ARCHER'S ELEVEN
by Buck
Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek, the Enterprise, and Archer's gang. Warner Brothers owns Daniel Ocean and his gang. I dunno who own the Bellagio. This is for fun, not profit.
***
*Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco*
The wide room enveloped him in natural daylight as he took the lone chair with modest disgust. Archer did his best to avoid eye contact and fidgeted, uncomfortable in the company of the Vulcans. It had been nearly three months since the Enterprise had been recalled unceremoniously to Earth, their mission of exploration terminated by the race who had so far helped them expand their appetite for the unknown but who constantly questioned their human ethics. The debriefing at Starfleet Headquarters was just one of many such "interrogations" that he had to endure in the months that followed. There were many questions raised on both sides and by now, he was just going through with the motions, almost subconsciously answering the same questions with only a simple "no, sir" or "yes, sir," just to get it over with quickly.
*Norfolk Naval Yard Museum*
Trip stood in the parking lot beneath the yellow cast of the overhead streetlight sympathetically looking at the long row of naval museum ships berthed along the Norfolk dock. The basket of chicken wings in his left hand furnished a steady stream of distraction to his right hand, fingers sticky with teriyaki sauce. He couldn't help but picture Enterprise next in line alongside this mothball navy, monuments to man's fascination with machinery and motion. Only, it wasn't the time for Enterprise to close her book to history, he knew that. He sucked the tangy sauce off his thumb and forefinger as the young man he was waiting for appeared.
The boy began nervously, "My advisor said it would easier for me if I just paid you with a voucher..." Tucker just stared through him. "...Er, or I could just pay you in credits. Yeah, credits would be fine," he corrected himself.
Commander Charles Tucker III tossed the remains of his late night snack into the nearest waste can and straightened his suit as he followed the man down the dimly lit hallway. Trip hadn't been in uniform in months and was actually enjoying the luxury of the expensive clothing his moonlighting had been providing. The hall emptied into a claustrophobic's nightmare room filled with a half dozen prospective engineering majors from the nearby Old Naval Academy. Here, he tutored the best that could afford him on the basics and theories of warp field dynamics. Sure, the Academy wanted him. But that was Starfleet. And Starfleet bowed to what the Vulcan's thought was important. And if they didn't want him to actually put his knowledge to practice, screw 'em.
He made tree concentric rings with the stylus on the old plasma screen. "Okay, we've got a blowout on damper three, the pitch is out and the injector is breaking up. We're unstable at sublight. Can anybody tell me the answer to this six million dollar question? Sparky?" He motioned to the black haired girl as all eyes darted to the back of the room.
"The gravimetric forces of a nearby red dwarf are depolarizing the containment field?" she answered warily.
"No," Trip returned already pointing to his next victim.
"Helium contamination in the deuterium..."
"Next."
"Clogged constrictor valve?"
Tucker merely shook his head in disappointment and continued on to explain the correct diagnosis and repair. The thought of these kids making a living as starship engineers boggled his mind. Not they they'd ever have to worry about making it as long as the Vulcans kept their thumb pressed on Starfleet. He gave them a few practice simulations to run and crept out to the bar next-door for a few minutes. An ice-filled glass to his forehead merely helped dull the aching in his temples that his students managed to enact in such a short time. There had to be a better way of making a living, he chided himself.
"Is there much money in Kretassian Ceremonial Death Masks?" replied one of the academy plebes.
"Some," Archer replied, playing with the stylus shyly. They all seemed rapt in attention to the darkly dressed stranger as Tucker reentered the dank room.
"Don't let him fool ya, there's boatloads to be made. If -- you know how to move 'em." Trip continued without skipping a beat, making an underhanded jab at one of Archer's naïve if not unorthodox trading experiences.
Archer smiled slightly in amusement, "If only my sources were more reliable." He shot an eyebrow towards Trip, evening the score. Tapping the pen to the screen he enlarged the diagram of the injector, "Looks to me like there's a fault in your AE-35 unit, HAL."
The two-man shuttle zipped over the midnight skyline. "I'm bored," sighed Trip as he rolled the craft towards a rooftop-landing pad.
"You look bored," replied Archer with a slight twinkle in his eye.
"I am bored. You get those dog biscuits I sent?" Tucker missed the little wiry guy.
"Why do you think I came to see you first? Look at you. Pop-quizzing academy flunkies." He glanced over to a tired and listless Trip. The two shared the same longing for adventure that had originally brought them together. Their lack of inactivity only heightened their thirst for any excuse to get back into space. At this point in their lives, the consequences were pointless, the dangers obvious, the Vulcans be damned. But, Archer had a plan.
Trip stirred his coffee as Archer spoke in hushed tones. The nightclub was virtually vacant save for the two and a waitress, soft jazz mixed with the low amber lights. The smell of rum and curacao drifted from the bar. "It's never been done before so it's going to take a lot of planning, big crew, security..." It was clear Archer had been contemplating this for some time and couldn't wait to let Trip in on it.
"Weapons?" Tucker eyes jumped from his drink.
"Not exactly..."
"What's the mission?"
"...But the take -- full Starfleet reinstatement, seek out new life and civilization... and the Enterprise. Our Enterprise."
"What's the mission, cap'n?" Trip pressed again.
"When was the last time you were at warp seven?" was all Archer had to say to get the desired response.
Hooked.
Trip poured over the schematics Archer had laid out before him from his PADD. "Hell, if I'm reading this right, at least I'd like to think I am, I'd say that this is probably the least accessible facility I've ever seen."
The Vulcan High Command Center at B'Lagio on 40 Eridani Prime was a marvel and the pinnacle of Vulcan technical achievement. Trip was afraid to ask where he got the plans to such a facility and decided that it wasn't worth the effort. Vulcans didn't give up their secrets willingly.
"Soval, huh?" Trip chuckled. The former Vulcan Ambassador who recalled the Enterprise and the human mission from deep space exploration was now the Chief Consul responsible for the facility. That bait alone was almost too hard to resist. All he could picture was Enterprise docked in orbit on Jupiter Station. Trip knew immediately the quality of assistance they would require to pull it off if they were to succeed at all. What did they have to lose anyway?
"You'll need at least a dozen guys doing any number of multiple ops. I'd say off the top of my head you're lookin' at a Zephrem Cochrane, a Mayweather, a Reed, two Andorians, Phlox, Hoshi, not to mention the biggest Suliban, ever."
Archer nodded knowingly; already aware of whom he was referring to.
"I need a reason. Why Jon, why do this?
"Why not do it?" Archer started slowly and deliberately. "Because for the last three months of my life I've been blamed for the sins of the human race. Because, a moment ago you were tutoring a handful of warp nerds. And, because the Vulcans always win, unless when that perfect opportunity comes by, you bet it all and take down the Vulcans. I like these odds."
Trip reset his jaw, standing for a few seconds and blinked "Been practicing that speech long?"
"Little bit... Did I rush it? Felt like I rushed it..."
"No, it was good. The nerd bit was good."
*TO BE CONTINUED*
by Buck
Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek, the Enterprise, and Archer's gang. Warner Brothers owns Daniel Ocean and his gang. I dunno who own the Bellagio. This is for fun, not profit.
***
*Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco*
The wide room enveloped him in natural daylight as he took the lone chair with modest disgust. Archer did his best to avoid eye contact and fidgeted, uncomfortable in the company of the Vulcans. It had been nearly three months since the Enterprise had been recalled unceremoniously to Earth, their mission of exploration terminated by the race who had so far helped them expand their appetite for the unknown but who constantly questioned their human ethics. The debriefing at Starfleet Headquarters was just one of many such "interrogations" that he had to endure in the months that followed. There were many questions raised on both sides and by now, he was just going through with the motions, almost subconsciously answering the same questions with only a simple "no, sir" or "yes, sir," just to get it over with quickly.
*Norfolk Naval Yard Museum*
Trip stood in the parking lot beneath the yellow cast of the overhead streetlight sympathetically looking at the long row of naval museum ships berthed along the Norfolk dock. The basket of chicken wings in his left hand furnished a steady stream of distraction to his right hand, fingers sticky with teriyaki sauce. He couldn't help but picture Enterprise next in line alongside this mothball navy, monuments to man's fascination with machinery and motion. Only, it wasn't the time for Enterprise to close her book to history, he knew that. He sucked the tangy sauce off his thumb and forefinger as the young man he was waiting for appeared.
The boy began nervously, "My advisor said it would easier for me if I just paid you with a voucher..." Tucker just stared through him. "...Er, or I could just pay you in credits. Yeah, credits would be fine," he corrected himself.
Commander Charles Tucker III tossed the remains of his late night snack into the nearest waste can and straightened his suit as he followed the man down the dimly lit hallway. Trip hadn't been in uniform in months and was actually enjoying the luxury of the expensive clothing his moonlighting had been providing. The hall emptied into a claustrophobic's nightmare room filled with a half dozen prospective engineering majors from the nearby Old Naval Academy. Here, he tutored the best that could afford him on the basics and theories of warp field dynamics. Sure, the Academy wanted him. But that was Starfleet. And Starfleet bowed to what the Vulcan's thought was important. And if they didn't want him to actually put his knowledge to practice, screw 'em.
He made tree concentric rings with the stylus on the old plasma screen. "Okay, we've got a blowout on damper three, the pitch is out and the injector is breaking up. We're unstable at sublight. Can anybody tell me the answer to this six million dollar question? Sparky?" He motioned to the black haired girl as all eyes darted to the back of the room.
"The gravimetric forces of a nearby red dwarf are depolarizing the containment field?" she answered warily.
"No," Trip returned already pointing to his next victim.
"Helium contamination in the deuterium..."
"Next."
"Clogged constrictor valve?"
Tucker merely shook his head in disappointment and continued on to explain the correct diagnosis and repair. The thought of these kids making a living as starship engineers boggled his mind. Not they they'd ever have to worry about making it as long as the Vulcans kept their thumb pressed on Starfleet. He gave them a few practice simulations to run and crept out to the bar next-door for a few minutes. An ice-filled glass to his forehead merely helped dull the aching in his temples that his students managed to enact in such a short time. There had to be a better way of making a living, he chided himself.
"Is there much money in Kretassian Ceremonial Death Masks?" replied one of the academy plebes.
"Some," Archer replied, playing with the stylus shyly. They all seemed rapt in attention to the darkly dressed stranger as Tucker reentered the dank room.
"Don't let him fool ya, there's boatloads to be made. If -- you know how to move 'em." Trip continued without skipping a beat, making an underhanded jab at one of Archer's naïve if not unorthodox trading experiences.
Archer smiled slightly in amusement, "If only my sources were more reliable." He shot an eyebrow towards Trip, evening the score. Tapping the pen to the screen he enlarged the diagram of the injector, "Looks to me like there's a fault in your AE-35 unit, HAL."
The two-man shuttle zipped over the midnight skyline. "I'm bored," sighed Trip as he rolled the craft towards a rooftop-landing pad.
"You look bored," replied Archer with a slight twinkle in his eye.
"I am bored. You get those dog biscuits I sent?" Tucker missed the little wiry guy.
"Why do you think I came to see you first? Look at you. Pop-quizzing academy flunkies." He glanced over to a tired and listless Trip. The two shared the same longing for adventure that had originally brought them together. Their lack of inactivity only heightened their thirst for any excuse to get back into space. At this point in their lives, the consequences were pointless, the dangers obvious, the Vulcans be damned. But, Archer had a plan.
Trip stirred his coffee as Archer spoke in hushed tones. The nightclub was virtually vacant save for the two and a waitress, soft jazz mixed with the low amber lights. The smell of rum and curacao drifted from the bar. "It's never been done before so it's going to take a lot of planning, big crew, security..." It was clear Archer had been contemplating this for some time and couldn't wait to let Trip in on it.
"Weapons?" Tucker eyes jumped from his drink.
"Not exactly..."
"What's the mission?"
"...But the take -- full Starfleet reinstatement, seek out new life and civilization... and the Enterprise. Our Enterprise."
"What's the mission, cap'n?" Trip pressed again.
"When was the last time you were at warp seven?" was all Archer had to say to get the desired response.
Hooked.
Trip poured over the schematics Archer had laid out before him from his PADD. "Hell, if I'm reading this right, at least I'd like to think I am, I'd say that this is probably the least accessible facility I've ever seen."
The Vulcan High Command Center at B'Lagio on 40 Eridani Prime was a marvel and the pinnacle of Vulcan technical achievement. Trip was afraid to ask where he got the plans to such a facility and decided that it wasn't worth the effort. Vulcans didn't give up their secrets willingly.
"Soval, huh?" Trip chuckled. The former Vulcan Ambassador who recalled the Enterprise and the human mission from deep space exploration was now the Chief Consul responsible for the facility. That bait alone was almost too hard to resist. All he could picture was Enterprise docked in orbit on Jupiter Station. Trip knew immediately the quality of assistance they would require to pull it off if they were to succeed at all. What did they have to lose anyway?
"You'll need at least a dozen guys doing any number of multiple ops. I'd say off the top of my head you're lookin' at a Zephrem Cochrane, a Mayweather, a Reed, two Andorians, Phlox, Hoshi, not to mention the biggest Suliban, ever."
Archer nodded knowingly; already aware of whom he was referring to.
"I need a reason. Why Jon, why do this?
"Why not do it?" Archer started slowly and deliberately. "Because for the last three months of my life I've been blamed for the sins of the human race. Because, a moment ago you were tutoring a handful of warp nerds. And, because the Vulcans always win, unless when that perfect opportunity comes by, you bet it all and take down the Vulcans. I like these odds."
Trip reset his jaw, standing for a few seconds and blinked "Been practicing that speech long?"
"Little bit... Did I rush it? Felt like I rushed it..."
"No, it was good. The nerd bit was good."
*TO BE CONTINUED*