Ride the Lightning (1): Fade to Black

by jtm1848

Battle rages at Azati Prime.

– FADE TO BLACK –

January 26, 2154

The Xindi-reptilian vessel stalked menacingly above the blue oceans of Azati Prime, its elegant lines gracefully trailing off into the long nacelles that extended from the aft of the ship, each longer than the vessel itself. Colored with purple highlights, the reptilian ship screamed its lethality to any who dared approach.

"Degra, it is good to see you again," the Xindi-arboreal Councilor, Jannar, said pleasantly, entering the council chamber housed aboard the reptilian ship. The arboreals, descended from something akin to a Terran sloth, were covered in shaggy, white hair, which protruded from every crease of their pale-green uniforms, their wide, flaring noses ridged with multiple chunks of cartilage.

"Welcome, my friend," Degra said politely, before greeting his fellow representative with a firm hand grasp, each gripping the other at the elbow.

"When can we get underway?" their host, the Xindi-reptilian Councilor, snarled. Dolim looked like a brute; his skin was a mass of scale and bone, ridged spikes and rocky growths. His eyes, buried deep inside the protected sockets, were a pale yellow, and instead of hair, his head was adorned with a half-dozen thick antennae. His massive body, easily twice as broad as his mammalian comrades, was covered in a uniform made of metal rods.

"Momentarily," Degra said reassuringly, looking up at the massive reptilian. "You must have patience."

"Patience is for the dead," Dolim sneered. "We can stand around talking after the sacred mission is finished."

Jannar knew better than to take the bait, and simply ignored the scowling reptilian. "You've accomplished a great deal in a very short time, Degra," he noted. "When we first learned of the threat posed by those—humans, I thought that what little we have left was as good as gone. But you and your team have pulled off the impossible: to construct a weapon, that can destroy a planet…"

"We owe you our gratitude," the other primate Councilor, Depac, finished the thought. He sent the last word as a barbed jab at Dolim.

The reptile turned and glared at the others. The primates and arboreals were weak species, the lesser branches of the great Xindi race, and he knew that it was only through the strength and resolve of the reptilians that the primates and arboreals survived at all. Nevertheless, spineless as they were, they were still his brethren, and he would suffer their weak-willed ways.

"It's too early to speak of accomplishments," he growled at them. "The weapon hasn't even been launched yet. I'll reserve my gratitude for when the humans have been annihilated." He punctuated his point by slamming a thick fist against the wall. "I suggest you focus on the task at hand."

…

Buried deep inside the heart of the Enterprise, the command center was a post-launch modification to the Starfleet ship, added specifically for the Xindi mission. Unlike the bridge, which perched, exposed, on the outer hull of the ship, the situation room was fortified by reinforced hull plating, insulation, and a hundred meters of corridors, rooms, bunks, terminals, bulkheads, grid work, and the other flotsam that composed an interstellar starship.

Designed to provide for tactical analysis, the situation room rapidly became the preferred home for mission planning, where the crew could focus without the distractions of the bridge. It was here that the senior staff found themselves staring at two-dimensional false-light imagery of the Xindi detection grid.

"I've analyzed every link in the grid," Lieutenant Reed observed, turning to face his colleagues. "I can't find a single weakness. The coverage has no weak spots, and it detects anything down to a meter-wide meteorite. There's no way to slip the Enterprisethrough, or even a shuttlepod. It's also triggered by anything that's significantly warmer than the solar medium—like a person. We couldn't even get an EVA assault team in." Reed disliked admitting defeat, but he was stumped.

"The grid is extremely sensitive," T'Pol confirmed. "We'd be detected the instant we passed through."

"What if we disabled one of the sensor stations?" the ship's chief engineer, Charles "Trip" Tucker, asked curiously.

"We thought about it," Reed admitted. "But the detection grid uses thousands of overlapping satellites—if one goes out of commission, its neighbors fill the gap. And it would undoubtedly trigger an alarm, likely bring a half-dozen ships out to investigate."

"Is there any way we could fool the sensors?" Trip asked next.

T'Pol handled this field of inquiry. "One possibility is hacking into their computer control system, but that would take days, if not weeks," she stated flatly. "We also investigated rigging the Enterpriseto give off a false signal, but we lack sufficient information about the detection grid's software to know what sort of signal to emit."

"What about the insectoid shuttle?" Captain Archer mused. Previously in the Expanse the Enterprisehad captured a shuttlecraft from the Xindi-insectoids, the fourth of the fifth Xindi races. "Think about it: we can't get in as us, but we can go in undercover—as Xindi."

"Make like one of the locals?" Reed asked in confirmation.

"Yeah, we could fly right in, try to locate where the weapon's being completed, or use it to hack into their computer protocols," Archer verified, thinking as he talked.

"Their shuttle might be able to get through the grid without raising suspicion," T'Pol admitted. "But it also may not. Given the extent of the security precautions, it is logical to assume that access is restricted, even to the Xindi. If we were challenged for security clearances, we would be unable to answer."

"Besides, Captain," Trip added, his drawl lengthening the words, "we're not exactly experts at piloting that thing."

"Commander, I've taken a look at it," Ensign Mayweather spoke up for the first time. "I can fly damn near anything—the principles are always the same. Give us a few hours, we may be able to figure it out."

"This is definitely our best chance," Reed added, excitement creeping into his voice.

"We still don't know what the security protocols are," T'Pol countered.

Archer looked at his Vulcan first officer. "Do you have a better idea?" When T'Pol didn't respond, Archer went on. "We'll try the insectoid shuttle," he said decisively. "Travis, Trip, report to the launch bay and learn how to fly it." He may have been asking them to do the impossible, but the captain's confidence was infectious.

"Just give us a couple hours to get up to speed," Trip averred.

"Take them," Archer answered. "I want to launch as soon as we can—we don't know how much time we have left."

…

Two hours later, progress was slow. The insectoid craft—roughly the size of the Enterprise's shuttlepods, albeit with a decidedly hexagonal aesthetic—hovered several centimeters off the floor of the launch bay, swaying from side to side like a drunken Klingon. The support legs slowly lifted off the deck, and Trip flipped a switch to pull the landing gear up into the body of the craft.

Instead, the shuttle jolted sideways, sending the two officers into their consoles.

That's some progress, Trip thought sardonically, pushing himself upright. Wasn't even the right system.

"I think I've find reverse," Travis offered hopefully. He was standing at the front of the shuttle, trying to decipher what should have been a simple steering mechanism: rather than the joystick favored by Earth vessels, the insectoid craft had side-by-side levers that moved roughly forward and backward from the pilot. As near as he could tell, however, the left-hand lever controlled the starboard engine, and the right-hand lever controlled the port engine; and moving the levers forward put the engine into reverse, while moving it backward put the engine into forward.

Once Travis realized that he had to look at the controls through the compound vision of an insect, it made perfect sense.

"That's great," Trip offered in response, "but unless we plan to fly in ass-first we'd better figure out how to make the thing fly forward."

"I think I got that," Travis answered. "Have you found the ignition sequence?"

Trip sighed. "Nope. Let's cycle through these console settings again."

"Aye, sir."

"What do you have first?"

"Looks like the port actuator…no, wait, it looks like plasma injector controls…"

…

The insectoid language was a complex assortment of clicking mandibles, stridulation, and high-pitched hisses, which combined to form a whistling racket that grated on T'Pol's sensitive Vulcan hearing. As with any Vulcan, T'Pol had a wide array of mind-control techniques at her disposal, and could typically screen out auditory stimuli when necessary; but the constant screeching, not to mention Ensign Sato's insistence at playing the recording at high volumes, wore on T'Pol's exhausted mental reserves.

It was illogical to reject the inevitable, T'Pol knew, so she set aside her work and crossed the bridge to check on Hoshi's progress.

Ensign Hoshi Sato, the Enterprise's linguist-cum-communications officer, sat at the communications console with a vacant expression on her face. She was focused on the sounds coming from the bridge speakers, trying to separate the different vibrations in her mind, and gave a sharp jump when T'Pol spoke up.

"Commander Tucker is going to need time to install the translation matrix into the shuttle," T'Pol observed, moving right to the point. "How soon will you have it ready for him?"

"If Commander Tucker wants to speak insectoid, I have to get this right first," Hoshi answered with an exasperated glare. She played a sequence of clicks and hisses. "Believe it or not, that was 'have a nice day'—or its equivalent."

…

"Ah, Captain, so good to see you!" Dr. Phlox's broad, Denobulan grin welcomed Archer to the Enterprisesickbay. "You're just in time for feeding!" In contrast to normal human practice, which would have panicked at the sight of an "unclean" animal in a sterile medical environment, Phlox kept a broad menagerie of bats, small rodents, insects and reptiles. Archer knew that it violated Starfleet regulations, but those animals—and the unorthodox cures that they provided—were responsible for saving more than a handful of his crew, even if the sight of slugs made a few of the human crew squeamish.

"Here, Captain, can you give this to my Aldebaran vole?" Phlox asked, handing Archer a bagful of leafy greens as he bustled about sickbay. Archer noticed that the doctor's zoological repertoire was unusually noisy. He lifted the lid of the vole habit, and shook the contents of the baggie into it, pausing for a second to watch the miniature rodent emerge from its den.

"Thank you, Captain, you've made my little dear very happy!" Phlox said, closing the lid on the final terrarium. He grabbed a bottle of gel, and rubbed the decon cream over his hands. "Now, what can I do for you?"

Archer rubbed the back of his neck. "I have a headache," he said apologetically. "I wouldn't worry about it, but it's been getting worse for several days."

"Oh, it's no bother, Captain," Phlox said reassuringly. "I'm more than happy to take a look at it." The doctor gestured for Archer to take a seat on the center biobed, and ran a medical scanner over the offending tissue. "How much sleep have you gotten in the last week?"

"I don't know," Archer said wearily. When the doctor broached the subject, Jonathan felt the exhaustion hit hard, overwhelming his efforts to keep it at bay.

"Any other symptoms?" Phlox asked. "Fidgeting, restlessness, palpitations, hyper-responsiveness to stimuli?"

"All of the above," Archer confirmed grudgingly.

"Well, it's no surprise," Phlox said, with a faintly upbraiding tone. "Your body's been running on adrenaline for far too long—an interesting compound. A primitive survival mechanism. When you don't get enough rest," the doctor continued, emphasizing each word, "the body over-adrenalizes. If you don't go crazy from the lack of sleep—" Phlox paused to focus on a hypospray. "You can overstimulate your heart, cause irregularities, or even trigger a cardiac event."

"A cardiac event?"

"A heart attack, Captain." Archer heard the familiar hiss of a hypospray injecting its contents into his body, and felt an immediate wave of relaxation. "I gave you a sedative, but what you really need is a proper meal and some good rest."

"Doc, I haven't had a good meal or a moment of rest in seven months," Archer replied acidly.

"If you ask me, the whole crew is need of extended down time," Phlox offered. "But you have a good crew, Captain. Why don't you relax a bit, and let them do their jobs? You can't carry all of this on your own shoulders, after all."

Archer lay back on the biobed, his hands under his head. "Remember when we first launched?" he asked, musingly. "We were so excited to be the first humans out there, going boldly into the great unknown. A latter-day Corp of Discovery." Archer paused. "Marco Polo, Ferdinand Magellan, Roald Amundsen, Lewis and Clark, and Jonathan Archer and the Enterprise." He snorted. "We thought we were ushering in an era of peace, and all we found was more war."

"Well, Captain, I'm sure once this mission is finished, we'll be able to return to our mission of discovery," Phlox observed warmly.

"But it won't be the same, will it?" Archer asked, looking up at the doctor. "I mean, we'll never be able to go back. I'm not sure I like where we're going."

"And it'll make more sense after you get some rest," Phlox stressed as he helped the captain off the biobed.

"After I check in on Trip and Travis," Archer said tiredly, and he left sickbay.

…

"Try powering up the gyrostabilizers!" Trip called out, his voice bearing the edge of frustration. He and Travis had been working on the insectoid shuttle for four hours, and just recently received the translation matrix from Hoshi. It was a relief to read standardized Earth-English rather than deciphering the scratches that composed insectoid writing, but it didn't help them with the vast array of unlabeled switches that covered the interior of the shuttle.

"How's it going?" Hearing the captain's voice, Trip turned his head and noticed Archer silhouetted in the shuttle hatchway.

"Well, we think we found forward," Trip answered sarcastically, biting back a more scathing response. "Sorry, Captain, it's been—"

"Don't worry about it, Trip," Archer cut off the apology with a soft smile. "How much longer?"

"Another half hour, and we should be good to go," Trip promised. "Travis says he's figured out the controls, but I want to run the pre-flight checks twice."

Archer stifled a yawn. It was 2340; another thirty minutes would make it…well, tomorrow. The passage of days meant increasingly less aboard the Enterprise, as the crew had become accustomed to around-the-clock duty cycles, but he knew that he needed to allot some rest time for his senior staff before they started falling asleep at their posts.

"All right. Keep me informed." Archer pulled back from the shuttle, then stopped with a second thought. "Trip—just get in there, find this thing, scan it, and get out. Whatever information you gather won't do us any good unless you bring it back."

"We'll keep that in mind, Captain."

"Good luck."

"Thank you, sir."

"Thanks, Captain," Travis added as he closed the hatch.

…

January 27, 2154

With a grim look at each other, Trip hit the communications circuit, signaling to the bridge to open the shuttlebay doors, and the insectoid shuttle dropped from the belly of the Enterprise, descending several meters before Travis initiated forward thrust. The shuttle jumped forward, then balked, then jumped forward again, fishtailing in open space.

"Trouble?" Trip asked curiously, watching Travis manhandle the controls.

Travis gripped the left-hand steering lever and pulled it back with his full body weight. "It's like steering an asteroid miner with a bad axis coil," he told his superior officer.

…

"Their flight path is somewhat erratic," T'Pol noted from the science station, a raised eyebrow indicating the intentional understatement. For his part, Archer watched the shuttle on the main viewscreen as it careened from side to side, covering a swath of space broader than the Enterprise, its bow and stern going in different directions.

The shuttle turned and straightened, picking up speed rapidly.

"Open a channel," Archer ordered. "Trip?" The shuttle was on a dead collision course with the Enterprise.

The shuttle grew quickly as it approached, and the bridge crew instinctively ducked as the smaller craft flew overhead, not quite clearing the larger vessel. With a hair-raising screech, it lurched across the hull plating above the bridge.

"Sorry!" Trip yelled over the intercom.

"No problem," Archer replied, looking overhead and mentally imagining the damage. "I'll send you the bill."

On the viewscreen, the insectoid shuttle came about on a forward heading, the stagger in its slowly stabilizing. "I think I'm getting a feel for her!" Travis shouted out over the open channel.

"Sensors are up and running!" Trip added. "We're ready to get this ship on the road!"

"Set your course and take her in," Archer ordered. "T'Pol, keep a sensor lock for as long as you can."

"Five hundred meters!" Trip called out, reporting the distance to go to the detection field. "Two hundred meters! Here we go!"

"They're passing through the grid," T'Pol reported calmly, faking obliviousness to the tension surrounding her. "We've lost communication."

…

"We're in," Trip confirmed on board the insectoid shuttle. Tensely, he watched as several alarms went off in unison, and checked the readings. "Xindi patrol ship, coming up from behind!" he said excitedly. "That didn't take them long. They're hailing us!"

The mixture of clicks and hisses that composed the insectoid language came across the comm channel.

"Doesn't exactly sound like 'welcome to the neighborhood,'" Travis commented, listening intently to the alien language.

"Hoshi, don't fail us now," Trip muttered as he engaged the translator and opened the communications protocols.

A stuttering, irregular speech pattern came through, but it was in blessed English. "Your presence inside the detection grid is unauthorized. Explain."

"We, ah, had a slight navigational malfunction that threw us off course," Trip answered, making it up as he went. "It's been corrected."

"Our sensors indicated great instability in your flight path. You are ordered to rendezvous with your carrier ship immediately for repairs."

"Understood," Trip said, and cut the comm channel. He let out a deep breath.

…

"The detection grid is creating too much interference," T'Pol reported. She double-checked her readings. "I've lost them."

Archer looked at her, a worried expression on his face, but he was cut off by a more alarming report from Malcolm.

"We're being scanned!" the tactical officer announced.

"Where's it coming from?" Archer asked, crossing the bridge to Malcolm's station. Archer knew that the Enterprise's hiding place in the system's heliosheath wasn't foolproof, but another ship had to be in close proximity to detect them.

"I'm not picking up any vessels in the vicinity," Malcolm reported, confused.

"There's a small asteroid, bearing one-six-four-mark-two-seven-nine, distance: three kilometers," T'Pol called out across the bridge. "The sensor signal is coming from its surface. Presumably there is a disguised monitoring station on it."

"Why did they just detect us?" Archer asked, trying to sort out the facts in his head.

"The asteroid has been drifting in our direction," T'Pol reported. "It is logical to assume that it just now came within range."

"Let's see it, Malcolm," Archer ordered. The viewscreen shifted to show the surface of the asteroid, with the unmistakable diagram of an artificial installation highlighted in false color.

"I'm reading three Xindi biosigns," T'Pol added.

Shit, Archer thought to himself. If they detect us here, it'll blow our mission sky-high. But we can't pull out and leave Trip and Travis behind, either. "Have they sent out a transmission?"

"Not yet," T'Pol reported.

"What are they waiting for?" This question came from Malcolm.

"Since they haven't already sent a transmission, I would theorize that they only possess short-range equipment, likely to hide their energy signature," T'Pol offered. "They must wait for the asteroid to move back into communication range."

"How long?" Archer asked.

T'Pol ran quick calculations. "Four hours."

"Malcolm, target the facility."

"Target locked," Reed confirmed.

"Sir," T'Pol interjected. "We do have four hours."

"We can't risk it, T'Pol," Archer replied firmly. "Navigation, prepare to put some distance between us and the explosion." The captain paused, then gave his order. "Fire."

On the screen, a single Mark I photonic torpedo leapt across space, plunging into the listening post on the asteroid's surface. As it collided with the installation, the pre-set trigger lowered the magnetic containment fields, allowing the antimatter warhead to freely mix with the matter surrounding it.

For Jonathan Archer, the frenetic pace slowed to a miniature crawl as he imagined the three unwary lives being snuffed out by the powerful explosion.

…

The water world appeared as a soft sapphire from orbit, with intermittent bands of white clouds highlighting the natural fluctuations of the planet's surface. Deep beneath the azure cover, Trip knew that the heavenly globe held a lethal secret, and his momentary enchantment vanished, replaced with burning anger as he felt the hate rise up. The cerulean seas beneath him looked like the clear, blue waters of the Caribbean, near his hometown of Panama City, Florida; he had grown up swimming in the sea off the Florida panhandle. When the Xindi attack came, his home was vaporized, replaced with a massive dirt trench scarring the calm, scenic beauty. His parents were traveling when the attack came, but his younger sister, Elizabeth, was home from college. There was not even enough left for a proper burial.

Shoving aside the haunting memories and choking down the hate-filled bile, Commander Tucker slipped back into his shell of professionalism and duty.

"I'm still getting trace kemocite readings," he reported, frustrated, repeating the scan for verification. "But not enough to indicate a large-scale weapon." Their previous investigations had revealed that kemocite, a multiphasic isotope of a radiolytic compound, was the main power source of the Xindi weapon, fueling the massive disassociative ray that would eventually blast Earth to fragmented pieces.

"There's not much land down there," Travis mused. For his part, Travis was concentrating on piloting the insectoid shuttle.

"And what land there is doesn't have any life on it," Trip answered. It was unclear if the commander was making a factual statement, or if he meant to imply that Xindi should not be counted as "life," but Travis didn't press for clarification. "Take us down, Travis," Trip said casually, "closer to the surface."

"Aye, sir," Travis responded, a hint of puzzlement in his voice.

"Adjust twenty degrees starboard." Trip paused, then spoke in wonderment. "Sweet Jesus."

"See something?" Travis asked.

"I think so." Beneath the shuttle, the soft blue waters of Azati Prime darkened in a rough circle. Despite himself, Trip felt a chill run down his spine.

"That thing's huge," Travis breathed. "It's like a small moon!"

"Bring us closer, Travis. Take us down slowly—I don't want to set off any alarms." In front of them, the dark mass of water grew steadily, lurking beneath the ocean surface. "It looks like it's sitting on the ocean floor—the thing must be ten kilometers in diameter!"

"You did say that most of this thing's power was routed to structural integrity," Travis commented in awe. "It would have to, to withstand that water pressure." The dark mass faded behind them as the shuttle cleared the underwater sphere, and Travis brought the small craft about in a gentle, banking curve.

"And you said they could fly it inside a gas giant," Trip responded dryly. The shuttle was descending gradually. "Take us deeper," Trip said suddenly. "Negative z axis, ten degrees."

"Sir?" Travis asked, wanting verification of the order. "That'll take us into the ocean."

"Hell, it's only water," Trip responded. "If they can do it, so can we."

"Aye, sir," Travis answered, a note of glee entering his voice. Flying an alien shuttle into the water of an alien planet—this was the type of excitement he had signed up for.

Hitting the sea at a sharp angle, the shuttlepod sent up a spray of water as it plummeted into the ocean. It shot downwards, its torpedo-like design ideally suited for the liquid environment, and it tore through the water like a being possessed.

As they reached the ocean floor, Travis pulled the shuttle out of its sharp decline, and leveled off meters above the ancient sea floor. Around them, spires of rock shot upwards, towering hundreds of meters overhead, remnants of some unknown geological upheaval, creating a virtual maze that masked the approach of the stolen shuttle.

Travis deftly maneuvered the craft through the rocky spikes, keeping to the dark netherworld of the oceanic floor, as several alien vessels flew by overhead. As they traveled, the spires gradually thinned out. In front of them was a vast gorge.

Trip's jaw dropped.

It was huge, the size of a large asteroid. Perfectly spherical, its metallic woven shell was accented by hundreds of miniature lights that highlighted the nearly-complete work. Around it, massive scaffolding arose from the seafloor, holding the weapon firm, and giant cranes lifted huge pieces of metalwork up to the higher tiers for placement. Around it, dozens of smaller shuttles flew, darting around, eager to complete their missions.

Trip couldn't look away from the screen as the stolen shuttle floated into the gorge.

"Are you getting those scans, sir?" Travis asked suggestively, trying to break the hypnotic gaze of his superior officer.

Trip shook his head quickly, trying to clear the mental fuzz. "There's a lot of activity on the right lower atmosphere," he said, his voice still faint. "I want to have a look inside."

Travis eased the shuttle around the underside of the weapon, joining the steady flow of Xindi craft. For the first time, he noticed the aquatic life forms swimming, unaided, in the deep waters; he supposed that they were the fifth species of Xindi, and was duly impressed by their resistance to the harsh water pressure at such great depths.

As the shuttle came about, the two Starfleet officers noticed the trail of ships entering and leaving the interior of the weapon through a large, open hatchway.

Trip glanced back at his pilot. "I want to have a look inside," he ordered.

"Are you sure, sir?" Travis asked hesitantly. He knew how lucky they had been to not encounter any security checks thus far. "The captain said to get in and get out."

"That's exactly what we're going to do," Trip answered.

Travis pushed the steering rods forward, and they entered the hatchway.

…

January 28, 2154

The command center was, once again, filled with the senior staff as the final officers entered the room. The flight back from Azati Prime had taken several hours, but under Phlox's orders, the human members of the senior crew had seized the opportunity to rest while T'Pol extracted the data and prepared a report.

"It's definitely in the final phase of construction," Trip said with unusual alacrity, his drawl all but disappearing. On the main screen in front of them, a cross-section schematic of the weapon rotated on its axis. "Most of the work that's going on seems maintenance-related."

"I've gone over the scans you brought back," Malcolm commented, leaning forward to tap the monitor controls. The viewer zoomed in, and zoomed in a second time, highlighting a section of the weapon's core. "That's the kemocite matrix," he noted. "It's highly explosive. If we can get close enough, we can set off a chain reaction that'll blow this thing to high heaven."

"The initial explosion would need to be of considerable yield," T'Pol replied skeptically.

Malcolm snorted. "A couple photonic torpedoes should do the trick." T'Pol raised both eyebrows, but said nothing.

"There's room in the shuttle," Trip commented. "One pilot, two torpedoes."

"You're talking about a one-way trip," Archer said carefully, speaking for the first time. "Whoever goes in won't be coming back."

"With all due respect, Captain, we all knew this mission was dangerous," Trip responded. "And there are billions of lives back home depending on us."

"Captain, if we have a chance to destroy this thing—" Malcolm gestured at the weapon. "We have to take it."

"I should be the one to go," Travis spoke up calmly.

Archer cut him off. "Forget it, Travis."

"But I'm the only one who can pilot that shuttle!"

"I practiced on those controls," Trip said, jumping in. "I can get her in."

"But I've actually done it!" Travis retorted.

"Captain, you want a senior officer on this, don't you?" Trip countered suggestively.

"Yes, I do," Archer smiled thinly. "I'll be flying the mission."

"Captain?" Malcolm broke in. "Are you sure that's best? If it doesn't work, we're going to need you here."

"I don't know if it's best," Archer admitted softly. "But I know that it's my decision to make. And I'm not sending someone else on a kamikaze mission." The decision was made. "How soon can you get it ready, Trip?"

The chief engineer thought for a moment. "Couple hours to get the torpedoes in place," he said finally.

"Get started," Archer ordered. "Travis, meet me in the launch bay in thirty minutes." With that, the captain turned and left the room.

I'll never understand humans, T'Pol thought to herself.

…

Even in the Expanse, the Enterpriseofficially observed "ship's day" and "ship's night," in recognition of the diurnal ancestry of its crew. After several months, as duty shifts became jumbled, and finally blurred into one long watch disconnected from normal sleep cycles, "day" and "night" became little more than ways to identify the passage of time; but each night, the lights on the ship still dimmed, to help the crew maintain some connection to their biological needs.

As Archer made his way down the corridor, he took no note of the dimmed lights; if asked, he would be hard-pressed to correctly identify the day. His duty shifts bore no semblance to the tight, timed routine that had once existed on board; now, he was on duty from the moment he awoke to the moment his eyes closed in a desperate effort to get some sleep. In between, the demands on his time and energy were relentless, and the constant state of tension on board conspired to deny him meaningful rest. Portions of his mind were operating on autopilot, and a dull pain had begun to grind in his stomach.

Thus, when the turbolift door opened, it took several seconds for his mind to catch up.

He stepped into a futuristic corridor. The floor was a soft, charcoal carpet, rather than the hard metallic plating of his ship, with a red stripe down the center, curving away with the flow of the hall. Overhead, soft tube lighting replaced the harsh light of bulbs, and was embedded in graceful paneling, masking the conduits and circuitry that Archer knew—thought—ran the length of the ceiling. The walls were covered with a sculpted plastoid that was crafted into a fluid array of pleasing geometric shapes, interspersed with understated green paneling showing displays that he could not begin to interpret. On the outside wall was a floor-to-ceiling viewport.

Archer glanced behind him, as the turbolift doors shut, closing off the retreat to the familiar world. Before he had time to reflect, a man came around the bend of the corridor, following the red stripe. He was—appeared to be—human; late twenties or early thirties; dark, widow-peaked hair; and wearing a black uniform, with some sort of plastoid armor. "Welcome aboard, Captain," the man said.

"Daniels." Unsure of what to say, it came out unemotionally. The captain had encountered this man before, too many times; Daniels had been a part of the original crew complement of the Enterprise, before he revealed himself to be a temporal agent from the thirty-first century. Since then, he had appeared several times to preserve the history of the future.

"Where am I?" Archer said finally, looking around at his surroundings. It was clear that he was no longer in his own time; but with Daniels' abilities, the possibilities were endless.

"You're on the Enterprise," Daniels said, gesturing around him. "Enterprise-J to be exact, a distant relative of your ship."

Well, I guessed wrong, Archer mused. I am still on the Enterprise. "Okay, then," the captain responded. "When am I?"

"You're about four hundred years in the future. It's the mid-twenty-sixth century." Daniels waved the captain over to the viewport. "Come here, I want you to see something."

Outside, dozens of ships, some recognizable, but most not, were engaged in a running battle, and as Archer watched, one of the ships was drilled with an energy beam, causing it to explode in a puff of fire.

As spectacular as the battle was, Archer's attention was caught by something else.

The backdrop of space was no longer black, no longer held the rays of light traveling from far-distant stars. The universe was awash in a murky, purple haze, with hues of violet and shades of lavender, mauve, lilac, and plum. The haze blanketed the visual spectrum, extending outwards beyond Archer's vision, the gaseous whispers painting a surreal picture before him.

"Look out there," Daniels said, pointing to the haze. "It extends fifty thousand light years in all directions. And it is growing."

"I've seen it before," Archer replied, pursing his brow in puzzlement. "Much smaller, although. It was at a focal point between two Spheres, where we found the alien ship."

"I know," Daniels responded softly. "You were right: the alien you found was a test subject. He belongs to the race that built the Spheres. They come from another dimension, and they're using the Spheres to alter the fabric of your dimension to make it habitable for their species. When the alterations are complete, they'll come pouring through, in an invasion unlike anything you've ever dreamt of."

Archer watched as another ship was destroyed. "You said that we're in the mid-twenty-sixth century—is this the invasion?"

"It's getting harder and harder to surprise you, Captain," Daniels answered. The Enterprise-J shook, presumably hit by a weapons blast. "I've brought you to a monumental moment in history, the Battle of Procyon Five, where the Federation engaged the Sphere Builders." The brilliant glows of energy blasts lit up the interior of the corridor.

"The Federation?" Archer asked curiously. "You've mentioned them before."

"It will be amazing," Daniels mused, reflectingly. "Vulcans, Andorians, Ithenites, Bajorans, Betazoids, dozens—hundreds—of species, including the humans, all unified in a powerful, peaceful alliance. The galaxy has never seen anything like it. Even the Klingons will eventually join." He pointed outwards at the battle, where a large ship exploded in a fireball, sending a shockwave through the Enterprise-J.

"The Federation wins the battle," Daniels continued. "They drive the Sphere Builders back into their trans-dimensional realm, and repair the damage done to the space-time fabric. But if the Federation had lost—the Sphere Builders would have spread throughout the galaxy. They would have wiped out everything. No species in our realm can survive long in that altered space."

"But the Federation did win—or will win, however you say it," Archer retorted. "What does this have to do with you?"

"The Sphere Builders have technology which allows them to examine potential future timelines, Captain," Daniels explained. "They've seen this future, and they want to prevent this outcome. In a timeline where humanity is wiped out, the Sphere Builders win the battle. They contacted the Xindi and convinced them that humanity will destroy the Xindi in the future, unless the Xindi destroy you first."

"They're manipulating the Xindi into destroying us now," Archer said, understanding. "Like removing a piece from the chess board before the game even starts. But wouldn't the Federation still be able to defeat the Sphere Builders?"

"Captain, without humanity, the Federation will never exist. It is humans who will be the catalyst that brings the galaxy together. In fact, humanity will protect the Xindi themselves from the Sphere Builders."

"So what do you want me to do?" Archer asked cautiously. He was far from convinced.

"Contact the Xindi, Captain," Daniels answered. "Talk to them. Tell them that they're being manipulated. You have to make the Xindi understand that humanity isn't the enemy. Wage peace, not war."

"They're about to deploy their weapon!" Archer snarled. "I won't let that happen!"

"Don't you get it, Captain?" Daniels said, pleadingly. "Hasn't centuries of human experience taught you anything? If you destroy their weapon, they will simply build another. If you destroy that one, they'll build another! And each time, beliefs will harden, and attitudes will become more rigid! That cycle has to end—it has to be prevented! The only way to do that is to work with them, to convince them of what I have told you!"

"My duty is to save the lives of billions of people, here and today," Archer lowered his voice menacingly. "I won't let them finish that weapon. If that's a problem for your history, then you deal with it."

Daniels gripped Archer's arm. "Captain, you have to believe me! You are making a catastrophic mistake! There is far more at stake here!"

The captain pushed aside Daniels' hand. "You've made your share of mistakes, as I recall."

Daniels cringed, remembering. "Yes, Captain, but this isn't one of them."

"SEND ME BACK!" Archer roared, grabbing Daniels and pushing him into a bulkhead. "Send me back now!"

Daniels paused, catching his breath, and drew a small, coin-sized disc from an inner pocket. "Take this," he said, holding it up in front of Archer. "It's Xindi. A family medal that belongs to one of the crewmen—on this ship." He caught Archer's look of surprise. "Yes, Captain, there are Xindi serving aboard Enterprise-J. One of them parted with this, to help you convince the Xindi of your time."

"Why are you giving this to me?" The ship shook with the impact of weaponry.

"In case you change your mind."

Archer shook his head. "I won't."

…

Commander T'Pol flipped the medallion over in her hand as she and the captain rounded the corridor. "I'll have this quantum-dated," she offered, pausing to peer closely at the alien design emblazoned in the metal.

"Don't bother," Archer replied curtly, still aggravated by his encounter with Crewman Daniels. "We both know it's from the future." He took the disc back from his science officer.

"If you believe him," T'Pol posited, "what do you intend to do?"

"The only thing I can do. I'm going ahead with the mission." Archer brushed around a corner, forcing T'Pol to trot to keep up. "You don't think I should," he continued, recognizing the look on her all-but-inscrutable face.

"Daniels did say that you're the only one who can end the conflict with the Xindi," she replied. "Logically, you can't do that if you're dead." The final words came out biting.

"That's only if you accept Daniels' version of the future," Archer snapped back. "Yes, I believe he's telling his truth, Commander, but the twenty-sixth century is a long ways off—and now that we know, we have five hundred years to prevent it!"

"Daniels is in a far better position to know the potential permutations of the future."

Archer glared at her. "I thought you were the skeptical one when it came to time travel! Haven't you always said that the 'Vulcan Science Directorate has conclusively proved that time travel is impossible'?"

"It is illogical to ascribe to a theorem in the face of contradictory fact," T'Pol replied, obliquely referencing the recent visit to early twenty-first century Earth by herself and the captain. "You should reconsider your decision."

"What would you have me do?" Archer stopped mid-stride, and turned to face T'Pol. "Fly a shuttle into the system and knock on the door, tell the Xindi we want to talk?" He snorted derisively. "They're not interested in talking! The Xindi don't want peace."

"On what are you basing these assertions?" T'Pol challenged. "You're making gross characterizations about an entire race. Surely you recognize that the diversity within any race is far greater than that?"

"I recognize one thing, Commander: their weapon is too close to being launched. If the situation were different—if they didn't have a weapon ready to destroy Earth—maybe I'd take a stab at resolving this peacefully, but we don't have the time! We have to act now, and act decisively!" He snorted cruelly. "Maybe, if it was Vulcan in the firing line, you'd understand that!" The captain turned his back and started back down the corridor.

T'Pol flinched from the uncharacteristic assault, but chose to write it off as the product of emotional stress. Instead, she let loose a little emotional stress of her own. "I don't want you to die!" she called out at Archer's retreating back, forcing him to stop and face her again. "It's not necessary."

Archer looked at his friend, a ghost of a smile creasing his face. "I wish that were true."

…

"I want FOUR ships to accompany the weapon!" Dolim roared as he paced across the control room of Degra's ship. It may not have been his own vessel—it wasn't even a reptilian vessel, and thus unquestionably not under Dolim's command—but he wasted no time in asserting rule. If the primates are so weak as to allow me to push them aside, he thought, scornfully, then they deserve it!

"We'd have to generate an extremely large vortex to accommodate that many vessels," Degra stuttered, flustered by the ferocity of Dolim's attack. Instead of using warp engines to travel at faster-than-light speeds, the Xindi races used a phased verteron pulse to open a vortex in subspace that allowed their ships to travel at relative velocities far greater than the normal warp speeds.

"We will need several ships," Dolim replied harshly. "Even after Earth is destroyed, there will be a residual presence in the system." Across the room, the arboreal councilor, Jannar, wrinkled his nose, but Dolim didn't notice. "I intend to hunt down and eradicate every refugee caravan, every colony, every last outpost they have." Dolim's reptilian eyes were mere vertical slits.

"Is it necessary to eradicate their species?" Jannar asked.

"Yes." The yellow eyes fixated on the arboreal. "It is either us or them. If they want a clash between our races, we will give them one. And we will exterminate them, so they can never again threaten us."

"A vortex of that size will be very unstable," Degra intervened, stammering out the words in challenge. "You could lose one or more vessels!"

Dolim bared his teeth. "See that we don't," he growled, his rancid breath washing over Degra's face.

Degra refused to look away until his vessel's comm system beeped. He checked it. "A message for you," he told Dolim, and stepped aside to allow the massive reptile access to the comm panel.

Dolim glared at the retreating primate before activating the comm. "Go ahead," he barked.

"Commander, we've lost contact with one of the asteroid listening posts," his lieutenant's voice came through, disembodied. Dolim glared furiously at Degra, as though it was the primate's fault. It probably is, Dolim thought. The primates are always botching their jobs.

"How long ago?" Dolim barked, refusing to take his eyes off Degra.

"Two hours," the response came.

"Send a patrol." Dolim shut the comm channel. "We will resume this when I return," he growled menacingly at Degra and Jannar, before stalking out the door.

Jannar watched the doors shut before he spoke. "Someone once said that dealing with reptilians is like bargaining with the sun," he reflected philosophically. "You make no progress, and you come away burned."

Degra sank into a chair, cupping his face in his hands. "It's not him," he said tiredly, rubbing his eyes with his palms. "I'm used to the reptilians."

Jannar looked at his kinsman. "The last time I saw you like this was when you delivered the first weapon," the arboreal said cautiously.

"That one only killed seven million," Degra replied bitingly. "Listen to me: 'only' seven million! This one will destroy an entire world." He waved a hand at the door. "You heard Dolim! He intends to leave no survivors. To extinguish an entire race."

"Better their world than ours," Jannar answered firmly. "If we don't do this, those humans will exterminate us. We didn't start this war, Degra, but we owe it to our peoples to win it."

"That's what I keep telling myself," Degra said softly. "But the reality is that a good number of the dead will be innocents—and children."

"But they will not be Xindi innocents." Jannar waited a second before continuing. "Perhaps it's best to not think about it."

"It's difficult when you have children of your own." Degra couldn't shake the image of his family home being vaporized in a sheath of light, the screams of his wife, Naara, and his two children, Jaina and Piral.

"What we do is for them," Jannar answered. "By doing this, we save our children's future. Remember that."

"I wonder how our children will remember us," Degra replied cynically.

…

"Hey, Doc, do you have a minute?" Archer asked as he entered sickbay, the doors whooshing shut behind him. It was late at night, and sickbay was all but deserted, aside from the steady hum of chirping animals.

"Captain!" Phlox put down a medical scanner, semi-distracted with his work. Laying it aside, he looked up at the captain. "What can I—ah, I think I know." Archer's head was tilted to the left side, and his left shoulder was raised. A grimace of pain was noticeable on the human's face. "Come over here, take a seat," the physician said, gesturing towards the central biobed.

Archer wearily pulled himself onto the padded table. "I moved my head too quickly," he said. "Got a sharp pain in my neck, and now I can't move it."

Phlox picked up another scanner and ran it over the captain's neck. "Just a simple muscle pull, I'm sure," the doctor said reassuringly. The results came back in seconds. "The levator scapulae, if you're curious. You also strained a couple ligaments." Phlox set the instrument down. "I'd normally prescribe some rest, but I don't suppose you're planning on that, ehm?"

"Not quite, Doctor," Archer replied as Phlox crossed to the pharmacy. "I have a mission in a couple hours." The Denobulan grabbed a hypospray and filled it, holding it eyelevel to ensure that any air bubbles were out. "What do you have for me?'

"It's a localized muscle relaxant." Archer felt the faint pressure of the hypospray injecting its contents into his body. "It should relax the muscle, without causing any drowsiness. Although I'd recommend you avoid any strenuous activity with that shoulder."

Archer slowly rotated his arm, feeling the pain slip away, and looked at Phlox perplexingly. "Phlox?" the captain asked strangely. "Why are you here?"

Phlox's Denobulan face became nonplussed. "There are a lot of answers for that, Captain," he replied questioningly. "Can you be any more specific?"

"Why are you here, in the Expanse?" Archer clarified, curiosity etched into his face. "I mean, Denobula isn't being threatened. And there's a good chance we won't return from this mission."

Phlox shrugged. "Does it matter if they're my people or not? I am a physician, and my duty is to all sentient life, regardless of species." He raised Archer's arm to test the range of motion. "Why do you ask?"

Archer winced with imagined pain before realizing that his shoulder felt fine. "A little while ago, I, ah, accused T'Pol of being willing to take greater risks with the success of our mission because it wasn't Vulcan."

"Ah, I see, Captain." Phlox stretched the offending muscles gently. "And how did she take it?"

"You know, that was a little odd," Archer replied, wrinkling his brow. "I thought I did see a little emotion. For that matter, it seems like she's been showing a lot of—small lapses—lately."

"I'll have to check on her," Phlox said, frowning. He pressed on a nerve cluster. "Can you feel that?"

"No. But you haven't answered my question."

Phlox chuckled. "Oh, there was a time when Denobulans wouldn't even bother to help their neighbors," the doctor said wryly. "We rushed to see the dissimilarities, so we could rationalize our indifference. But that's all it ever was: rationalization and excuse, hidden behind sectarianism and nationalism." He stretched the captain's arm back. "Once you begin to realize that you really are one common race, it's not such a leap to realize that all sentient life is related in its own way."

Archer pondered the doctor's comments for a moment. "Doc," he said finally, "back on Earth, we have a—well, some would call it a historical tale, others call it a cultural myth." Phlox nodded, indicating that he understood. "Back when humanity was still in its infancy, we went through a period of true unity, when the human race was one united people. But then people began to bicker and quarrel and fight over petty matters, until the human race became completely dysfunctional, ready to destroy itself."

"That sounds like a natural part of social growth," Phlox observed quietly. "What happened next?"

"About that time, God sent a great flood that wiped out every remnant of human civilization, save for one family."

"And why is this on your mind now?" Phlox asked. He had silently acquired a cup of coffee.

"I was thinking about what Daniels said," Archer replied softly. "About overcoming the need for vengeance."

"The primitive instincts in humans are quite powerful," Phlox observed. "The fight-or-flight reaction, the need to subjugate every potential danger… they're not easy to overcome."

"In the flood, humanity was given a second chance," Archer mused. "By the twenty-first century, we had irrevocably botched it. The end of the 'Cold War,' the establishment of meaningful international organizations, the rise of telecommunications and global interconnectedness…it was beginning to look like humanity was finally leaving its violent history in the past. When the spiral started…one push, and everyone retreated back into the embrace of tribalism and nationalism. Humans were so obsessed with the past that they were willing to sacrifice the future…if God sent the flood, this time he sent the Devil, bearing nuclear weapons." The captain spoke tiredly. "Nearly annihilated the human race. Those of us lucky enough to survive, we were given a second chance."

"And you're worried that the Xindi are the one push that will send humanity spiraling again?" Phlox probed.

"Think about it, Doc…they attack, and the first response is 'let's nuke the motherfuckers!' Things were finally starting to go right, and we fall right back into our primitive fears."

"So what exactly is on your mind, then?" Phlox asked, recognizing that a deeper issue still lay beneath the surface.

"This—this—" Archer struggled to find the words. "Our mission, our reaction, is about a lot more than just the Xindi, or their weapon, or their attack. This is about the future of humanity—we're not going to get another chance to rebuild. If we backslide now, we'll condemn ourselves back to the spiral. War begets war, and hatred breeds hatred. We have to break the cycle now, while we still can. We have to lay all of that aside, choose to live in hope that a better world is possible, rather than live in fear. If we can't do that now, then what does the future hold for us?"

"And you're not sure if humanity can do that?" Phlox pushed gently.

"It's not just that, Doctor…we have to decide, here and now, if we're going to the stars in friendship or in enmity. But what if we take the high road, and fail?"

"Jonathan," Phlox replied with a friendly smile, "weren't you just talking about rationalizations?"

…

January 29, 2154

For every ounce of weariness in Captain Archer's body, Ensign Mayweather seemed to counter with energy. Of course, Archer ruminated, Travis is doing something he enjoys. The young pilot was never more excited than when he was pouring over the helm controls of an alien ship, and Travis was delighting in the opportunity to show his boss around the insectoid shuttle.

"I know these controls aren't exactly intuitive," Travis said, the interest in his voice overwhelming the apologetic intent. He was showing Archer how to handle the steering levers, and fortunately, they had disconnected the thrusters before beginning the training.

"They were built for compound eyes," the captain replied, brushing off the apology. It wasn't Travis' fault that nothing in the shuttle followed the design considerations characteristic of most humanoid vessels. In another day and time, Archer would have enjoyed the chance to better understand the insectoids via their technology.

"Good, you're starting to think like an insectoid," Travis replied approvingly. "Once you do, the rest of it follows easily."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Archer answered light-heartedly, flipping a switch to initialize the slower-than-light drive.

A warning flare sounded, signaling a simulated overload in the plasma injectors. "Try it again," the ensign said, shutting off the alarm. Archer powered up the drive, remembering this time to taper the influx of fuel. The engines—in the simulation, at least—powered up smoothly, rising to readiness in a matter of minutes.

"Can I ask you something?" Travis said suddenly.

This is a little unusual, Archer thought. After nearly three years of serving together, Archer was still getting to know the helmsman. Too often, Mayweather seemed to fade into the background—always there, reliable and consistent, but meaningful conversations had been few and far apart. One more thing I need to change. "Go ahead, Travis," Archer answered.

The ensign reset a control panel as he spoke. "You're the least expendable man on the Enterprise, Captain," Travis said, turning to face his superior officer. The lights of the shuttle winked off, then powered back up, giving Travis the bizarre impression of sitting in the middle of an old-fashioned Christmas tree.

Archer hesitated, arranging his thoughts before he spoke. He debated withholding portions of his answer, and good command judgment would probably favor doing so, in order to maintain his standing; but Travis had asked an honest question, and deserved an honest answer. Hell, the captain needed to voice it for himself.

Archer drew in his breath. "A few hours ago, I gave the command to kill three Xindi cold blood. I know that they're our enemy, but they're still intelligent living beings." He paused. "When we first launched, three years ago, I didn't even want to carry weapons. The notion of killing someone, even in combat…I thought we were more enlightened, more advanced, than that," he said bitterly.

"A month ago, I had Phlox create a living being—an exact simulacrum of one of my closest friends—so we could harvest its tissue, and I watched—I watched—as we put him to death. I told myself that it was necessary, that in the process, we were saving far more lives, and I tried to rationalize that it wasn't even a real being—that it was just a clone, a derivative." The captain snorted. "The look of trust in his eyes as we put him to sleep…"

Archer continued. "Before that, back towards the beginning of our mission, I shoved an alien being in the airlock, and threatened to asphyxiate him unless he gave us information." His voice slowly grew soft. "And I was ready to do it, too. Only a month into the Expanse, and I had already began to let go of those things that make us human…"

Travis looked at his captain. Archer's fears were unfounded; the ensign's respect for Archer was only growing. "Sounds like you're doing this as some sort of penance," Travis reflected.

"Maybe I am, at least as part of it." Archer's eyes became unfocused. "But I know this: I'm tired of watching other people die."

"Bloody hell," Malcolm muttered to himself, struggling with the weight of the photonic torpedo. Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker each bore one end of the metallic casing, carrying the torpedo—appropriately shaped like a casket—down the E-deck corridor towards the launch bay.

"Just how much did you add to this thing?" Trip retorted, grunting. "I don't remember them being anywhere near this heavy!" The torpedo rocked between them, nearly hitting the bulkhead. "Can you hold it steady on your end?"

"When we loaded the damn things, we had antigrav pallets," Malcolm panted, feeling his muscles burn under the weight. "Besides, I had to make sure it has enough explosive power—we won't get a second shot at this." In the armory, Malcolm had supplemented the antimatter warhead with dicobalt ore, surreptitiously mined from the surrounding asteroids and refined in the Enterprise's science lab. In theory, the two explosives would work in tandem, multiplying the overall power of the torpedo by several factors. And if it doesn't work, Malcolm thought grimly, that weapon has better than even odds of surviving. And the captain will be just as dead.

…

Captain Archer looked over his assembled command crew, his chest puffed out with pride. He was not a speaker, and he would have preferred to leave without saying anything, but he felt the need to recognize the efforts and dedication of his fellow officers. It was the finest crew he had ever known, and it had been a privilege commanding them.

"I've always been much better at avoiding farewells than giving them," he said, slowly turning his head to look at each officer in turn. "So I'm not even going to try." His attempt at humor scored a weak smile from Commander Tucker, his oldest—and closest—friend among friends.

"But I can't leave without saying something," Archer continued firmly. "I want you to think back to the day when this ship was first launched. We were explorers then, peaceful voyagers to the stars, ready to take our place among the enlightened races of the galaxy. We were filled with wonderment at the beauty around us, and forged boldly into the great unknown."

Archer paused for a breath. "It didn't take us long to realize that not every space-faring race felt the same way…we have been forced to defend ourselves, to fight for humanity's survival. But even now, I have to say, that is not our primary mission."

A mumbled chorus of agreement rippled through the senior staff. "When this is over," the captain went on, "when Earth is safe, I want you to get back to the job of exploring. Don't let this experience scare Earth back into its shell. We're not just exploring space out here; we're exploring the future of humanity. Nurture that; don't let fear carry our planet back into barbarity and militarism. Learn to make peace with our galactic neighbors. Let this be the last time that we strike out in anger and defense."

Archer pointed outwards. "There are four hundred billion stars in our galaxy, and we've only explored a tiny fraction. You have a lot of work to do: there are discoveries out there to last a lifetime.

"Of all the captains who will command ship, I can't imagine any of them being more proud than I am right now. T'Pol, you have the bridge."

…

The insectoid shuttle dropped lightly from its womb, hovering momentarily in open space, before curving on a gentle arc away from the comforting embrace of the Enterprise. On the bridge, the crew watched tensely, eyes glued to consoles, pursing the telemetry readouts.

"Archer to Enterprise," the captain's voice came through the comm channel, puncturing the heavy silence. "I'm heading in." The channel beeped, signifying that it was closed.

At the navigation console, Travis looked up at T'Pol, who stood watch beside him, drawing on the Vulcan's cool serenity for his own strength. Hoshi Sato and Malcolm Reed sat behind their respective stations, the dimmed lighting threatening to bury them in shadows, but the blinking lights surrounded them with a multi-hued glow.

"Four hundred meters," Malcolm reported as the shuttle disappeared from vision, swallowed up by the maw of the system. "Two hundred meters. He's passing through the grid—he's in."

"How much longer?" Hoshi asked softly.

"It'll be another four or five hours before we know," Malcolm replied, watching the last line of telemetry scroll past him. Somewhere out there, Captain Archer was on his final approach to Azati Prime.

"Give 'em hell, Captain," Trip whispered from the engineering console as the shuttle disappeared from the sensors.

T'Pol wavered for a moment. "I'll be in the ready room," she finally said. The faint crack in her voice caused Trip to give her a concerned look, but she ignored it.

As the doors slid shut behind her, T'Pol let out a breath, rapidly crossing the small room to the viewport. She let herself drape against the bulkhead, her eyes focused on the distant points of light outside, taking several deep breaths as she sought to clear her mind and regain her equilibrium. A tear slid down her cheek.

…

The insectoid shuttle plummeted downwards, little more than a speck against the vast cerulean oceans of Azati Prime. Archer, strapped behind the controls of the alien contraption, watched his pitch angle closely, refusing to be mesmerized by the view before him. If he stopped to contemplate it, he knew, he would be dazzled by its beauty; the soft, blue waters, overlaid by sparse, puffy clouds, without a disruption in sight. Back on Earth, even the most inviting beaches had nothing to compare with this. But underneath it, these seas sheltered a massive weapon, harboring the power to destroy Earth and snuff out the lives of billions of his fellow humans. No, I must concentrate on my mission, Archer reminded himself.

He angled the craft into a sharp descent, and it tore down through the lower atmosphere like a bullet, slipping into the water with only a momentary splash. The once-great kinetic energy bled out through the inertial dampeners, and within seconds, the vessel slowed to a near-crawl as it eased down through the sun-kissed epipelagic zone. Brightly-colored fish flitted around, the transitory disruption already forgotten. We need to return someday, the captain thought, trying to restrain his awe. Or at least, visit another pelagic world. There has to be some closer to Earth. God, no one would want to leave!

The epipelagic zone, as in every ocean, was relatively shallow; the water rapidly consumed the star's warming rays, and as the shuttle dropped below 200 meters, the warm, bathing glow of the sun quickly disappeared. Entering into a sort of twilight underworld, Archer imagined that he could feel the water grow cold and unforgiving. The shuttle's artificial environment couldn't prevent the icy shiver that ran down his spine. As the daylight closed off around him, the captain swore he saw movement through the viewport; seconds later, the head of a brute appeared outside the window, brushing up against the shuttle. Archer watched spellbound as the scaleless, silvery-blue body wriggled past him, finally tapering off at a length of fifteen meters.

Here, at the relatively shallow depth of 1,000 meters, Archer found his target. While the ocean itself extended far, far deeper, the water pressure—and the complete lack of light—was apparently counterproductive for the Xindi crews, and here, on a rocky plateau, they had placed the construction yard. The waters around him were murky, but the artificial lights cut through the partial darkness.

Hidden between the towering spires created by ages-old lava plugs, Archer got his first sight of the Xindi weapon. It—wasn't there! All he saw was the metal scaffolding, shaped in a giant ring, which had once supported the weapon. Few craft were left, flitting around the scaffold. Archer gazed into the vast, empty hole, absurdly wondering if the weapon had self-destructed.

The insectoid shuttle beeped.

Snapped out of his reverie, the captain ran his eyes over the controls, and identified the beep as belonging to the comm system. Shit, he thought. Well, I'm surprised I got this far. With little choice, he tapped open the comm channel.

The insectoid chatter was rapidly translated by Hoshi's protocols. "Unauthorized vessel," it announced, its tone artificially flattened, "power down immediately."

Like hell I will, Archer reflected defiantly. Forgoing a verbal response, he shut off the comm, and brought his craft around in a vectored curve away from the construction site. On the vessel's sensors, two ships appeared, both larger than his own, and presumably more powerful; but where they had power, Archer had stealth, the ability to slip a small craft through thermoclines in the ocean waters and hide beneath the false sensor readings. Whatever I do, I have to get back to the Enterprise. They have to know that the weapon's been launched—and we have to start this damned hunt all over again!

Before Archer could complete his arc, a third vessel eased down from overhead, and opened fire, striking his small craft with undiluted energy beams. The captain gripped the helm console as his shuttle shook around him, buffeted by both the direct hits and the near-misses. He stared in horror as the interior lights winked off.

…

Commander T'Pol sat at the captain's desk, her head draped forward, cupped by her lithe hands. She held her eyes closed, willing herself to vanish into the comforting embrace of her mind, wishing that the demands of the world could be made to disappear. It was supremely un-Vulcan of her, and the self-recriminations did little to help; but she had served aboard a human crew for three years, the last nine months of which had been spent in conditions of constant stress and tension, the unrelenting demands of their mission to the Expanse keeping the crew's mental health stirred on a razor's edge for weeks at a time. It was inevitable, she told herself, that her own mental control would eventually begin to slip; even the best-trained adepts at Mount Selaya could not indefinitely resist the torrent of emotions buffeting her from every side, and increasingly, betraying her from within.

She focused on the darkness of her eyelids, pouring her concentration forward into those singular points before her eyes, and she gradually felt the swirl within her diminish. The unfamiliar sensations of panic and fear began to subside, and she was able to take several deep breaths, drawing each one out longer than the last, and she felt her heartbeat slow. The cool balm of emotionless darkness settled into her, permeating the fried nerve receptors of her mind, and with one, two, three, she felt soothed, her thoughts clearing into the crystal-clear logic of her forbearers.

The door chimed, and she was not startled. Taking that to be a good sign, T'Pol grabbed the closest padd, to give the appearance that she had been working; and with a steady voice, she said "Come in."

It was Commander Tucker. A part of T'Pol's mind—the weak part, she told herself—reacted with conflict, uncertain if Trip was the first or last person it wanted to see. During their extended stay in the Expanse, T'Pol and Trip had developed a quasi-intimate relationship, the status of which was far from resolved; she could use Trip's presence as an opportunity to unburden her soul of its torments to the closest thing she had to a confidant, or she could panic that someone so important to her would see her in such a state.

The other part of T'Pol's mind—cold, harsh, logical—reminded her that they were colleagues, and their duties were best served by respecting professional detachment.

Trip entered the room slowly, glancing around, as if expecting to see the captain's ghost. "Still nothing," he said finally, sighing as he spoke.

"I'm aware of that," T'Pol replied calmly, tapping the controls on her padd. Fortunately, Trip didn't look closely; he would have noticed her reading one of the captain's articles on protein-resequenced dog food recipes.

"He's over two hours late," Trip countered, the stress rising in his voice. "He should have reached the weapon by now. We should have seen the explosion—it should've blown a chunk of water clear into space."

"Need I remind you that water does not come in 'chunks'?" T'Pol replied evenly.

"You know what I mean." Safe from the eyes of his subordinate officers, Trip let his exasperation flow out. "Travis and I found the weapon twenty-five minutes after hitting the planet, and we didn't even know where to look." He bit his lower lip. "Do you think it's possible that our sensors could have missed the explosion?"

"As you just indicated, it's highly doubtful." T'Pol continued scrolling down the padd.

Trip stared at her, feeling a degree of ire. "Whatever you're doing, can't it wait?"

"For what?" T'Pol replied. "Procrastination is illogical."

Trip took a deep breath. "Right now, your place is on the bridge," he countered, holding his voice steady.

"I'll be notified if my presence is needed."

"Damnit, T'Pol, that might work if this was a Vulcan crew, but it's not!"

"A fact of which I am abundantly aware."

Trip grimaced, holding back a scathing retort. "No matter what happens to the Xindi weapon, the captain isn't coming back." T'Pol set the padd down, dropping her gaze several centimeters. Trip continued speaking softly; he knew that T'Pol was listening, even if she gave little outward indication. "You're in command now. You're responsible for finishing this mission and getting us home. The crew needs to know that you're on top of things. They need your strength, your confidence. You can't do that if you're holed up in here."

"I don't need any leadership advice," T'Pol shot back bitterly, unable to restrain herself.

Only a Vulcan could torment herself like that, Trip reflected, recognizing the inner battle within his commander. She needs the captain as much as the rest of us—but she won't let herself admit it. "I'm just trying to help," he said finally, knowing that T'Pol would not appreciate his sympathy. "This isn't easy for any of us, you know." Trip watched as she seemed to choke back a tear. "T'Pol?" he asked, concerned.

"You're dismissed," she said, the bitterness gone from her tone.

"Dismissed?" Trip parroted, nearly incredulous.

The Vulcan looked at him for the first time, and Trip could recognize the pain hiding behind her eyes. "Get out," she told him.

…

The bony fist slammed into Archer's head, rocketing it backwards with enough force to momentarily choke off the flow of blood, causing Archer's vision to dim. He dangled from the ceiling, his manacled wrists draped over a hook, his toes not quite touching the floor beneath him, and his shoulders screamed with the pain of overtaxed muscles and snapped ligaments.

He guessed that he was on a reptilian vessel—a relatively safe guess, since his interrogators were all reptilians, although Degra had mentioned that the reptilians didn't hesitate to commandeer the ships of their brethren. The cell was dark, with only partial light filtering through the grillwork overhead, and the atmosphere was warm and heavy, oppressively humid for his oxygen-starved body. Archer tried to suck in air, but the pressure on his chest left him gasping for relief.

"Answer the question," the reptilian interrogator snarled, bringing his gnarled face eye-to-eye with Archer. The alien's rancid breath clogged the captain's nostrils, and his body tried to contract for a violent cough, but gravity interfered; and Archer was forced to let the putrid odor waft into his airways.

Archer's mouth was thick with blood, and with a twisting effort, he spat it out onto the deck plating. "Repeat the question," he replied, keeping his eyes shut to focus on subduing the pain.

The massive, clawed fist plowed into Archer's stomach, causing his body to contract instinctively, and sending a surge of bile up his throat. It spewed forward, where the interrogator had been standing a second before. "How many Earth vessels have entered the Expanse?" the reptilian snarled impatiently.

"I wish I could help you," Archer spit back, "but my superiors keep me in the dark about these things." The fist came forward, slamming Archer's head back again, and the captain felt a strange sensation of pleasure; the pain in his neck muscles had grown so excruciating that his body's defense endorphins had kicked in. I can handle this, he thought confidently. They have nothing on the Klingons. The two weeks he had spent in a Klingon interrogation chamber had been far more brutal—the Klingons, for all their physical violence, were masters of psychological torture, a skill that the Xindi seemed to lack.

"Is this a pre-emptive strike?" the interrogator barked, giving Archer's body a shove. As he swung like a pendulum, one of the reptilian guards gave him another shove, and then another, until his body was swinging in circles from the hook like a tire swing. Archer felt a wave of nausea hit, but there was nothing left in his system to eject.

"I thought that was your specialty!" he spat back.

"You don't want to know my specialty," the interrogator replied menacingly.

"Let me guess," Archer jabbed. "Stinking up the room."

With a hiss, one of the guards leapt forward, ready to deliver a powerful blow, but was stopped by the raised hand of the interrogator. "I had no idea that humans were so resilient," the reptilian sneered, signaling to the guards to halt Archer's circular swing. "It's not a trait found in most primate species." The word 'primate' came out as a slur, almost as if the interrogator wanted to say 'primitive' instead.

"Including the Xindi?" Archer responded, intending it as a barb.

The interrogator scoffed instead. "There's a reason why reptilians are called upon when force must be applied. Each race has its role to play—we are the defenders. We keep the Xindi safe. Primates—like you—are weak. A single reptilian attacked your entire world."

Archer stared at the gnarled, scaly face. "Friend of yours?" he shot back, heaving for air.

"He was from my regiment," the interrogator growled with pride. "He was a nest-mate of mine. I selected him for the mission myself."

"You must be very proud."

The interrogator ran a thin tongue over his lips. He spoke forcefully, absolutely assured in his judgment. "You may mock, human, but his name will go down in history. It will be spoken with reverence, a testament to the superiority of the Xindi."

"Don't you mean, the superiority of the reptilians?"

"I'm glad to see you're finally starting to understand us, human. Yes, it will be a testament to the superiority of the cold-blooded."

The captain racked his mind for ways to keep the conversation going. It had been several minutes since he had last been hit, and the interrogator was showing a willingness to engage in the verbal sparing. "I'll bet you didn't know this," Archer commented through clenched teeth, "but at one time most of my world was ruled by reptiles."

The interrogator tilted his head in an almost-mammalian showing of curiosity. "I wasn't aware of that."

"But then a comet hit, around sixty-five million years ago," Archer gasped out. "Caused a mass extinction—most of the reptiles died out. How do you like that? They were defeated by a chunk of rock."

"How unfortunate." The interrogator stood still for a moment, resembling a craggy statue.

"Mammals became the dominant species," Archer continued. "Still, the reptiles might have come out on top if it hadn't been for a slight evolutionary disadvantage."

"And what was that?" the interrogator replied patiently.

Archer glared at the reptile. "They had brains the size of a walnut. Apparently it's a constant for all reptiles." The clawed fist came forward again, snapping Archer's head back, but the overwhelmed nerve receptors no longer felt the pain.

"Earth vessels," the interrogator snarled, trying to return to the questioning. "How many?"

Archer wasn't going to let go that easily. "The reptiles didn't all die out," he continued, wheezing for air. "Some evolved into snakes, alligators, turtles. Matter of fact, one of my favorite restaurants in San Francisco makes the most wonderful turtle soup." He grinned. "You should try it if you're ever in the area."

The interrogator enveloped Archer's neck in a firm grip, the claws scratching deep rivers of flesh and blood. Archer went lightheaded as the scaled fist contracted, squeezing him in a vise. "You want me to kill you?" the interrogator snarled. "Or are you simply a fool?"

"Just making conversation," Archer wheezed out. With a growl, the interrogator flung the captain backward, causing him to swing violently in the air. "Relaying a—few interesting facts—about the world—you're trying to destroy!" Archer gasped out, masking the distinct popping sound that came from his right shoulder.

"I'll reciprocate with an interesting fact of my own," the interrogator roared. The reptilian's heavy hand landed on Archer's head, the scaly claws digging into the captain's scalp. "We know exactly where your ship is." The interrogator forced Archer's head back, his fetid breath accenting the words.

Archer's confidence drained in a moment.

"When we lost contact with our listening post, we subjected the vicinity to a close-range visual scan," the alien continued, his gravelly voice ripping through the air. "We discovered your ship, and placed it under surveillance." The claws dug in deeper, drawing rivulets of blood. "Unless you tell me exactly what I want to know, I'll dispatch a squadron right now."

Archer could barely feel his body anymore. His head was on fire, the hooked nails slicing through his skin to set off thousands of sensitive nerve clusters in fiery pain; and the pressure forcing his head back on its fulcrum was immense, stretching and straining the abused muscles and tendons of his neck, cutting off signals from anywhere below.

"No more conversation?" the interrogator jabbed, confident that he had finally gained the upper hand. "I hope you had a chance to say goodbye to your crew, Captain, before you brought about their imminent deaths. I know you weak primates do things like that."

"All right," Archer gasped, wondering if his body could take any more. He ran through the options—admittedly few—in his head, and thought he saw a way out. "But I'll only talk to Degra," he announced.

"Degra?" the interrogator responded, the puzzlement evident in his voice. The reptilian only knew the primate scientist by name and reputation; how had this human even learned Degra's name?

"Alone," Archer clarified. "If you want the information, then let me talk to Degra. Alone."

"I don't know who that is," the interrogator blustered.

Archer spun on his hook to face the reptile, wincing with the pain that shot through his body. "He's building your weapon. I know who he is."

"What makes you think Degra would be interested in talking to you?" the interrogator asked, unable to mask his curiosity. He knew the human was scheming something, but he couldn't figure out what.

The captain was still gasping for air. "Just tell him that the name of his third child is Trenia."

Now the interrogator knew for certain that the human was up to something. "Degra only has two children," the reptile responded at last, cocking his head and staring through slit eyes. The yellow irises pinned on the captain, as if trying to see inside the human.

Archer glared at the interrogator. "Then you have nothing to lose by telling him."

…

Ship's day came and went aboard the Enterprise. The captain had launched shortly after midnight, for what should have been a four-hour flight to the planet, and a maximum of two hours to find and destroy the weapon. They were now halfway through the fourth six-hour block, and no signs had come back; no reports of a massive explosion under the planet's watery surface; no communications signals from the stolen insectoid shuttle; no unusual movement among the Xindi fleet to indicate altered security procedures; and no indication that the Xindi had found the Starfleet vessel hiding in a magnetic whorl of the Azati system's heliosheath.

Commander T'Pol had, after several more hours, returned to the bridge to assume her position as the head of the crew. Despite her unwillingness to listen, she knew that Trip's comments had been logical; she was serving among a human crew, and such an emotional race would benefit from seeing her standing strong, however irrational that may be. Over the years, she had seen Captain Archer do it on several occasions; using his physical presence to calm the tension ad anxiety of the crew, to help them focus on their tasks. But who do I draw strength from? T'Pol asked herself wryly. Archer had been her own reservoir of strength, and it bit her deeply to acknowledge her own illogical dependency on the man.

"We have to recognize that the captain's mission may have failed," she said calmly. T'Pol, Trip, and Malcolm were in the rear alcove of the bridge, a cluster of computer panels and consoles designated on the blueprints as the vessel's situation room. Its close proximity to the main duty stations meant that the on-duty officers could step aside momentarily to take part in discussions and conduct mission briefings. T'Pol knew that her own post—the captain's chair, now—was only a handful of meters away, and if an emergency hit, she could be there within seconds.

"We don't know that for sure," Trip objected, looking at the twirling diagram of Azati Prime on the eye-level monitor. "If it was on the far side of the planet, we might not have detected it. Or maybe the water refracted the blast signature."

"T'Pol's right," Malcolm answered, grim-faced. "Even if it was on the far side, the sensors would have detected an explosion of that magnitude. And it would have to be under many times that amount of water to cloak the explosion."

"Well, if the captain didn't succeed, what are we sitting around here for?" Trip asked pointedly. "If that weapon's still there, I say we go in. Get as close as we can and try to take it out."

"Agreed," Malcolm said promptly.

"What would be the point?" T'Pol replied calmly. "This system is heavily guarded. Our chances for reaching the weapon are non-existent. We are the last, best hope for destroying that weapon, but we can't do so if we sacrifice ourselves on a fool's errand."

Trip snorted. T'Pol's words made sense, even if he didn't like the conclusion, and he couldn't help but appreciate her mastery of human speech patterns. "We can't just sit here," he said finally, letting out a breath.

"What do you propose we do?" Malcolm's question was directed at T'Pol.

"There's still a chance the captain may succeed."

"Wait a sec," Trip shot back. "You just said that the captain's mission failed!"

"I said it may have failed," T'Pol corrected him archly. "It would be illogical to assume that it did fail in the absence of conclusive evidence of his death."

Well, she was starting to talk like a human, Trip mused bitterly. "So you think we should just sit here and wait, while they continue to work on that thing?"

"The longer we wait here, the greater the likelihood we'll be spotted," Malcolm added.

"And the greater the likelihood they'll finish that weapon, and launch it," Trip groused.

T'Pol closed her eyes in a mental sigh, but no relief came. "If we don't hear from the captain in one hour, I'll pilot a shuttlepod into the system," she said finally, her voice strong, but her body wavering.

If she had hoped to cut off the debate, then her hopes were immediately dashed. "And do what?" Trip retorted angrily, clearly unhappy with her command decision.

"Attempt a diplomatic solution," she averred calmly.

"You've got to be kidding!" Trip's eyebrows shot up.

"You can't possibly believe that has any chance of success!" Malcolm added scathingly. "They don't want diplomacy, they only want war! And you're going to risk the future of Earth on a—on a fool's errand?"

"Those people aren't like us, T'Pol!" Frustration edged into Trip's voice.

"You are both reacting irrationally," T'Pol responded, her body quaking with the effort.

"So will the Xindi!" Trip exploded irately, taking a step towards the diminutive Vulcan.

"Commander, stand down!" T'Pol shot back, letting a thread of her own anger surface. Trip stepped back, visibly surprised by her outburst.

Malcolm looked at T'Pol. "You have to admit, Commander, that we've gotten no indication that the Xindi will be receptive to a diplomatic approach. And in the meantime, they'll finish the weapon, and…you're taking an incredible risk with this."

"The odds aren't promising," T'Pol admitted, "but the fact that I'm Vulcan may help me establish a dialogue. And as Surak taught my people, 'where others wage war, we wage peace.'"

"That would be fine, if it was Surak's planet in the targeting sight," Trip muttered harshly.

"You'd just be captured or killed," Malcolm added more evenly.

T'Pol took a deep breath, and noted with ire that it failed to restore any equilibrium to her battered mind. "Perhaps," she said slowly, letting the word drag out. "But at the moment, what alternate course of action is there?"

…

January 30, 2154

Archer wiled away the hours dangling from his hook, feeling the strength gradually drain from his body. He wouldn't last much longer, he knew; already, his nervous system had shut down, bringing him blessed relief from the pain, but also bringing the certainty that he no longer controlled his body. He was like a rag doll, his deadened legs scratching the deck plate, and if his ropes were cut, he would sprawl on the floor like a marionette.

The time passed, although he was no longer aware of it. Portions of his mind had begun to shut down, trying to salvage what it could by jettisoning the over-abused regions. His active mind swam in a wash of blurred colors, feeling little sensation, and only occasionally bringing any signs from the outside world. He was thirsty, he knew; he imagined he was hungry as well, although he no longer felt any pains from his stomach.

The harsh clank of the cell door stirred Archer's battered consciousness back to a dim semblance of reality. The reptilian interrogator had returned, and a step behind him came Degra, the Xindi-primate scientist, who led the team making the final weapon. At least, Archer supposed it was Degra; in the low lighting of the chamber, and with his own cloudy vision, it was hard to tell, but he realized that he had no choice: he had to take the chance that the Xindi might have sent an imposter.

"Hello again," Archer said, his voice muffled by the thickness of desiccated phlegm in his mouth. He had not spoken for hours, and his vocal chords were parched dry.

The primate stepped closer. "How do you know me?" Degra asked, puzzled. He could not remember ever meeting the captain; true, he had seen the human's face in the briefing materials, but Xindi intelligence had told him that the Earth crew was not even aware of his identity.

"Long story," Archer choked out. With a gesture from Degra, one of the reptilian guards hoisted a flask over Archer's face, and dribbled water between the human's cracked lips.

After a few seconds, Degra waved the flask away. He was not a cruel person, but he was here to get answers, not give compassion. "Tell me what you told the interrogator," Degra barked forcefully.

Archer spoke softly. "The name of your third child is Trenia."

Degra didn't flinch, even though he was hearing the impossible; he only had two children, and how would this human even know that much? He weighed his options momentarily, but his curiosity won out. "Leave me with him," he told the interrogator, "and take him as well." He gestured at the guard. "But leave the water."

With a nod from the interrogator, the guard set down the flask, and the two reptilians left the cell.

When he sure that they had left, Archer began to speak. "Two months into your third pregnancy your wife contracted Anaprolean fever," he averred calmly. "You lost the child. You were going to name it Trenia."

Degra stared at the captive. "I've never told that to anyone. The doctors knew that we were pregnant, but the name…only my wife and I know that."

"You told it to me," Archer answered. "You also talked about the first weapon you designed, the one that killed seven million people."

"I've never seen you before in my life," Degra retorted, but his voice carried little bite. He was uncertain what was transpiring.

"You watched the telemetry come in from the weapon," Archer continued. "You wondered how many of those seven million were children. You forced yourself to watch, as a penance for taking their lives."

"Who are you?" Degra breathed. "How can you know this?" His eyes were opened wide in wonderment.

"It doesn't matter who I am," Archer answered, "or how I know all this. What matters is that you recognize that what I say is true."

"Continue," Degra said guardedly. He was, first and foremost, a scientist; and however improbable, this human did know things that he should not have known. Degra would listen, and make his judgment after hearing the assertions.

"Your reason for building this weapon is based on a lie."

Degra stared at the captain furiously. "What lie would that be?"

"You've been told that at some point in the future, humans are going to destroy your species." Archer was gasping with the effort of speaking.

"That is not a lie!" Degra snarled. "I've seen the proof myself!"

"You know about the Spheres, don't you?" Archer countered.

What do they have to do with anything? "Of course," Degra replied, perplexed.

"They were constructed by trans-dimensional beings," Archer sucked in air between each phrase. "Their purpose is to reconfigure the Expanse, to make it habitable for their species. In the process, it makes the Expanse uninhabitable for anyone from our realm. It's that reconfiguration that will destroy the Xindi, not humanity."

This is ludicrous, Degra told himself. I shouldn't even be listening to this! But I can't dismiss this outright—he knew about Trenia, somehow. "I've studied the Spheres," the primate said finally, drawing in a short breath. "We found no evidence to support what you're saying."

"I've seen it with my own eyes, Degra," Archer countered. "I was dragged to the future—four hundred years into the future. I saw the reconfigured Expanse. I saw the aliens coming through. I saw the Xindi being slaughtered—but not by humans. We were fighting side-by-side against the aliens."

"That's preposterous!" Degra snapped back. "You expect me to believe that? Is that really the best you can do?"

Archer swung around on his hook. "There's an artifact in my right pocket," he said, exposing it to Degra. He used his chin to point to a pocket on his sleeve. "Take it. Go ahead."

Degra stood still for several seconds, frozen in indecision, before he stepped forward and unzipped the pocket. He pulled out a small metal disk. "It's a Xindi initiation medallion," he said, recognizing in on sight. "Although I don't recognize the exact design."

"Have it quantum dated," Archer said. "The results will show that it's from four hundred years in the future."

"You could have gotten it anywhere," Degra rejoined angrily. "All it proves is that the medallion was in the future—not you!"

"Listen to me, you sonuvabitch!" Archer snarled, lurching forward in fury. "It wasn't any easier for me to swallow this than it is for you, but you'd better understand something! If you destroy Earth, you won't be saving your species, you'll be condemning it!"

Degra growled and left the chamber.

…

Degra sat in his chair, staring moodily at the medallion. After returning to his own vessel, he had the disc quantum dated; and now, he sat in lonely silence, pondering the significance of the test results. He had dismissed the crew from the command room; high in orbit of Azati Prime, and still docked to the much-larger reptilian vessel, there was no need to have the crew stand watch, and he wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

His solitude didn't last long. The arboreal councilor, Jannar, and the primate councilor, Depac, were both in the system, and after the test results had come in, he had called them both for a meeting.

"What have you found?" Jannar asked promptly, nodding his head in greeting.

"The quantum dating confirms it," Degra answered wearily, still looking at the medallion. "It's from the future."

Depac leaned forward, across a computer console. "That doesn't prove the human's telling the truth," he retorted. "There are many other explanations for this!"

Jannar stroked the fur underneath his chin. "But if there's any truth in what he's saying, it means we can't trust her." He didn't clarify; the other two knew who he referred to.

"It also means that she's been dealing with the reptilians secretly," Degra added bitterly.

"Archer told you this as well?" Depac shot back skeptically. "I don't suppose he has any recordings of it, does he?"

"No," Degra answered. "But after I got the test results, I went back to speak to him some more. He mentioned that saw reptilians on Earth—sometime in the past. She had sent them."

"The past?" Jannar asked unbelievingly.

"So he's a time traveler!" Depac exclaimed, raising his arms in emphasis. "He travels forward, he travels backward, and yet he brings back no proof! Does he seriously expect us to just take his word for it, and risk sacrificing our people?"

Degra gritted his teeth. He knew that this wouldn't be easy. "According to the human, the reptilians were developing a bioweapon."

The command room grew cold with the word.

"The Xindi Council prohibited that," Jannar countered doubtfully, the hesitation noticeable in his voice. The reptilians had originally advocated using a bioweapon to wipe out the humans, and when the Council overruled the proposal, the Councilor Dolim had made clear his disagreement. The notion that the reptilians had continued to pursue such a weapon, behind the backs of the other Xindi races…Jannar couldn't silence the suspicion in his mind.

"He spoke of it in great detail," Degra snapped. "And think about it: if the reptilians wanted to keep their actions a secret, hiding in the past would a good way of doing it."

Jannar thought he saw a weakness in the argument. "How would they get to the past?" he asked. "Are you saying that the reptilians have developed time travel?"

"The human said that she sent them back in time," Degra stuttered, feeling the flimsiness of the assertion.

Jannar followed the logical thread. "And if she's capable of time travel, why doesn't she just send herself back?"

"I don't know!" Degra said, frustrated. "The human said that she couldn't time travel herself."

"But she could send others through time?" Jannar pressed. "Forgive me, but that sounds…doubtful."

"The human said this, the human said that!" Depac exploded angrily. "Are we just supposed to believe whatever he says? He's the enemy! If he expects us to listen, he needs to provide some hard proof!"

Jannar was not as lethargic as most arboreals, but his languorous demeanor presented a sharp contrast to Depac's excitedness. "Nonetheless, we can't ignore the possibility, however improbable, that the human is telling the truth," he countered. "We have an obligation to investigate this—at the very least, to remove any remaining doubt from our minds."

Degra seized the opportunity. "And quickly! The weapon's been moved to a safe location, but it's nearly ready to be deployed. We only have days left."

Depac growled angrily. "The Council must be informed of these accusations!"

"Reptilians sit on the Council, or have you forgotten?" Jannar's voice stayed level. "If they have gone behind our backs, we shouldn't reveal our suspicions. Not yet."

"But what about the aquatics?" Depac demanded. "Shouldn't we tell them?"

"We can inform them in secret," Jannar answered decisively. No one mentioned the insectoids.

Depac could not control his anger. "All of this collusion is dangerous! The Council is already fracturing. Xindi order is threatened, and you would have us throw more fuel on the fire? Have you forgotten who the real enemy is?"

Degra replied softly. "We may not know who the real enemy is."

…

T'Pol felt furious as she brushed her way down the corridor. The fury felt good, somehow; illogical, she knew, but nothing about emotions fit the strict Vulcan rules of logic. The anger coursing through her veins pounded heavily, heightening her senses, keeping her mind perched on a razor's edge. What is logical about disavowing such a potent tool? She felt like the avenging te-Vikram warrior-priests of old who melded their telepathic abilities with the purifying strength of their emotions to blast the sands of Vulcan clean of corruption and vice. What have I been denying myself all these years?

She was furious, and liked it. She was furious at the Xindi for forcing this mission, furious at the captain for failing in his, and more than anything, furious at Commander Tucker, who doggedly followed her like…a little child? No, a scarred little child—no, he's just concerned…if he would just LET me do my job!

"What happens if you fail?" Trip called out angrily at her back, trotting behind to keep pace. "Are we supposed to just keep sending people in until there's no one left?"

"That's hardly a viable option," T'Pol retorted flatly, careful to maintain a cool demeanor. "We only have one more shuttlepod." Take that, you little runt.

"You're missing my point," Trip replied crossly. "Deliberately!"

Ignoring the provocation behind her, T'Pol entered the launch bay, wishing that the doors would slam shut behind her; how good would it feel to just unleash on him? To yell, to scream, to plant a fist in his smug face, to hear those delicate human bones crunch under the impact? But I am Vulcan: and Vulcans are not allowed the pleasures of their emotions! How foolish are we, to reject something that is a part of us!

"I don't think you're doing this to make peace!" Trip shot out, following T'Pol along the catwalk. "I think you want to try and save the captain!"

"You're wrong!" T'Pol responded, her ire beginning to overwhelm her control.

"Why do I get the feeling you haven't thought this through?"

T'Pol spun and faced Tucker. "You have made your objection clear," she snarled. "Now return to the bridge!" She turned again, and started down the gangway into the shuttlepod.

Trip grabbed her by the arm, forcing T'Pol to turn and face him again. "I'm not just going to sit still and watch you fly off and die!" Trip retorted resolutely.

"I gave you an order, Commander!"

The waves of anger washed over T'Pol, empowering her, bringing her to life. She felt real, fresh, powerful, but now she abhorred it. What is this doing to me? Who am I becoming? Why have I let myself give in to such violent, such revolting, emotions? I am better than this! I must…subdue…these feelings!

The swirling pressures collided in T'Pol, the thesis and the antithesis joining battle, neither winning, neither losing; locked in mortal combat, they forged a new reality within her, burning through her veins with the intensity of the unrestrained Vulcan mind. "Let go of me!" she bellowed, giving vent to the fusion of fury that threatened to overwhelm every semblance of her Vulcan identity.

"I won't let you do this!" Trip responded deliberately, frantically.

"I said, LET GO!"

Trip stared at his friend with unmasked worry. "What the hell's wrong with you, T'Pol?"

Before she could reply, they were interrupted by the chimes of the comm. "Bridge to T'Pol." It was Malcolm.

T'Pol nearly threw herself back up the gangway, crossing to the intercom panel. "Go ahead," she said, her voice flattening into a relative approximation of Vulcan control.

"There's no need to go after the Xindi, Commander. They're coming to us."

…

The predators came through the echoes of space, their ships screaming danger to any who dared oppose them. There were four: two reptilian vessels, low-slung and sleek, slicing through stellar dust with a natural grace belying their artificial creation, and two insectoid vessels, shaped like a hand, with the fingers stretched forward, ready to attack. The ships ate the distance quickly, honing in on the signature of the Enterprise.

Malcolm glanced up when the turbolift doors hissed open, disgorging Commanders T'Pol and Tucker. The two of them—normally close friends—seemed to be deliberately ignoring each other, but there was no time to worry about that. "Four Xindi vessels," Malcolm reported, "closing fast. Weapons range in fifteen seconds." He paused for a second. "They can easily overpower us."

Unfalteringly, T'Pol ran through columns and flowcharts in her head, charting a course of progress in nanoseconds, and satisfied with the hard-headed logic of it, she shifted her gaze to the communications station. "Hail them, Ensign," she ordered.

Hoshi tapped her controls, and input the commands a second time. "No response," she said finally.

"They're charging weapons!" Malcolm shouted from tactical.

T'Pol sat down in the command chair. "Power all weapons! Target their lead vessel, and prepare to fire!"

…

Captain Archer held his left wrist with his right hand, massaging it gingerly, trying to restore life to the battered nerves within it. He had little idea of how long he had dangled from the hook, his wrists clapped in manacles, but he knew that it had been far too long; his body, when confronted with unendurable physical pain, had begun to shut down, and now he staggered about the room, willing his leg muscles to wake up and provide steady locomotion.

"What exactly are you proposing?" Depac asked him, unwilling to wait for Archer to regain his balance. Against his own better judgment, Depac had acceded to Degra's request that he speak to the human captive, and for all his misgivings, Depac couldn't help but be intrigued by the alien's veracity.

"I propose," Archer said calmly, "that we trust each other. I know that it's difficult—I know that it may be impossible. But I'm willing to go first. I've told you what I know; I'm asking you to return a little of that trust."

"You were captured behind the controls of a ship laden with explosives!" Depac retorted incredulously. "You admitted that you were going to destroy our weapon! And you're asking us to trust you?"

"You're building a weapon that could destroy my world," Archer answered, acknowledging the truth of the accusation. "I had to try to stop you—I'm sure you would have done the same thing. But the point is that now, we're both here and talking!"

"Yes, after your mission failed," Depac replied scornfully. "You're only here because we captured you! I have to wonder, Captain: would you be such a fan of trust and negotiation if it was you holding the guns to our heads?"

Archer ground his teeth. "Just consider what I said."

"All right," Depac said. "You maintain that by destroying your world, we'll be ensuring our own annihilation."

"That's right."

"Because it's humankind that ultimately saves the Xindi from these Sphere Builders of yours."

"That's right."

"By—trusting you on this, we gamble with the very survival of the great Xindi race."

"When we fight each other, we're both fighting the wrong enemy," Archer averred. "We have a common threat."

"A common threat that I have never seen, nor heard of. A common threat that only you claim exists. Like…phantoms in the night. Is that what they are, Captain? You want us to trust you, who have entered our space with an armed warship, to fight a phantom? And when our ships have departed, a fleet of human vessels come plunging into Xindi space?"

"I've provided you evidence," Archer retorted through gritted teeth.

Depac stared at the captain witheringly. "It'll take far more than this trinket to convince us."

"Quantum dating has produced inaccurate results before," Degra added, stepping forward from the shadows.

Archer glared at Degra. "Do you really believe that these results are inaccurate?" When Degra didn't respond, Archer tried a different tact. "Let me speak to this Council of yours," he pleaded, addressing Depac. "Let me present my case. If you still refuse it, then fine: but give me the opportunity to convince you of what I'm saying."

"Some members of the Council would sooner execute you then listen," Degra responded first, the bitterness noticeable.

"Then help me change their minds."

"You haven't changed our minds yet," Depac retorted.

Archer caught the dangling opening. Yet. "I may not have changed your mind yet," he said softly, "but I have made an impression. Otherwise, you wouldn't still be here."

…

The two insectoid vessels flanked the larger Enterprise, pounding it from either side with blue bolts of lightning that overwhelmed the polarized, tritanium hull and sent powerful electromagnetic surges through the ship's systems, overloading power taps, exploding circuits in bursts of heat and flame, and blowing out energy grids throughout the Starfleet vessel. The Enterprise jinked and jived, trying to twist its way out of the crossfire, then leaning on the impulse drive for rapid acceleration, but every maneuver was matched by the sleeker Xindi craft. The Enterprisereturned fire, but with little effect; split between two targets, the phase cannons were unable to concentrate sufficient power to overload either attacker, and time was rapidly drawing short. Malcolm did his best to make every shot count, but he knew that he would come up a minute late and a photon short.

Travis brought the ship around in a sharp angle, straining the massive girders that provided the ship's structural integrity, but the insectoid vessels kept with them, dancing around at the periphery of the Enterprise's weapons. Bolt after bolt shot forth, showering the Enterprisewith lethal blasts of kinetic energy, and each time, the Xindi craft came in and jumped out, launching their attacks and evading the return fire.

Mistakes happen in the fog of battle, even for highly trained crew; and Malcolm cheered inwardly when one of his shots hit home, striking an insectoid vessel with the enveloping blaze of millions of energy particles. In the sudden cloud of spark and gas, the stricken vessel peeled off from its pursuit, turning to limp back home.

Malcolm immediately groaned as one of the larger reptilian vessels eased in to assume the now-vacant attack position, and the firepower of the manta ray-shaped ship struck with a fury, knocking the Enterprisecompletely off its course heading. Travis struggled with gyro control, unable to bring the ship around to station keeping, and they spun through space like a spinning plate.

Registering in the back of his head, Malcolm heard a new alert siren sounding, and spun in his chair, leaving weapons control aside momentarily. "We've lost hull plating!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, struggling to be heard over the chaos enveloping the bridge. Between the alarms sounding, the torque stretching the tritanium girders, dozens of miniature explosions, and the thunderous claps caused by particle beams encountering physical resistance, the bridge was a maelstrom of noise and smoke, fire and flame, an acrid stench of fog.

"I still don't have helm control!" Travis shouted at the front of the bridge, where he manipulated his controls one-handed. The other was clasped, white-knuckled, to the top of his console, as he tried to maintain his own equilibrium and vertigo. The inertial dampeners fought valiantly to counteract the twisted spinning of the starship, but were unable to keep up; and the pull-and-tug effect of the two threatened to toss Travis from his chair. He flinched, ducking his head beneath the console, as the circuitry underlying a left-hand panel exploded in a shower of superheated sparks.

Behind him, T'Pol staggered across the well of the bridge, maintaining her balance with superhuman concentration as another volley struck them. The cloud of sparks and smoke momentarily blinded her, washing the entire bridge in a surreal white haze that glowed of its own accord, before flashing lights punched through the miasma. Willing herself to fall, T'Pol landed in the command chair and punched the intercom. "T'Pol to engineering!" she called out. "Engineering, report!"

Down in main engineering, the battle was faring no better. The crew ran from station to station, frantically searching for one that had not overloaded, had not blown into a shower of electrical discharges, and the power relays overhead resonated with the force of internal explosions. The quaking of the ship threw engineers off the central catwalk, causing at least one to spin in a full somersault before landing with a sickening thud on the deck plating.

Commander Tucker hit the comm control and ducked at the same time, as an overhead monitor overloaded in a cascade of sparks and jagged debris. He could feel burning ashes landing on his head, and momentarily wondered if he could smell smoke coming from his hair, before another sharp blast knocked the random thoughts from his mind.

Trip reeled back, turning away from the panel and swinging himself down a set of stairs as the bank of monitors exploded in turn, the fury ripping down the wall from one computer to the next. At the end, it intersected a power relay, which blew outwards in a white, phosphorescent eruption, catching an unlucky engineer with the super-concentrated flames.

One by one, the power network lining the warp core went up in detonation, filling the upper half of engineering with flaming gas and instantly raising the room's temperature to near-boiling. The blast waves resounded, slamming the human crew back and forth, over railings, into the floor, against bulkheads, all with sickening force. The lucky ones went unconscious before the flaming plasma began to drift down, touching off dozens of fires in every corner of main engineering.

Trip slung himself around the corner, doors creaking shut behind him, and slapped a comm panel with his palm. "That last hit took out the starboard nacelle!" he screamed, barely able to hear his own voice. Was it the noise, or was his hearing gone? "We're dead in the water! Bridge!" He heard no response. "Bridge, come in!"

Above, Hoshi felt herself fly forwards into her console, impacting it with her abdomen, her upper body flung forwards with the force of momentum. Feeling the sharp pain, Hoshi knew instantly that something had ruptured; if it was the blunt force, or a broken rib lacerate an organ, it didn't matter. She had a job to do, even unto death. "Comm's down!" she shouted across the bedlam, hoping that T'Pol's sensitive Vulcan hearing would discern it.

Another volley struck the Enterprise, lifting Malcolm bodily from his post and tossing him several meters, where he splayed out on the deck plating. Choking on the acrid smoke, he pulled himself to his feet, staying hunched over in a desperate attempt to keep his balance, and cursed through clenched teeth as he felt the searing pain in his left ankle. Gingerly, on two hands and a foot, he tried to stagger back across the bridge, but the battle refused him quarter; under the punishing assault, the Enterprise's frame was starting to shake apart, and a severed girder swung down from the ceiling. It hit Malcolm square in the back, tossing him back to the deck plating, where he lay unmoving.

The rattling grew worse as the structural integrity began to fail. The tritanium alloys that laced the ship were strong, but even tritanium had its breaking point; and the sound of explosions was supplemented by the eerie cracking of metal, heated past its breaking point. Travis, hearing a crack overhead, looked up; and he tossed himself sideways from his chair, just as the bridge's central dome plummeted down from the ceiling, enveloping his post in a lethal barrage of fire and debris.

…

The reptilian general growled his displeasure when he saw that Archer's restraints had been removed, but it was of little consequence to him: simple problem, simple solution. "Restrain him!" he barked to his subordinates as they followed him into the interrogation chamber.

"We're not finished!" Degra responded, glaring at the unwelcome newcomers.

"You've had enough time," the general bellowed. "We gave you a courtesy, and it's now over. Has he revealed the location of his forces?" Beside him, the reptilian guards roughly raised Archer's hands overhead, reattaching the manacles, and draping them over the hook.

Degra stepped forward angrily. "We've been discussing other matters!"

"There are no other matters," the general snarled back. "Take these three back to their ship," he ordered the guards.

"We're not going anywhere!" Degra retorted, and with a nod from the general, the guards leveled their pistols at Degra.

Depac stared in astonishment. "You can't threaten us!" he blustered. "I'm a member of the Council!"

"Return to your ship," the general growled. "I have no patience for you."

The guards shoved Degra, Depac, and Jannar towards the door. "What about him?" Degra called out. As he looked back, over the shoulders of the reptile guards, he saw the human dangling helplessly from the hook. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving Captain Archer to the unrestrained mercies of the reptilians, but the massive guards gave him little choice.

"The human is going to a detention center for more questioning," the general said, his voice dangerously still. "If there are any survivors from his ship, they'll join him."

Archer lunged forward, fighting against the manacles. "Survivors? What the hell of you done?"

The general stepped toward Archer, fixing the human with his yellow eyes. "Your ship's under attack. It won't last long."

Degra, still fighting with the guards, managed to push his way forward. "You agreed to hold off!"

"We grew tired of waiting," the reptile snarled.

"Call off your vessels!"

The general bared his teeth. "I don't answer to you, Degra," he shot back.

"But you answer to me!" Depac spoke up angrily, from behind a rank of guards. "I am ordering you to call off the attack!"

The reptile's menacing fury seemed to grow even larger. "I am a reptilian," he barked. "I answer only to reptilians, not a—weakling—like you."

"You are a Xindi!" Depac snarled in answer. "I'll assemble the Council!"

"By the time you do," the general snorted scornfully, "the deed will be done. The Earth ship will be dust, and the reptilians will have again ensured the safety of the Xindi."

…

In the skies of the Azati system, the Enterprise reeled under the onslaught. From the outside, it began to look like Swiss cheese, with massive, jagged holes ripped clean out of the hull, venting atmosphere from within; an entire portion of the saucer was ripped away. The distinct trail of venting plasma coursed from the starboard warp nacelle, and miniature explosions rippled along the underside of the vessel. The ship made a mighty effort to turn in space, but it was futile; the engines were beat, and the vessel could no longer withstand the strain of maneuvering.

On the bridge, the consoles were in flames, a dozen fires roaring out of control. The remaining systems were going offline, some lucky enough to power down before they exploded, but others going up in eruptions of sparks and smoke, adding to the deathly pallor of the atmosphere. Amidst the smoke, Travis had pulled himself back to the tactical station, where he pulled up data on one of the few remaining monitors. "We've got hull breaches on C-deck!" he called out, watching the data stream before him. "And D! And E!"

"Close them off!" T'Pol ordered, griping the armrests of the command chair. "Do whatever you have to!"

"The bulkheads aren't responding!" Travis replied. "We're venting atmosphere!"

T'Pol looked around in confused alarm.

…

Trip ran through the remnants of engineering with a fire extinguisher. He didn't even bother trying to spray down the multitude of fires; there were far too many, and the hot-burning metal was too much for the chemical suppressant to handle. Instead, he focused his attention on the battered engineering crew, many of them lying, unmoving, on the deck plating or draped across railings, dangling precariously above the floor. Around him, the handful of engineers who could still move were doing the same.

As he rounded a corner, Trip saw movement, and it coalesced into a human being, falling forward from a wall of fire, the flames leaping high from the person, whose body was engulfed in blaze. Cringing mentally, Trip turned his extinguisher on the crewman, and the prompt assistance of two others smothered the superheated fire. "Get him to sickbay!" Trip ordered, dousing the man for good measure.

Trip punched the remaining comm panel. "Tucker to the bridge!" he shouted. "If you can hear me, I've got coolant leaks all over the place! We're evacuating!" He shut off the link, and as he turned, Trip saw the explosions begin to ripple through the powered-down warp core. "Everybody out!" he screamed.

…

Outside, the Enterprisedrifted through space, its jerky movements dictated by the venting gases from all over the ship. Massive holes sliced through the saucer section, exposing the interior to the unforgiving clench of space, and the Xindi ships danced around, delivering the death blows with gleeful precision. Scorch marks streaked the hull, and bodies shot outwards as new conduits ruptured and the hull plating buckled.

Hoshi lurched across her post, holding the console for dear life, as wave after wave of explosions pummeled the bridge. No artificial light was left; every monitor, every console, every siren and every alert was powered down or blown up. But the bridge did not suffer in darkness; the harsh glow of fire lit up every corner, illuminating the death throes of the once-great starship.

T'Pol, sitting immobile in the command chair, looked around her as the last vestiges of Starfleet burned. Her senses slowed down, cursing her with the pain of watching the flames leap in slow motion as they raced to devour the Enterprise. Her crew was broken, laying on the deck, in positions natural and unnatural; far to one side, she noticed Travis working the controls for an escape pod.

The pain behind T'Pol's eyes burned with the same intensity as she watched it end.