Into the Distance: Ice is Forming

by jtm1848

A different look at "Marauders."

- ICE IS FORMING -

There are approximately 250 billion stars in the galaxy.

Of all those, only one is home.

And some home this is, Tessic reflected, looking outward at the heavens surrounding the planet. Directing his gaze in one particular direction, he squinted, trying to make out the system's own star, some 300 light-minutes away; it shone feebly, barely larger than the far-distant stars in the surrounding starscape, small enough to blot out with the tip of a pin.

For that star—our sun, he thought—was not enough to keep them alive, here in the mining camp on a far-flung planet. A main-sequence F-class, it radiated outward with slightly more heat than the norm, but barely enough to even register on the scales. Instead, it was the planet's own geological activity, unusual at that, which kept the surface barely habitable, never climbing above the freezing degree.

They survived, naturally, by burrowing into the rocky ground; the bulk of their mining facility existed beneath the icy surface of the planet, structural units barely poking above the ice sheeting. Beneath, ever-expanding warrens continued to grow as the facility did, chasing the valuable veins of deuterium that had settled within the bedrock to their ultimate conclusion, embedded deep within the surface of the freezing planet.

Tessic let out a sigh as he stepped away from the window, his attention caught by the alert sounding behind him. Altering his gaze to take in the sensor console, he pulled up the readings on the approaching craft.

"Is it them?" his young colleague, Maklii, asked with an air of apprehension. It took no more descriptor; both men, young and aging, knew exactly whom Maklii was referring to.

Tessic reached up to scratch his forehead. "I don't know," he admitted, his fingers running over the ridge on his head; it resembled an inverted animal shoe, topped off by a fading crest of bright-red hair. "No, it's not their ship," he noted as the sensor readings cleared up; they were a mining facility, after all, and hardly equipped with top-of-the-line detection equipment. "Looks like we have guests."

"We should go great them," Maklii said, voicing youthful excitement at the prospect. The young man had virtually grown up in the facility, where new people came but rarely; most of their visitors, sporadic as they were, came in the form of transport ships from the mining consortium.

"I suppose we should," Tessic replied, unwilling to dent the young man's enthusiasm; but strangers, Tessic knew, could be dangerous things. The others had first arrived this way, after all.

"Are they landing?" Maklii asked, crowding in beside Tessic at the sensor console. "They're landing! On the main pad!"

Tessic nodded slowly. "Grab your gear," he told the young man, unwillingly reaching for his own. "Let's go greet them."

Maklii, even in his excitement, could scarcely tear his eyes away from the sensor console, which was now showing a high-resolution view of the approaching craft. Small—clearly an auxiliary craft of some kind, dispatched from a main ship high in orbit—was circling in for a landing.

On the side it read "NX-01 ENTERPRISE POD 1."

…

"Welcome to our home," Tessic said in greeting. He gestured broadly at the top of the mining camp, which was spread out in the valley around them. "My name is Tessic. I'm in charge of this facility." There were three of them; all looked vaguely like him, possessing two arms, two legs, a torso and a head; but clad as they were in cold-weather gear, it was hard to tell what species these visitors belonged to.

"My name is Jonathan Archer," one of the visitors said; he held out a hand and waited expectantly until Tessic reciprocated the gesture. The visitor—Archer, Tessic reminded himself—grabbed the manager's hand, and shook it up and down. "I'm the captain of the Earth starship Enterprise. This is Commander T'Pol, and Commander Tucker."

"I've never heard of you," Tessic grunted. It was hardly unusual for him, not knowing of these Earthers; there were dozens of sentient races in this expanse of the galaxy, and his interest in others had never been strong.

Maklii held out his hand in careful pantomime of Archer's gesture. "I'm Maklii," he exclaimed, pumping Archer's hand up and down. "This is Tessic. He commands our facility."

The Earther named Archer smiled at the young man's excitement. "It's nice to meet you, Maklii," Archer replied. Turning back to Tessic, he continued on. "We tried to hail you, but there was no response."

"Our communications are down," Tessic replied unwillingly. He saw little reason to disclose such information to these alien newcomers, but could come up with no excuse to cover for the breakdown in equipment.

Archer smiled at Tessic. "That must make it difficult to do business," the Earther commented. Tessic held his reserve, feeling little urge to smile back. "A Kreetassan merchant told us this was a deuterium facility," Archer went on, his smile faltering slightly.

Tessic nodded slowly. "He was correct," the foreman admitted. A part of him—a small part of him—wanted to be more forthcoming with the friendly Archer, invite him in, show him around; but a larger part recognized the danger in having the newcomer stay around. The others were due any day now, and it would hardly be fitting to have the Earthers around when the others came calling.

"Our ship took some damage a few weeks ago," Archer said, his voice growing more serious as he turned to business. "We lost most of our reserves."

Tessic reached up and rubbed his forehead, and feeling the weariness beneath his hand, he realized there was only one good answer. "I'm sorry," he replied, voicing remorse that he didn't feel. "But we can't help you. Two of our pumps are offline," he added, and cringed; the Earther's good spirits were loosening him up. "You'll have to return later in the season."

The one called Tucker shook his head and looked at Archer. "Our supply will be gone in less than two weeks," Tucker said.

"I'm sorry," Tessic repeated as he dropped his hand back to his side. "There's nothing we can do." The freezing cold was starting to seep through his gear, and he was ready for this conversation to end.

"Are you certain?" the one called T'Pol queried. Her voice was flat and unemotional; Tessic could hazard a guess that, if she pulled back her hood, he would see pointed ears. "You seem to have a large inventory. Our sensors showed over eighty thousand liters."

Tessic's eyes darted to her in alarm. "You scanned our tanks?"

"I apologize," Archer replied. Tessic could hear the sincerity, the contriteness, in Archer's voice. "But when you didn't respond to our hails…are you sure that you can't spare a few hundred liters?"

"We're holding that for someone else," Tessic answered gruffly, hoping that Archer would get the message. Tessic couldn't help these Earthers, definitely not now. "Come back at the end of the season," he added, but the words weren't sincere. "We may be able to accommodate you then." Finished, Tessic turned and started to walk away, heading back to the hatchway leading into the warm interior of the facility.

Maklii didn't follow. "Do you have any experience repairing extraction pumps?" the young man asked the Earthers.

The comment brought Tessic to a stop as he vacillated between shooting a condemning stare at his colleague and an inquisitive glance at the aliens. Perhaps, Tessic thought for a moment, pondering the possibility. The arrival of the others might still be several days off; if these Earthers could repair the broken pumps…

"Not specifically," Tucker answered the question, but his slanted grin stood in contrast to the words. "I could grab some tools and take a look."

Maklii looked aside to Tessic. "We get those pumps operating, we can make our quota," the young man said, stressing the final word; Tessic followed the thought perfectly. With the broken pumps, they were falling further behind every day; but if this Tucker was a skilled engineer, he might be able to save them from failing quota.

Archer straightened his shoulders. "It seems that there might be an opportunity for us to help each other."

"Perhaps," Tessic allowed, thinking about it as he spoke. "Follow me." He gestured for the Earthers to follow him to the hatchway leading inside the mining complex. He was unsure, not certain of what this might hold in store for his little mining colony; but necessity dictated risk, Tessic understood, and they needed to get those pumps working to satisfy everyone's demand.

Including the others.

…

As Archer and T'Pol followed Tessic back to the hatchway, "Trip" Tucker excused himself, taking care to not slide across the icy surface as he returned to the shuttlepod for a toolkit he had stashed away prior to departing the Enterprise. On the way, he felt the occasion to curse the cold; born and raised in Florida, he was ill-prepared for handling the bitter cold that seemed to seep through his Starfleet-issue parka and long johns. How does T'Pol do it? he wondered briefly, uncertain how the desert-bred Vulcan could handle the subzero weather.

The shuttlepod's door was lifted open.

We didn't do that, Trip thought in alarm as he slowed his walk. Breathing lightly, he stepped closer, keeping his eyes peeled for anyone around the exterior of the pod. Pacing himself as he approached, he reached the open hatch, and peered inside.

In the pilot's seat, barely visible from behind, sat a small person, pointing forward with a fingertip and making dashing sounds, much like an energy weapon.

It's a kid, Trip realized, relaxing his bunched-up shoulders. He couldn't fault the kid's excitement, nor his sense of exploration; a juvenile Trip Tucker would've, and had, done the same thing on occasion. And the controls were locked out, leaving very little danger of the kid inadvertently activating the engines and crashing the pod into a rock face. Still, even Trip realized that the kid shouldn't be playing in the shuttlepod.

Fortunately, it was the engineer, and not the more serious captain—or worse, T'Pol—who had caught the kid.

Trip let his gloved finger reach down to the entry pad alongside the hatch and deliberately pressed the wrong button, setting off a whooping alarm.

Startled, the kid wheeled the pilot's chair about, searching for the cause of the alarm; and seeing Trip hunched over in the rear of the pod, the kid immediately assumed a bashful face.

"What are you doing in my chair?" Trip demanded. His voice, however, was light. I hope the kid picks up on that, he realized, not certain if the mannerism would carry over to the alien boy.

"I didn't touch anything," the boy—for it was a boy—said defensively. He held his hands. "I just like to look inside the ships that come here."

Trip smiled, and the gesture seemed to set the boy at ease. "You should have asked."

The kid shrugged his shoulders. "You might have said no."

Trip couldn't help but laugh slightly at the response; it was, again, the sort of thing a childhood Trip Tucker would do. "Well, what do you think?" he asked, gesturing around the small interior of the pod.

"Well, it's a little small," the boy answered. His eyes followed the direction of Tucker's hand, drinking in the sight of flashing lights and scrolling screens. "And your controls are hard to reach."

"Maybe you need longer arms," Trip countered wryly. Taking in the latent warmth of the shuttlepod, he pushed back the hood of his parka.

"How fast can it go?" the boy asked excitedly.

The eagerness was infectious. "She's designed for one-quarter impulse," Trip replied, "but I've been able to squeeze a little more out of her." He gave a wink as he spoke.

The boy's eyes opened wide. "You're a pilot?"

"Engineer," Trip clarified. "Commander Trip Tucker."

"Q'ell," the boy replied immediately.

"Nice to meet you, Q'ell," Trip said, his face still cracked into a smile.

"Could you teach me how to fly it?" Q'ell asked eagerly. "I can drive the crawler that we use to move our drill rigs," he added quickly as Trip's face fell slightly.

"Tell you what," Trip replied, thinking of another option. "I'll be heading back up to the ship later. You can come along, if it's all right with your folks. I'll give you a tour."

…

Thank god for small warmths, Archer thought with deep gratitude as he stepped into the Quonset-like hut. He could actually hear the heaters rattling beneath the deck plating—for only the tip of the structure surfaced above the surrounding ice—as they sought to fend off the frigid cold outside. It resulted in a war being fought within the hut, one that was ending in a semi-comfortable draw.

At least, it's better than outdoors, Archer thought wryly, still unwilling to take off his heavy parka.

Tessic's voice drew Archer back from his ruminations. "We could use power cells," the alien foreman said bluntly. Tessic was joined by Maklii—who had followed along—and a newcomer, a woman introduced as E'lis.

Archer grimaced, stealing a glance at T'Pol; power cells were in short supply aboard the Enterprise. But then again, so was deuterium. He ran through the math in his head, trying to recall what was sitting in storage in the cargo bay. "We can give you two," he replied finally, unhappy to part with even that many.

Tessic snorted. "Two power cells? We need six."

Archer shook his head. "We can't spare that many," the captain answered, unwilling—and, realistically, unable—to offer that many. The Enterprise simply didn't have six to spare. "Maybe three."

"Do you have any idea how much labor it takes to refine a liter of deuterium?" Tessic responded immediately.

"Actually, no," Archer replied, gracing the foreman with a smile; perhaps it was a chance to build some good will with the recalcitrant Tessic. "I'd enjoy seeing how your facility works."

"We have three months of good weather, Captain, three months to pump all the deuterium we can before the winter," Tessic retorted. The thought gave Archer a shiver—this is the good weather? "We don't have time to give tours. Five power cells for two hundred liters. I can't do any better."

"Our medical stores are running low," E'lis remarked suddenly, entering the conversation for the first time. Her voice was calm and open, in contrast with the uptight Tessic.

"Four power cells and whatever medical supplies we can spare," Archer offered, seizing the opportunity offered by the woman; medical supplies were one thing that the Enterprise had in abundance, and the good doctor would undoubtedly be happy to assist.

Tessic shot a glare at E'lis. "All right," he responded gruffly, still clearly unhappy to be dealing at all. If it was left up to Tessic—or so Archer surmised—the Enterprise crew would be ran out of the system post haste. "But only if you can repair our pumps."

Archer smiled again, knowing that this was another promise that he could safely make. "Commander Tucker and his team will do the best they can," the captain answered. He was a little curious—typically, a drilling team had the expertise to fix their own equipment—but he opted to not ask.

"I expect you to leave orbit in two days," Tessic replied. "If the pumps are working, you'll leave with the deuterium. If not, you'll leave without it. Are we agreed?"

"Agreed," Archer answered.

…

Deep in the heart of the Enterprise, buried in the dead center of its superstructure, lay the starship's medical ward; but, as many visitors noted, it was no ordinary sickbay.

And, E'lis thought to herself as the pneumatic doors hissed open, revealing the subtropical atmosphere inside, it's definitely not like anything I've seen before.

The sickbay was a veritable zoo.

Cages lined every wall and sat on every countertop, filling any available space in the small compartment; terrariums, aquariums, and every sort of wired cage was visible, many filled with exotic plant lifes that hid whatever lay within. Far from the antiseptic diorama of scrubbed and polished medical wards, this sickbay was filled with vibrant—and cacophonous—life.

"Welcome to sickbay," the ship's doctor, the Denobulan physician named Phlox, greeted E'lis from the attached office, but the woman barely took note of Phlox as she looked around in astonishment. Down on the surface—her home for the last several years—barely a green plant survived, even in the relative warmth of the summer period. Compared to that, stepping into this sanctuary was like a visit to the richest parks of her homeworld.

Phlox, accustomed to the reaction, took no offense at the slight. "Welcome to sickbay," he repeated, a little more firmly as he stepped forward to greet E'lis.

"Hello," E'lis replied, finally taking note of the doctor. "Do you mind of I—" her gaze wandered about, again leaving the doctor.

"Take a look around," Phlox replied with a broad smile.

"Thank you, Doctor. I—what is this one?" E'lis asked in wonderment, crossing the length of sickbay as she spoke. Her gaze zeroed in on an aquarium; inside, floating among the seaweed, was a four-legged starfish of an almost purple color.

"She's yours, if you'd like her," Phlox offered.

E'lis shuddered slightly as she backed away from the tank. "I wouldn't know what to feed it," she confessed, picturing the precious creature in her care. "I wouldn't know how to keep it alive."

"Her needs are modest," Phlox commented. He kept his tone light, a friendly, welcoming voice. "A nutrient broth every three or four days. Less often when she's working."

Focusing on the doctor, E'lis tore her gaze away from the beautiful animal. "Working?" she asked, her tone indicating her surprise at the concept.

Phlox nodded. "She feeds by ingesting a little blood while she's healing an injured artery," he confirmed, looking with pride at the starfish. The four-legged creature could knit together a damaged vein with nary a problem.

"Thank you," E'lis replied, nodding slowly, "but I'll just take some vascular adhesive." The animal was beautiful, but—when push came to metaphorical shove—she just wasn't sure if she could trust it to handle a crisis situation.

"Of course," Phlox acknowledged, unbothered by the skepticism. He took a moment to rummage through a drawer, his hands emerging with a delicate, gun-like contraption. "But why don't you try this instead of adhesive?" he asked, offering the instrument to E'lis.

E'lis' eyebrows shot up. "An auto-suture," she replied. "I haven't used one of those in—ages, I suppose," she reflected, trying to recall the last time she had used such fine machinery; the pumping station had a makeshift medical ward with makeshift medical equipment. Definitely nothing as advanced as an auto-suture.

"I'm surprised you don't have one," Phlox commented.

E'lis shook her head. "We're running on a very tight budget," she replied. "Advanced medical supplies, well, we just can't afford them."

Phlox smiled again. "Here, take it," he said, extending the instrument to her again.

E'lis took half a step back. "This is a very expensive piece of equipment," she replied, mentally kicking herself as she spoke. "I can't." It was a very nice offer, she knew, and one that she would've been happy to accept—but what did these aliens want in exchange? No one was that nice.

"Nonsense, please, take it," Phlox insisted; but instead of extending the instrument for a third time, he turned around, using one hand to pull an empty medical case out from beneath a countertop. "I reviewed the list that you supplied to Captain Archer," he commented as he began to fiddle about, filling the case with various pieces of medical equipment. "Most of it was fairly ordinary, but a cardio-stimulator? A neural shock kit?" He shook his head once, as if in neural shock himself. "I had no idea that processing deuterium was such a dangerous business."

"It can be," E'lis replied instantly, her guard shooting up against the inquiry. "If it's too much, we can make do—"

"I already said, nonsense," Phlox replied gently. He handed the full case to her, and withdrew a second empty from beneath the countertop. "I'm just a little curious, that's all. I've only heard of hexatriol being used to treat serious plasma burns."

E'lis' back stiffened. "Deuterium can burn almost as hot as plasma when it's ignited," she countered, hoping to shut down the questions. Fast.

"I just hope you won't need it," Phlox answered. He gently closed the lid on the second case, and turned to hand it to E'lis. "Pardon my asking, but some of your supply requests are a little unusual," he continued. He took care to keep his voice light, but the concern seeped through. "Is there something wrong, E'lis?"

"No," E'lis replied firmly. "Everything is—is fine, Doctor. I'd better get back."

"Of course," Phlox replied, as if satisfied with the answer. "I'm happy to help."

"Thank you again," E'lis stated. As quickly as courtesy would allow, she wheeled about and departed, carrying the two cases of medical supplies with her.

Phlox, for his part, watched the small woman leave; and when the doors hissed shut behind her, isolating him from E'lis' hearing, he reached up and touched a comm panel. "Doctor Phlox to Captain Archer," he called out.

"Archer here," the captain replied two moments later.

"Do you have a moment, Captain?" Phlox asked.

…

Feeling perturbed by what Phlox had to say, Jonathan Archer flipped his communicator shut and tucked it into the pocket of his parka. He shivered slightly, but not because of the biting cold breeze.

Archer had been in space with the Denobulan physician for—what, three and a half years?—the captain had to stop and reflect. During that time, Phlox had become a close confidant and a good friend, and lengthy experience had taught the captain to trust the doctor's unique ability to decipher even alien reticence.

It isn't that Phlox offered anything concrete, Archer reminded himself. He let his head hang back, rolling it along his neck to ease the now-tense muscles. That's not the point. The point...

The point was that Phlox was rarely wrong, and if the doctor felt that something was amiss, well, then, something might be amiss.

Archer paused his thoughts for a moment to take in the bright starscape overhead; the stars, this far out from the intervening effects of the system's sun, were simply brilliant. Luminous and numerous they were, an uncountable assortment of resplendent points of light starting just above the curving horizon and extending, crossing overhead, to the far vista of snowy rock. I don't take enough time to appreciate this, he told himself, feeling the old familiar senses of tiredness and curiosity warring within.

His thoughts now rebalanced, Archer glanced over to his walking companion. "You've been to other colonies that trade deuterium, haven't you?" he asked.

T'Pol, unflummoxed by the captain's temporary pause, raised a solitary eyebrow. "Several," she replied a moment later, eschewing her usual Vulcan precision. With a little effort, she could've verified the exact number, but her logic told her that such precise recounting was unnecessary. Several would suffice.

Archer waved a hand about them, targeting nothing in particular. "Are they all this rustic?" he asked. He started to let out a deep sigh, but it turned to a stern cough in the frozen air.

T'Pol glanced about them, uncertain of what exactly the captain was referring to. "Not usually," she replied, hoping that Archer would add more detail.

The captain obliged. "Their equipment's falling apart," Archer clarified. "Half these structures look like they're about to collapse." He pointed to one in particular, an odd-shaped, semi-spherical hut that had clearly seen better days. "Phlox tells me they don't even have basic medical supplies."

"That may be so," T'Pol acknowledged.

Archer shook his head. "Deuterium is a highly valuable commodity," he added. He stepped closer to the hut, and reaching out, touched it with a gloved hand. "You'd think these people would be better off."

"We're here to trade with them," T'Pol answered, her face remaining impassive. "Not judge their living conditions." She, too, reached out a gloved hand, wondering if the tactile response would help her understand the captain's concern.

"But you've seen other mining colonies, T'Pol," Archer pressed on. "Aren't they in better shape?"

"Not necessarily, Captain," T'Pol replied. Having learned nothing, she withdrew her hand from the side of the hut. "Many mining colonies operate on the verge of collapse, regardless of how valuable the commodity is in the stream of commerce."

"I guess I haven't seen many." Archer offered up a bemused smile. "A gap in my education, I suppose."

"Did your conversation with Doctor Phlox reveal any additional reason for concern?" T'Pol pressed, certain that the captain was harboring a deeper reservation. She had known Jonathan Archer for too long, knew him too well.

Archer nodded slowly. "The woman—E'lis—was holding something back from him," the captain stated. He paused for a moment to watch his frozen breath disappear in the bone-chilling breeze. "Why do they need us to finish their pumps in two days? What's the hurry?"

"There are a multitude of potential reasons," T'Pol responded. "Without further information, I cannot begin to form a hypothesis."

…

The captain was off the ship, down below on the planet's surface.

The first officer—and science officer—was with him.

That left Travis Mayweather as second-in-command of the bridge. Not quite in command, he acknowledged to himself, but he was two steps closer than usual.

Travis kept his eyes focused on the bank of sensor controls before him, watching intently as various readouts scrolled past. He was normally the ship's helmsman; and, if the senior crew was all present, he would be tending to the navigational console. However, the young man was cross-trained on all of the bridge stations, and today, Malcolm Reed had elected to assign Travis to science.

For which Travis was grateful. Beaming his pleasure, he had enthusiastically taken the post normally inhabited by Commander T'Pol. Don't get me wrong, he reminded himself; he enjoyed navigation, and was quite good at it.

But he didn't want to be pigeon-holed at it.

Travis' eyes caught the incoming warp trail a second before the sensor alerts went off. "Commander!" he called out, directing his tone to the center of the bridge. "A ship just dropped out of warp!"

Malcolm glanced over his shoulder. "Distance to intercept?" he responded, his words clipped and terse.

"Six hundred thousand kilometers and closing," Travis confirmed, reading off the console.

"I see her!" Ensign Neda Rahimi replied from tactical.

Hoshi Sato, seated behind her communications console, turned about in her chair. "Probably just another customer," she added. "Did the colony mention anything about incoming traffic?"

Travis shook his head in disagreement. "I'm reading twelve biosigns, sir," he stated, knowing that his next words would change their mission to the mining colony. "All Klingon, sir."

CHAPTER BREAK

Slamming shut the access hatch, Trip rose unsteadily to his feet, stretching out aching muscles in both legs. Kneeling for far too long, the bone-chilling wind did little to help; and he had to cover his mouth as he took a deep breath, lest the air be ripped away by the strong breeze.

"Is it repaired?" Maklii asked, gathering close to the engineer. The younger man—younger, as far as Trip could tell—appeared little bothered by the cold, even in makeshift clothing and tattered gear.

Refusing to let his teeth chatter, Trip nodded quickly. "You'll want to keep an eye on those phase invertors," he commented. Clasping his arms about him, Trip gestured to the hatch covering with one foot. "They tend to depolarize. It's a simple fix, but the pump won't work properly until you do." He glanced back at the hut, not so far away, imagining the relative warmth inside.

Breaking into a smile, Maklii nodded as well. "Thank you, Commander," he stated. "We've been having problems with this pump ever since—" he paused, as if thinking carefully. "Well, for quite a while," he finished.

Trip pointed to the hut. "Mind if we duck inside?" he asked. It was only fifty or so meters away. If they left immediately, they could be there in…

A loud chime sounded from the pump, and Maklii crossed over to punch the communications padd. "Pump six," he said firmly, answering the call. "Maklii here."

Tessic's voice emerged a moment later. "Korok's ship is entering orbit," he replied curtly, his words struggling to be heard over the never-ending howl of the wind.

Frowning, Maklii glanced over at Trip. "I thought we had three more days," he answered.

"So did I."

Maklii let out a painful sigh, and with that, he suddenly appeared many decades older. "I'll secure the pumps," the once-young miner responded desolately. "We'll be inside in a moment." With that, he punched the comm channel closed.

Trip, waiting his turn, took advantage of the momentary silence. "Some kind of trouble?" he asked, offering up his best, friendliest smile; suspicion careened through the engineer's mind, but it would do no good to offer up an accusatory tone.

Maklii pursued his lips. "Can you help me close these induction valves?" he asked, doing his best to neatly sidestep the question.

Unbundling his arms to assist, Trip couldn't resist pressing. "What's going on?" he asked, glancing overhead as if he could see the mysterious ship entering orbit. "Who's Korok?"

…

"Who's Korok?" Archer repeated, directing his eyes back at Tessic. Together, the captain and T'Pol had returned to the main hut, where they had met up with the mining chief and E'lis.

Trying to avoid the captain's gaze, Tessic's eyes danced around before settling on Archer's chest. "He's a Klingon," the miner said, essentially repeating what Malcolm had already disclosed. For a moment, Tessic seemed to shrink into his heavy clothing.

"I gathered as much," Archer replied dryly, unwilling to relent. "What does he want with you?" It was clear, after all, that Tessic was scared by the appearance of the unseen Klingon commander; that, along with the captain's latent suspicions, was enough to send a multitude of alarms screaming in Archer's head.

He wanted answers.

"Korok is here for deuterium," E'lis countered, stepping up beside the mining chief.

Knowing that the answer was insufficient, Archer shook his head and pressed home. "If he's a regular customer, then why—"

"He's not a regular customer, Captain," Tessic stated. The brief intervention from his colleague had given the alien chief a chance to gather his thoughts; he stepped forward, and addressed Archer in his eyes. "He's a raider. He steals all of our deuterium, and leaves us with nothing."

"He must realize that you trade with other ships," T'Pol commented.

"He doesn't care," E'lis answered. She shifted her feet. "He comes, he takes, and he leaves. It's best this way, Captain," she added, seeing Archer's reticence. "If we objected—he would kill us all."

"Please, let it be," Tessic said, his tone unwilling to beg. "We'll handle the situation."

Archer lifted both hands to his mouth and blew firmly through his fingertips as he assessed his options; and reaching down into a quilted pocket, he withdrew his handheld communicator. "Archer to the Enterprise," he stated, flipping the small device open.

"Go ahead, Captain." Malcolm's voice came through loud and clear.

"Have the Klingons detected the Enterprise yet?" Archer asked. He nodded slightly as Trip and Maklii entered the hut.

"No indication, sir," Malcolm replied promptly.

"All right." Archer let out another deep breath. "Malcolm, adjust your orbit. Keep the Enterprise out of sight."

"Aye, sir."

Archer flipped his communicator closed and looked back at Tessic; the mining chief looked scared, but determined to handle the situation on his own. "So what's next?"

…

Six Klingon transporter beams coalesced in the swirling wind.

The Klingon commander—at least, he stood at the front of the pack—was tall, even for the physically dominant race. Dressed in ragged leathers and furs, the latter etched in purple, and a bandolier across his chest, he stared outward with steely eyes from beneath a heavy, crested brow. Wearing no additional garments for the weather, he appeared little bothered by the freezing breeze.

The other five were no less imposing.

Korok's face creased into a grin as he saw Tessic and Maklii emerge from the shelter. Together, the two men seemed to creep forward, as if supplicating themselves before the powerful Klingon raider. Buried in their tattered parkas, neither Tessic nor Maklii appeared to be any threat to Korok.

"My old friend!" Korok exclaimed as he extended his brawny arms wide; he looked as though he could crush Tessic with a single, firm hug. "It's so good to see you!"

"We weren't expecting you so soon," Tessic responded, far less enthusiastically. He came to a stop a couple paces from the Klingon and straightened his back, as if seeking to counter Korok's prowess. "We've had trouble with two of our pumps."

"My crew's hungry," Korok replied fiercely, a shadow falling over his face. He stepped up, straight into Tessic's face. "Let's have food and drink!" The other Klingons howled excitedly at the prospect.

"Your deuterium," Tessic pressed ahead, shrinking back a half-pace.

"Eat, first," Korok growled. "Then we'll discuss business."

Tessic ran a hand along the back of his neck. "We don't have all of it," he stated unwillingly, the words coming so softly as to almost be swept away. "We did our best, but we need more time."

Looking down at the shorter alien, Korok snarled. The harsh syllable cut through the wind, conveying the meaning without need for words.

Tessic waved a hand in the direction of the deuterium pumps. "Without those pumps, we couldn't operate at full capacity," he added, hesitating as he spoke. He knew the words would only provoke the burly Klingon, but there was a chance—a small one—that Korok would take mercy on him.

Korok tilted his head. "I sense what you're about to say is not going to make me happy," he growled. He eyed Tessic carefully, as if daring the miner to say the words that were about to come.

Tessic realized he had little choice. "We can only give you eighty thousand liters," he confessed. He was shaking, a condition only partially caused by the fierce wind swirling about him. "If you'll give us one more week, we'll have the rest."

Korok shook his head. "You've had enough time," the Klingon countered harshly. He took a half-step forward. "We'll take all of it. Now."

"We don't have it," Tessic repeated, at a loss for what to add; all he could do was state the irrefutable fact of the situation. How Korok decided to take it…Tessic was merely hoping to escape with his skin intact. "I told you, two pumps were down."

Korok waved dismissively at the mining equipment behind him. "They all appear to be working," he growled.

"We were just able to repair them," Tessic blurted out quickly; perhaps too quickly, he realized a moment later.

Korok's beefy fist lashed out. Smashing into the miner's jaw, it sent the smaller man sprawling in the snow. "You lie!" Korok snarled, glaring downward at the supine Tessic. For his part, Tessic kept on the ground, and raised one hand to feel the growing welt on his jawbone. I hope it's not broken, he thought morosely; trying to shift his lower jaw, the pain proved to be too much.

"Leave him alone!" Maklii bellowed out, entering the discussion for the first time. The young man was clearly angry, nearly quaking in his makeshift boots, and he was pressing his luck with the fierce Klingon commander. "You'll get your deuterium!"

Korok's fist lashed out again, and Maklii went flying, the force carrying him from his feet.

"I can get deuterium anywhere," Korok snarled, glaring downward at the two miners; his hands were balled into fists, but the large Klingon made no more attacks. "I come here because I like you. You show me hospitality and respect."

Maklii's eyes shot darts at the Klingon hovering above him. "You take everything we own," the young miner retorted, "and you want us to respect you?"

Korok bared his teeth, showing off sharpened incisors. "I'll give you four days," the Klingon growled. "Have it all ready."

Maklii simply stared back at the tall beast, no words coming his mind.

Korok withdrew a communicator from a hidden pocket. "Hljol!" he barked into the device, and the six Klingons disappeared in swirling light.

…

Archer folded his hands before his face and blew on them, trying to warm the tips of his fingers. Inside the hut, he had taken his gloves off; perhaps a mistake, he mused, as his fingers were threatening to freeze up on him. Even inside the relative warmth of the Quonset module, safe from the gusting winds and frost-biting cold, the chill was nearly more than he could handle.

And he had Starfleet-issued cold-weather gear adorning him from the crown of his head to the end of his toes. The miners—the miners were not quite so lucky, dressed in makeshift rags and torn coats, the clear remnants of a struggle to make an honest living.

"So this is your arrangement with Korok?" Archer asked at last, breaking the uncomfortable silence inside the hut. He continued to massage his hands, bringing circulation back into the bone-chilled blood. He wondered idly if there was a warmer location somewhere in the compound; the huts, after all, were only the top of the underground quarters. Perhaps they should be meeting somewhere down below…

"It's not your concern," Tessic replied tightly, adding to the chill in the room. A wicked welt was forming on the side of his face, expanding in ugly shades of purple and green.

E'lis knelt down next to the miner. "Hold still," she cautioned him, speaking firmly as she brought a damp towel to the wound; dabbing at it, the cloth came away liberally stained with Tessic's blood. "I can't tend to this if you don't—hold still."

For his own part, Trip Tucker scratched an eyebrow, the questions pouring over his mind. "How long have these Klingons been pushing you around?"

Maklii was a short man, but he seemed even smaller now. "Five seasons," he answered, his voice hesitant as he admitted the truth of the situation. Maklii squared his shoulders, and the miner's voice firmed up as he spoke. "They take all the first yield deuterium we can extract."

"Hold still," E'lis repeated, cautioning Tessic as he started to intervene. Unwillingly, Tessic sank back down, held captive by E'lis' ministrations.

Maklii's eyes jumped back and forth between the two humans. "After they leave, we manage to pull a few thousand liters out of the deep strata," he stated. He took a deep breath and blew out visible carbon dioxide vapor. "But it takes weeks."

E'lis looked up at the humans as well. "And it's so full of impurities that we can barely refine it," the woman added.

Tessic shot a furious look at E'lis, but she seemed to not notice. "It still brings a decent price," he growled. Of the three miners, he was clearly the only one unwilling to disclose their desperation to these human aliens. "We make enough to get through the winter."

"Barely," Maklii snorted.

"Have you tried contacting your homeworld?" T'Pol asked, physically stepping up and into the conversation. Despite her desert heritage, the slender Vulcan seemed unbothered by the cold.

Tessic tried to shake his head, but rapidly gave up on the idea. "It's too far away," he admitted. He gestured for E'lis to reapply the compress.

"You must have weapons," Trip mused aloud. He glanced around, as if expecting to see a row of late-model pulse rifles materialize in the hut. "Some way to defend yourselves."

"How many of them are there?" T'Pol asked.

"Usually six," E'lis answered.

"Six?" Trip snorted in surprise. "You've got them outnumbered nine or ten to one." The answer seemed obvious to him, a simple matter of numbers.

"You've never seen a Klingon in battle, have you?" Tessic replied at once.

Trip was forced to shake his head no.

"We tried standing up to them once, three seasons ago," Maklii added. "Five of us died fighting them…then they killed three more to prove their point." His voice turned downcast as he remembered the slaughter.

"One of them was Q'ell's father," E'lis commented.

Archer ran a hand across the crown of his head, pushing back his Starfleet-issue hat. "Maybe there's something we can do," he said, thinking as he spoke.

Tessic shook his head roughly. "Just take your two hundred liters and go," he replied gruffly. "If you're here when they come back…they'll kill you too."

…

Jonathan Archer trudged back to the landing pad, perturbed by what he had seen; his head held low as he walked, the captain could only run through the events in his head, witnessing again and again as Korok assaulted the miners. It bothered him, in ways that he couldn't yet explain; but something in the senseless brutality and passive response troubled him deeply, keeping his thoughts tumbling about as he mindlessly kicked a dirty ball of frozen snow. The air was bitterly cold, but lost in thought, he no longer noticed.

Archer's communicator chimed twice before he took note of it. "Archer here," he said reflexively as he flipped the small device open, raising it to his mouth. The wind gusted by, threatening to rip his words away.

"Commander Reed here, sir," the answer came back. It sounded small, almost tiny in the furious breeze. "The Klingon ship has gone to warp, sir. I'm sending a shuttlepod down."

Archer let out a deep breath of air and glanced upward, as if absently searching for the contrails of the shuttlepod. "We'll be at the landing site, Commander," he replied; the words came out automatically, reflecting little conscious thought on the captain's part.

All he could see was Korok striking Tessic and Maklii, again and again.

…

Despite the chilled air, Trip Tucker's blood boiled hot.

It's not right, the engineer thought to himself as he followed in the captain's literal footsteps, one foot lifted after another as he sought safe footing in the blanket of snow. We shouldn't be leaving them. Not here, not like this. It felt wrong, like the Enterprise was neglecting its duty.

A part of Trip—a very large part, if he was to be honest with himself—wanted to do nothing more than lash out at the Klingons, planting a fist firmly in Korok's craggy face. Then another fist, and then another, until the Klingon went down in a heap, staining the white snow with blood. And then to lay into the miners, the cowards, he couldn't help but think; if it were me, if it were me, he figured, he would not be so willing to take the bad end of a brutal deal. And he struggled to understand why the miners were so reluctant to fight back.

It would only take a few of them, Trip thought. A few miners, a few weapons, some well-placed encampments, and they could take out the entire Klingon landing party. Of course, there's still the ship…that part failed to succumb to an easy solution. Any action against the landing party, and the Klingon ship would turn the mining camp into glass.

Trip glanced backward, as if giving the camp one last look, and was surprised to see the young boy Q'ell watching him wistfully; Trip's feet came to a firm halt as he paused, uncertain of which way to turn.

"I'll catch up with you later, Captain," Trip called out a moment later. Reorienting himself, he forged his way into undisturbed snowbanks, crossing the short distance to the boy. "Sorry I never got to give you that tour," he said, sinking down to his knees; it brought him eyelevel with Q'ell.

"I once saw a Kellenite ship with cannons and torpedoes," Q'ell piped up; a smile brightened his face. "I got to help load the deuterium tanks into its cargo bays."

Tucker nodded slowly. "Most big ships carry weapons," he acknowledged slowly, not wanting to disclose too much.

"Like the Enterprise," Q'ell suggested helpfully.

Trip wasn't sure how to respond. "Yeah, like the Enterprise," he settled on, trying to remain noncommittal. Discussing the ship's armaments with a child—it felt awkward, almost wrong somehow.

"You could've fought the Klingons," Q'ell added. He looked deeply at the engineer. "Beaten them."

"Maybe," Trip acknowledged softly.

"Why didn't you try?" Q'ell asked.

The words hit Tucker like a punch to the gut; it was a valid question, the very question he had been wrestling with. Why didn't we try? The Enterprise crew easily outnumbered the Klingons, and the Enterprise was not lacking for firepower; in a knock-down fight, the humans could have prevailed, sending the Klingons scurrying away.

Trip's eyes dipped downward as he considered the words. "It's not that simple," he acknowledged finally.

…

Holding his hands above his head, Archer rocked back in his chair, appreciating the feel of taunt back muscles forced to stretch and loosen. The pain—for it did hurt—felt good, the cracking of sore tissue giving way to a rush of endorphins as his body eagerly compensated, and a wave of fatigue washed over the captain.

It had been a long day—and it only has been a day, Archer reflected as he let loose with a jaw-popping yawn. He brought a hand down to rub the back of his neck, easing the tired muscles. They had been in orbit of the planet below since mid-morning, ship's time, and now it was early evening, the time that Archer would normally head to the mess for a bite of food and take Porthos for a walk of the Enterprise's corridors. But instead, he found himself in his ready room, the lighting lowered until the glow of computer monitors offered the only illumination.

What do we do? Archer asked himself, the same question he'd been asking for the last half hour. His instincts—the devil-may-care sense of justice that so often powered his actions—screamed out to him that the Enterprise should intervene, do something, do anything to right the wrong that was taking place at the mining camp. And a few years earlier, when their voyage was new, he would have done just that, charging in to fix the situation with the abandon of a youth.

But another part of him—that late-coming sense of reason that now counseled him to slow down—was mindful of the dangers of unwanted intervention and unintended consequences. Experience brought with it an air of caution to the captain's spirit; and he quietly cursed it, even while acknowledging that reason was often the vanguard of good judgment.

What do we do? Archer asked himself again, having successfully walked himself right back to the same conundrum. He was gaining no insight this way, lingering as he was in his mind; the back-and-forth of his own thoughts was going nowhere fast. It simply agitated him, this sense of indecision…

Archer reached out and tapped the comm panel. "Archer to T'Pol," he called out.

The reply filtered in a moment later. "T'Pol here, Captain," the Vulcan woman said, her voice sounding oddly tiny over the speakers.

Archer made a mental note to have Trip's engineering staff check the speakers. "Please report to my ready room, Commander," he stated firmly.

"On my way," T'Pol answered, and a short moment later, the door chime sounded; she had been mere paces away, tending to business on the ship's bridge.

"Come in," Archer announced as he rocked forward, straightening himself in his chair.

The doors hissed open and T'Pol stepped inside, hesitating halfway as her eyes rapidly adjusted to the dim lighting. "The deuterium has been stowed," she reported, assuming a formal stance. The doors slid shut behind her. "Two hundred liters precisely. Should I instruct Lieutenant Mayweather to break orbit?"

Archer sighed as he rocked forward, ultimately coming to his feet. "So that's it?" he replied, uncertain of what answer he was seeking; he knew only that T'Pol—that paragon of logic—was a valued comrade and sounding board, someone with whom he could voice his emotional distress.

When did that develop?

T'Pol glanced downward before answering. "Please clarify, Captain," she requested, equally uncertain of the question being asked.

Pursing his lips, Archer let out a stream of air. "Do we just take our deuterium and leave?" he asked doubtfully.

T'Pol shifted her stance slightly. "What other option do we have?" she queried. "The miners have clearly asked us to leave."

"It's not that simple for me, T'Pol," Archer admitted. "They work their asses off to provide for their families, and then the Klingons just stroll in and rob them blind. Does that seem right to you?"

T'Pol tilted her head. "I understand your sense of injustice," she replied diplomatically.

Archer shook his head. "Malcolm tells me that the Klingon ship isn't much more than a freighter," he remarked. "I'd lay odds that they're no match for the Enterprise."

"So you propose that we drive the Klingons away?" T'Pol replied. "That's a temporary fix at best, Captain. Even if we force the Klingons to withdraw, they will inevitably return—and with a vengeance. We cannot remain here indefinitely."

"We could try to contact the Klingon High Council," Archer suggested. "We saved Klaang from the Suliban, we pulled one of their scout ships out of a gas giant—I'd say they owe us a favor or two."

T'Pol was already shaking her head. "I doubt these marauders answer to the High Council," she countered.

"I already know where Vulcans stand on interfering with other cultures," Archer replied. "But this isn't a culture—it's seventy-six settlers, being preyed upon. If this were an Earth colony I'd be grateful if someone showed up to give me a hand."

"But this isn't an Earth colony," T'Pol answered firmly.

"You say that like it makes all the difference, T'Pol," Archer replied.

"Doesn't it?" T'Pol responded immediately. "Captain, it is not up to you or me to intervene against the wishes of the miners. We have no writ of authority here."

"But—" Archer paused as he sought his thoughts. "But we can't just turn our backs, T'Pol. That's not who we are; that's not what we do."

"Your intentions are noble, Captain," T'Pol admitted wryly. "However, short of killing the Klingons, any action we take will only make the situation worse."

Archer let out a deep breath. "Is that the answer then, T'Pol?" he asked quietly. "We either abandon these people—or we kill the Klingons for them?" Both options sounded cold-blooded to the captain.

"Captain." T'Pol paused to gather her response. "It is not our place. But if, as you suggest, we have to do something, then—yes—killing the Klingons is our only option."

"So that's it then?" Archer felt his ire deflate from within as he came face-to-face with his choices. It was the proverbial rock and a hard place. And decisions like this—he had to make for himself.

Damn it, he thought sourly. I just can't walk away.

CHAPTER BREAK

Once more unto the breach, Archer thought tiredly as he stepped out of the hatch of Shuttlepod One. Night had fallen, which meant little on the planet's frozen surface; so far away that the system's sun was little more than a speck in the sky, day and night were figurative terms that denoted nothing more than the planetary spin.

Be that as it may, Archer reflected as he pulled his Starfleet-issue parka tight around him, it sure feels colder. With temperatures already falling far below freezing, the cold bit at him through his uniform, chilling the bones beneath with a warning of more to come. Only a small amount of ambient heat—barely enough to last through the night—existed in the atmosphere.

Stepping away from the shuttlepod, Archer's feet trudged along a well-worn path, feeling their way carefully across the snow-covered rock; the pathway had grown icy with use, and was cloaked in the shadows of the surrounding drifts. It was only a short walk to the main compound, for which he was grateful, but his body still threatened mutiny by the time he arrived.

A short question to a miner directed the captain to a ground rover, an ugly machine with four giant wheels, each cleated with metal spikes to help navigate the dirty snow. On one side—his body half engulfed by the craft—was Tessic, and the sound of metal clinking on metal suggested that the mining chief was hard at work.

"Need a hand?" Archer asked, approaching Tessic slowly.

The miner's body contorted, and his face appeared in the shadow of the machine. "Control arm is jammed," Tessic replied gruffly. He pointed upward, along the side of the rover. "I could use some help with the release valve."

Archer followed the direction, and quickly located what appeared to be a universal-issue release valve. "Okay," he answered, indicating that he had located the device.

"Turn it to the left, and hold it," Tessic stated. He disappeared back into the interior of the rover.

As directed, Archer turned the lever to the left, and moments later a satisfying noise came from Tessic's direction. "That's good!" the miner called out from within. Grunting, Tessic extricated himself from the rover and stood up straight, his hands pressed against the small of his back. His face and hands were grimy.

"Thought you'd be off charting your next star system by now," Tessic said shortly. He gave the captain a scowl. "Never expected to see you back here."

Archer shrugged nonchalantly. "Sometimes I have a bad habit of overstaying my welcome," he replied.

Tessic pulled out a rag and started wiping his hands. "You obviously didn't come down here in the middle of the night to help me with this crawler."

Next to the shabbily-dressed miner, Archer couldn't help but feel the gulf that separated the two men. "Seems to me that this crawler is the least of your problems," he observed lightly, wishing that he had a cleaner rag for the miner. Quickly searching his pockets, he turned up nothing.

Tessic gave the captain a pointed glare. "We've been through this before," he replied with a harsh snort. "It's not your concern."

Archer could feel the hostility radiating from Tessic. "You said that they've been coming here for what, five seasons?" he asked, keeping his hands burrowed in the relative warmth of his pockets. "How much longer do you plan on letting this go on? Another five?"

Tessic stared balefully at the captain.

"I had a talk with my tactical officer," Archer forged on, mindful of the heated look he was receiving. "We're confident that you have the ability to defend yourselves."

"What do you know of our situation, Captain?" Tessic answered with remarkable calm. "You just arrived here yesterday. You walk in here, think you can diagnose our every problem, and offer every solution? You barely even know who we are, much less what we go through here." Tessic coughed lightly. "Go on, Captain. You have a starship. Go to your own home. You're not wanted here."

"You can defend yourselves against the Klingons," Archer countered with steely calm.

Tessic snorted harshly. "We already tried. But you wouldn't know that, because you weren't here. We buried eight of our people, and the Klingons buried none. They just continued to take from us."

"It would be different this time," Archer protested, feeling the conversation slipping away.

"And how so?" Tessic countered. He threw the rag to the ground in emphasis. "You're going to come down from on high and teach us?"

"Well, yes," Archer acknowledged. Against the miner's barrage, the words sounded tiny. "We would help you prepare."

"We don't want your help," Tessic growled. "Listen, Captain, I'm responsible for my people, not you. They put their trust in me; they depend on me. My job is to keep them alive."

"That's what we want too," Archer replied, feeling helpless.

Tessic tilted his head. "You say that," he retorted. "You say that you and your tactical officer want to help us; but what help do you really offer us? Are you going to stand guard, stay in orbit until we leave this camp behind? Or are you going to offer a little advice, and then fly away to wherever? Because that doesn't help, Captain. You're gone, and the Klingons come back."

"There's a saying on my world," Archer answered, treading carefully. He hadn't expected to encounter such strong resistance; maybe Tessic is a little right, he thought mournfully. "Give a man to fish and he eats for a day. Teach him to fish, and he eats for a lifetime."

It brought Tessic up short. "What do undersea creatures have to do with this?"

"It's—never mind, it's just a saying." Archer took a deep breath of chilled air and exhaled. "These Klingons are little more than bullies, Tessic. They're looking for the easy pickings. We can teach you how to bloody their noses and drive them away. Every time they come," he emphasized. "Soon enough, they won't come back at all. You won't need us in orbit; you can do it yourselves."

Tessic let out an audible sigh. "And how do you suggest we do that?"

…

Malcolm Reed could only shake his head as he took in the motley collection of antiquated weapons strewn on the table before him.

There was—and, beneath the dirt and grime, he was stretching to recognize some of them—old fashioned pulse rifles originating from a half-dozen different worlds, including Earth, Andoria, and Orion; at least one sniper rifle, apparently of Klingon origin; several hand blasters; and one very antiquated laser pistol, the sort of thing that belonged in an old-fashioned science fiction serial. Together, the weaponry represented the miners' entire ability to defend themselves against the Klingon pirates.

It's not much to work with, Malcolm groused silently as he reached out for an Andorian rifle. It had seen its share of better days; the weapon was liberally coated with dirt and grim, its once-shiny case battered by discarded use. The other weapons were in similar straits, well past their intended lifespan and suffering from derelict treatment. All were in varying conditions of disrepair.

But there were—Malcolm counted again—nearly thirty, enough to arm a little less than half of the miners. Enough to get the job done, Malcolm amended, assuming they all work.

"What do you think?" Tessic asked skeptically, reading the doubt in the tactical officer's eyes.

"I was hoping for a bit more to work with," Malcolm replied, taking care to keep his tone promising. As it was, Tessic was barely on board; too much doubt would scare the miner off. "But these will suffice."

"They do a decent job of keeping the shib'a lizards away from the power couplings," Maklii spoke up; unlike his elder, the young man voiced enthusiasm and energy, ready to do battle with the Klingon raiders.

Malcolm peered down the sights of the Andorian rifle; and seeing nothing, he wiped the grime away. "With a few modifications, these should be effective against more than lizards," he observed. The rifle was solidly built and hard to damage. And about five decades past its prime, Malcolm recognized.

"You must have a well-stocked armory on board the Enterprise," Maklii added, somewhat enviously.

Malcolm grunted. "But the point of this," he observed as he hefted the weapon with both hands, checking the balance of the rifle, "is that you need to learn how to drive the Klingons away on your own."

"Besides," Archer added, stepping into the conversation, "this battle won't be won with firepower. Deception and surprise are more important."

"Klingons are aggressive warriors," T'Pol stated. She rounded out the trio of Enterprise officers, with Travis in command overhead. "But their tactics are often crude. You are capable of outsmarting them."

"This all sounds very ambitious," Tessic answered slowly, drawing out the last word. "What exactly are you expecting us to do?"

Malcolm let loose with a broad smile. "You're going to lure them into a trap," he replied. It was a simple plan, the sort of thing that the Klingons wouldn't be able to resist charging into. Now I just have to sell it to Tessic. "A very hot one."

Tessic raised an eyebrow. "And how are we supposed to do that?"

Despite being inside one of the compound's many modules, Malcolm pointed accurately in the direction of the deuterium field. "The deuterium in those wellheads, how much pressure is it under?" he asked, hoping to step Tessic along with the plan. "Three, four thousand millibars?"

Maklii glanced at Tessic before answering. "Five," he replied eagerly.

"Enough to create some serious fireworks," Malcolm continued. "Even with—" he lifted the Andorian pulse rifle for emphasis. "—this."

Tessic's head drooped as he shook it. "You expect us to lure them in there, then blow them up?" he answered with a sharp snort. The elder miner was clearly not sold on Malcolm's plan. "These Klingons are not fools. You'll never get them near that deuterium field."

"In the heat of the moment, you can get a Klingon to charge into anything," T'Pol retorted drolly.

Malcolm gave his superior a directed look. "That's where the deception comes in," he answered, his voice carrying a sly hint. "Did you bring that map I asked you for?"

Maklii answered first. "It's right here," he said as he unfurled a large paper-cloth map on top of the assorted weaponry.

Malcolm looked down at the map and was pleased by it; the younger miner had found exactly what Malcolm wanted. The topographical map showed the main mining camp and the deuterium fields, extending roughly a half-kilometer out from every side. Neatly encompassing the field of battle, it showed every rise and every gully, every cliff and every rock.

"The pumping stations," Malcolm said, pointing generally to the deuterium fields. "They can be moved, right?"

"Of course," Tessic answered. "But what good would that do?"

"The Klingons may hesitate to charge into a drilling field," T'Pol interposed. "But if we move the rigs—"

"The wellheads will have to be capped off, and camouflaged," Malcolm added, picking up where T'Pol left off. "We're going to disguise the mining field, make it look exactly like the rest of the terrain."

"We can do that," Tessic replied doubtfully. "So what?"

"We—you—can goad the Klingons into the deuterium field," Malcolm clarified. He pointed to the surrounding terrain. "The gullies on this hillside, are they deep enough to hide in?"

"If you keep your head down," Maklii answered. "Don't you see, Tessic? We can lure the Klingons into the deuterium field, then blow off the wellheads from a distance. We can kill them all!"

"That's not the goal here," Archer intervened quickly. "We're simply proving to the Klingons that you're capable of fighting them off."

"It's a plan," Tessic admitted slowly, studying the map before him. He gave Maklii a quiet look. "If we can drive the Klingons away, they may never return."

"And if they do, we can drive them away again," Maklii replied. He nodded subtly at the elder miner.

Malcolm caught the meaningful look passing between the two miners, but wasn't sure how to decipher it. "We'll shuttle small groups to the Enterprise for weapons training," he said, choosing to press on. "Preferably people who have experience."

"We've got three days," Archer added. He clapped his hands once, as if bringing the meeting to a close. "We should get to work."

…

Malcolm was finally satisfied with the targeting viewer on the antiquated pulse rifle. "Here it is," he said with confidence as he handed the weapon off to Maklii. The miner accepted with an accompanying nod, and Malcolm stepped behind, joining Hoshi at the computer controls. Together, they—and several other miners—were in the Enterprise armory, where Malcolm and Hoshi were masterminding weapons training for the first select group from below. "Begin," Malcolm continued in his regular tight syllables.

Hoshi keyed in the control sequence, and a small holographic ball materialized in the center of the room.

Maklii squeezed the trigger of the pulse rifle, and a burst of energy spat out, jumping through the room and passing a centimeter away from the ball. Reacting to the shot, the ball moved rapidly to the right, and Maklii fired again.

This time, the shot passed through the space the ball had occupied a brief moment earlier; but the holographic illusion was already on the move, jetting across the armory. Tracing the movement, Maklii fired a third time, but was well off target. The round continued for another five seconds (and three attempts by Maklii), but with his poise rattled, the young man never came any closer.

Finally, the holographic target winked out of existence, untouched by the pulse rifle.

Maklii shrugged sheepishly as he lowered the weapon. "Shib'a lizards don't move that fast," he explained apologetically.

Malcolm resisted the urge to plant his face in his palm.

Sensing the commander's irritation, Hoshi stepped forward. "Do you mind, sir?" she asked calmly. With a directed look from Malcolm, she continued. "I can see your finger tensing on the trigger before you fire," she explained as she turned to face Maklii. Taking the rifle from the miner, she continued. "It's throwing off your aim. I used to make the same mistake." The last comment was pointed toward Malcolm.

Malcolm smiled slightly and flipped on the target.

Hoshi raised the weapon into firing stance. "Keep your eye on the target, and don't fire until you have a clear shot," she advised as she peered through the targeting viewer. The target was square in her sights, and with a calm breath, she squeezed the trigger.

A short chime sounded, signaling the hit.

The target shifted in space, and Hoshi followed, waiting for it to stop in place before firing again; her patience was rewarded, as the chime sounded again. She kept following the hologram, pulling the trigger each time it came to a complete stop; and at the end of the round, Hoshi was a perfect five-for-five.

"Try again," she ordered, handing the weapon back to Maklii.

…

Jonathan Archer paused to ease his groaning muscles.

Reaching his arms high and behind his head, Archer felt the weary muscles in his back stretch as somewhere, unbidden, a joint popped; it was a tiring business, this task of disassembling and moving an even dozen deuterium pumps. The structures were several times his size, and many times his weight; and each one had to be individually taken apart and packed into storage crates before the largest components could be placed on sleds and transferred to safe-keeping.

With little else to pass the time, Archer found himself pitching in, helping out with the raw labor needed to complete the task at hand.

"Cap'n," a slow, southern drawl sounded, interrupting Archer's moment of reverie; and he glanced over in the direction of the voice, to find the Enterprise's chief engineer strolling over to him.

"How's it going, Trip?" Archer asked, bringing his arms back down beneath his head. The engineer extended outward a canteen, wrapped twice by a blanket; and the captain gratefully took it. The water inside was already chilled by the cold air, but still warm enough to drink, and it felt uniquely satisfying flowing down Archer's parched throat.

"It'll be tomorrow before the last pump is removed," Trip replied. He shoved his gloved hands deep in the pockets of his heavy parka. "But we did start capping the first couple heads." He bounced slightly on the tip of his feet. "This is nothing like Florida," he added.

Archer cracked a smile. "It's nothing like Maine, either," he acknowledged. "If you need more people—"

"Nah, we're fine on people," Trip answered quickly. "The problem is that you can only fit so many people around one of these pumps; you add more, and they just get in the way." Glancing upward at the miner atop the pump, Trip lowered his head and turned away. "This plan is a long short, isn't it?" he asked, keeping his voice low; Archer could barely hear the engineer in the gusting wind.

Archer shrugged as he contemplated his answer. "Do you think it's a mistake?" he asked finally, searching for input from his old friend.

Trip shook his head. "I didn't say that, sir," he hastened to say. "I think it's good the miners are fighting back. But this plan—do you really think the Klingons will back down and run away?"

"I never liked bullies, Trip," Archer replied, just as quietly. "Not on Earth and not out here. Do I think the Klingons will run away?" he added rhetorically. "I have to admit, I'm not sure." He handed the canteen back to Trip as he spoke. "But if they want a battle…we'll have the upper ground."

…

"Klingons carry disruptors," T'Pol stated as she strolled purposefully in front of her new charges; six miners joined her in the ship's armory, along with Lieutenant Travis Mayweather. "But they prefer to use bladed weapons in combat."

T'Pol reached the end of the line and performed a precise about-face on her left heel. "The two most common being the bat'leth," she added, beginning her pace again. The six miners watched her carefully, and she perceived several flickers of fear as her eyes scanned across the six faces. "The bat'leth is a curved, bilateral sword."

Reaching the other end of the line, T'Pol performed another about-face. "The d'k'tahg is a two-pronged dagger," she stated firmly. T'Pol could only hope that her strength would be infectious among the uncertain miners. "The bat'leth can decapitate its victim with one stroke," she added, "while the d'k'tahg is typically used to slash the throat or disembowel."

She came to a stop at the center of the line, and gazing upward into the eyes of the selected miner, she continued. "I cannot teach you how to defend yourselves against these weapons," she said, continuing to speak bluntly. "The Vulcan martial art, Suus Mahna, takes years to master."

Unwilling to meet T'Pol's eyes, the miner stared downward at her feet.

T'Pol altered her gaze and continued her pace. "However, I can teach you a simple evasive technique," she added. "One that, with practice, ought to protect you." She turned to look at her colleague. "Lieutenant Mayweather?"

Travis stepped forward, taking position at one end of a lengthy practice mat. "Ready, Commander," he replied.

T'Pol nodded in acknowledgment and picked up a piece of pipe from the ground; the pipe, though straight, was roughly the length of a bat'leth. "Since I don't have a bat'leth, this will have to suffice," she stated.

Calmly, T'Pol tossed the pipe to Travis, who snatched it out of mid-air.

T'Pol took up her stance at the other end of the practice mat. "Try to strike me," she ordered. "You won't hurt me," she added, her voice becoming somewhat softer.

Travis held the pipe like a bat. "It's not you I'm worried about," he countered, cracking only a slight smile. Stepping forward, he brought the pipe overhead and swung downward.

T'Pol shifted her weight and stepped to her left, calmly avoiding the pipe.

Travis brought the make-shift weapon back over his head and struck downward at the opposite angle, but T'Pol again shifted, stepping to her right. The pipe came down, whistling through empty air.

Without pausing, Travis swung the pipe at chest level, and T'Pol ducked downward, lowering herself to a squatting position; and as the pipe slashed through the air above her, she deftly rose back up, untouched.

T'Pol raised a single eyebrow as she turned to face the miners. "That was called the Navorkot," she stated. "It isn't difficult to learn." She paused for one moment to look at each miner in turn, then continued speaking. "Who would like to learn first?"

…

The mining camp looked much the same at night as during the day.

Only the faint glow of a distant star, a star that could be blotted out by a small coin, existed to render a difference between "night" and "day" on the surface of the miners' dwarf planet. Located in the outer skirts of the planetary system, many units from the life-giving warmth and heat of the sun, simple existence was a challenge; and when the day dropped into night, depriving the surface of what little starglow, all activity seemed to come to a frozen halt.

At least, Trip figured, that's how it seems.

In fact, the miners—accompanied by an engineering detachment from the Enterprise—were still working, the miners many degrees more comfortable in the sullen wind. Cold breeze gusted across the drilling plain, and despite the presence of several layers of space-age fabric clinging tight to his body, Trip shivered in his parka.

The remaining pumps lay in pieces, scattered across the ground. The task of the evening was lifting the bulky equipment onto transport sleds; the sleds themselves skidded along icy paths to the main compound, delivering the heavy pieces to safe storage inside the ubiquitous huts.

The stars shone brilliantly overhead, and Trip paused to look up.

The Enterprise crew was—he guessed—about ninety or so light-years away from home; and if he peered in the right direction, he imagined, he just might be able to see his home system twinkling in the night sky. T'Pol, he knew, would tell him such things were impossible, that the Terran sun was too small, too dim to see from such a distance; but standing beneath the stars, awe-struck by the simple beauty of it all, he gave little regard to T'Pol's quiet voice speaking in the back of his brain.

"Commander!" A young voice interrupted Trip from his stargazing, and he looked down to see Q'ell running eagerly towards him. A smile parted Trip's lips, and he waved to the young boy, encouraging Q'ell to run faster across the trodden path.

Coming to a halt, Q'ell offered the engineer a bottle of liquid; and saying "Thanks," Trip accepted the bottle. Raising it to his lips, he was relieved to find that it contained warm water, and he took a long draught, and turned his attention back to the talking boy.

"Commander Reed said I'd have to hide in the canyons when the Klingons come back," Q'ell was saying. His young voice expressed sorrow at the proposition.

Lowering himself to his knees, Trip brought himself eyelevel with the boy. "He doesn't want you get hurt," Trip replied firmly, echoing Malcolm's command.

"But I want to help," Q'ell protested. "I can shoot a shib'a lizard from forty meters!"

Trip grinned crookedly. "I know you can, Q'ell," he countered slowly, picking his words with care. He didn't want to discourage the young boy—at least, not too much—but he wasn't going to let Q'ell see combat. "But Malcolm's got this rule," Trip added. "You've got to be taller than the gun to use it."

Q'ell frowned. "But I don't want to hide."

Trip's smile fell from his face. "I know you don't," he answered. "But shooting at a lizard is a whole lot different than shooting at a person, and lizards don't shoot back."

"I can handle myself," Q'ell responded quickly, but his voice was starting to waver.

"I'll tell you what," Trip replied. His drawl seemed to stretch out the last word. "When those Klingons show up, I want you to do exactly what Commander Reed says. Understood?"

Q'ell nodded doubtfully. "Yes, sir."

…

Captain Archer was no stranger to physical work, and was pleased to note that he took time several times a week to exercise in the Enterprise's gym. But hoisting man-sized pieces of deuterium pumps—that, he realized, was a different proposition. Every muscle in his body groaned and ached, his back worst of all, but the saving grace was this: they were done.

"I think we're ready," Archer acknowledged. Placing his hands in the small of his back, the captain arched backward, accepting the pain that came with it.

"I just hope everyone survives this," Tessic groused. The two men were gathered in the primary hut, ready to lay out their final positions on the map before them. "Your people, as well as mine."

With a wince of pain, Archer straightened. "You know," he said, casting about for words, "we left Earth almost four years ago to explore, to meet people like you." He shook his head slowly. "We'd only been out of Spacedock for three days when we found ourselves in a full-fledged firefight with some pretty nasty characters called the Suliban."

"You obviously survived." Tessic's response was curt and to the point.

Archer nodded. "We did," he acknowledged. "But I got shot in the leg. Just before I passed out, I remember thinking, this isn't what I signed up for. I went into space to explore, Tessic, to map star clusters and make first contact with friendly species."

"I'm sorry," Tessic said after a momentary pause. "I didn't mean to drag you into our—our situation."

"Oh, I'm not complaining," Archer replied. "You've probably guessed by now that I've seen my share of battles in the last few years." He grimaced as some of the more bloody affairs sped through his mind. "I'm not ashamed to admit that I've been nervous before every last one of them. Hell, I'm nervous now. But I know we can do this."

"Knowing we can is different than knowing we should," Tessic reflected suddenly. "My people are peaceful, Captain. We're simple miners here. Battle—fighting—I'm not sure it's our way."

"We're not seeking to change that, Tessic," Archer replied. "But the situation you're in—it's untenable. Something's going to break. Let's make certain that it's not you." A chirping sound emerged from his pocket, and withdrawing the communicator, he flipped it open. "Archer here."

"The Klingon ship just dropped out of warp, Captain," Travis reported from the other end.

"Acknowledged," Archer answered. Flipping the device closed, he shifted his attention back to the miner. "We're ready."

CHAPTER BREAK

Cold wind gusted across the barren mining plain, sending howling currents of snow and icy debris swirling upwards in the air; powerful blasts of frozen air seemed to rend the sky in half as a roaring noise sounded like a freight train barreling down the tracks. The firmament above was twilit by distant starlight, and on the surface, only muted area lighting existed, giving the mining camp a sense of fearsome night.

And the Klingon transporter beams swirled into existence, landing in the central plaza of the camp.

Korok sniffed the air as his body materialized, but it was a different sense that set off the first alarm. "Listen," he growled, his voice barely audible over the gusting wind.

One of the other Klingons turned about to look at his commander. "What?"

"The pumps. They're silent," Korok grunted, and he slowly turned about, carefully scanning the mining camp with the eyes of a hunter. It was empty, conspicuously empty, not a movement to be seen. He had never seen the camp like this before; indeed, the miners were usually hasty to greet the Klingons, Tessic most of all.

But no miners could be seen.

Korok raised his voice. "Where's your hospitality!?" he bellowed into the wind, his eyes still roving as they searched for any sign of habitation amid the huts. "This is no way to treat your friends!" Yanking his disruptor pistol from his belt, Korok pointed the weapon into the air and squeezed off two shots. "Show yourselves!"

Nothing moved.

Around him, the other members of the landing party were pulling out various bladed weapons; they, too, felt that something was wrong, something was out of order.

"Search the place!" Korok ordered roughly, and he received several affirmative grunts in reply. Fanning out, the other Klingons started opening the doors to the immediate huts, and loud noises indicated that a search was taking place inside each one.

One by one, the Klingons emerged, shaking their heads. No one inside.

Suddenly, the rustling sound of boots on rock came from behind a hut, on the side of the camp. Korok's eyes darted over, and he was rewarded by the sight of a humanoid figure running away, up a path and into an empty field.

With a signal from Korok, the Klingons gave chase.

Several rounds of pulsed energy struck by the Klingons' feet, coming from the far side of the vacant stretch of land. The Klingons scattered, hiding behind huts for protection.

"This will cost you more than deuterium!" Korok shouted out. The large Klingon was rapidly reaching the breaking point of his aggravation.

And he was struck in the back of the head by a large rock.

"P'taQ!" Korok cursed his assailant as he wheeled about, searching for the source of the rock; and there, between two huts, he saw a woman running away.

With his free hand, Korok drew his bat'leth and chased after her, heedless of the icy slipperiness beneath his feet. The woman disappeared behind a hut, but re-emerged a moment later, right in front of him, and Korok barreled the smaller woman to the ground.

Wielding the curved sword in one hand, Korok brought his bat'leth down and to his right, but the woman quickly dodged, shifting herself in the opposite direction; and with a growl, Korok brought the weapon up again, this time slashing to his left. She again executed a textbook dodge.

With a grunt, Korok swept the weapon across his body, intent on decapitating her, but the woman ducked below the blade, keeping her balance the whole time. Rolling to one side, she scrambled to her feet, and took off running towards the empty wasteland.

As Korok moved to chase her, a round of pulsed energy narrowly missed, sending him back behind cover. Opening a door, he scurried into the closest hut.

Korok's breath was coming hot and fast as he glanced around the hut, but it appeared deserted. Turning his back, he was prepared to leave, but heard a footstep behind him.

Korok turned about and stepped headfirst into a length of solid pipe, and found himself laid out on his back, laying half out the door of the hut. Four of the other Klingons heard him, and started to run over, but were promptly sent scattered by several more bolts of pulsed energy.

Jumping to his feet, Korok saw his assailant run out the back of the hut, and the enraged Klingon charged after, intent on bloody destruction.

"Hey!" The barked invocation drew Korok's attention away from his pursuit, as another miner—this one a small, lithesome woman wearing a headband—appeared on his left, and he paused; uncertain of which to pursue, he gave up a critical second of time as he debated.

The woman's boot lashed out fiercely, striking the much-taller Klingon square in the chin with powerful force; his head snapping back, Korok stumbled, his footing uncertain on the icy surface. Before he could recover, the woman's boot lashed out again, nailing him firmly in the chest; and again Korok went sprawling unceremoniously to the ground.

Korok let go of his disruptor and hauled himself up to his feet.

Korok swung his bat'leth, another textbook strike that sliced from his right to his left; but his foe sidestepped the strike, and then dropped to the ground. He felt her hook the back of his knee, and the Klingon was on the ground again, his bat'leth dropped from his hands. As he rolled over and crawled towards his weapon, his assailant leapt to her feet, and she unleashed another fierce kick.

It connected with his jaw, and sent him flopping downward, temporarily stunned. It took several moments for the Klingon commander to shake off the effects, and as he stumbled to his feet, his saw his erstwhile foe run off through the camp, in the direction of the empty plain.

Another of the Klingons rounded the corner and lifted his disruptor pistol, sighting down the barrel to the fleeing miner, but she was too far gone. "They're making fools of us," the Klingon growled.

Korok squinted his eyes, trying to pierce the twilight; and reaching back into his belt, he withdrew a pair of binoculars. "There she is," he grunted, watching his foe dart into the empty plain; and as he watched, she disappeared into a gully.

Peering closely, he swore that he saw several other heads peeking above the rock wall. "They're hiding in the dirt!" Korok bellowed with laughter. He motioned for the others to follow him, and he left the protective rim of the camp, stepping out into the barren field. The weapons fire had temporarily let up; and besides, he was Klingon. A little weapons fire wouldn't stop him. "They'll learn to show us respect," he growled at the nearest of his comrades. He pointed forward, in the direction of their foes. "We'll kill another four. Perhaps the boy as well."

…

"Captain!" T'Pol shouted over the wind as she slid over the top of the rock wall, coming lightly to her feet on the icy rock below. Getting Archer's attention, she motioned for him to crawl to the top.

On all fours, Archer climbed to the top and looked out, searching for the source of T'Pol's worry. "They're too far to the south," he realized quickly, seeing the Klingons making their way across the floor of the mining plain.

Malcolm came to a stop next to the captain. "We've got to get them to move fifty meters to our left," the tactical officer confirmed.

Korok watched as the row of heads bobbed up and down, shifting further across the empty plain. "That way!" he shouted out at the others, pointing the way with his bat'leth. "Follow me!"

…

"A little further," Malcolm murmured. "And stop."

…

Korok's hobnailed boot collided with metal in the ground. The Klingon commander glanced down at it, and he recognized it for what it was: a capped wellhead. Only now, standing in the center of the plain, did he look around and realize where he had been led.

"We're in the mining field," he breathed out, his words unheard over the wind.

…

"Now!" Tessic commanded.

…

A circle of fire erupted around the Klingons.

…

"They're all yours, Tessic," Archer acknowledged.

The miner nodded in recognition and lifted his head over the rock wall. "Korok!" Tessic bellowed out, bringing an old-fashioned megaphone to his mouth.

Inside the ring of fire, Korok brought his disruptor pistol to bear on the miner.

"I wouldn't do that!" Tessic shouted out, no longer scurrying for cover. "There's two wellheads by your feet. If you fire, we'll ignite them."

Korok roared in fury, but lowered his weapon. "P'taQ!" the Klingon swore as he holstered the pistol. "You'll regret this!"

Tessic shook his head. "I don't think so, Korok!" the miner retorted. "Leave! Now! And if you're thinking about coming back, I wouldn't advise it!"

"I will kill you, Tessic!" Korok responded furiously.

"Don't you get it, Korok!?" Tessic countered. "We know now that we can beat you. We're not afraid of you anymore!"

…

Korok wasn't afraid. "Follow me!" he bellowed out to his fellow Klingons; and, dropping his head slightly, the Klingon commander charged into the wall of fire.

…

"Oh, no," Archer whispered.

…

Tessic saw it happening. "On my mark!" he shouted out, turning his attention down the line; at the top of the wall, a dozen miners popped up, each one targeting a weapon on the Klingons.

…

Korok knew he might die, but he wasn't going to stop.

…

"Mark!" Tessic shouted out.

…

Archer watched in dumbstruck silence as a volley of deadly energy pulses spat out, striking every last Klingon raider.

…

And things erupted in orbit.

"Lieutenant!" Ensign Neda Rahimi shouted out from tactical. "The Klingon ship is powering up its weapons!"

Travis Mayweather, in command of the Enterprise, rose from the captain's chair. "Hoshi, hailing frequencies! Chase, bring us to bear! Rahimi, ready weapons!" he barked out.

The Enterprise shook under the impact of weapons fire.

Travis grabbed the arms of the command chair to steady himself, but the impact was light and fleeting—their weapons are underpowered, Travis realized instantly; the Klingons, after all, would not have wasted a warning shot on the Earth starship.

"Bring us about!" Travis hollered out, trusting in his pilot to follow the command; outside, the Klingon ship was circling about, as if a bird stalking its prey. "Rahimi, hold your fire! Jordan—get me a targeting solution on their weapons!"

A chorus of ayes resounded back as the second-line officers sprang to duty; not a second was lost as the well-trained crew obeyed their commander, putting his commands into action.

The Enterprise shook again, but Travis' internal monitors suggested that no serious damage had been done.

"I have their weapons ports!" Verena Jordan shouted out from the science console.

"Pipe it over to tactical!" Travis bellowed out. "Rahimi, fire!"

A sharp burst of energy spat out from the Enterprise's phase cannon, catching the Klingon scow smack in its primary weapon array; a temporary burst of flame, quickly snuffed out by the coldness of space, was visible as the weapon self-detonated.

Travis stood up from the command chair and took a step closer to the viewscreen, waiting for the Klingons to take the next action; the aliens were rather unlikely to surrender, but what would they do?

"Lieutenant, the Klingons are coming to bear!" Chase shouted out from the navigation console. "Dead-on course for our bow!"

"I'm reading an energy spike to their engines!" Jordan confirmed a scant second later.

So that's how it will be, Travis realized. He steeled himself before giving the necessary command. "Rahimi, full fire!"

The Klingon ship disappeared in an eruption of fire.

…

Trip's head hung downward as he plodded back to the shuttlepod, as if he were carefully watching his footing on the slippery rock.

Truth was, he was barely aware of it.

How did it go so bad, so fast? Trip wondered to himself as he dropped one foot in front of the other, paying little heed to the rocky ice beneath them. It started out so well.

Lost in thought, Trip hefted one leg into the shuttlepod; and ducking his head, he swung his body inside.

The pilot's chair rotated around to face the engineer, revealing a young boy with the miners' characteristic facial markings.

"What—Q'ell!" Trip's face broke into a weary grin as he snapped out of his reverie. "You know, unless you plan on joining Starfleet, you'll have to give up that chair."

Q'ell folded both arms across his chest. "I wish you didn't have to leave," the boy replied, a faint tone of bitterness slipping into his voice. "Why can't you stay a while longer?"

"We have a mission, Q'ell," Trip responded softly. "Duty and all that."

"But don't you want to stay?" Q'ell asked. "Just stay for dinner. Please!"

Trip couldn't help but chuckle lightly. "This is one of the tough things about my job," he answered. "Saying goodbye to people like you and your friends. I wish I could stay, Q'ell."

"Then why don't you?" Q'ell replied.

"It's part of serving a greater cause, Q'ell," Trip answered. "I don't always get to choose where I go, or how long I stay."

"Then quit and stay with us!" Q'ell bounced his arms in emphasis.

"I wish it were that simple," Trip replied softly. "But I'm a part of Earth's Starfleet, and that means quite a bit to me. I'm a part of something bigger than me, Q'ell, bigger than you or I or the camp or the Enterprise…and I'd miss it too much if I left it all behind.

"I wish you could stay," Q'ell responded doubtfully.

"I—hey, I almost forgot!" Trip's face broke into a broad smile as he turned to the back of the shuttlepod. Rummaging through a storage bin, he pulled out a handheld data padd. "Schematics for the Enterprise," Trip explained happily as he handed the padd to the boy. "You said you like to look at starships. This one'll knock your socks off!"

"Thanks!" Q'ell replied excitedly. Taking the padd, he pushed the screen, and was instantly rewarded by a cross-section of the vessel. "Do you think you'll come back?" he asked, not taking his eyes away from the schematic.

Trip laughed lightly; it was a delight to see the enthusiasm on Q'ell's face. "Who knows?" Trip answered rhetorically, all but certain that the boy was barely listening. "Our engines do need a lot of deuterium."

…

What have we done?

Staring out at the stars, framed by the narrow window of his ready room, Archer could only think one thought, the rest blocked out by the utter simplicity of his own reprobation.

What have we done?

It had seemed so simple—and, for a time, it had gone exactly as planned. The Klingons proved unable to avoid the bait, and had charged into the center of the deuterium field, right into the center of Malcolm's ring of fire.

What have we done?

All it took—all it needed—was dialogue, a brief conversation with Korok to make it clear that the Klingons faced death if they returned. And then the Klingons should have taken off, left the planetoid for easier pickings elsewhere.

Where did we go wrong?

Where did it all go wrong? Why did the miners feel the need to slaughter the Klingons? Had the miners overreacted? Had Archer failed to read their mood correctly? Or—and perhaps, he acknowledged, this was it—had he made an error in the plan?

T'Pol, after all, would tell him that was simply logical to expect the Klingons to fight to the death, to make their berserk last charge. After all, why did he expect the Klingons to act differently? They had simply acted as they knew, in accordance with their training and their instincts. It was simple logic, after all.

And T'Pol would tell him that it was simply logical to expect the miners to end the threat, once and for all. Again, why did he expect them to act differently? They perceived a threat, and fought back the only way they knew how.

Was this all avoidable?

Try as he might, Archer could find no way out, no other path that he could have pursued save that of non-interference; and that was an option that he could not tolerate, could not abide by. But once that initial die had been cast…the rest played out, exactly as T'Pol would have predicted.

Simple logic.

Had he made an error in interfering? Maybe he should have left the situation be.

But I couldn't. Not like that.

So where did that leave Jonathan Archer?

I tried, damnit. I tried to end this without bloodshed, without death. Maybe that's the point here—that I DID try to end it the right way. That I refused to give in to simple determinism. That I believed, to the end, that we could pull this off.

Archer watched in silence as the stars flew by. Today, it seemed, he had no answers.