|
“Star Trek: Birthright"
Rating: PG-13 Life is just a passing moment On an never-ending trail Though my pathway wanders for awhile Someday my ship will sail
I will walk this road awhile I will walk it with a smile I will take it in my stride Someday I'll be satisfied
--from "My Ship Will Sail" by Allen Reynolds, revised by Johnny Cash
╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣
Engine Room Enterprise 8 April 11:30 UTC
Four Days Before Launch
The gentle hum of the engine and the buzz of a half dozen conversations combined into a hypnotic thrumming that might have put Trip Tucker to sleep had he been listening to it. Instead, he filled his ears with the dulcet tones of Johnny Cash. I will walk the road awhile, I will walk it with a smile. He preferred Cash's rendition of the song to the Emmylou Harris version his mother always played, but the truth was Cash's bass-baritone spoke to Trip no matter the words. He allowed the song to finish before switching off his music player and stowing it along with its earphones in his pocket. He logged off his terminal and moved from behind his desk to lean in the doorway of his office and watch Lieutenant Clara Hess work. He'd made a conscious effort these past days to hole up in his office while Hess was on duty. He needed her to get a feel for command, and she couldn't do that with him looking over her shoulder. There was no way of knowing how much time his duties as XO would require. Fleet manuals made it out to be a full time position, but the higher-ups insisted a department head could fill it with "minimal disruption to his or her other duties." (He took solace in the fact that manuals almost always exaggerated. He should know; he'd written a couple.) One thing was certain, though: the extra work meant his second would have to shoulder more than her fair share of responsibilities. A better officer might replace Hess, but Trip hadn't the heart to do it. Before Archer saddled him with being XO--back when Trip was just Chief Engineer and quite happy with the arrangement, thank you very much--Hess had complemented his skills just fine. He was the theorist; she was the technician. Not that she was a slouch in the brains department; he just didn't expect he'd ever see her name attached to a journal article. He really needed a second who was more of a freethinker. David Kelby would be a fine second, but then Kelby would be a fine chief. No, he and Kelby together would be a case of too many roosters in the hen house. Best avoid it. Hess would be fine after a few months, Trip reasoned. He'd assign her some supplemental readings to get her up to speed on the field. She'd be fine. Thinking of chickens made Trip's stomach growl and reminded him that he hadn't eaten. Hmm. Would Marcus make chicken today? Knowing him, if anything it would be blackened chicken, or chicken gumbo, or something equally spicy. Enterprise's chef told Trip he was expanding his repertoire, but a background in Cajun cooking was hard to shake. Especially for a man with a last name like De la Croix. His mother was, not coincidentally, the same way. Trip was eight before Mom could prepare southern fried chicken to Dad's taste. Trip checked his watch and groaned. It was Thursday. No meat today. All that fine Southern cuisine left his father with twin diagnoses of high cholesterol and high blood pressure. To avoid similar health problems, Trip had vowed to limit his meat consumption to two days a week: Tuesday and Saturday. Marcus was no help in that area. Neither was Archer--Trip wondered if the man ever ate a vegetable. The way he acted, you'd think the snaps on his plate were an inedible garnish. He left word with a crewman that he'd be out for a while and headed for the mess. Along the way every officer or crewman he passed was studying a padd or engaged in avid discussion about shipboard business. Trip felt like an absolute lazy fool as he walked along hands in his pockets, returning their nods or occasional unnecessary salutes. He only needed a sweat-stained bandanna in his back pocket and a piece of straw to chew on to complete the picture. He chuckled at the thought and his mood brightened. The mess hall was crowded, and since he didn't immediately spot an open seat, he slid behind the counter. Chef Marcus glanced up, fire in his eyes at the audacity of anyone setting foot in his kitchen, but seeing it was only Trip, he growled, "You got any engine grease on you, boy? No? Then wash up. Give me a hand." Trip considered arguing but decided what-the-hell and complied. He hardly ever got the chance to cook anymore, and it wasn't as though he'd done any real work today. Minutes later he was frying sausage for jambalaya. Enjoying the smell too, even though he couldn't have any. Damn, why did cholesterol have to taste so good? Maybe just one link. No! A link here, a link there, and a little white pill every day for the rest of your life. "Say, Marcus, what's the vegetarian selection for today?" "Does it look like I've had time to make two selections today? I just finished the last of breakfast when this crowd shows up and starts clamoring for lunch. Damned ship is launching in four days, half the crew's on board, and they ain't sent me none of my staff yet!" "So...salad, rice...what?" "Don't start with me." Trip smiled. "We've got fifteen confirmed vegetarians on board. Plus the Vulcan. And they're all vegetarian; leastwise every Vulcan I've ever met is." "There's extra rice in the cupboard." He indicated it with his thumb. "Don't let the sausage burn while you get it." "Aye, sir." Trip and Marcus cooked for another hour, Marcus concentrating on his jambalaya and Trip frying rice with bell pepper, onion, and mushroom--an alternative that several diners settled on as the milder and thus more palatable dish. Most ate fast and returned to their duties as the absence of a full crew complement meant more work piled on less workers. This meant both the chef and his conscripted assistant were taking a much needed break and the room had thinned out considerably when she walked through the door Walked was too vulgar a word. Maybe it was the heat of the kitchen catching up with him, but to Trip she glided. Two-tenths of a meter shorter than he, with one of the shortest haircuts he'd ever seen on a female, she exuded confidence. It wasn't necessarily that he was attracted to her--he could barely tell the shape of her figure through those loose-fitting robes--but something about her demanded he take notice. And he did. Wait, robes? She was the Vulcan liaison? Oh, boy. Trip cringed. As XO, he should have been with the captain to meet her at the docking ring. Less than a week on the job and he was already messing up. Stellar start, Tucker. Way to uphold the family name. The kinfolk will be thrilled. He began fumbling with his apron strings, figured now was as good a time to introduce himself as any. Then his hands dropped to his sides, forgetting their purpose, as her eyes made contact with his. She maintained that contact all the while as she crossed the room--gliding, of course--and stood before him. Had she recognized him, known him perhaps from studying his file? She must have. Vulcans were thorough like that. She probably had the name and vital stats of every member of the crew memorized. Her mouth twitched. She was about to speak. "Have you any Vulcan cuisine?" she said. "Huh?" Why had she...? Oh, the apron. "I--" "Or if not Vulcan, at least something vegetarian? Preferably not too spicy." "Uh...yeah, we uh..." He couldn't think. "Yes, ma'am," Marcus interjected. "We've got a couple of plates of fried rice in the stasis cooler. Right over there. Help yourself." She nodded and turned. "I'm Trip," Trip said, his voice returning along with his wits. Her brow crinkled, and then smoothed into its normal placid expression. "Ah, that is your name." At his nod, she continued. "I am T'Pol. I am the liaison between your vessel and my government. It is agreeable to make your acquaintance...Trip." With a final tilt of her head, she walked away. The whole exchange puzzled Trip until he noticed the apron's placement. It covered his name tag and rank insignia. He felt a hand clap his shoulder. "You know you're an idiot," Marcus said with a chuckle. "Wait till your momma hears about this." Trip growled a reflexive "shut up" he didn't really mean. Reflecting on his first encounter with T'Pol of Vulcan, he couldn't help but grin.
╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣
San Francisco Spaceport 12:10 UTC / 5:10 AM Local
T'Pol observed the human farewell rituals with the wariness of a field biologist. Curious at the extravagant displays but mindful to keep her distance, she seated herself at the far end of the sparsely filled departure lounge. Were these humans in competition against one another, she wondered. One mother would cry on her offspring's shoulder; another would cry louder. The first would respond by crying louder still. Then there were the mated pairs saying their good-byes. T'Pol could respect the emotions behind the displays, though they made her slightly queasy, but could not understand why a simple touch of the fingers would not do. She supposed touch held less significance for humans as, unlike Vulcans, comparatively few of them were telepathic to any great extent, but still...some of those movements of mouth and hand... A Vulcan couple might show that depth of affection, but only behind securely locked doors. Not all humans seemed so free with public displays. Lieutenant Commander Matthews's mate demonstrated great restraint. She had not so much as touched him in the fifteen minutes since her arrival, and though her two small children wept, her face remained impassive. Matthews had introduced himself to T'Pol earlier, rightly surmising her identity, and briefly engaged her in conversation because, as he put it, they were the only two with no one to see them off. He seemed agitated when he said this and surprised when he spotted his mate entering the lounge. Neither Ambassador Soval nor any of his staff had come with T'Pol to "see her off." There had been no reason. Final instructions had been given to her at the compound, and transport for her luggage had already been arranged. From beneath her robe, she drew her palm computer and established a secure connection with the Vulcan network. Waiting for her were messages from her cousin and a science student seeking an introduction to T'Les. But she'd received no word from her father. If he did not answer her repeated inquiries by week's end, she'd press for face-to-face contact via subspace. If he remained silent after that, he'd force her hand. She'd have to involve her mother. When the boarding call was announced, T'Pol responded leisurely. She wished to limit her time in the packed shuttle as much as possible. Her nasal inhibitor injection was working adequately in the airy environs of the lounge, but the healers hadn't sufficient time to fine-tune her dosage before she left. And she refused to take a supplemental dose in front of the humans. Should she be called upon to explain, the truth would alienate them. And a lie, although less rude, would damage her credibility when discovered. With a Denobulan as ship's physician, T'Pol had no doubt the truth would be discovered. Nasal inhibitors were as routinely prescribed to females in the Vulcan diplomatic corps as cold medication was to humans. So, even if she requested her injections be kept confidential, he'd most likely forget and let the truth slip out. Denobulans were known as an overly talkative race. She wondered why the captain had chosen a Denobulan as ship's physician. Certainly, a human physician would have a more accurate understanding of his species' physiology. On the other hand, an alien would have a better knowledge of non-Terran diseases--a good asset for a ship going where no human ship had gone before. A logical choice, then. Good. Given the Denobulan penchant for gregariousness and the human tendency to base decisions on "gut feeling," she had thought it possible that the captain simply "liked" the man. That there was logic in the decision allayed her concerns. There were only two seats open when T'Pol boarded the shuttle--one by Matthews and another by a woman whose rank and name tags identified her as "Corporal A. Cole." Emotions rolled off Matthews in torrents, and the dark look on his face revealed his mood well enough that even the non-telepaths avoided him. T'Pol chose the seat by the Corporal. "Amanda," she said, offering a hand. T'Pol steadied herself and accepted the hand. As whenever she made skin contact with an unordered mind, emotion assaulted her. Like two flames joining into a flame bigger than both, her emotions and Amanda Cole's coupled and intensified. Since Amanda barely registered on the telepathic scale, the excess emotion flooded into T'Pol. She felt unadulterated lust, not directed at her exactly and not purely sexual either, but a general lust for life, a desire for new experience. And for the moment it felt right. T'Pol desired--demanded all life offered. All the sex. All the violence. To hold a gun in her hands and feel it jerk when she squeezed the trigger. The savage thrill of the kill saturating, but not sating her. To choose a bed partner purely for his beauty and virility, gripping him tightly between her...Then her training took over. She excised the emotion from her mind--an excruciatingly painful procedure--and concentrated it at her hand, willing it to remain there, denying it access to her mind. Three seconds after the handshake began, it ended. "T'Pol," she said simply. "Pleasure to meet you," Amanda said. "Indeed." "So," Amanda said, "you're the reason we're headed out early." T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "The Vulcans, I mean. Not you personally, T'Pel." "T'Pol." "Let me ask you, why didn't you guys send out a rescue ship?" A male voice came from a few rows back. "Knock it off, Cole." "It could have been any one of us out there, Tudyk. We deserve an explanation from our ambassador." Tudyk growled "You're just being a bit--" "Everyone, drop it." The command came from Matthews, the senior officer on board, and was instantly obeyed despite a bit of grumbling. Matthews cast T'Pol a look she assumed was meant to be sympathetic: a half smile and a shrug. She nodded. A few minutes after takeoff the low buzz of conversation had returned to fill the cabin, and T'Pol believed she could safely hold a conversation without attracting attention. "I am not an ambassador." "What?" "You called me an ambassador. I do not possess that title. I am a diplomatic liaison." "Whoopee for you." T'Pol almost inquired about that peculiar expression but thought better of it. "I do not have an answer for you," she whispered. This would, if she knew human behavior as well as she thought she did, encourage Amanda to whisper as well. She was right. "What do you mean? "Corporal, you asked me why my people did not send a rescue ship. The truth is, I do not know. But I have made several inquiries." "Fat lot of good that does us," Amanda sneered. "That's the classic political non-answer. We'll get back to you later." "It is the only answer I have to give. I am sorry." Amanda's eyes opened wide, and T'Pol wondered if she were taken ill. "Did you just apologize?" Amanda said, then, "You did. I didn't know you people did that." T'Pol blinked. She hadn't been aware her people did that either. Apology served no useful purpose in Vulcan society. If both sides of a disagreement knew who was at fault, admitting it was unnecessary. But then T'Pol wasn't interacting with a Vulcan. Humans apologized to one another quite often, even when no offense had been committed. It was, one might argue, a vital component of human interpersonal communication, and as such a useful diplomatic tool. She would remember that fact. The rest of the eighteen minute flight passed in silence between the two women, though with noticeably less tension. Towards the end, T'Pol's nasal inhibitor lost some of its potency, but she shifted focus to her other senses and endured. Before departing through the docking ring, Amanda smiled and punched T'Pol in the arm. Only her accompanying words saved her a violent reprisal. "See you around, T'Pal." Enterprise's air cycling systems were a welcome improvement over the shuttle's, and brought swift relief to T'Pol's nasal problems. An unpleasant scent mingled with the ship's recycled air, and she had a tough time not frowning. She directed her senses toward the lieutenant who stood at rigid attention before her. Elevated heart rate, increased--ugh--sweat production, repeated swallowing. For reasons she had been unable to pinpoint sixty-two point five percent of human males she met displayed these symptoms upon first meeting her. Was this perhaps an undocumented allergic reaction to something in Vulcan body chemistry? Should she alert the doctor? No, none of the males thus affected had suffered any noticeable harm. The irritant, if it existed in her, most soon acclimated to. Those that could not, did not allow it to become a distraction. "Greetings, Subcommander. Lieutenant Malcolm Reed at your service. Chief Tactical Officer and Fourth in command of this vessel. I'm to show you to your quarters." He raised his arm to a position perpendicular to his chest and bent at the elbow. "This way if you please." T'Pol matched his curious arm position, held the salute for a few moments, and then hefted her bag to her shoulder. "I no longer hold military rank, Lieutenant. You may refer to be by name or as simply Consul. The term is accurate enough. " Reed's expression fell, and he lowered his arm. "Right, well, this way then," Her quarters were two decks down and farther from the docking ring than she would have preferred. With Reed's assistance, she registered her palm print with the door lock. He offered to help her set up the environmental controls since the engineers had yet to install the Vulcan interface. She declined the offer both because she had already familiarized herself with Enterprise's computer system and because Reed's odor grew more pungent the closer he stepped to her quarters. "It was my understanding that Captain Archer was to meet me at the docking ring," T'Pol said. "That was the plan. Unfortunately, ship's business demanded his attention. He and Commander Tucker will meet you in the ready room at 13:40. In the meanwhile, the captain suggests you acclimate yourself to your new quarters and perhaps get a bite in the dining hall." Reed smiled and his chest expanded. His odor spiked. "I could show you the way if you'd like." She ground her teeth. "That will not be necessary, Mr. Reed. I will find my own way." "Of course," he said. "If that's all..." T'Pol fled inside and shut the door. This took the edge off the smell, but her stomach would not settle until she felt the hypospray at her neck. Moments later, her sense of smell all but disappeared. The spray had the opposite effect on her appetite, though, and she thought it best to take the captain's advice. The computer terminal at the desk--her desk--gave her the location of the dining hall, and after checking the Vulcan network for messages and once again finding nothing from her father, she made her way there. Each crewman she passed made her aware of just how alone she would be on this mission. Given another six months she or Ambassador Soval would likely have been able to negotiate passage for a Vulcan assistant. It was fruitless and illogical to dwell on lost opportunities, so she did not. She ate lightly and quickly, finishing only half of the fried rice on her plate, but drinking two glasses of green tea. The meal, her first exposure to human cuisine in more than a decade, was quite palatable. She decided to thank the chef who had suggested the dish--if apologizing was a useful diplomatic tool, it followed that giving thanks would also be--but discovered he was busy. His assistant, then. Ah, but Trip was nowhere to be found. She would need to conduct her experiment with gratitude later. Returning to her quarters, T'Pol slipped into a light meditative trance to prepare for her meeting with the captain. A chirp brought to her senses before she had completed all but the initial exercises. It had come from a panel on the wall near her door. She stood to investigate, and the panel chirped again, followed by a voice: "Consul T'Pol, the captain has an opening in his schedule. You may report to his ready room now." T'Pol depressed the answer button on the comm panel. "Acknowledged. I will be there shortly." She checked the digital readout on the panel. It was a convenient location for a clock, she thought. Her eyebrow twitched. 13:07. More than half an hour early. She massaged her temples. No doubt life on this ship would regularly disrupt her meditation. It mattered not. She was of Vulcan stock. She would adapt. That was her purpose for being on this ship in the first place. So far, no Vulcan had managed to handle longer than a three-month posting aboard a human ship. If she could last six months, nine, a full year, then she could prove to the Diplomatic Corps that she could survive anywhere. Adjusting her meditation schedule was a small price to pay for that.
╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣
Ready Room Enterprise 13:10 UTC
"Be straight with me," Archer said, "How bad is he?" The doctor pretended to adjust his vidcomm settings. "We should have this conversation in person." "Doctor, I've spent half my life in space. I'm used to getting bad news over the phone." "All right, if you're certain. It's not the worst bout I've seen him face, but it's serious. At this stage, everything is serious. He doesn't have much time left." A pause and then, "Will he be able to attend the launch?" "Clarke's Disease is debilitating, Jonathan. I'm frankly surprised your father has maintained an active lifestyle this long." "Will he be able to attend?" "It might kill him." Archer frowned. "Missing it will kill him. Strap him to a gurney if you have to, Doc, but get him there. He'll thank you for it. So will I." "I'll do what I can." The doctor reached forward to sever the connection. A word from Archer stopped him. "Doc." "Hmm?" "Once again, thanks...for giving up your seat. I won't forget the sacrifice you made for my family." The doctor shrugged. "Your father is an important man. His health and comfort are paramount. And Phlox is a fine physician. Unorthodox by our standards, but a fine physician. He'll treat your crew well." "And you're sure he's qualified to treat humans?" "Humans, Vulcans, Tellarites, Andorians, and a dozen other species you've never heard of. Now, I really must check in on Henry. Nurse Adams is with him, but you know how much those two dislike one another." "I'm sure I'll hear all about it when Dad calls. Later, Doc." As the call ended, the doctor's image faded and was replaced by the Agency's logo until the vidcomm switched off due to inactivity. Archer stood and moved to the comm panel on the wall. "Yeoman, I've concluded my business early. Contact..." What was her name again? "Contact the Vulcan. Tell her to come to the ready room ASAP." "Aye, sir." The Vulcan arrived promptly and Archer offered her a seat before remembering the only available one was the bunk in the corner. (He'd need to speak to the quartermaster about getting more chairs.) She politely declined and remained at rigid attention, hands clasped behind her, while surreptitiously giving the room a once over. What was she looking for? "Something the matter, Consul?" "Should not your first officer be present?" "He's on his way." At least he would be if I'd remembered to call him. Archer punched the comm. "Yeoman, see what's keeping Commander Tucker." He turned back to his terminal and brought up the personnel files. No way was he admitting he couldn't remember her name. Unfortunately the personnel files were organized alphabetically. By name. A few keystrokes initiated a keyword search for "vulcan" which returned twelve documents. He found the one with the shortest header. "So, I've reviewed your file...T'Pol. It says here you were on the mission that made first contact with the Endani." Archer smiled. "I wonder if Phlox could treat them." "It is unlikely," T'Pol said. "The Endani do not ordinarily discuss their biology with outsiders." "Hmm? Oh, I was talking to myself." "Then I was mistaken." "You were quite young then. And already in the diplomatic corps?" "I am still quite young, Captain," T'Pol said, "and I had not yet joined the diplomatic corps. I was stationed aboard the Teltok, completing my compensatory military service." "Tell me about it." "Very well. The Teltok was en route to repair a malfunctioning probe when sensors detected a warp signature. Following standard procedure, we altered course to investigate and found a civilization that had recently broken the warp barrier. When it was deemed appropriate, we initiated first contact." "Must have been exciting," Archer said. "Setting foot on a world your kind had never been before." "I remained on the lander." Archer skimmed over the file. "You were on the ground eighteen days. You didn't go out once during that whole time." "My duties were on the lander," T'Pol said. Noticing Archer's frown, she amended her statement. "However, I observed the video feed from the exterior cameras whenever duty permitted. The captain's interactions with the natives were quite instructional." "So it piqued your interest in diplomacy." T'Pol inhaled slowly. "The term 'pique' implies an emotional response. It would be more accurate to say that the incident was among those that contributed to my interest in the field." "Of course," Archer held up his hands in apology. "Captain, I trust you will not take offense if I inquire as to the point of this line of questioning." "No offense taken, T'Pol," Archer said. "This is a large ship by Earth standards, with a large crew, but it's a ship of exploration. Meaning we have an extensive science department. Because of the ship's size, we have the biggest engineering crew in the fleet. And the military contingent takes up a fair amount of space. So, in some areas--mainly culture and linguistics--I'm short-staffed, which is why I'll be relying on my most experienced crew to take up the slack." "You wish for me to help 'take up' this 'slack.'" "I'm assigning you to Lieutenant Sato, the head of our sociolinguistics department." Archer retrieved a padd from his desk drawer and presented it to T'Pol. "Enterprise will not shy away from first contacts as long as I'm captain, and I don't like the idea of going in blind. I'd like you to aid Sato in drafting a set of first contact protocols. Don't be afraid--don't hesitate to voice your opinions, but final say is hers. I would consider it an act of good will between our peoples if you would agree to help." T'Pol accepted the padd and tucked in under an arm. "I will." "Good. Well, then, glad to have you aboard, T'Pol" Archer said, then added. "Sorry your staff couldn't join you, but you know how these things go." T'Pol had started to respond when the door opened with a whoosh, revealing a young man with sandy blonde hair that both she and the captain instantly recognized. "Sorry, sir. Had a little problem with a plasma coil." He fixed a wry gaze on Archer. "Must have lost track of time and...missed our appointment." "Quite all right, Commander." Archer returned with a gaze of his own. "This is Consul T'Pol, our Vulcan liaison. Consul, may I present my second in command and the best chief engineer in the quadrant, Charles Tucker the third. We call him--" "Trip," she said. Archer blinked. He was no expert on vocal inflection, but he had noted that the pitch of T'Pol's voice hadn't changed once during their conversation. He thought it a pity because she had such a nice voice. Now, he could swear she sounded almost surprised. "T'Pol, pleasure." Trip offered a hand. She stared dumbly at him and did nothing. When it finally registered and she raised her hand, he was lowering his. He brought his back up, but by then she had lowered hers. He dropped his hand to the side and clapped his thigh. Trip grinned. "We'll try that again later." "You two know each other?" Archer said. "We met in passing," Trip explained. "Need anything from me, Captain? If not, the best Assistant CHENG in the fleet needs relieving for her lunch break." Archer shook his head. "Just wanted to introduce you and T'Pol. How about dinner tonight, 17:30? You too, T'Pol. We can talk shop while we dine." "Sounds good, sir. See you then." He nodded to T'Pol, said "Consul," and hit the door release. "Commander, I'll walk with you," she said, and then to Archer, "if that is all, Captain."
╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣╠╦╩╦╣
Trip crossed the bridge, and T'Pol followed. Ladies first, he thought and waited in silence for her to speak her peace. Together they boarded the lift, and only when the doors closed and the lift began its downward journey did she comply with his unvoiced request. "I was in error this afternoon, Commander. I should not have assumed you were merely a steward." "Nothing wrong with being a steward" Trip said. "It was not my intention to imply that there was." "Course not. How was the rice by the way?" "It was palatable," T'Pol said. "The red fruit--" "Bell peppers." "I had not eaten them before. Their inclusion complemented the other flavors. It was a well thought-out recipe." "Careful where you're slinging those compliments," Trip said. "I might get a swelled head." T'Pol tilted her head to get a better view of his. "Are you injured? Do you need to go to sickbay?" "I'm fine, T'Pol. Glad you liked the rice. I don't get a chance to cook very often. It’s good to know I haven't lost the touch." "I am curious," T'Pol said, "how a starship officer can be expected to fulfill three jobs and be effective at any of them. Your captain must believe your abilities to be exceptional." The commander laughed. "Trip Tucker: jack of all trades, chief cook and bottle washer." The doors to the lift opened and Trip stepped out, motioning for T'Pol to follow. "I don't work in the galley. Most of our kitchen staff hasn't arrived yet, so I was helping out today." "Were there not junior crewmen who could have done so?" T'Pol said. "Where are we going?" "Engine Room. Marcus--he's our chef--won't allow anyone in his kitchen he hasn't personally trained." Trip stopped before a thick door and punched an eight digit sequence into a keypad lock, not bothering to hide it from T'Pol. A green light signaled acceptance of the code, and Trip depressed a lever and opened the door. Once inside, he directed T'Pol to his office while he sought out his second. Spotting her, he said, "Clara, take thirty. I've got things covered here." Entering his office, he found T'Pol seated straight-backed in the chair in front of his desk. Her position confirmed what he had only suspected before: she had a great figure. Damn, that was inconvenient. Settling into his own chair, Trip continued. "Marcus is my uncle. He and my mom had a restaurant together in New Orleans. I worked there a few summers during grad school. Il était grand devait gagner l'argent. Took my mind off warp equations and dissertations for a while, anyway." "You speak French, Mr. Tucker?" "Oui, je parle français, ma chéri." T'Pol quirked an eyebrow at his use of a sobriquet. "Peut-être vous souhaiteriez apprendre une langue provocante, Vulcan." A wide grin spread across Trip's face. "Le pensez-vous pourriez-vous faciliter des relations entre nos espèces?" "Il pourrait." "Your accent could use a little work, but not bad. You're full of surprises, Consul T'Pol of Vulcan," Trip said with a wink. "I'll have to keep my eye on you." My God, man, you just winked at a Vulcan. She could break you in half if the rumors are true, and you just winked at her. A search of her face suggested she didn't seem appalled. No appall on T'Pol, heh. Her eyebrow was raised, but that seemed to be her catch-all facial expression. He'd seen it ten or twelve times this afternoon, but hadn't yet gotten a read on its precise meaning. "Indeed," she said. "Well, T'Pol, I'd love to chat with you all afternoon--and maybe we should sometime--but I wasn't yanking the captain's chain. I have plenty of work to do if this ship's to launch on schedule." He stood and, in response to his gentleman's training kicking in, offered a hand to help her to her feet. Tentatively, she reached for his hand, but it dropped to his side when the sound of a knock at his door drew his attention and he turned away. "Chief." "Rostov?" "I could really use a hand, sir." Be there in a minute, Ensign." When Trip turned back, he found T'Pol on her feet beside him, hands clasped at the small of her back. "Until dinner, Commander," she said, and with a nod moved briskly for the door to let herself out. Trip stood in his office doorway for a moment, pondering, as he watched her go. A portion of one of his walls was inset with adjustable opacity glass. When the glass was at its most opaque--like it was now--the interior side was semi-reflective. While his back had been turned, he'd caught T'Pol's reflection as she opened and closed her left eye rapidly and then several times more at a slower pace. Guess I'm a bad influence. Trip found Rostov kneeling in front of an open panel and joined him. "These circuits are shot," Trip said. "We'll have to replace them." "How long will that take?" "Three hours, four maybe." He flagged down a junior crewman. "Dexter, head to storage locker A-15. We should have three boxes of M-2002s. Get them back here ASAP. If we're out, bum them off WEPS." Back to Rostov. "All right, Ensign, let's get started." Minutes later and without preamble, Rostov said, "Sir, do Vulcans have tics?" "Blood sucking parasites?" "No, sir. Facial tics," he said, and then lower as if to himself, "That has to be it. The alternative is unthinkable." Trip had a good idea where this was going. Best play along. "Keep talking, Ensign. You've got me interested." "You'll think I'm crazy, sir." "Already do." "It's the Vulcan liaison. When she was in your office, I could've sworn she winked at me. Several times, in fact." "You're right, Ensign," Trip said. "Sir?" "You are crazy. Now get back to work."
TBC
|
Like it? Hate it? Just want to point out a typo? Join the discussion now.
Disclaimer: Star Trek in all its various forms and its characters are the property of CBS/Paramount. No copyright infringement is intended by the authors of this site, which is solely for the purpose of entertainment and is not for profit. This site is owned by CX and was opened to the public in February 2008.