to Archer. Marella of the Sixth House, maybe? Where had all the Betazoids come from? The third seat held Malcolm and Hoshi, with room to spare. “Are we having a party?” he quipped as he climbed aboard. Malcolm smiled just a fraction, an expression that didn’t reach his eyes. “So I’m told, sir,” he replied. Hoshi had eyes for no one but the Englishman, her face much too serious for such a lighthearted occasion. Abruptly, Jonathan Archer remembered her transfer, and realized the source of their solemnity. He debated whether what he was about to do amounted to a breach of protocol, and decided that the news was bound to come out soon anyway. Why force everyone to endure Malcolm’s well-practiced doom and gloom for the entire evening? “I hear congratulations are in order, Lieutenant,” he told Hoshi quietly with a smile. “Keep this under wraps for now, but Starfleet Intelligence has claimed its own space aboard Enterprise. We’ve been made the flagship of the fleet, so now you’ll have your own office and a brand new title, ship’s Chief of Intelligence Operations.” He grinned more broadly as both Malcolm and Hoshi grew wide-eyed at his revelation. “Don’t let it go to your head, now. I’m still the captain,” he joked softly. “I’m staying aboard? Really?” whispered Hoshi in delight. At Archer’s amused nod, she wrapped her arms around a genuinely relieved-looking Malcolm Reed and squeezed. Malcolm gazed over her head at his captain, evidently realizing that Archer had revealed privileged information prematurely for their sakes. He smiled wryly. “Thank you,” he mouthed silently. Archer smiled back, nodding, and then deliberately averted his gaze until Hoshi remembered where she was and pulled away from Malcolm to a decorous distance, looking a bit sheepish but very self-satisfied. Malcolm, of course, seemed to be in a much better mood. Archer leaned forward to tap Paul Mayweather on the shoulder. “So...how is it that the Horizon ended up on Jupiter Station, and where did all these Betazoids come from?” he asked curiously. Mayweather’s colorful response entertained them all the rest of the way to the medical center. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “I will agree to being ‘evaluated and stabilized’ at the San Francisco Spaceport by a Vulcan physician. I will also agree to periodic visits by said physician at my new home in College Station,” said the fragile-appearing old man imperiously. T’Pol had discovered, to her surprise, that a condominium just off university grounds had already been purchased and furnished for that purpose. The minister was nothing if not thorough in his preparations. He looked much stronger than she’d expected, sitting rigidly upright in his hospital bed within the drab and windowless room. T’Len stood at his bedside. “I will not, however, agree to enter the San Francisco Vulcan compound or any other restricted enclave. That is not why I have made this voyage,” the minister continued firmly. “I intend to remain on Earth for the remainder of my life and interact with the culture which my son has chosen to join. It is my dying wish, and I insist that it be respected.” T’Pol, rendered speechless by the minister’s still considerable persuasiveness, exchanged a look with T’Len. The older woman shrugged minutely, raising a brow. This was, apparently, the best offer they were going to get. “Agreed,” T’Pol conceded. “I would like to point out, however,” she continued tenaciously, “...that if you should become injured or lose your life through human action or inaction, there could be a detrimental effect on Earth/Vulcan relations. Perhaps if you would allow a security detail to be assigned to you...” Kuvak harrumphed disapprovingly. T’Len gave him a reproving look, and he sighed, actually rolling his eyes. “I will allow it,” he told T’Pol crustily, “...but only in the spaceports and in transit, not in my home.” T’Pol nodded in acknowledgement, impressed by T’Len’s ability to handle the old man. Of course, the woman had always been an excellent negotiator. T’Pol couldn’t ever recall winning an argument with her, and T’Pol had been an unusually argumentative child. “Very well, Minister. I will communicate your wishes to...” began T’Pol. The old man interrupted her. “That title is no longer accurate. I am Kuvak,” he replied. “Kuvak of College Station, Texas.” He gazed directly at her in complete seriousness. T’Pol thought the appellation quite amusing, and wondered whether it was possible that he’d just made a joke. The implications were interesting, to say the least. She decided to take the statement at face value but found herself unable to voice the name without an unseemly show of emotion, so she simply nodded to both of them and turned to leave. T’Len followed her out of the minister’s room, closing the door behind them. “It is agreeable to see you again, T’Pol,” said T’Len, pausing in the corridor with an expectant look on her face. “And you,” T’Pol replied politely, uncomfortable with the emotions the woman’s unexpected appearance had aroused. She hadn’t seen T’Len since returning home from her Kas-wan, when tradition had decreed that the services of a nanny were no longer required. She’d cried that day, despite her achievement. It had been difficult to let go of this woman who’d been like a second mother to her. “I was grieved to learn of your mother’s passing,” offered T’Len. T’Pol raised a brow. It was generally considered ill-mannered to express grief so long after the death of another. What was done was done. T’Len seemed to be offering the comment as a means of expressing her condolences without implying that T’Pol still grieved. From what T’Pol could recall from her childhood, it was typical of T’Len to so strictly adhere to custom. “Her loss was very unfortunate,” T’Pol finally agreed, “...but her beliefs have been justified...primarily through the work of those such as Chief Minister T’Pau...and Minister Kuvak.” “Indeed. It must be gratifying to know that her contributions will be remembered,” T’Len replied. T’Pol nodded solemnly in agreement. Being with T’Len brought back memories of so many childhood arguments. She suppressed a childish urge to shout, in human fashion, “Screw her contributions! I want my mother back!” Then the urge passed, as they all generally did if she managed to maintain control. T’Len had taught her that. Down the corridor, the sounds of music and laughter in both adult and childish voices emanated from the common waiting area. The two women exchanged puzzled glances before walking side by side down the hall. The room had been empty when T’Pol had passed by only moments before. Now it was full, and for a moment its occupants were unaware of her presence. Elena Archer held court at one end of the chamber, watching from her wheelchair as a small group of admirers gently passed her two children from arm to arm. The smaller of the two bundles seemed content to stare up at each new face in fascination. The larger and noisier twin ended up back in her mother’s arms in short order after expressing her extreme displeasure and gracing Lieutenant Commander Reed with a chest full of partially digested mother’s milk. Lieutenant Commander Hess sat next to Mrs. Archer, watching and laughing. She appeared to be in no distress and still quite pregnant. Apparently her presentation to Sickbay earlier that day in “early labor” had been a false alarm. Strangely enough, two of the women in the ring of baby enthusiasts appeared to be Betazoid. A rapid visual search of the rest of the room found no Jonathan Archer. Presumably he’d made it to the medical center on foot after her narrow escape from another rambling and incomprehensible discussion involving the meaning of life and quite possibly the birth of another species of antelope. He must still be making his rounds. She searched the crowd for her husband. She could sense his presence and the fact that he was up to some mischief, but he still had his shields up. Abruptly, she felt as well as heard a high pitched squeal that made her wince involuntarily. “I believe that you have an admirer,” remarked T’Len ironically as a curly-headed guided missile shot up from her hiding place behind the sofa and ran full tilt across the room directly at T’Pol. Trip stood up from behind the sofa, laughing so hard he nearly fell over at the expression on her face. “SURPRISE!!!” shouted Lianna happily in her highest register. She hit T’Pol’s thighs with her full weight and grabbed hold. T”Pol staggered for a moment, held upright by a helping hand from a serenely amused T’Len, and stared down at the child in shock. “Where did you come from?” She’d said her goodbyes. She’d done her grieving. This is impossible, said her logical mind. A pair of small arms around her waist made logic a liar. Lianna grinned up at her. “I came to see you, so now you don’t have to be sad. Isn’t it a good surprise?” she sent cheerily. T’Pol reached down and laid a slightly trembling hand atop her head. She blinked several times, barely managing to keep tears at bay. The joy welling within her chest threatened to force an unseemly public show of emotion, but she contented herself with a mental exchange of affection so strong that it made both Lianna and Trip laugh and cry at the same time. “Yes, Lianna,” she said softly. “It’s a very good surprise.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The Student Rec Center gym at Texas A&M was the home away from home for an assortment of athletic species. There were the intramural jocks and the wanna-be jocks. The “real” jocks trained with their teams and wouldn’t be caught dead at the Rec Center. There were the students training as part of a requirement for a course. There were the body builders working out to look good so they could hook up—and to show off for their body builder friends. And then there were both students and staff who trained for personal health reasons. Janie like to think that she and Kov were in the last group, although sometimes she suspected that he enjoyed the “show off” aspect of his workouts a bit more that he’d admit. Janie had just planted her feet and set the barbell across her shoulders to begin her squats when the new guy, an incoming freshman who went by the name of Bubba—and appeared to be just as intelligent and socially enlightened as the name implied—made the statement that got him into trouble. “Guess I’ll start over here with the free weights since the Vulcan’s hoggin’ the VGT again,” he grumbled, grabbing a bar and loading it. He grinned at Janie, eyeing her long, sweatpants clad legs with evident appreciation. She sighed inwardly and pointedly ignored him as she began her first set. The Variable Gravity Trainer had been sitting in the corner collecting dust when she and Kov had first arrived nearly a year before. It had been a gift to the college by Starfleet in the heyday of its popularity, when thousands of young men and women hoped one day to leave Earth and meet an alien face to face. The Xindi had effectively curbed that enthusiasm. No one trained for offworld duty anymore—until Kov had begun his daily routine. For an hour a day, seven days a week, rain or shine, sick or well, Kov ran from precisely six pm to seven pm. At first he ran with the VGT set at Vulcan norm. When that was no longer challenging enough, he upped the setting. By the end of their first spring semester at A&M, one of the fraternities had begun a new hazing ritual. The pledge was required to mount the VGT after Kov’s workout and remain standing for five minutes. Kov always blandly ignored the shenanigans that went on immediately following his daily run, but Janie always made it a point to be there. The look on the poor pledge’s face as he fought to keep his knees from buckling was too good to miss. She guessed she should feel guilty for being so proud of her husband’s strength, but she just couldn’t help it. “Seems like that Vulcan’s always on the VGT. It ain’t like there’s nuthin’ else here ta do. He should give the rest of us a chance to try it ‘stead a bein’ such a hog,” griped Bubba yet again. His complaint was followed by a grunt as he straightened his knees. Janie finished her set of eight in silence, and then laid the barbell down. Bubba was red-faced, holding his breath, trying to do squats with weights which were obviously too heavy for him. She regarded him with irritation. He was gonna hurt himself, but she seriously doubted that he’d listen to her if she told him so. “This gym is open from six am to nine pm Monday through Sunday. ‘The Vulcan’ exercises from six to seven pm. Pick another time. You’ve got 14 hours a day to choose from,” she told him flatly. He grinned broadly and shoved the weights from his shoulders to the ground, where they bounced once. Janie winced at the potential damage to the gym’s wooden floor. “Will you be here if I come at seven instead?” he leered. He stepped into her personal space, and she could smell him. He had a typical college freshman male’s hygiene habits. She held her breath and stared him down disapprovingly. At nearly six feet tall she topped him by at least three inches. He ignored her look and actually reached out to lay a hand on her shoulder in what he must have imagined was a flirtatious manner. “No...and take your hand off me,” replied Janie firmly, “I’m married.” She squared her shoulders and set her stance. It was a reflex after all the jiujitsu classes she’d taken in the past year. Kov had insisted—for various reasons. Bubba’s leer became a cocky grin. He easily outweighed her by fifty pounds. “I heard,” he drawled. “To the Vulcan, right? I’ll bet he’s a lotta fun in bed,” he returned sarcastically. “Why doncha lemme show ya what a real man feels like?” His grin broadened as if he’d just told the best joke ever. Janie’s jaw dropped. The guy had known all along she was Kov’s wife, and he’d insulted Kov anyway. As his other hand began to descend toward her opposite shoulder, it was as if he moved in slow motion. She didn’t even have the time to get angry before her body took advantage of the opportunity. Without conscious thought, she grasped the wrist of the hand which rested on her shoulder and, using the weight of his body for leverage, just stepped aside as she pulled and twisted. In less than a second, Bubba was face down on the gym floor with his hand up between his shoulder blades and her knee in the small of his back. Unfortunately, he was too muscular to be so flexible, and she heard a distinct “pop” from his shoulder on the way down. He screamed like a girl. “I said...take your hand off me, you asshole!” she growled in his ear. “And if you ever touch me again I’ll dislocate your other shoulder!” “OWW! SHIT! LEMME GO! SOMEBODY HELP!” squealed Bubba. Janie felt something unfamiliar rise within her chest. Triumph? Conquest? Whatever it was, it felt good. She smiled. “Janie. Release him. Now.” Kov’s voice was quietly disapproving. Janie looked up at his face, and was abruptly intensely ashamed of herself. She looked down at the muscle-bound boy whimpering on the floor in pain and was horrified by what she’d done. She dropped his arm and scrambled away from him, hugging herself. Tears began to flow. Kov ignored them. “Allow me to assist you, sir,” Kov told the cowering fellow. Bubba just rolled over to his back, cradling his arm to his chest. He had tears running down his face, too. “You gotta do somethin’ about that wife of yours, man...she’s crazy! All I did was talk to her! I swear!” protested the boy. Kov cut his eyes toward Janie for a moment, but said nothing. He held out a hand to the young man. “May I see your injured arm?” he inquired politely. “Perhaps I can help.” Bubba eyed Kov doubtfully for a moment, but when the Vulcan continued to wait patiently for his answer, he nodded tentatively and extended his arm. Kov took the boy’s hand gently into his own, rested the other on his shoulder, and said, “You will feel some pressure.” A quick jerk, another girlish scream from Bubba, and the boy’s shoulder was back in place. Kov released him and stepped back. “Please contact me concerning your medical bills if you find it necessary to consult a physician,” he offered to the wide-eyed young man. Bubba stood and gingerly worked his shoulder, wincing a bit. He recovered his bravado as Kov encircled Janie’s shoulders with one arm and guided her toward the door. “You bet I will!” Bubba shouted angrily after them. “You’ll be hearin’ from my lawyer, y’hear?” A couple of the regulars gave Janie grins and slaps on the shoulder as she walked out with Kov. “Way ta go, gal. That’s the way ta teach him some manners!” whispered an older woman admiringly. Janie thought she was one of the accounting professors, but she wasn’t sure. She smiled wanly, acknowledging the woman’s encouragement, but said nothing as Kov led her out to their vehicle. He opened the door for her, a supremely illogical bit of chivalry that he habitually did anyway because he knew it pleased her, and waited silently for her to take a seat before closing the door. She was sitting looking miserably at her hands, wondering exactly when they’d turned into dangerous weapons without her noticing, when he slid into the driver’s seat beside her and shut the door. “Are you all right?” he asked into the silence. To her surprise, his voice held no censure, only concern. She searched his face hesitantly. He didn’t seem upset or angry, but it was hard to determine from his deliberately blank expression. She could tell that he was drawing on every ounce of Vulcan control these days to maintain the facade, but since he’d begun blocking her in their bond she’d had difficulty reading him. She was out of practice in figuring out what he was thinking without it. She understood his reasons, but it still felt lonely inside her head. She grimaced ruefully. “Yeah, I guess so. Sorry about the meltdown. I dunno what happened,” she replied. Kov sighed and shook his head. “It is I who owe you an apology, Janie. I thought that I could spare you this by blocking our bond until my time had fully arrived, but my impending plak tau is obviously affecting you anyway.” He smiled a tiny Kov-smile. “It is reassuring to know that your martial arts classes have been productive, though. You should be quite safe if I lose control.” Janie shook her head in exasperation. “I’ve been tellin’ ya, darlin’... There’s just no way on God’s green Earth you’d ever hurt me! I have no idea why you’re so fixated on protectin’ me. I’m a big girl. I can take it,” she told him earnestly. He cocked a brow. “After this evening I’m beginning to believe you,” he replied. Janie smiled mischievously. “Does that mean you’re gonna let me in?” she coaxed, extending two fingers to stroke the back of his hand where it rested on the steering yoke. He kept his eyes on hers and his expression stoic, but the physical contact enabled her to sense a small fraction of what he’d been hiding from her. She inhaled sharply as the heat of his slowly building plak tau burned through her chest and then southward. Her pulse accelerated. Kov’s eyes narrowed marginally, and the burning desire she sensed from him took on a hard, dominant edge. He wanted—no, needed--to possess her. And, to her surprise, she craved his possession. The feeling was so unlike their usual easygoing partnership that it should have frightened her, but all it did was make her wish fervently that they were home, in private instead of in a ground car parked in a public parking lot. She was so absorbed in the novel sensation that the alert tone of the car’s vidphone failed to register. Kov blinked and slowly pulled his hand away from hers, reluctantly moving to answer the call while Janie hyperventilated, trying to recover. “Yes?” he answered flatly—the response of a busy man with things to do. The screen held the image of a well-dressed professional woman with an artificial smile. “Professor Kov of Vulcan?” she asked brightly. “Speaking,” responded Kov cautiously. “Melissa Stevenson of Woodlands Real Estate,” said the woman with a tip of her head. “I apologize for disturbing you, sir, but Minister Kuvak left your vidphone code as a backup number. I am unable to contact him at the subspace address he provided, and I need confirmation of his arrival time in order to turn on water and utility service in his condominium. Do you know when he plans to arrive in College Station?” Kov’s jaw dropped. Janie grinned. She’d never seen her husband so completely floored by anything in their time together. “My father?” he replied incredulously. “My father is on Vulcan!” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Captain Milo Alonso of the San Francisco Department’s Spaceport Rescue Station One looked nothing like the commanding officer of a crack team of firefighters as he paced back and forth beside the runway. He did, however, look quite a lot like a frantic expectant father, which was exactly what he was. It had all started with a call he’d received early that morning. Apparently, Lieutenant Commander Janice Hess, the mother of his unborn son, was too far along in pregnancy to travel from Jupiter Station to Earth by commercial shuttle. That point Milo could understand, since she was roughly eight months and 29 days pregnant. What worried him was what had come next. After she’d reassured him that everything would be fine and that she’d be coming home by Starfleet medical transport instead, he’d been lulled into a false sense of security, only to be brought back to a state of sheer panic by a call from the medical transport vessel about three hours into the trip, while Janice was still enroute. She was in labor. And he was on duty with no relief available. So Milo had done what any red-blooded about-to-be-brand-new father would do, given the chance. He’d taken full advantage of his position. If he couldn’t be off duty to meet the mother of his very-soon-to-be-firstborn at the airport, he’d damn well make it his business to be at the airport anyway—in the line of duty. His entire team had thought it was a great idea. Joey and Paula, the brother and sister duo who were his best two firefighters, had been positively enthusiastic about it. They hadn’t been called to a runway emergency in months. It was time for a runway rescue drill. And so he found himself beside the specially designated runway a quarter of an hour before the medical transport shuttle was scheduled to arrive. For protocol’s sake, the rest of his team members were running through their emergency checklists. The plan was to stage a full-scale runway emergency drill—after the shuttle had arrived safely. “Here she comes! She’s ahead of schedule!” announced Joey, who’d been scanning the skies with binoculars while Milo paced. Joey’s voice sounded a bit strained, as if he were stressed or nervous. Milo paused in his pacing to squint at the sky, where the shuttle was still too far away to be visible to the naked eye, and then studied Joey. He’d been keyed up and on edge all morning—almost as much as Milo was. “You okay?” he asked Joey, puzzled. The buzz-cut young man’s eyes widened for a moment, and he exchanged a strange look with his similarly coiffed twin sister Paula before smiling nervously. “Sure! Why wouldn’t I be?” “I think I hear the shuttle!” put in Lieutenant Efferson, who’d been diligently going over checklists as Paula checked the equipment. Sure enough, the shuttle came into view a few seconds later, along with the roar of atmospheric thrusters. As it leveled out and approached the runway, however, it became apparent to them all that something was wrong. The engines sounded rough, and the shuttle’s trajectory was erratic. The large transport shuttle had wings, since it was built for flight both in a vacuum and in atmosphere, and depended more on lift surfaces than the average shuttle. That made it safer, since it was capable of gliding and wouldn’t drop like a stone if the engines happened to lose power completely—which was a fortunate thing since that’s exactly what they did as the shuttle made its final approach. The only sound as the shuttle landed was the rhythmic screech of the landing gear on the tarmac surface of the seldom-used auxiliary runway. At first, it seemed that the landing would be uneventful, but then Milo realized that the shuttle was going much too fast to stop where it should. Braking was obviously affected as well. He was already in the driver’s seat of the emergency vehicle with the rest of his team hanging on the sides, heading toward the hangers and warehouses at the end of the runway when the shuttle struck the buildings with an ear-splitting crash and burst into flames. Although the shuttle’s main engines ran on deuterium, which was inert and non-flammable in the absence of an active fusion reactor, the zero-grav maneuvering jets in the wings still needed small tanks of flammable rocket fuel to function, and it was one of the wing tanks that exploded. Had the fire station team not literally been on their way before the explosion had even occurred, all on board would have probably perished. Instead, Joey and Paula worked in tandem attaching hoses, in their uncanny almost miraculously coordinated way, and were spraying fire suppressive foam on the blaze before it even had the chance to reach the fuselage. The emergency exit door opened, and Milo rushed to it, only to be handed the end of a stretcher. On it lay an unconscious young man in Starfleet uniform. He rolled it toward Thadd Efferson, who took charge of it and pulled out his paramedic’s bag to check vitals. A second stretcher followed the first. Another young man was on it, this one cuffed to the rails and in prisoner’s coveralls. He was awake, and strangely calm given the situation. Milo passed him on as well. Where the hell is she? he thought, peering into the plane. A third stretcher nearly hit him in the face. To his utter surprise, this one had a white-haired Vulcan male on it. He was sitting up and looking around with interest, and really didn’t look like he needed a stretcher. A Vulcan woman walked beside the stretcher. Milo nodded at both of them politely before pushing him down the line, craning his neck to look for Janice. He smiled when yet another stretcher was pushed out of the exit. It contained a very relieved looking and very pregnant blonde woman. To others she might have looked rather mannish and muscular, but to him she was the most beautiful woman in creation. He hauled on the end of her stretcher to clear the exit, and then was too busy being thoroughly kissed to see the rest of the passengers, including one starship captain and his wheelchair-bound wife holding two newborn infants, exit the shuttle behind him. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The man who had once been Ensign Philip Norfleet, but who was now Petty Officer Michael Nikolai Rostov in every way that mattered, watched his heavily sedated alter ego being assessed by the paramedic. So far, so good. The man had no tricorder which might have revealed the absence of “Norfleet’s” purported intracranial hemorrhage. Even if he had, there was little that the real Norfleet could have done about it, strapped hand and foot to his stretcher as he was. The medical transport staff had taken no chances with a known psychopath, especially one with established violent tendencies and a phobia of Vulcans aboard a transport with Vulcans as passengers. The Vulcan minister seemed less frail than he’d appeared earlier. Earth’s gravity and the adrenaline rush of an emergency landing were likely responsible. He’d climbed down from his stretcher and was insisting on going back aboard the shuttle for the rest of his belongings. A buzz-cutted pair of firefighters were arguing with him, trying to convince him to lie down so that they could assess him, but he shrugged them off. Only his female companion seemed to have any control over the old guy. The huge firefighter who’d pulled them all out of the shuttle—the guy must have been nearly seven feet tall—was hovering over Lieutenant Commander Hess. From his appearance and the way she’d lip-locked him earlier, he must be the infamous Captain Alonso. It figured. He certainly looked tough enough with his shaved head and his tattoos. No male on Enterprise had ever been brave enough to even ask the muscle-bound engineer for a date, much less get her pregnant. Captain Archer was busy juggling babies as the paramedic moved from Norfleet’s alter ego to Elena Archer. His assessment of her was necessarily brief. “Hey, Thadd! Over here!” called the big guy. He sounded worried. Hess was curled up in a ball on the stretcher. Oh, boy. It looked like Milo, Jr. would arrive right there on the runway unless the ambulances arrived soon. Three sets of sirens answered his unspoken request. They arrived in line and parked in a row on the side of the tarmac. One of the firefighters approached Norfleet’s stretcher. Norfleet closed his eyes and played possum, since he was supposed to be sedated. The guy grabbed the railing and started to push. A female voice spoke softly. Norfleet cracked one eye open. It was the other firefighter, walking alongside the stretcher. She looked frustrated and angry. “I can’t get close enough to the damned Vulcan to do the job. His nurse is attached to him at the hip,” she murmured. “We need the distraction, Paula,” whispered the man. “Just take ‘em both out.” Paula nodded and began walking toward the old Vulcan and his nurse. Norfleet realized instantly that he was right in the middle of an assassination attempt, and did the only thing he could think of. He “woke up.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Kuvak took a deep breath of the thick, rich air of Earth and stood easily erect. The humans were behaving in a most illogical fashion. He had no need for medical treatment. He felt better at that moment than he had in nearly a year. Had he not had ample time for meditation during the flight, he would have found the pair of overly attentive emergency workers who were preventing him from reentering the vehicle to retrieve his annotated copy of the Kirshara very annoying. As it was, their stubbornness was merely an inconvenience. He was eyeing the starship captain, debating whether he should ask the man to go and get his book—surely they wouldn’t deny Jonathan Archer access to the vehicle—when the shouting began. “Kill the Vulcans! They’ll fry our minds if ya don’t! Do it now, Paula! Do it!” screamed the human strapped to the stretcher in five point restraints. Kuvak’s eyes narrowed. The man was a criminal and known to be mentally ill, so his outburst could not be held against him—but who was Paula? Then he saw the female rescue worker, who’d been walking toward Kuvak with a first aid kit over one shoulder, evidently intending to try once again to assess him, freeze in her tracks while the other rescue workers turned toward her. One laughed—the one the huge human had called Thadd. “Hey, Paula! He knows you by name!” the human teased. The woman flashed him an uncomfortable smile. Kuvak saw her ease what appeared to be a hypospray syringe out of her kit. Then she continued walking toward him. There was something in her eyes that made him wary of her. “I’ll escort you back to the transport to get your book if you’d like, Minister Kuvak,” she offered, with a smile that seemed forced. Kuvak inclined his head and indicated that she should precede him. When T’Len, who’d been standing at his side in faithful seh’lat mode since they’d disembarked, made as if to follow him, he stepped back and murmured in her ear in Vulcan—too softly for human hearing—and then strode forward. “Watch her hands,” was what he’d said. Her brow went up, but she followed him without a word. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The sedative that Paula’s accomplice had dosed him with after his outburst was taking effect, but Norfleet could see that the fourth vehicle to which he was being rolled was not the same as the others. From a distance it appeared to be an ambulance, but there were discrepancies in the insignia, and the make and model of the vehicle wasn’t the same. They were taking him already. He could only hope that his warning had alerted the Vulcans enough to save them. Shouting behind him and the pounding of feet told him that the distraction that his abductors needed to get him away from airport security was in progress—hopefully not a fatal distraction. Hands reached out to grab his stretcher and hoisted it roughly into the vehicle. Rough male voices spoke as he faded in and out of consciousness. “Any problems?” “He’s pretty out of it...nearly blew the whole operation, he’s so doped up.” “Looks like it’s a go, though. Team Two says the exit is clear. Every emergency vehicle and security officer in the place is on the runway behind us or headed in that direction.” “Go for it, then. The Boss really wants to meet Mr. Rostov, here.” Philip Norfleet lost the battle for consciousness knowing that when he awakened he would be ex-Petty Officer Michael Nikolai Rostov, late of Starfleet, and now the newest member of Terra Prime’s inner circle. It was time to take them down. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “He’s gorgeous, guys,” said Elena with a fond smile at the bundle in her arms. She sat in a chair next to Janice Hess’ hospital bed with an armful of chubby brown-haired baby. Milo Senior sat on the edge of the bed with a wide, silly grin on his face. Janice looked tired but blissfully happy. “You’re just saying that because you want us to let you keep holding him,” teased Janice. “You’re a baby junkie! Don’t you get enough with two of your own?” Elena chuckled, running her palm over the thick curls on the crown of the baby’s head. “I suppose I should...but it’s almost as if I’m seeing the near future. Little Milo here seems older than Maria and Jon already. He’s certainly bigger. What is he? Twelve pounds?” she joked. The pair on the bed exchanged an amused look. “He can’t help that his dad is six-nine and his mom eats like a horse,” Janice quipped. Elena laughed. She looked up reluctantly from the baby’s face. “So...what’s the plan now?” she asked the happy couple. Janice looked up almost shyly at the huge man who was the father of her child, and he wrapped a proprietary arm around her muscular shoulders. “We get married,” he said firmly. Janice turned red, but made no objection. It was sweet to see her as the blushing bride, but a bit odd. Elena looked inquiringly at her friend, waiting. Janice grimaced self-consciously. “He’s got it all arranged. He’s even invited my brothers,” she confessed. She looked up at him adoringly. “And I’ve gotten my transfer to Starfleet Engineering’s R&D division. I start there in six weeks,” she said with a grin. “So...you’re leaving Enterprise?” asked Elena, unsurprised by her friend’s decision now that the ship was going into combat. She would have made the same choice in similar circumstances. Janice grimaced guiltily. “Yeah,” she admitted. “I hate to do it...but my family needs me, and I can make a difference here, too.” Elena sighed, smiling wistfully. “No need to justify your decision to me, dear...I agree 100. I wish Jon could do the same, but there’s just not a lot for a starship captain to do here on Earth during wartime.” Her voice, to her embarrassment, got a bit watery at the end of her statement. There was an awkward silence. “So...where is the captain, anyway?” asked Janice, changing the subject hastily. Elena began rocking the baby in her arms. It was soothing. “He’s with the twins in the outpatient clinic doing their immigration physical. Since they weren’t born on Earth they’ve got to be medically cleared before they can go home with us,” she said softly, smiling at the baby’s sleeping face. “I’m supposed to meet him there in ten minutes.” Her voice trailed off. She felt the sadness coming back, so she rocked harder. “Elena. Look at me,” mumured Janice. Elena sighed, and then looked up. Janice was a little blurry. She smiled wryly at her friend. “He’s gonna be okay, Elena,” Janice reassured her. “Just enjoy your time with him now. You’ve got a month. Don’t waste it moping! And then we’ll all hold the fort until he gets back.” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The lobby of Starfleet Headquarters’ medical facility seemed crowded and overly large to T’Len. Of course, she was accustomed to Vulcan medical facilities. They had very small waiting areas. Vulcans generally stayed home unless their presence was required, there being no logical reason to remain on the premises while their family member was recuperating. Humans didn’t seem to agree with that philosophy. Apparently, it was common for entire families to encamp in the various waiting areas, waiting for their loved ones to give birth or come out of surgery or regain consciousness. Given this propensity, it was odd that the chairs were so uncomfortable. Jonathan and Elena Archer exited the outpatient clinic double doors and entered the lobby, walking side by side carrying an infant each and the prerequisite bag of supplies. The captain noticed her and began walking in her direction. She rose to greet them. His wife seemed surprisingly cheerful considering the events which had recently transpired. Evidently, being back on Earth agreed with her. “Captain...Mrs. Archer,” T’Len acknowledged politely. Archer offered the ta’al. “Hello again, ma’am. Is the minister well?” he asked with a smile. T’Len cocked a brow. The man’s curious mixture of both Vulcan and human courtesies was unorthodox, but appealing. He could almost be mistaken for a Vulcan child in his sincere attempts at polite behavior. “He is being evaluated in concert by both human and Vulcan physicians as we speak, but it appears that Earth’s atmosphere and gravity have had a salubrious effect on his condition,” she replied. Elena Archer beamed. “I understand that the two of you are moving to College Station. That’s not far from the home in Houston that Jon and I are buying. Maybe we can get together sometime with the Minister’s son and his wife. Kov and Janie are a wonderful young couple. I think you’ll like them,” she enthused. “I have met Kov. He was a difficult child,” T’Len replied flatly. Elena’s smile wilted a bit, and she exchanged a look with her husband. T’Len realized that this was an instance in which complete honesty was better tempered with diplomacy. “Minister Kuvak has informed me that he has matured, and that he is now an admirable young man,” she qualified. Elena looked hopeful, but seemed at a loss for words. There was an awkward pause. “I look forward to our future encounters,” T’Len offered finally. She raised a hand in the ta’al to them. “Peace, and long life.” Jonathan Archer returned the salute and gave the proper response in a somewhat relieved tone of voice before leading his wife away. “Doesn’t pull any punches, does she?” whispered Elena once they’d gotten a few meters away. She was obviously unfamiliar with the acuity of Vulcan hearing. “No...but you really want to stay on her good side,” murmured Archer. “She’s the one who took out that would-be assassin in the airport. I hear she used to be a nanny, but she’s no Mary Poppins. I doubt spoonfuls of sugar are her thing.” Elena Archer laughed as the two of them stepped out into the San Francisco sun. Minster Kuvak stepped through the outpatient clinic’s double doors and strode vigorously to her side. He handed her a padd. “My examination results,” he said briskly. She took the padd from him with an inclination of her head. “Come. We must go back to the airport. Our transport leaves for Houston Hobby in two hours,” he said. Then he turned toward the exit, more eager than he’d ever admit to be on the way to see his son, she was certain. T’Len followed, making a mental note to research “Mary Poppins” at her next convenient opportunity. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Commander Trip Tucker walked down the exit ramp from the commercial shuttle with a duffle bag over one shoulder. His eyes searched the receiving area. It was nearly deserted. San Francisco Spaceport was a major hub of space travel for the Northern Hemisphere. The travel limitations imposed by Earth’s government since the beginning of the war were obviously taking their toll. His face lit up in a broad smile as he waved at the elderly couple who waited for him. He half-ran to his parents and caught his mother up in a huge bear hug. “You’re here!” she squealed as he squeezed the wind out of her. “You’re home!” Trip laughed and spun her around. “Where’s T’Pol?” asked his father innocently. “Hush, Charles!” urged his mother. She gave her husband an exasperated look and then appealed to her son. “I told him, Trip,” she avowed. “I promise!” Charles grinned sheepishly. “Sorry. I forgot.” Then he wrapped one arm around his son and gave him a manly half-hug. Trip sighed and shook his head, grinning. He really couldn’t blame his dad. It was kinda sweet the way Charles Tucker had taken to his Vulcan daughter-in-law. All he’d told them was that T’Pol was coming later in order to avoid publicity. He’d decided not to remind them that if Starfleet were to become officially aware of his marriage to Enterprise’s First Officer, the two of them would undoubtedly be separated, to serve on different ships for the remainder of the war. His mom, of course, had assumed that they were having marital difficulties. He guessed maybe it was time to tell them the truth. “We got rooms at that little hotel ya told us about, son...but I have ta tell ya, it’s no where near as nice as the Spaceport Hilton was last time,” reported Charles. “Charles! Hush!” chided Catherine. She smiled reassuringly at her son. “It’s a perfectly charming little hotel...so quaint, and right in the middle of embassy row. We’ll be seein’ all kinds of interestin’ people, I’m sure.” Trip grinned, shaking his head over his parents’ typical responses to the situation. “Ya got more luggage, son?” asked Charles, turning toward the baggage pickup sign. Trip reached out to stop him. “No, Dad. This is all I’ve got,” he said, indicating the duffel he was carrying. “Besides...we need to wait here a minute. I want ya’ll ta meet somebody,” he added with an anticipatory grin. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx As the three of them turned toward the gate from which Trip had just arrived, Catherine Tucker saw a small but noisy group exit and began to walk down the concourse. It consisted of Lieutenant Travis Mayweather, well known to Catherine from Trip’s letters and pictures home, an older dark-skinned woman who carried an infant girl, and three very lovely young women with heads full of thick black curls. Suddenly, a little girl who bore a definite family resemblance to at least two of the women thrust her way through, pelting down the concourse wailing, “Waaaait! Trip-T’hyla! Don’t leave yet!!!” To Catherine’s confusion, Trip immediately began to chuckle, and he crouched down to receive the small torpedo with arms wide, grunting as she made full-bore impact with his chest. Lianna, Catherine realized, smiling. As unlikely as it seemed, the child could only be the Betazoid prodigy Trip had told them about. “I’m gonna be at the hotel right next door to the embassy, you silly goose,” he was reassuring the little girl. “I’m not leavin’ yet!” Lianna said nothing, merely resting her forehead on his chest while she wiped tears from her face with one hand. “Unca Travis said you were leavin’,” she muttered into his chest, sniffing. “I meant you were leaving the airport to go to the hotel, not leaving for good! Honest!” protested the helmsman as he strode up with the rest of his entourage. He looked so happy he was positively glowing. Charles stepped forward to shake his hand. “Nice ta finally meet ya, son... Charles Tucker,” he said heartily, gripping the young man’s hand enthusiastically. Travis squeezed back, grinning. He indicated the woman beside him with his opposite hand. “It’s good to meet you too, sir...and I’d like to introduce my mother...and my daughter Maya...” While Charles busied himself with introductions, Catherine stood behind him, smiling pleasantly and studying the three young women. Two of them smiled in return, nodding at Charles as Travis told his story of amazing coincidences and unlikely encounters. The third was on her knees beside Trip, speaking softly to the child in his arms. Catherine couldn’t see her features, covered as they were by an unusually riotous headful of sable curls, but something about her seemed familiar. The woman extended a hand and touched Trip’s shoulder. He looked into her face, and Catherine’s eyes narrowed disapprovingly. The boy really shouldn’t look at any woman besides his wife that way. She’d have to give him a talking to. No wonder T’Pol was upset with him. The little girl released Trip and turned to the woman, wrapping her arms around her neck. When she did so, the woman’s hair seemed to shift a bit. That’s when Catherine realized she was wearing a wig, and the situation became crystal clear. She had to get Charles away from here before he messed up everything. “This is Marella of the Sixth House, her sister Arabella, and... Lianna’s new nanny, sent from the embassy to meet us at our connection on Yosemite Station... ummm... Paula, right?” continued Travis hesitantly. The third woman kept her eyes averted and her attention on the child, but everyone else’s attention was focused on her. It was now or never. Catherine leaned forward and placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “I’m tired, Charles,” she whispered into his ear. “Can we plan to meet them later to get acquainted? I really need to get to the hotel.” He turned toward her with a concerned and quizzical expression, but did as she asked without question. “Trip? Your mama’s beat, son. You wanna stay here with your friends or head back to the hotel with us?” Charles inquired. Trip stood, leaving Lianna in the arms of her “nanny”. “We’ll meet up with ‘em later, Dad. Didn’t Mom tell ya? Our hotel’s next door to the Betazoid Embassy,” he replied cheerfully. Then he waved at the little girl, who grinned up at him. Although she said nothing, he laughed out loud. “You bet, baby girl. We’ll hit the beach tomorrow. I promise!” he said. The three of them were out of the main terminal and standing on the curb in the hot sun waiting for a cab when Catherine finally considered it safe enough to say anything. “It’s awful warm for a wig like that, Trip. You wanna tell us what’s up with T’Pol and her play-actin’?” It was obvious that the two Tucker men were father and son. They looked just alike with their mouths open. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Malcolm was at peace—for the first time in what seemed like years—walking along the path which ascended Mount Tanigawa with Hoshi. Only five hours before, they’d arrived in Tokyo Spaceport with its suffocating crush of people, all of whom had seemed to know precisely where they were going and to be in a great hurry to get there. An aircab had transported them to the base of the mountain in Gunma prefecture. Now that they’d nearly arrived at their destination, it was a tremendous relief to be unsure about where the next step would take him and in no particular rush to find out. The rocky path was slightly uneven, the stones no doubt worn down by time and thousands of pilgrims’ feet over the centuries. The air was misty and cool at that altitude, and he could hear the rush of the waterfall she’d told him about up ahead. He reached out to grasp her hand as they walked, and she smiled at him, the excitement of their imminent arrival evident on her face. “My grandparents used to bring me to visit this place every year when I was little,” she told him. They rounded a boulder in the path, and there it was—a shimmering waterfall tumbling from the cliff face opposite the path, with a large rocky slab extending from the path out over a pool bubbling with the force of the falling water. The scene looked eerily familiar to him. He could see the red-painted gables of the temple situated at the top of the falls. An orange-robed shaven-headed boy stood on the veranda of the well-kept but obviously ancient wooden structure. The boy struck a large cast-iron bell hung in the eaves and then waved vigorously, smiling as he caught sight of them at the foot of the falls. The bell’s melodious tone rang out over the water. Hoshi waved back at the young monk, and then paused as if to enjoy the view. “My grandfather would tell me stories about water spirits...kappas...every time we came to this point,” she said, raising her voice over the din of the waterfall, “...until my grandmother made him stop because they frightened me.” She shrugged, smiling wryly. “I liked the stories, though. They were like ghost stories, you know? They scared me in a fun way, because I knew that Ojisan would never let anything hurt me.” “This is where you came...in your mind... after linking with the Romulan ship. Your safe place,” he told her in sudden realization. Hoshi smiled sheepishly, nodding her head. He smiled sympathetically and reached for her reflexively, remembering the day when Agent T’Mir had pulled him into her healing meld so that he could help her entice Hoshi out of her mental retreat. He’d nearly lost her then. Hoshi wrapped her arms around his waist and held on tight. They stayed that way for an endless time without speaking. Malcolm felt the last vestige of nervousness over what was to come vanish in the mist. “It’s just not fair,” announced Hoshi plaintively with her face pressed against his chest. He planted a kiss on the top of her head. “What’s not fair, sweetness?” he asked fondly, pulling her more closely against his chest. She pulled back to look him in the eye. “We’d be married now if I hadn’t been given that blasted promotion!” she groused. “Now we have to wait until the war’s over!” Her hand came up to comb the damp curls out of his eyes. He smiled. “Actually...I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that... Did you know that Japanese law still recognizes religious wedding ceremonies as legal and binding, and that written records without electronic backup are very difficult for Starfleet to access...especially if they’re kept in the archives of a temple which can only be reached by climbing a mountain on foot?” he asked slyly. She cocked her head at him with narrowed eyes. “Who have you been talking to, secret agent man?” she asked suspiciously. His smile broadened. “One of the perks of being security chief is that I have access to personnel files... containing things like the vidphone codes of the crew’s family members.” Hoshi had no time to reply, for at that moment a procession was leaving the temple, led by Hoshi’s grandfather carrying a crimson parasol. His white over-robe contrasted sharply with his brilliant red underskirts, the traditional wedding uniform of a Shintobuddist priest. Following him were two junior priests in similar garments, a man in a conservative black kimono that Malcolm recognized as Hoshi’s father, and a few well-dressed women and men. “You didn’t!” replied Hoshi, shocked. “I can see Ojisan doing this; he’s always been a romantic... but, my father is even more of a stickler for the rules than you are, Malcolm! How did you get him to agree to it?” Malcolm shrugged. “I explained our predicament. The rest was your grandfather’s idea.” Hoshi looked back at the wedding procession as it made its way down the steep path on the cliff face. A smile began at one corner of her mouth and spread slowly as her family approached. She turned to Malcolm finally with a joyous grin on her face. “I hope you’re really ready for this, because Papa and Ojisan won’t let you back out now!” she teased. Malcolm smiled back weakly and turned to study the two men’s faces. They certainly were a solemn duo. He forced himself to keep smiling. He loved Hoshi, right? How bad could it possibly get? xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Kov surreptitiously rolled his right shoulder as he stood waiting, wincing when the grooves Janie had carved into his back with her nails opened up and began to sting again. Their link in the bond remained intense after their activities the previous evening, and she shot him an apologetic grimace. “Sorry, sweetie. I’ll trim and file ‘em tonight,” she sent remorsefully. He returned wordless reassurance and possessiveness as he visually scanned the arrival gate where his father would soon appear. The plane was late, and Kov had to forcefully suppress his impatience. He would have much rather been elsewhere, continuing to engage in the activities that this appointment had interrupted. Janie shifted her feet in obvious discomfort. Her walk was odd today. She described it as being “saddle sore”. Letting her in and dropping his barriers had triggered his plak-tau, just as he’d feared. At this point, of course, after the fact, he realized that there had been nothing at all to be afraid of. The wildest urges had abated within hours—hours of intensely athletic sexual activity. What remained was manageable in public with considerable effort but not any worse than what he’d endured for the past several days trying to block her out. Sharing his condition with her in the confines of the bond, an action which he’d feared would only make things worse in view of her apparently limited emotional control, had in fact made the whole situation much easier to bear for both of them. Their bond burned now with an undercurrent of passion which he would have not believed possible—at least not while standing in public, completely clothed and showing no outward evidence that anything the slightest bit unusual was happening. They’d discovered that it was wise not to meet each other’s eyes except in private, though. Direct eye contact tended to make their clothes come off. The effect was so predictable that since the previous evening, until they’d been forced to get dressed to meet Kov’s father at the airport, they simply hadn’t bothered to wear any. Once Kov had been made aware of his father’s imminent arrival, he’d tried to contact him, to no avail. Fortunately, Janie’s unlikely friendship with Vulcan’s crotchety ambassador to Earth had given them the leverage they needed to extract information from High Council sources. Kov had had no idea that his father’s health was poor again. He was perturbed with his father for keeping his terminal condition a secret, but couldn’t help but feel touched that Kuvak had gone to so much trouble to spend his final days with his family on Earth. The sources he’d spoken with on Vulcan had made it sound as if his father was literally on his deathbed, which was why the sight of him striding vigorously down the concourse with T’Len in tow came as a great surprise. He kept his surprise to himself, however. His father would not have approved. “Father.” Kov acknowledged with a nod and an eyebrow raise Kuvak’s unexpectedly hale and hearty appearance. “You’re looking well.” Kuvak took the unexpected appearance of his remaining family in stride. “Today is a good day,” he agreed. “I believe it to be the effect of the reduced gravity and the higher oxygen content of Earth’s atmosphere.” He took a deep breath and looked around at the crowd of humans rushing all around them. Almost childlike in his obvious curiosity about his surroundings, he seemed quite unlike the rigid and demanding taskmaster of Kov’s childhood. He seemed to notice Janie, then, and stepped forward with a slight bow, giving her, to Kov’s utter astonishment, an English translation of an ancient traditional greeting usually offered to the senior female of a family by a visitor to her home. “May you prosper, Ida Jane. I am honored by your hospitality.” Janie smiled back at him uncertainly and gave Kov a quizzical look. He sent her the equivalent of a mental shrug. With Kov’s mother dead, his parents having no living female relatives, apparently his father had decided to acknowledge Janie’s status as the senior female in the family. This pleased Kov, as it bode well for his father’s acceptance of their marriage as binding and legitimate. His timing was puzzling, though. Kuvak’s purpose soon became obvious with the next introduction. Kuvak indicated his companion. “I believe you know T’Len, my nurse?” The grey-haired Vulcan woman was well-known to Kov as the bane of his adolescent existence. She’d been their first housekeeper after his mother’s death. Although she’d been far from cruel, his grief and natural rebelliousness had butted heads with her overdeveloped sense of control. The results had not been pretty. He hadn’t had any contact with her since he’d run away to join the V’Tosh Katur. Kov had discovered through his recent inquiries that T’Len had left the service of their family and gone back to school for nursing training after his departure, and that his father had recently rehired her full-time in the final stages of his illness, in preference to other candidates because she knew his habits. She apparently had turned out to be an excellent nurse—a very displeased one at the moment, based on the disapprovingly prim expression which currently graced her features. Kov decided he would ignore her displeasure, and actually struggled not to smile when he realized what his father had done. As Kuvak’s nurse, T’Len exercised a certain amount of professional authority over her charge. By acknowledging Janie as female head of the household, however, Kuvak had also subtly pointed out T’Len’s role as a family employee under Janie’s authority. T’Len was not pleased, but at least she was quick on her feet. She nodded politely at them both. “My lady... young master,” she said blandly. “It is agreeable to see you again, Kov,” she told him. Her sincerity was in question in Kov’s mind, but at least she was making the attempt. It was a hopeful first step if the four of them were really going to try to coexist in the same small town. “And I, you,” replied Kov, “...both of you,” he added toward his father, and meant it. “If you’ll go get their bags, I’ll get the car,” offered Janie with a smile, oblivious to her newfound status. “This is all we have,” said T’Len efficiently, hoisting two small carry on bags in one hand with little effort. “The rest is being shipped directly.” Kov eyed his father hesitantly. On closer inspection, he was thinner than Kov was accustomed to seeing, and somewhat pale. “Should I obtain an electric vehicle to transport you to the car?” he offered. Kuvak raised a brow at him. “I believe I would prefer to walk,” he announced breezily, and then proceeded to do so. The rest of the group had no choice but to follow. His voice trailed behind him as he led the way. “Have you seen my condominium? The images the real estate agent sent were most aesthetically pleasing. There’s something called a rock garden on the property, very similar to our meditation gardens back on Vulcan...” xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx “Look! The water’s going to eat my tower again!” cried Lianna excitedly. She laughed in delight as the next wave lapped her ankles and struck the base of the precariously balanced structure she’d constructed of wet sand, causing it to melt into a misshapen lump on the shoreline. Trip laughed with her. “Quick! Make another one!” he exclaimed, and they were at it again, grasping heaping handfuls of sand and piling them on top of each other as fast as they could go in order to beat the next big wave. The two of them were covered in wet grit from their scalps to the tips of their toes, so much sand in Trip’s case that one could barely see his bathing trunks—a by-product of being quite recently buried up to the neck by a delighted five year old and several nearby accomplices. T’Pol could not recall the last time she’d seen and felt him so happy. The sun, reflecting from the sand, shone so brightly on the beach that day that the glare reminded T’Pol of Vulcan. The moist breeze from the ocean, the cries of sea birds, and the sound of the surf, however, were unmistakably of Earth—and somehow also unmistakably a part of her bondmate’s soul. He belonged here. “I’ll race you to the water!” shouted Trip. Then he hung back to allow Lianna to beat him into the surf, following her in and grasping her around the waist as the waves threatened to knock her off of her feet. He hoisted the little girl to his shoulders and headed deeper, going under just enough to keep Lianna screaming with excitement and coming up without his sandy coating. “Come on in! The water’s great!” he yelled across ten meters of surf and beach to T’Pol. Silently, he sent, “I double-dog-dare ya!” They both winced as Lianna, forgetting volume control in her excitement, chimed in mentally with, “ME TOO!!”, grinning broadly from atop Trip’s shoulders. T’Pol’s lips twitched a fraction. “Very well,” she replied. Tugging her bathing cap more firmly down over her ears and brows, she stood and shed her coverup, blandly ignoring the multitude of heads turning in her direction as she did so. It puzzled her why humans—especially the males—always did that. It wasn’t as if they’d never seen a humanoid body before. She was even clothed, after a fashion. Admittedly, the navy blue one-piece racer-back swimsuit that she wore might as well have been painted on her skin for all it concealed of her anatomy, but others were wearing much more revealing clothing, exposing vast expanses of skin to the damaging rays of the sun. She found those persons much more interesting to look at. Such variety. She strode down the beach toward the surf. Trip watched her with a smirk on his face, obviously expecting her to hesitate at the water’s edge—so she didn’t. Clenching her teeth, she walked into the water and kept walking, only panicking for a second as an unusually forceful wave broke against her while she was wading chest deep, almost knocking her feet out from under her. She was saved from going under by a pair of strong arms around her. She looked up into brilliant blue eyes in a slightly reddened face. “You are burning,” she chided him. “You should reapply your sunscreen.” Trip laughed. Lianna’s arms and legs were around his neck, so he sounded a little choked. “You surprised me, darlin! Gimme a little warnin’ before you come chargin’ in so I can put Lianna down next time.” Lianna, as if on cue, squirmed to get down. Trip led T’Pol to shallower water and leaned over to deposit Lianna in the sand, whereupon she ran off happily toward her co-excavators on the beach. Charles and Catherine Tucker waved at them from beneath a huge beach umbrella. Trip waved back. Then he turned to T’Pol. His grin broadened. “Want another swimmin’ lesson?” he suggested, wiggling his brows enticingly. T’Pol raised a brow. Her last “lesson” had somehow ended up being more foreplay than lesson. “I believe this place might be too public for what you have in mind,” she demurred. He stepped up and took her into his arms. She could feel his body respond to hers through the whisper-thin fabric of her bathing suit. Fortunately, he’d opted for trunks rather than the “racer suits” she’d seen other men wearing that day, otherwise she would have had to bring him a towel if he wanted to exit the water with his modesty intact. Despite the fabric of their suits, her body burned at the contact. She closed her eyes, fighting the instinct to engage in behavior which was entirely inappropriate. His ability to arouse her to this point in a public place in the full view of strangers, a condition she would have found unthinkable before they met, never ceased to surprise her. “We could leave Lianna with my parents for an hour or so and go back to the hotel...” he murmured into her ear. She shivered. And then she took a deep, calming breath. “Agreed,” she said. Then she took his hand and led him briskly out of the water. It would be logical to take full advantage of their hotel facilities, she decided, and having Trip’s parents in the next room was a bit—inhibiting. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Epilogue The atmosphere on the bridge of Enterprise was somber that morning. Everyone seemed focused on the task at hand, centered and determined to preserve the world with which they’d just become reacquainted while on leave. Jonathan Archer sat in the command chair, quietly contemplating his bridge crew as they prepared for departure. His First Officer seemed... He supposed “content” was the best description. The ship’s log had listed her leave destination as the Vulcan compound in San Francisco. He hadn’t asked any questions, but both she and Trip had matching tans. He’d kept their secret thus far. There was no reason at this point to blow their cover. Despite their relationship off duty, the two of them made much too valuable a team while on duty to risk splitting them up over a technicality. Lieutenant Commander Reed had made no secret of his plans to go mountain climbing with Hoshi in Japan while on leave, and Archer was certain that there was something going on between them. Now that they were both senior officers in charge of their own departments, though, even Starfleet was willing to turn a blind eye. Since Malcolm was indispensable to Archer as Chief of Security and Starfleet Intelligence was just tickled pink to finally have an official department on board the flagship of the fleet, Archer didn’t see anything short of a public marriage ceremony ever removing either of them from active duty on Enterprise. Hoshi was even back on the bridge. Her first act as “Chief of Intelligence Operations” had been to commandeer the Communications station as a vital part of her information gathering system. Archer couldn’t argue with her; she was Starfleet’s current golden girl. So her brand new office was converted into a monitoring station staffed by specially trained junior level comm officers searching for Romulan coded transmissions in all wavelengths and frequencies, and Lieutenant First Class Hoshi Sato remained on the bridge, doing double duty as comm officer and decoding expert—which is what she’d been doing all along anyway. It worked, so why fix it? Lieutenant Mayweather was one hundred percent doting father now that Maya was on Earth—probably for the duration of the war now that the final push was on. Archer would have found his constant bragging about the amazing abilities of his infant daughter annoying if he hadn’t been twice as bad regarding his own children. They were growing so quickly. By the time he returned home, they’d be walking and talking most likely. It had been painful to leave them, but the idea of any harm possibly coming to them was even more painful. Elena had been dry-eyed and upbeat at their leave-taking. She was a capable woman. They were in excellent hands. Now all he had to do was prevent the Romulans from getting to them. “I have ship-wide comm on line for you, Captain,” said Hoshi. Archer blinked, and then he smiled wryly. They’d expect a few words from him, of course. “This is the captain,” he began confidently. It was always a morale booster when the captain sounded cool and composed—even when he was quaking in his shoes over what the Romulans might do if Enterprise failed to stop their advance. “I hope all of you got a good taste of home while on leave these past few weeks. I know I did, and it’s made me even more determine to protect what’s ours.” Heads nodded and smiles appeared on the faces of the bridge crew. Encouraged, Archer continued. “Five years ago, we started this mission dedicated to exploring the last frontier, to finding new worlds and peoples, and to going where no human had ever gone before. Now, an enemy is among us who seeks to limit that exploration...an invader with conquest and destruction in mind.” He paused for effect. There were no eye rolls this time. He had their attention. “We could retreat...retreat timidly back to Earth and set up a defensive perimeter, waiting for the enemy to come to us...but that’s not our way.” He got smiles and nods again with that one. “So today, we’re setting out to find the enemy...to go boldly out and let him know that we won’t be threatened... we won’t be defeated...and we won’t sit idly by while our allies are attacked!” Spontaneous applause was his reward for that statement. “I’ve served with most of you now for many years, and I know without question that you are the finest crew in the fleet,” he said firmly. His eyes shone. “Together we’re going to find the enemy... and together we’re going to make him regret he ever messed with us!” The applause was so loud that it drowned out his traditional finish. “That is all.” He turned to Hoshi, but she’d already cut the comm, smiling approvingly at him as she did so. He smiled back. It was a good start. The communications expert approved of his speech. “Mister Mayweather,” Archer announced firmly, “Take us out...quarter impulse.” He kept his eyes on the front viewscreen, focused on the stars, as the best helmsman in the fleet eased them out of Jupiter Station’s space dock, and kept them there as he said, “Let’s go find some Romulans, ladies and gentlemen. All ahead, warp one. The fleet’s waiting for us at Cheron.” End of Season Six |
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