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"The Forgotten Time II: Ashaya"
Rating: R (for occasional language) Author's Note: This story takes place between Kir’Shara and Daedalus. Chapter 9 They ventured into the nearby market for some fresh foods. T’Les’ kitchen was quickly becoming bare of its last bits of preserves. There was an abundance of different items for sale in the shops, but aside from the natural, electric hues of fruits and vegetables, most of the goods were generally dun-coloured, earthy. People moved quietly, but quickly, efficiently. There were many elderly and many small children about who, by contrast, seemed gently cheerful next to their sombre, middle-aged companions. However, compared with human children, they were practically mute. Trip sensed that he was gawking, but he couldn’t help whipping his head around and staring as they passed a strange old priest with some type of ferocious-looking bird gripping his shoulder, or four small, sober boys walking in a line, each carrying a school PADD and wearing formal robes. It was difficult for Trip to guess the ages of those around him. He kept having to remind himself that those who appeared to be thirty were in their sixties, and anyone who actually looked elderly was probably decades over 100. T’Pol led the way, deftly stepping between and past people, murmuring inaudible apologies and smoothing the way with respectful nods of the head to her elders and quicker ones for her contemporaries. Trip followed close in her wake, noticing, as he passed particularly close to one person or another, that some seemed to sniff the air vaguely—as if at something faintly unpleasant. He remembered T’Pol’s “nasal numbing agent” and realised he hadn’t heard her mention it for awhile. He made a mental note to ask her if she still thought he smelled. They didn’t really dare speak telepathically, in case someone somehow should notice; but it was far less stressful, here among strangers, than it had been in the close atmosphere of the house, with Koss. Since Koss and T’Pol had shared the bonds of their betrothal and marriage (and divorce), they were, regrettably, somewhat attuned to one another‘s minds. Thus, he was a particular threat to their psychic secret. Usually, Vulcans could only communicate telepathically if they were in physical contact with one another, and even then would have to make an effort to break past someone’s surface defences and into their secret thoughts. An unlikely combination of events on this planet. Due to these ancient abilities, Vulcans were physically standoffish and went to some lengths to avoid brushing up against one another in public. This made some of the line-ups at their stops somewhat longer than those he was used to on Earth—though they moved along a lot more efficiently, with zero loitering for idle chit chat. The silence was quite loud. They were out in public, in a crowded square, and there were few, if any, people speaking to one another. Trip realised it wasn’t because everyone was speaking telepathically either… that simply wasn’t done most of the time. It was only he and T’Pol turning it into a several-times-a-day type of thing. Vulcans simply didn’t waste words. No conversation was taking place that wasn’t of necessity and therefore, most of the exchanges were brief, terse, and impersonal. Suddenly, Trip grabbed T’Pol’s hand and pulled her aside, into an alcove. What is it? T’Pol’s mind was quietly alert. Trip snuck a quick second peek to be sure, and then elaborated, flattening himself against the wall again: “Take a look at that pair over by the bell.” Her head darting like a bird’s, T’Pol glanced swiftly past the column that concealed them and then tucked herself back in, next to Trip. In that brief instant, she had seen much. Directly ahead of the path they had been taking was a small square. A fountain bubbled quietly in the centre and next to it, a large, ornate, bronze bell hung from a rough wooden scaffold. (Millennia ago, this part of the town had been home to a monastery, with only the stone fountain and bronze bell still remaining.) Two figures spoke closely, furtively in the shadow of that ancient thing, while the blinding yellow sun split the scene and figures with its low evening lance. Though she’d had only a second to take them in, the faces clicked immediately in T’Pol’s mind. The taller was most certainly Koss. He was wearing the same robe he’d had on earlier, at the house. And the other figure… shorter, more slight. T’Pol couldn’t be absolutely certain, but… “One of our ‘security detachment’ friends from this morning?” Trip asked quietly out of the corner of his mouth and simultaneously whispered into her mind. T’Pol risked another furtive look. The pair were conversing intensely. Koss was extremely nervous and kept glancing around. T’Pol concealed herself again, marking how noticeably Koss and his suspicious companion stuck out among the crowd. She felt a brief surge of contempt for her ex-husband, realising that his cowardly nature would force him to hold covert criminal dealings in public, if only to protect his own physical safety. If that’s what they were. Regardless, her first guess, and Trip’s, had been accurate. The woman Koss was hissing at, so clandestinely in the shadow of the embossed bell, was most certainly the same blonde, dark-eyed guard, who had visited the house this morning, and set them both so ill-at-ease. T’Pol, now that she was looking for it, was aware again of that faint, strange, prickle of consciousness that she had sensed as the guards approached the house, earlier that morning. A prickle that, nonetheless, hinted at the powerful mind it presaged. It was unlike anything she was accustomed to. Either the blonde woman had rare talent and training, in some obscure, psychic vocation…or she was not what she seemed— Her reverie was interrupted. Trip had been doing his own thinking, and he suddenly spoke. “C’mon, let’s go say hi.” T’Pol grabbed his hand to hold him back. “I don’t think that would be a wise idea.” Trip pulled her close to him as he made to leave the alcove. “Look,” he replied quietly, but insistently. “We’ve got both those shifty bastards in one place. We don’t have a lot of time down here. Let’s find out what’s going on.” T’Pol hesitated, looking up into his face, and then over at the pair by the bell. “They don’t own the planet, do they?” Trip firmed his grip upon her hand. “As I recall, you and I… were doing some shopping,” and he indicated the way with a gentlemanly hand. T’Pol acquiesced resignedly in the face of Trip’s zeal. They slipped unnoticed into the trickle of passers-by. She had seen enough of Koss for one day, but what else were they here for, other than to visit Koss, divorce Koss, interrogate Koss covertly for information on interplanetary terrorism…. Trip tried not to smile as he listened in on T’Pol’s mental grumblings. The object of her ire soon loomed wide and pointy before them, and he jumped when Trip suddenly tapped him on the shoulder from behind. “Hi there Koss,” Trip said cheerfully. Koss goggled at Trip stupidly for an instant. Trip dropped T’Pol’s hand. “I, yum…wanted to know if you uh—” he gestured and looked to T’Pol, stalling as if he simply couldn’t think of a word. “I mean, we were wondering….” T’Pol concealed her irritation at her human’s rash inclination to begin sentences with no clue how he was going to finish them. “The captain,” she interjected. “Captain Archer. He wishes to send his… sympathies… for your recent suffering. We spoke with him after you left today.” “His sympathies,” Koss repeated, with polite and utter sarcasm. “Well, how extremely nice of him. And what am I supposed to do with human sympathies?” “It is a common enough, if illogical, human custom,” T’Pol reasoned. “Well, you would know about that,” Koss sneered. “In any case, I do hope you will seek professional assistance in coming to terms with the violence you witnessed,” T’Pol replied quietly. “It is a heavy thing to see so many perish.” “He was one of the attack victims,” Trip confided helpfully to Koss’ companion. The dark-eyed woman inclined her head and replied in her light, exotic voice. “Yes. T’Mun. A terrible loss.” Her accented voice showed no emotion. Trip glanced from Koss to the woman and back. “I thought you, uh, you said it was P’Ren. The monastery you were at.” “It was. It was,” Koss affirmed immediately. “T’Mun was destroyed further east of P‘Ren. But, Officer T’Zela has had so many responsibilities to fulfill since the attacks. My own situation—compared to that of the many—is of no importance at this time. It is rare that I even speak of it.” Trip eyed Koss for a moment, totally disbelieving him, and then turned to the woman. “I don’t think we exchanged names at the house. I‘m Commander Charles Tucker.” Trip stuck out his hand. T’Zela eyed the hand distastefully for a moment, before briefly shaking it and letting go as quickly as possible. “It was not a social call,” she clarified. “T’Zela,” T’Pol repeated, ignoring the other woman’s chilly demeanour. “An unusual name.” “A family name,” she snapped mildly. “Excuse me. I am late for an appointment.” She gathered the folds of her robe to her and abruptly turned, made her way across the square, and off down a nearby side street. Koss nodded curtly to T’Pol. “Good afternoon.” He looked daggers once at Trip and then started to walk away. “Koss.” T’Pol’s voice was strong, and he stopped, inhaled with a long-suffering air, and turned once again. “Yes?” “You would do well to go carefully in the presence of your… woman friend.” T’Pol’s voice was neutral, simply stating fact. “She is not what she seems to be.” Koss advanced a step and a half, careful to avoid getting too close to Trip. “And what business is she of yours? ‘Not what she seems to be?’ Pah! I do not ask questions of you concerning your choice of… companions.” He glanced past Trip contemptuously and barely wrinkled a nostril. “Oh, I smell!” Trip proclaimed to the world with his hands in the air. “He thinks I smell,” Trip clarified more quietly, to a passing random crone. “You do smell,” the ancient lady muttered loudly, stooped and wrinkly with countless years, and hugging her basket closely to her breast as she hobbled past. Trip smiled in astonishment at her spunk and turned back to the other two, just in time to note T’Pol’s look of utter exasperation (inasmuch as she ever looked exasperated—but he could tell). Koss tsked with disgust and grabbed the folds of his own robe, ready to finally chase T’Zela down the side street. But T’Pol put a restraining hand upon his forearm and looked up at her childhood acquaintance, impatient to finally have his answer. “Koss, I need to know. The monasteries. Something terrible has happened on our world. We need to know if you have any information about the people responsible.” Her voice approached urgency. Understanding spread across Koss’ features as he jerked his arm away. “Oh, now I see why you are stalking me. What makes you think I should know anything about this?” “Your family is high-ranking and well-connected,” T’Pol replied, “You work within the government.” She hoped that a direct approach would startle the man into honesty. It seemed to be their last hope. “As an architect,” Koss explained as if T‘Pol was slow on the uptake. “I merely design and improve government buildings and so forth,” He scoffed. “You seem to think Overseer P’Lek and I have a weekly game of Kal-toh.” Trip, squinting in the bright light, thought Koss’ confident demeanour seemed misplaced on a man who felt himself to be ‘merely’ an architect, with nothing else on his radar. Hands on his hips, the human looked at the Vulcan for a moment. He shifted on his feet. “Yeah, well, we don’t believe you.” Koss was taken aback. “What?” “You heard me,” Trip said, stepping close enough that Koss actually did wrinkle his nose involuntarily (remember, it was quite hot out). “You’re up to something.” Trip nodded knowingly, threateningly. He took another step towards the retreating Koss. “And I may smell, but at least my hair doesn’t look like a little black polystyrene hat.” Koss swelled, greening, and then suddenly turned and fled, at the last unable to come to grips with the human man and his unpredictable, insufferable, illogicality. * * * The heat of the late afternoon still clung to the dry air in the house: T’Les’ environmental controls weren’t functioning. Though he hailed from Florida, and considered himself pretty tough, the absolutely wilting heat of T’Pol’s homeworld had made their walk home extremely tiring for him. T’Pol seemed unaffected by the scorching sun, barely noticing the shattering light enough to squint, though she slid gratefully enough into the cool shower with him after they arrived home. Trip drank as much of the water as he washed over his face and body, as he melted under the heavy downward spray raining from the large, circular showerhead above. He closed his eyes and listened to the water thudding onto the back of his neck for a moment. So hot and tired. T’Pol soaped his back in a helpful, thorough, and very friendly way…and he didn’t even do terrible, terrible things to her. He was just too beat. They had a pleasant time instead, silently fighting for more of the showerhead, Trip making the water cooler and colder until, finally, goosebumps stood up wetly all over their bodies. T’Pol shivered stubbornly up at him through the pointed, wet locks of her elfish bangs, which poked her in the eyelashes. “You’re freezing aren‘t you,” Trip baited softly, standing close. “N-no,” she replied, through her generous, faintly blue lips. She was hugging her stomach with her arms, trembling. Her dark, olive-greenish nipples stood firm and hard upon breasts which, beaded with water, seemed oiled in the soft light of the shower area. Trip shut the faucet off, ending the water torture; and taking a large white towel from a nearby hook on the wall, enfolded her in it, rubbing her arms hard to restore the healthy green glow to her skin. T’Pol let him dry her for a minute, before taking over so he could throw a towel over his own chilly shoulders. Usually he hated cold showers, but in a place like this, he could take one every hour and still not get enough. He towelled off briskly, enjoying the tingling sensation in his cold pores. T’Pol wrapped her towel demurely around her chest, securing it under the edge. She walked over to Trip, and, taking his towel from him, dried the drops he had missed on his back and shoulders. She rubbed his hair vigorously from behind, then came around front to do the same. Trip submitted briefly, before lowering the towel and kissing her slowly. He pulled back to look at her, wiping a stray droplet off her neck. T’Pol placed her hands on his stomach and, staring up at him, she ran her fingernails slowly down his torso to finish up with his cock cupped her hands. She stepped back to stroke and examine him in this surprising freezing-cold state. His pouch had tightened into a hardened sac, and his length had all but disappeared, as his body involuntarily tried to cringe away from the outward chill. T’Pol glanced back up at his ruefully smiling face. “It certainly takes many forms,” she observed in mild surprise. “It certainly does,” Trip laughed. “Don’t worry, he’ll be back.” “Oh, good,” T’Pol said with a hint of irony as she turned and began dressing. Trip smacked her smartly on the behind, as he squeezed past her to walk, nude, down the hall, and into her bedroom for his clothes. Motionless, her shirt in her hand, T’Pol watched him go…a slow humorous smile spreading across her face. |
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