Ride the Lightning (2): To Live Is To Die

by jtm1848

In the depths of the Delphic Expanse, Archer crosses a line.

– TO LIVE IS TO DIE –

"You had no right to recall my ships!" the reptilian general snarled, pacing the control chamber of Degra's ship. Although it took an extraordinary degree of self-control, he held his anger in abeyance; he wanted to tear this weakling creature from limb to limb for its impiety.

Depac refused to back down. "And you had no authorization to launch an attack!" he countered, standing strong before the waves of anger emanating from the general. "I am a member of the Council, and your ships are bound to follow my orders!"

"Your orders endanger us! The humans should have been destroyed the moment they were detected! Have you forgotten that they are the enemy?"

"The Council has made its decision, General," Depac retorted through clenched teeth. He was determined to not let the reptilian brute intimidate him. "You will either obey it, or I will have you replaced!"

"You're permitting an enemy vessel to remain in orbit near a military installation!" the general growled in response. "I have orders to defend the Azati system, and that—that human vessel is a threat!"

"That human vessel is critically damaged," Degra jumped in, unable to hold his tongue any longer. "They have no weapons, they have no engines, they barely have life support—and you still consider them a threat?"

"They have no weapons because of an attack that you tried to prevent, Degra. It was my soldiers who bled and died in combat, and you have sought to protect their murderers!"

"General, the issue is closed!" Depac bellowed, leaning across a console.

The massive reptile glared at the Xindi-primate. "At the very least, we should board their vessel and take them prisoner."

"It is being considered," Jannar, the arboreal-Councilor, interjected languidly. Like his people, he despised conflict. He did his best to avoid being sucked in.

"On the subject of prisoners," Degra added resolutely, "the Council wants Archer for further interrogation."

This got the general's attention, his yellow gaze shifting to the second primate. "We're not finished with him."

"How much longer do you need?" Degra retorted. "You've questioned him long enough."

"He hasn't provided us with the necessary information," the general replied, a trace of defensiveness present in his tone.

"Perhaps the Council will have more success," Depac countered wryly. "You're ordered to release him. Immediately."

"Very well." The general turned to leave.

"Released to our custody," Depac clarified. "We've made arrangements for his transport."

The general pulled up short. "We can deliver him."

"He's already been severely beaten under your care," Degra growled. "Do you really think we're going to leave him to your mercies?"

In a flash, the general had crossed the chamber, coming face-to-face with Degra, staring at the smaller primate through the ridged hoods of his eyes. "He is the commander of an enemy vessel. Why do you care more about his welfare than that of our people?"

Depac intervened. "We need Archer in good condition, General. If he can't answer questions, then he's no good to the Council."

The general choked back his spit. "He will not be harmed any further. You have my assurances."

"That isn't good enough," Degra replied bitterly.

The general tilted his head and snarled. "Meaning what?"

They were only inches apart, but Degra stood his ground. "It wouldn't be the first of your assurances that fell short." The waves of anger crashed between them.

"The Council has agreed that the aquatics will transport the prisoners," Jannar interjected, seeking to cut off the confrontation. "They've sent a ship. Have him ready, General."

The reptile said nothing, but the menace rippling from his powerful body was all too clear.

…

Jan. 31, 2154

Her ship was brutalized, T'Pol knew. In some ways—in many ways—she was surprised that the Enterprisehadn't come apart at the seams, and as the shuttlepod docked in the launch bay, even her Vulcan logic could scarcely figure out where to begin. Her survey of the damage had shown a vessel that was no longer space-worthy; massive gashes gouged out of the hull, crossed with blackened carbonized streaks, entire sections vented to the vacuum of space, the glow of myriad fires visible from the interior, and perhaps worst of all, the starboard nacelle was crumpled from implosion. Although, she reflected, even if we could form a warp field, we no longer have the structural integrity to withstand the pressures.

The interior of the Enterpriselooked even worse. Nearly every system in the ship was blown, fried, or otherwise inoperable. Of course, in a nod to the priorities of its human creators, the ship's life support systems still functioned, circulating atmosphere through the sealed portions of the interior decks, and maintaining a temperature within human tolerances. Even that much is remarkable, T'Pol thought. Given the extent of the hull breaches and collapsed bulkheads, maintaining a contained atmosphere is sufficient challenge by itself.

Indeed, it wasn't the burned systems that were the danger; those could be fixed, albeit slowly. It was the damage to the physical structure of the Enterprise that was irreparable. The missing hull plates were just part of the story; inside them, bulkheads had been blown away, propelled with sufficient force to smash holes through anything in their path and turning the system of corridors into a bizarre maze of jagged tritanium sheet metal. The great duranium girders, which— metaphorically and literally— formed the backbone of the starship, were rendered into pieces, with partial beams dangling from ceilings and blocking paths through the detritus of combat.

"The comm system's still down," Lieutenant Reed reported to T'Pol, as he escorted her down a C-deck corridor. For the most part, this corridor still retained its ovoid cross-section, although beams crossed their path every five meters or so. Random chunks of plastoid and severed hoses hung overhead, some still twitching with the force of unremitting electrical currents, and the only light in the hallway was provided by the near-constant shower of sparks around them. Under their feet, the deck plating was littered with refuse, some large, some iota-small, and some definitely sharp enough to slice through their boots.

"We don't have a complete casualty list yet," Malcolm continued, ducking under a draped beam. He strained his voice to be heard over the crackling din. "But so far the news isn't good. Five people are confirmed dead, a dozen wounded, and we expect to find more when we get to the cut-off portions of the ship." Malcolm swung a leg over another beam. "Most of the hull breaches have been contained with emergency bulkheads, but some sections are still venting into space."

T'Pol stepped sideways though the clutter, placing her feet carefully. "What about cargo bay two?"

"Cargo bay two?" Malcolm responded, momentarily fluttered. That's hardly a priority—what does she want with it? This time, he sat on the beam, and hoisted his legs over. It was the third such obstacle in a dozen meters. "I don't know," he replied a second later. "There's no way to get to it—a large portion of E-deck is still decompressed. Frankly, Commander, it's rather low on the list."

"Weapons?"

"The aft torpedo launcher's working, but that's about it. The auto-loader is down, and we're physically blocked from moving the torpedo heads to the launch tubes." Both officers jumped in surprise as a power tap exploded overhead, close enough to nearly send T'Pol to her feet. A cascade of fiery embers rained down, before sputtering into a fitful chorus of sparks. "Commander, I really don't know what's holding us together," Malcolm said, finishing his report. "Let's just hope it doesn't give out."

"Hope is illogical," T'Pol muttered automatically. Malcolm didn't strain to make out the words; having heard 'illogical,' he guessed the rest.

…

When T'Pol and Malcolm swung open the hatchway into main engineering, things looked little better. The largest room on the Enterprisewas a mess, looking like it had fought a great battle and lost miserably. Debris lined the floor, and the computer monitors lining the walls were largely inoperable, black screens that flickered momentarily as random power spikes shot through the ship.

But here, at least, the situation was a little better. The air was cleaner, Malcolm noted, observing the lack of smoke and fog; and the omnipresent sparks seemed to be caused by welders, not burnt systems. The reinforced girders had held; the ceiling was still overhead, and their path was not blocked by the massive beams. Instead, it was blocked by a dozen crewmen scurrying around, trying to patch up myriad systems simultaneously.

"Commander!" Trip shouted out from across the engineering bay. The chief engineer half-jogged across the room to greet his commanding officer and the tactical chief.

"Commander Tucker," T'Pol acknowledged formally. "What's your status?"

"Besides the obvious?" Trip answered trenchantly. T'Pol, recognizing that the engineer's tone was a normal human emotional reaction, elected to ignore it. "The primary warp coil's fried," Trip went on. "It has to be rebuilt from scratch."

"How long?" T'Pol asked, her gaze rapidly sweeping the room and cataloguing the damage.

"A couple weeks, if we had the parts." Trip shrugged mirthlessly. "We don't. As it stands now, warp drive's out of the question."

"Surely there's something you can do," Malcolm interposed, alarmed at the news.

Malcolm's statement earned him a glare from Commander Tucker. "Didn't you listen? We need parts. All the ingenuity in the galaxy couldn't get our core functioning without a new warp coil."

"Impulse engines?" T'Pol asked next, stepping through the logical progression.

"I'll have to inspect the hull around the exhaust manifolds, see the damage first-hand," Trip answered. "I can't even give you an estimate before then."

T'Pol nodded. "Make it a priority."

"Commander, we've had a lot of injuries down here," Trip added with no hesitation. "It could speed things up if you could send me some extra help."

T'Pol felt the heated concussive wave of an explosion hit her from behind, and twirled around to see a fire raging in an alcove. "As you can see," Trip deadpanned, "engineering is a dangerous place to be." A crewman rushed over with an extinguisher.

"Indeed," Malcolm replied. "I'm glad it's your department, and not mine."

…

Captain Archer lay on the deck, his limbs sprawled about him, his mind trying to cut through the mental haze that cloaked his brain. From the depths of darkness, he had gradually brought himself up to a state of semi-awareness, awakening each part of is body in turn, and checking for damage before he progressed. He had already determined that he was on a ship, traveling at faster-than-light speeds; the familiar hum sounded on his tympani, with an added growl that confirmed he was not on board the Enterprise. Now, he checked each leg, and then his arms, noticing with curiosity that his hands were not bound. It was of little value, of course; the major nerves controlling his arm muscles had long since cut themselves off to prevent the pain feedback, and as he willed his muscles to respond, they flapped around like a fish out of water. The left side of his face was immobile, caked with a matting of blood and hair.

Archer slowly opened his eyes, and was surprised to find a viewport in the ceiling above him. Outside, the starlight streaked by, in the customary pattern of warp speed; the plating around the portal lacked the usual metallic affect, instead bearing a softer tone more similar to scaly leather.

Painfully rolling onto his right side, Archer saw that one wall of the room was entirely taken up by some sort of transparent barrier. Staggering to his feet, the captain peered through, seeing nothing but a murky green fluid that reminded him of algae ponds back home. Looking closely, he began to make out movement on the other side of the barrier; there was a stretch of lights, and sleek shadows flitted about. He pounded on the transparent barrier to get their attention.

One of the creatures swam up before him, coming from nowhere like a denizen of the deep. So this is an aquatic Xindi, Archer told himself, sizing up the other being. Roughly two meters long, the creature was more amphibian than ichthyoidal. It swam up, eye-to-eye with the human.

"Where are you taking me?" Archer demanded.

Seconds later, Archer heard the tell-tale hiss of gas, and fell to the deck unconscious.

…

Feb. 1, 2154

The heat of the welders, operating around the clock, warmed the bridge from the reduced temperatures provided by the wheezing environmental systems. T'Pol was quite satisfied with this arrangement, and was willing to tolerate the high-pitched resonances surrounding her; the human crew may be adaptable to colder temperatures, but Vulcans, born and breed on a hot, desert planet, did not function well in chilled environments.

"Emergency power's back online," Malcolm reported, entering the bridge from the now-functioning turbolift. It wasn't pretty, but it worked. He took quick note of the repair crews working on the nerve center of the Enterprise; a complement of a half-dozen had been tasked to restoring the bridge systems. Aesthetic concerns were pointless—by now, the ashes and debris were ground into the deck plating, and the scorched marks streaking every panel and bulkhead were far to numerous to clean, but two of the crewmen were removing the collapsed dome from Travis' old chair. Beneath it, the chair had snapped in half, and showed spots of soot where the flames had lit miniature fires; but in a pinch, Travis could fly the ship on his feet. Chairs were a luxury.

Malcolm tried the remaining intact panel at his tactical station, and was rewarded when it powered up. "We'll have phase cannons in about an hour," he informed T'Pol, knowing that weapons—after engines—were the ship's priority.

T'Pol crossed to Malcolm's station. "I'd like you to begin repairs on the outer ring of E-deck," she told him, leaning forward over the shattered monitors.

"E-deck?" Malcolm repeated, still confused by T'Pol's interest. While the interior of E-deck held some critical systems—including main sickbay—the outer ring held mostly cargo bays and crew quarters.

"There are engineering components in cargo bay two," T'Pol clarified, perhaps sensing Malcolm's confusion. "They're crucial to Commander Tucker's repairs."

"Ah, of course," Malcolm responded, feeling better. "Although I'll have to pull people from other areas."

"Do so," T'Pol ordered. "Take as many as you need—we need to get access to the cargo bay before we can effect other repairs." Mentally, so that Malcolm would not notice, she winced, trying to hold back the pressure pounding in her head. It had become a torrent, never relenting, preventing her from focusing on the task at hand; it took all of her powers, all of her training, to concentrate her thoughts through the raging neurotransmitters. I can do this, she told herself, a thought closely followed by but for how long? Whatever happened, she had to maintain her mental shields; she would not let the crew see the deterioration, the desperation, that she felt inside.

"Commander!" Travis called out from the side of the bridge, where he sat behind the science console. "I think there's a vessel approaching!"

"It's Xindi!" Malcolm confirmed, lighting up the craft with the tactical sensors.

"Ready aft torpedoes!" T'Pol barked, and turned to Travis. "Can we get it on the viewscreen?"

The navigator shook his head. "Viewscreen's still offline," he answered.

"Travis!" Malcolm shouted out across the din of the bridge. "Can you confirm my readings? I'm getting a one-man vessel. No armaments."

Travis punched the controls of the working monitor. "Confirmed, Lieutenant!" he shouted back. "Looks like an escape pod to me!"

"Any biosigns?" T'Pol asked loudly, her head flipping back and forth as she followed the volley-like exchange between her officers.

"I'm reading one!" Malcolm responded.

The din in T'Pol's mind was worse than that on the bridge. She had to make a decision, and she had to make it fast, but her acuity was failing her. She concentrated, trying to clear a path through her thoughts. Seizing upon the relevant facts, she methodically stepped through the logical progressions, unwilling to circumvent even the most minor of steps, lest she become lost and have to start over. Like a thread, she followed it forward to her conclusion.

"Bring it in," she ordered.

…

The launch bay was pitch black when they entered; even the emergency lighting was gone, part of it knocked out in the attack, and the rest re-routed to more critical systems. As the doors slid open, only the weak glow from the spark-lit corridor permeated inwards, illuminating an area only feet in front of their faces, and the crew came in as shadows. They heard, rather than saw, the enemy vessel in front of them.

Moments later, the engineering crewman outside restored partial power to the bay's emergency lights, and the ad hoc security team rushed forward to secure the craft. It was small, although perhaps larger than an escape pod; a small shuttlecraft, Malcolm thought, or perhaps the Xindi just make large pods. The two MACO guards flanked him, leveling their phase rifles at the hatchway of the craft.

T'Pol had her scanner out, searching for the biosigns inside the vessel. There was one being in there, her readings said; she scanned it twice to make sure. Unfortunately, the hand-held scanner was unable to tell her anything more, like is it a Xindi? Or, is it armed?

As the guards targeted the craft, fraught with tension, a harsh click resounded from inside, and the roof swung open, exposing a lateral view of the occupant. The phase rifles swung around, trigger-ready, awaiting the slightest move from inside. Malcolm drew his own phase pistol, and T'Pol, ever the scientist, held up her scanner for more readings.

Malcolm let his arms drop, perplexed. Laying lengthwise in the Xindi craft was Captain Archer.

…

The NX-01 was designed by and for humans, and its layout reflected their priorities. Housed at the center of the saucer section, in the most heavily-shielded and reinforced location in the entire ship, was not the bridge, or main engineering, or any number of other items; instead, main sickbay occupied the best-protected part of the ship. Even now, following the battle with the Xindi that had collapsed entire sections of the ship, and wreaked havoc across entire decks, sickbay was largely intact, its systems reinforced and isolated to guard against power surges, and the massive metal sheeting maintaining the structural integrity.

That did little, however, to protect sickbay against a ship-wide power loss, and Phlox's realm was subsisting on emergency power only, the overhead lights turned off, and only the glow of computer monitors and the multi-spectrum organic lighting showed the full complement of wounded people in every bed and laying on emergency bio-cots.

Phlox had Archer in the primary biobed. "No internal injuries," the physician said curtly, his jovial manner having finally met its match. "Numerous contusions consistent with blunt trauma." He could recite the full list of injuries, but they were easy to see, and time was at a premium; sickbay had become a triage ward, and even the captain would receive coldly-brief care.

"How many have we lost?" Archer asked, grimacing in pain.

"Fourteen," Phlox answered shortly, handing the captain a padd detailing the casualty report. "Three more are unaccounted for."

Archer scanned it quickly, absorbing the news. There would be time later to mourn the losses. "Don't waste time on me," he told the doctor.

"No offense, Captain, but I wasn't planning to," Phlox answered. He took the padd back from Archer and instantly left to attend to his other charges.

Archer pulled himself into a sitting position, and swung his legs over the side of the biobed. What happened here? he thought, although the answer was obvious.

T'Pol was holding out another padd for his review. "Damage report," she told him, and as he took the padd, T'Pol helped him onto his feet. "We'll have impulse power in six hours."

Half-staggering, Archer made his first survey, taking in the wounded people around him; most were blissfully sedated, numbed to the injuries that would otherwise be causing excruciating pain; several broken bones were noticeable, as well as one severed leg, but the most common injury by far was blackened, burned skin. The odor hung in the air. Plasma burns, Archer thought to himself. The next sight brought him up cold: on the floor of Phlox's office lay three bodies, shrouded under blankets. Archer debated pulling back the covers so he could identify them, but decided to allow the three to lie in peace. I need to remain detached, he told himself, remembering the first—and hardest—lesson of command.

If T'Pol was bothered by the bodies, she didn't show it; not that Archer expected her to, but T'Pol's cold demeanor towards death still occasionally perturbed the captain. "Aft torpedo launchers and one forward phase cannon are online," the Vulcan continued, giving Archer the main points of the damage report verbally.

Archer sighed, and ripped his eyes away from the casualties. There would be time enough later to deal with them, he reminded himself, and I have a ship to run. And a mission to complete. And a weapon to find..."Have Hoshi and Travis start analyzing the Xindi pod," he told T'Pol.

"Its configuration suggests it's aquatic," she observed.

"So would the fact that it came from an aquatic ship," Archer snapped back, instantly regretting it. "I was aboard an aquatic ship," he said in semi-apology. "That's the last thing I remember."

"Do you have any idea why they released you?" T'Pol asked.

Archer nodded. "I think I may have gotten through to one of them." He raised his eyebrows in an approximation of the Vulcan expression. "Degra. I think I got through to Degra. But we have a big problem on our hands—when I got to Azati Prime, the weapon was gone. They've already launched it."

T'Pol's eyebrows shot up in a mirror image of Archer's. "Our sensors didn't detect the launch."

"Well, it's not there," Archer countered dryly. "See if you can find any ion trail for it. We might have to chase the damn thing clear across the Expanse." He groaned as a spike of pain shot through his torso.

Noticing the captain's discomfort, T'Pol grabbed a towel and extended it towards him. At this sight, Archer's eyes narrowed in concern and disbelief. T'Pol's hand was trembling.

"Are you all right?" he asked, grabbing her hand to hold it still.

"I'm fine," she answered, knowing that the captain didn't believe her. "I should report to the bridge." With sudden alacrity, she turned and left.

…

Wave after wave of emotional torrent buffeted T'Pol, sending her reeling down the corridor in haste as she sought to save herself from the prying eyes around her, watching her, judging her, cold and black in their furious umbrage at her lack of control. Everywhere she looked, there was pressure cascading inwards on her fragile being: the darkened, flame-lit corridors were quite literally crumpling in, with jagged beams and shattered plastoids leaping out of the darkness in myriad traps and snares of disorder, backlit with the glow of fire and sparks, the harsh screech of plasma torches and welders rending tritanium, the acrid stench of heated, stale smoke hanging in the air unfiltered by the overwhelmed environmental systems, a thousand sounds, a thousand smells, a thousand hidden dangers waiting to leap up at her.

People stood around T'Pol, but they were as phantoms, her mind refusing to recognize them as being real. Overloading from the stimuli, her telepathic receptors shut down, protecting her brittle mind from its precarious state and, one by one, her external senses blinked off, isolating her amidst the sea of human wretchedness on board the Enterprise. She could no longer hear; now she could no longer smell; she could still see, but the movements about became jerky, stuttered, as if a series of freeze frames, the people nothing more than two-dimensional constructs that would fall over from the slightest breeze.

Duly, T'Pol became aware that someone was talking to her, discussing a power tap, seeking her opinion, but the words echoed without substance, and the person faded behind her as she pushed her way forward, her mind aware of one thing only, one goal before it, one imperative directive, to seek solace from the pain crashing through her mental walls. Her body was on autopilot, her mind was hyper-alert to the point of being fried, hastily erecting new barriers as she sought the protective solace of her katra.

With great effort, T'Pol pushed through the last meter, and into her cabin, the doors closing behind her unnoticed. Free at last, she sank to the floor, holding her head in her hands as she allowed the torrid nightmare to subsume her in the darkness.

…

The senior staff was assembled in the situation room, a small alcove at the rear of the bridge. There was a time when Captain Archer would have taken such a meeting for granted; it was his ship, his crew, and he expected them to function as such. But with entire portions of the vessel falling apart, it was remarkable that the situation room was sufficiently clear of debris to hold the staff, and with the casualties—still mounting—it was nothing short of amazing that every senior officer was on their feet.

"They went to a lot of trouble to let you go," Malcolm Reed was observing, his arms folded across his chest. He was referring to the captain's Xindi captors, who had mysteriously elected to return Archer—whom they believed to be their mortal enemy—to the Enterprise. Plots within plots, Malcolm thought to himself tiredly. Bloody hell.

"They're not exactly unified," Archer commented, offering up a partial explanation. To call the five Xindi races disunified was an understatement; it was only the threat of a common enemy that held the Xindi Council together, their peoples constantly on the verge of breaking into civil war. As they say, familiarity breeds contempt. "The reptilians came after us on their own," Archer went on. "From what I overheard, the Council overruled the reptilian general and called off the attack, but it took the intervention of the reptilian councilor himself. That general isn't going to listen to the others."

"There's very little to stop the reptilians from renewing their attack," T'Pol observed, her episode behind her and her control reestablished. "They might decide to finish what they started."

"And we're running out of places to hide," Malcolm added, biting his lower lip.

"Travis?" Archer looked at his navigator with a silent question.

"The Xindi have been sweeping the system with high-intensity tachyon pulses," the young man answered promptly. "It's just a matter of time until they find us." Following the attack, Travis had used the thrusters to maneuver the Enterpriseinto the Azati system's Kuiper Belt, hiding them behind the chunks of floating rocks. When the overconfident Xindi realized that their prey had slipped away, a massive search was launched. "There's a high concentration of cometary dust around local coordinates two-seven-four-mark-three-four by one-five-three-mark-four-two. But we're still stuck on the thrusters, so it'll take us awhile to get there."

Archer turned to his science officer. "T'Pol?" he asked, seeking to elicit her opinion as to the proposed hiding place.

"It should be sufficient," she responded flatly. "The diamagnetic field should shield us from their long range scans. We'll still be visible to short range, but given the amount of space the Xindi have to cover, it'll be several days before they get there."

"Engineering to bridge." The conference was interrupted by the static-filled comm hail. "We just picked up a surge in the EPS grid on A-deck!"

A sharp whine filled the air, building shrilly to a rapid climax, and before anyone could answer the hail, a bright light exploded overhead, sending the senior crew for cover. Shards of plastoid and rubble fell from the ceiling, crashing onto the central console, and a deluge of sparks followed. Within seconds, however, the flash had disappeared, and the only evidence left was the debris lying where the staff had been standing.

"Thanks for the warning," Archer told engineering, tongue-in-cheek, before severing the comm channel. He turned back to Travis. "How far?"

"At present speed?" The ensign hesitated, knowing that the answer would not be satisfactory. "About three days."

Archer nodded, accepting the reality of the situation. "Set a course."

"Aye, sir," Travis answered.

"Wait a second here," Trip countered in disbelief, amazed at the consensus of his colleagues. "Instead of hiding, shouldn't we be looking for the weapon?"

"Our sensors are still offline," T'Pol replied. "How exactly do you propose we search? With palm beacons?"

Archer pinched the bridge of his nose, using the momentary pain to clear his mind of the detritus. "Let's focus on getting ourselves operational, Trip," he said calmly. "We can't mount a search with a ship coming down on our heads."

"And what if they launch the weapon while we're sitting here?" Trip demanded irately.

"Back to duty, everyone," Archer said wearily. "Trip, worry about engineering first."

…

The aquatic shuttle sat in the launch bay, a tantalizing lure that refused to surrender its secrets. It's like…a good date, Travis decided. A little mystery, a little allure…make that a LOT of mystery…and speaking a completely different language. Try as he might, although, the ensign couldn't wipe the smile from his face; alone among the crew, after months of traveling through the Expanse, the opportunity to explore an alien vessel still excited him.

Hoshi, on the other hand, groaned every time the whistles and screeches failed to resolve into identifiable words. "I thought insectoid was tough," she murmured, grumbling at the lack of progress. If she couldn't translate the language, the aquatic vessel would be largely useless to them; and she was the only person on the Enterprisewho stood a chance of translating the alien matrix.

Travis looked up from his scans. "Almost sounds like music," he commented, thinking about the recordings of now-extinct whale species that he had heard as a boy. He had been home-schooled aboard an interstellar freighter, and the whale songs had so fascinated him that he begged his parents for years to allow him to take shore leave on Earth so that he could visit the oceans. When he learned that the great whales were gone, he spent a month sulking in his quarters.

"Music is easier," Hoshi responded wryly, replaying the sound clip. "It has patterns and rhythms, discernable harmonies and melodies." She sighed in frustration. "This is avant-garde."

"You know," Travis said absently, "my mother always wanted me to take up a musical instrument." He chuckled in remembrance. "I never even mastered the glockenspiel."

Hoshi set her padd down. "My parents made me take piano lessons for years," she commented, massaging her temples. "I was good at it, too, but I hated every minute of it. The practicing, the recitals, the insufferable bragging…the worst part is, it ended up making a big difference. Music and language are so closely connected. Except for Xindi," she added momentarily.

Travis jumped back as a side access panel unexpectedly opened. "You can thank her when we get home," he replied. "I'm sure she'll be happy to hear it." When Hoshi didn't respond, Travis glanced over at her, and noticed the far-away look in Sato's eyes. "We are getting home, Hoshi," he said reassuringly. "The captain will get us home."

"That's easy for you to say," she said half-heartedly. "You're enjoying this mission." The words were delivered so flatly that they lacked any acerbic punch.

Travis sat down next to Hoshi. "That doesn't mean I don't want to get home," he answered softly. "I'm just trying to make the most of it. I mean, shit happens, and it doesn't do any good to fight it."

"That 'shit' was seven million lives," she replied acridly.

"And raging about it won't bring any of them back to life," Travis responded forcefully. "And look at us: out here, in a completely different sector of space, meeting new races, new aliens, doing stuff that's never been done before—we're part of history, Hoshi! Believe it or not, some good is going to come from all this!"

Hoshi's fingers paused in their circular motions. "I know, Travis," she said irritably. "But knowing doesn't make it any easier. You…you were bred for space. You were born in space. I'm…an academic. I had a career lined up at the University of Brasilia before Captain Archer pulled me away. It took me a year just to get over the space sickness," she said, referring to the nausea-like symptoms caused by nano-fluctuations in artificial gravity fields. "And now, I see those bodies, and I think…"

"You think, they died for a mission worth dying for. This is worth it, Hoshi, worth all of it."

Hoshi snorted. "But can you translate aquatic?"

…

Above the captain's head, the power transfer conduit glowed an eerie green, signaling that its casing contained minute fractures through which the test-charge of energy bled out. Archer's body was contorted under the conduit, nearly a meter into a wall of machinery, and he felt like he was in the middle of a green, metallic jungle.

"What makes you think we can trust this guy?" Trip's voice carried through the jumble of wires, panels, and data nodes to reach the captain. At the same time, a hypospanner slid its way across the deck plating.

"Who?" Archer replied absently, one arm wedged uncomfortably between two conduits, his fingers pinching a third shut.

"Degra." Trip's voice left unsaid, Who else?

"Why couldn't we trust him?" Archer responded. Holding the conduit shut, he lifted the hypospanner and bridged the gap between the power shunts.

"Are you kidding?" Trip was mystified. "He's the last person who'd come around to our side! I mean, he designed the weapon! We know what his feelings about us are!"

"That's quite a bold statement, Trip," Archer commented sardonically. "You claim to know him, but have you actually spoken to him? Gotten his side of the story?"

"What other side of the story is there?" Trip challenged. "He killed seven million people! He's a terrorist, a mass murderer!"

"And a potential ally! And face it, Trip, out here, we need an ally! Or have you—" Archer grunted as he twisted his body—"have you not noticed that we're dead in space?"

"Let me get this straight," Trip retorted, sliding a self-sealing stem bolt across to the captain. "You're going to entrust Earth's future with the same person who's already killed seven million of us?"

"No one's talking about placing our future in Degra's hands, Trip," Archer answered wearily. "He's not on our side. But I get the feeling he's starting to question his, and if we can make him a neutral player, remove him from the equation—we may be able to remove the weapon with him!"

"He deserves to be executed!"

Archer chuckled wryly. "They hurt us, so we have to hurt them? Someone recently pointed out to me the flaw in that logic."

"Captain, I never thought I'd say this," Trip retorted angrily, "but I think you're getting weak! I can't believe you're not gunning for Degra's head!"

"That's enough, Commander," Archer replied harshly. "You've made your feelings clear, but the decision is mine to make."

Tucker burned, but he kept his tone mild. "All I'm saying, Captain, is that we should be claiming vengeance. Otherwise we betray those seven million people."

"The way we've always done before?" Archer asked quietly.

"Pardon?"

"Trip, has it dawned on you that mankind has always reacted that way? Whenever someone strikes us, we strike back? We lash out in fear and ignorance?" Archer paused as he repositioned himself. "That's the way we've always done things, Trip, and all it got us was the Final World War. We nearly destroyed ourselves. Vengeance may be emotionally satisfying, but ultimately, it's self-defeating."

"Well, let's hope you're right," Trip answered grudgingly. "The stakes are high enough."

"The future has to start sometime, Trip. I think we're ready to fire this up," Archer said, changing the topic. "Can you send through a ten-volt current?" Trip hit the control, and there was a brief surge of light, followed by a loud bang. "Damnit!" the captain called out.

"Bridge to Captain Archer." T'Pol's disembodied voice came across the restored intercom.

"Can you get that, Trip?" Archer ordered from his vantage point inside the machinery.

Trip hit the intercom controls. "Tucker here," he responded. "The captain's with me. Go ahead."

"There's an unidentified vessel approaching," T'Pol's voice responded. "They're asking for our assistance."

Trip pursed his eyebrows. "Any details?"

"Just that they've taken heavy damage."

"Join the club," Trip replied wryly. "How long till they get here?"

"Twelve minutes," T'Pol answered.

Listening to their conversation, Archer reached his decision. "Have her set a rendezvous course, Trip," he ordered. "Maybe we can help each other."

…

The alien starship was scarcely in better condition than the Enterprise, Archer noticed as it appeared on the main viewscreen. Roughly delta-shaped, it had a stout, compact design that bore numerous holes and shattered hull plating, and a visual inspection indicated that only part of the vessel was powered up.

"They have minimal weapons," Malcolm reported from tactical. "All powered down. Their warp engines are offline, main power seems to be down. They're no threat to us," he commented decisively.

"I'm detecting numerous spatial anomalies in the area," T'Pol added from across the bridge. "It appears likely that the alien vessel was damaged by the gravimetric disruptions."

Archer nodded, taking in the information as he formulated a plan of action. "Can you get through to them, T'Pol?" he asked, noting that Hoshi was not on duty. For that matter, Malcolm should be off-duty as well. He shelved the thought for later.

"I believe I can," T'Pol replied, manipulating the comm channels through her science console.

"Hail them," Archer ordered. After hearing the tell-tale beep, he spoke again. "This is Captain Archer," he said, electing to not reveal the name of his ship. "We're responding to your distress call."

The desperate reply leapt across the void. "Thank you for coming!" the alien commander declared, his voice cutting through the static-laden channel. "But be aware: this region contains dangerous spatial distortions!"

"We've run into them before," Archer replied cautiously.

"They've damaged our engines and life support," the alien commander continued. "We would appreciate whatever assistance you can give us."

Archer raised an eyebrow to Malcolm, who nodded to confirm the alien's claims. "We'll see what we can do," Archer replied finally. "We'll reach your location in a few minutes. Stand by for docking." He nodded at T'Pol, who closed the channel.

Malcolm was already rising from his chair. "Captain, with your permission?"

Archer nodded again. "Report to the docking port with a security team. I'll join you in a minute." He felt the hole gnawing in his stomach. "I need to grab some rations first."

…

It was embarrassing, Archer knew; his ship was falling apart at the seams, his crew was dirty, and the pallor of the Enterprisewas roughly akin to death warmed over, but he sucked in his pride and escorted the Illyrian captain around his vessel, navigating around the fallen beams, dangling conduits, between the contrasts of light and darkness.

"So what brings you to the system?" Archer asked conversationally, trying to distract the alien commander's attention from the condition of the starship.

The Illyrian commander, Soriano, either didn't notice or was a good sport. "Curiosity," Soriano replied, following the captain through a jagged hole of paneling. "Most of my crew are scientists. We were studying the red giant near here—it's the first one we've had the opportunity to explore. We weren't prepared for these—spatial anomalies, as you call them." Soriano gestured around, broaching the topic of the Enterprise. "Seems like you weren't either."

"Actually, this is all the result of combat," Archer replied wryly.

"Combat?" Soriano looked up, alarmed. "Are you a warship?"

"No," Archer responded flatly, ducking underneath a sputtering collection of wires. "We're a vessel of exploration, like yours. But there was an emergency, and, well…" he waved his hands in an expression of helplessness. "We were the only ship available."

"Who are you fighting with?" Soriano asked, still clearly alarmed by the prospect.

"Have you heard of a species called the Xindi?" Archer replied.

"No," Soriano answered after a moment's reflection. "But we're new to this region of space—and we've been more interested in astro-phenomena than the local politics."

"It's a lot more than a minor political squabble," Archer said through clenched teeth. Guiding Soriano through the darkened jungle of a corridor, he changed the topic. "Let's talk about your ship. We know a way to insulate against the anomalies."

"What is it?" Soriano asked, intrigued. He hastily ducked as his head came within centimeters of hitting a duranium beam.

"There's a substance called trellium-D," Archer answered.

"I've heard of it," Soriano grunted. "But it's extremely rare. We haven't found anyone willing to part with some."

Archer bit back the tired, sardonic response that had leapt into his mind, and instead kept his voice level. "I have sixty kilos sitting in my cargo bay. We can't use it, but perhaps you can."

Soriano looked at Archer with astonishment. "You can't be serious! Perhaps… perhaps we can work out some sort of trade? Even a fraction of that would be enough to protect my ship!"

Archer gratefully left the secondary corridor, stepping into a lit main branch. "That's what I had in mind."

"Given the condition of my vessel, I don't know what we can offer you," Soriano replied hesitantly.

Archer forged ahead. "Our warp engine is badly damaged. We could use some replacement parts."

"We could probably spare a few plasma injectors," Soriano answered, mentally reviewing his ship's inventory. "Maybe some antimatter fuel, but that's about it."

Archer steeled himself. "I was thinking more along the lines of a warp coil."

Soriano let out a barking laugh. "I'm afraid that's not remotely possible, Captain. We only have one warp coil, and without it, we'd be stranded in space."

"Like us," Archer replied darkly.

Soriano cleared his throat. "If I had an extra, I'd give it to you, Captain, maybe even gratis. But a warp coil is one thing we can't spare."

"Maybe we can make it worth your while," Archer countered. "We have certain technology that you may find interesting."

"I have no doubt that we'd find it interesting, but a warp coil is out of the question." Soriano paused. "At sublight speeds, the journey back to our system would take three years. We're not equipped for a voyage of that length."

"How many people are on board your ship?" Archer challenged the Illyrian commander. "The stakes for you are three years for a handful of crewmen. The Xindi have already wiped out seven million—seven million—of my people, and they're building a weapon to destroy our entire world! The stakes here are life and death for an entire race, and without warp drive, there's no way for me to save them!"

"I understand your dilemma, Captain, and I do sympathize with it," Soriano responded firmly. "But my duty is to my crew—I'm sure you can understand that. I'll help you in any other way, but I won't jeopardize the lives of my crew."

…

Any sufficiently advanced magic is indistinguishable from technology, T'Pol knew, and she carried the ancient maxim as a basis for scientific analysis. When you eliminate the impossible—the supernatural—whatever left, however improbable, must be the answer. While Vulcans had equivalent sayings, these two Earth aphorisms bore an elegant simplicity that her own world was unable to muster. Another example of Occam's Razor, she thought, ironically.

Beneath any talk of spatial anomalies, astro-phenomena, Makers' Breath, trans-dimensional beings, temporal shifts, gravimetric disturbances, and divine will, the condition underwriting the Delphic Expanse was surprisingly simple. All dimensions in the universe are embedded in the same soup of sub-quantum components that can be arranged in an infinite number of systems, from the simple to the complex, each of which is perceived as being a separate dimension. All dimensions exist simultaneously across a unified field, and can theoretically be laid side-by-side for comparison. In each dimension—and usually spanning several dimensions—particular sets of forces are pre-eminent, giving rise to a "pocket field" defined by specific quantum interactions. The physical realm that all known species experience is one of those pocket fields.

However, by manipulating the quantum interactions in each pocket field, it can be re-designed to match the quantum contours of another. While the technology required is exceedingly complex, the net result is the dimensional conversion of the pocket field into a different quantum stratum. To the present inhabitants, their reality is ripped asunder; but to inhabitants of the alternative pocket field, it creates a second living space to handle population overflow. The theory is quite simple, T'Pol thought.

The Delphic Expanse was nothing more than the superficial reflection of this dimensional conversion, and as it worked its way through the ranks of the sub-quantum universe, it wreaked havoc on the four fundamental forces of this dimensional reality: the strong force (which holds together quantum particles to form atomic nuclei), electromagnetism, the weak force (which ultimately allows for atomic decay), and gravity. The result: one giant spatial anomaly, where the laws of quantum and sub-quantum physics exist in fluctuation.

By some pure quirk of physics, the unique lattice assembly of the D variant of trellium ore was partially (and temporarily) effective at negating the fluctuations within the fundamental forces, thus restoring them to something akin to normalcy—either settling them back to their ordinary state, or at least smoothing out the fluctuations into one predictable pattern.

However, when trellium ore is reduced into its constituent molecules through the remarkably simple process of chemical freebasing, a particular acid results. N-acetyl-para-aminophenol, while normally a harmless compound for most carbon-based life, had the unfortunate effect of being neuroactive on the receptors that govern higher telepathy (for the species so equipped). It substituted itself for the neurological compounds that form the basis of a telepath's "shields," providing a powerful and easy method of protecting the telepath's mind. But as the neurological system ceased producing its own compounds, the telepathic mind became addicted to the substance, dependant on the drug to maintain mental control.

At the same time, the toxins contained within the drug corroded the neural receptors, causing long-term damage to their ability to reuptake the needed natural compound, creating three critical problems for the user: the body needed to consume more and more of the drug to maintain the same effect; the effect of ceasing usage—withdrawal—became more and more pronounced, leading to the probability of neurolytic shock and certain death; and even under medically-supervised "weaning" from the drug, the damage done was irreparable. The user's ability to erect telepathic shields would be degraded for life.

But, oh, the relief it gave to a troubled mind.

Months had passed since T'Pol had last felt the serene logic of another Vulcan presence. She spent day after day, night after night, surrounded by the rampant emotionalism of the human crew. Like crashing surf, it pounded on her mental walls, relentless in its fury, stripping away her protection and overwhelming the dikes, possessed with a rage that sank its fangs deep into the fertile meat of her mind.

Her first, accidental encounter with NAPA had come near the beginning of their voyage through the Expanse. In those early days, the Enterprisehad found a nearly-derelict Vulcan science vessel, the Seleya, trapped in one of the spatial eddies that permeated the region. But the Vulcan crew was still alive.

The crew of the Seleya, unaware of the dangers posed to Vulcans by trellium-D, had used the ore to insulate their hull against the spatial anomalies that littered the area. Over time, the natural decay released substantial quantities of NAPA, and with the collapse of their mental protections, even the subdued emotions of the Vulcans gradually built on each other until arriving at a critical mass. The crew plummeted into insanity, murdering each other in animalistic barbarity and ferocity.

When the Enterprisestumbled across the Seleya, T'Pol was part of the away team that boarded the drifting vessel. It was a deeply schizophrenic experience for her; the nightmare of deranged Vulcans coupled with the bizarre sense of serenity that emanated, like a soothing salve, from some unknown ship. In many ways, it was the beginning of the end for T'Pol: the rabidity provided the first thunderous bursts that wore at her mind, undermining her control, making her more susceptible to the slightly less-manic emotional effusions of her human crewmates.

And when the pain grew too much to bear, T'Pol, prideful in her Vulcan heritage, refused to see the doctor. Logically confident that she could manage the situation, she reached out for a certain solution: the tranquility provided by NAPA.

Too late, she found herself trapped in a vicious cycle. She became addicted to the drug; she could no longer function without the emotional deadening it provided, but the more she consumed, the less relief it offered. What had started as an occasional habit became weekly, then daily; and then she found herself desperately injecting the substance before every duty shift, scheming ways to carry a little extra with her, in case she needed a midday boost. The cycles became wilder, the peaks higher and the valleys lower, and she felt herself spinning out of control. The sense of serenity, she noted in chagrin, was false; but now, it was all she had, and T'Pol clung to it desperately.

The last week had been the worst.

In the aftermath of the Xindi attack, the sense of tension aboard the Enterprisehad exploded. Even the human crew was feeling the effects of the palpable alarm, unrelieved in the constant schedule of 18-hour duty shifts as they tried to hold their vessel together with baling wire. The storm centered in T'Pol's mind, crashing against her levees with the force of hurricanes. No longer content to erode the barriers, the breakers crushed her fragile defenses, shattering them into a thousand pieces, and tore through her mind with a fury possessed of illogic.

T'Pol shot up in her bed, her chest heaving for air. Her sleep was inhabited by nightmares; her mind felt fried, as though every cell had been put to the torch, and her body shook in rampant quaking. She couldn't focus, she couldn't think, she couldn't get control of the shaking—stop the damn shaking! Her eyes darted back and forth, unable to fix on anything, jumping around, as though seeking an anchor in the physical reality, but they found nothing.

Her mind raced of its own accord, careening back and forth from one extreme to the other, the panic and the fear overwhelming any sense of higher thought. She tried gripping the sides of her bed for physical stability, but her hands missed; she tried again, and they missed again; a third time, she was successful, but her seizuring muscles were unable to grab the object.

Any sense of decorum long gone, the deepest impulses of her mind cried out for the one relief, for the cool, comforting balm of drugged deadening. She lurched from her bed, crashing into a bulkhead, and before she knew it, T'Pol found herself hurtling down the corridor.

There were people watching her, she knew; she noticed them, on the fringes of her consciousness, staring at her in perplexity and unrestrained curiosity. But it was no matter to her: all she knew was the desperate craving inside of her, threatening to consume her with maniacal rabidity, and it drove her inexorably with its lustful need to sate the incontrollable pain inside her. All other thoughts, all other concerns, were banished from her mind.

Mashing the control panel with her hand, T'Pol forced her way into the airlock control chamber. Reaching up for the EV helmets, she managed to knock several to the floor, where they landed with a mind-clashing ring, before she locked onto one, setting it on her head in the futile hope that it would block out some—any—of the crushing current that pounded her head with debilitating racket. She managed to toss an EV suit over her arm, and she was gone.

Catapulting herself back down the corridor, T'Pol knew she was lurching from bulkhead to bulkhead, unable to keep her own balance, but she didn't care. She had a mission to perform, one goal to accomplish. She focused on the pain, on the searing sting, the only thing familiar to her, the only thing that seemed real. Everything else had gone away, phantoms lost in the mist. The hunger inside drove her, but at the same time, it was the entirety of her existence, and she reveled in it, plunging into the embrace of her old friend.

Now she was at the cargo bay, the depressurized cargo bay, and she haltingly twisted her body into the EV suit, her fingers fiddling with the seals, but the drive inside her overwhelmed her sense of preservation. Without checking the seals, she opened the bay doors; the alarms were offline, the locks were down, and the doors slammed shut behind her, minimizing the atmospheric rush into the cargo bay.

Where is it? I know where it is. It's in here. Where is it? Concentrating, forcing her mind to center on the pain, like meditating on a flame, T'Pol made herself think, until the glimmer arose from the depths of her maelstrom. A few quick steps, and she found it; ripping off the lid of the insulated container, she pulled out a tube, and shook out a rock of trellium-D.

With her salvation in hand, it was back into the corridor. She ripped off the EV helmet, leaving it lie beside a pile of debris; tripping, she stripped the suit, tossing it aside with no further thought. It was gone, out of her mind, out of her reality, a part of the hollow world around her. Her instinctual drives kept her moving, her muscles functioning autonomically, her long dash having given her body time to adapt to her manic state of mind.

Around the corner, and she entered a science lab; not just any science lab, but her science lab, the one she had reserved for her personal use ever since the day she had first manipulated the trellium ore. The pain, overwhelming her, forced her mind to retreat farther and farther; and now, T'Pol watched herself as she powered up her equipment, shoving the rock into a chamber, and triggering the preset control.

Her eyes fixated on the transformations, T'Pol watched as the bases and acids inside the rock separated, and has heat was added, a trail of gas plumed upwards to the top of the chamber. Spellbound, her mind captured by the sheer beauty, she watched as the chamber gradually filled, and her hand clasped a hypospray, readying it for use.

When the process was complete, T'Pol affixed the hypospray to the chamber, and transferred the gaseous substance to the medical devise. With the desperate control known only to a junkie, she shoved the hypospray against her neck, injecting the contents directly into her jugular vein.

The effect was immediate.

The drug hit her system, bringing with it instant relief. A comforting cloak descended upon her, the rampant, manic thoughts disappearing, replaced with the calming presence of nothingness. Her breathing slowed, her palpitations stuttered to a halt, her blood cooled, and she found that she could see and hear again.

Deep into the embrace she plunged, wrapping herself in the soothing wrap, quenching the fires that had threatened her existence. Deadening her telepathic senses, it protected her mind from within and without; the crashing breakers reduced to becalmed ripples, the flaming torch reduced to the glowing promise of a solitary ember.

T'Pol knew she was damaging herself, but she couldn't resist the siren call. The drug tore a hole through her soul, but the old, familiar blanket was her rod of strength, protecting her from the broken thoughts and haunting memories, washing away the stains of time and making the feelings disappear.

…

Feb. 2, 2154

"What have you found?" Archer asked tiredly as he entered the launch bay. He paused to rub his eyes, trying to clear his blurry, sleep-deprived vision, and gratefully received a momentary reprieve. Sometime soon, he knew, he had to arrange a full sleep cycle for himself and the rest of the senior staff, but another midnight had come and gone without offering respite.

Where once they had carried an insectoid shuttle, the launch bay now held the aquatic escape pod. Travis and Hoshi had spent the last several hours analyzing it, although little of significance was expected: escape pods tend to be the same, no matter what race they come from. They're stripped down, back-to-the-basics cylinders of metal, with few meaningful systems other than life support.

"Captain," Travis said, acknowledging Archer's entry. Archer felt a momentary tinge of jealousy: the young navigator appeared sprite and vigorous, with a seemingly-limitless fount of energy. There was a time, Archer reflected, when I could pull all-nighters, too. Night after night, that is.

"It's just a standard escape pod," Travis reported, standing alongside it possessively. "The pod can maneuver underwater, but aside from that, nothing out of the ordinary. At least, nothing in the pod's construction."

Archer raised an eyebrow, but Hoshi took over the report. "I went through the databanks," she recounted. Archer couldn't help but notice that the ensign, usually petite, was looking downright famished. She was swaddled in her uniform coveralls, and her hair, typically pulled back neatly, had come loose, framing her dirt-streaked face. "It was just your standard navigational operational files," she went on. "I only found one document that seemed unusual. On the surface, it's an ordinary request for additional parts, from an engineer to his supervisors." She handed a padd to the captain. "Here's the translation."

"Why do you think it's something more?" Archer asked as he started flipping through the document.

"Read the names of the supervisors," Hoshi answered.

Archer scrolled to the appropriate place. "Piral, Jaina, and…Trenia." With the third name, it hit his weary mind like a ton of metaphorical bricks.

"The names of Degra's children," Hoshi confirmed. "Trenia was the giveaway—no other Xindi know it. It has to be some sort of message, from Degra, to you."

…

The command center of the Enterprisewas, like the rest of the ship, brutalized with battle damage; scarcely a single square centimeter retained its original luster, and the room was still lit only by the luminous sparks of fried circuitry. However, along with a handful of other key areas, the command center was one of the priorities for damage repair, and in the days following the nearly-cataclysmic battle of Azati Prime, repair crews had managed to restore the main wall monitor and a single computer console. The monitor now held a collection of points of light against a blue background: a starmap.

"I discovered a set of coordinates embedded in the document," T'Pol reported, saving the captain the details of her arduous labor. She knew that he was looking for results, and had little time—or patience—for a summary of methodology. A curious human trait, she reflected. The more important the end result is, the less interested they are in how the result is obtained.

The coordinates were plotted on the starmap, but failed to line up with any of the microscopic points. "It's not a star system," Archer noted. "It looks like empty space."

"I was unable to find anything special about the coordinates," T'Pol confirmed, "although I was relying on old, partial scans, as our sensors are still offline. It is possible that a systematic sensor sweep of the targeted area would result in the detection of something significant."

"Was there anything else?" Archer asked.

"There was another embedded number," T'Pol confirmed. "I had to run it through several analyzes to obtain an accurate translation, but it was a date, timed against local stellar phenomena. Three days from now."

"A rendezvous," Archer breathed in realization. "So that's why they let me go: they wanted me to return…with the Enterprise. But why—" he pieced the puzzle together in his mind. "Proof. I told them I had proof on board the Enterprise. They're ready to listen!"

"I would caution against excess exuberance," T'Pol commented. "It is possible that they desire to debunk our proof, simply for the sake of their own comfort."

"It still gives us a chance!" Archer replied excitedly, before his face fell. "How far away are the coordinates?"

"Four light years," T'Pol answered grimly. "We'll need at least warp three to make it in time." Archer felt his exuberance crash to a halt. "And it's unlikely that Degra will wait around for us," T'Pol continued, making Archer's hopes cascade down inside him, ripping from the top of his heart to the bottom of his stomach.

"Without warp drive—" Archer started, unwilling to finish his own thought.

T'Pol finished it for him. "We don't have a chance of making the rendezvous."

…

On board the Enterprise, it was not uncommon for nonessential systems to be powered down, for any number of reasons: rerouting power to defensive systems during an attack, for example, or powering down the EPS grids during exposure to ionic fields to prevent energy surges. Far more unusual, however, was the powering down of the ship's autonomic functions, the little things that the crew grew to rely on: the shipboard intercom, for instance, or the motion sensors that triggered doors open and shut. At the moment, as Dr. Phlox found himself knocking on a door, the terminated function was the "doorbell" wired into the entry of every crew quarters.

Inside the quarters, Captain Archer sat on his bed, surrounded by the oppressive darkness found only in space. His quarters were a complete mess: by his orders, the captain's room was at the very bottom of the repair schedule, and no one had even been by to take stock of the damage. The floor and the furniture were littered with dust and debris, and the room was neatly bifurcated by a jagged-edged duranium beam.

When Archer did not respond, Phlox pushed the doors open, and with Porthos in one arm, the Denobulan tentatively stepped into the darkness. He saw the blob of darkness that was the captain, and it didn't take a physician to realize that something was wrong. Stepping cautiously, then, Phlox approached Archer, and set the beagle down on Archer's bed.

"He's all yours," Phlox said hesitantly. "He was the perfect house guest, as usual." Given his affinity for animals, Phlox customarily watched the captain's dog when Archer was gone on extended missions.

Phlox licked his lips. "You'll be happy to know that I discharged Ensign Ansara this morning, and Corporal O'Malley will be returning to duty this afternoon." Phlox waited a moment. "Captain?"

Now Archer snapped out of his reverie. "It's hard to imagine that we'll ever get this ship back to the way it was," he said softly, glancing around at the demolished room. "I'm not sure that spacedock could even repair this."

"It's just a simple matter of repairs," Phlox offered with an attempted smile. He failed to get a response. "Well, perhaps not quite that simple. But it can be repaired—a few engineers, a few technicians, some new parts, and she'll be as good as new. A person isn't nearly as easy to repair." He addressed the captain with his eyes. "Somehow, I don't think it's the damage to the Enterprisethat's troubling you."

Archer stood up, idly wondering why a coiled spring was hanging from the ceiling. "How long have you been a doctor?"

"Nearly forty years," Phlox offered with an encouraging smile.

The words were slow to come out, but they pierced through the darkness. "And in all that time, did you ever do anything you thought was unethical?"

"Twice," Phlox answered firmly, as he stepped closer to the captain's vague form. "What's bothering you, Jonathan?"

"I've only been a starship captain for three years," Archer reflected. "No, only two and a half. I was so eager when we first launched, so confident that we were ready for whatever the galaxy could throw at us. We had advanced, not just technologically, but morally. We were an 'enlightened' race, and the Enterprisewas the best the Earth had to offer." He spoke bitterly. "And look what happened. When the going got rough, we didn't hesitate to kill. We tampered with other civilizations—'secure in the knowledge' that we could do no wrong! And when we were attacked, we struck back like a pack of barbarous wolves."

"Jonathan, if I may?" Phlox got no response, so he went on. "We've already discussed this. You agreed that humanity really has taken the next step forward—you agreed to try to resolve the dispute with the Xindi through friendship and diplomacy. And we're doing exactly that—no wolf would ever have gotten the Xindi to listen, but you did. Take strength in that victory."

"And yet I'm about to step over that line again," Archer said melancholically. "I crossed it once during this mission, and vowed that I would never do so again. But here I am—and given the nature of our mission, it probably won't be the last."

"It sounds like you've made your decision," Phlox answered. "You just have to convince yourself that you have no choice."

"There's always a choice," Archer replied.

"Ah," Phlox answered in understanding. "And in this case, the choice is between saving humanity, and saving your conscience."

"I never wanted this," Archer went on, absently. "I was happy with our missions: bouncing around, exploring new planets, meeting new species, forging ahead into the great unknown. But then the Xindi attacked, and all I could think of was revenge…of destroying those who would harm us. This isn't why I came into space, Phlox."

"Oh, it's not why I came into space either," Phlox reflected. "But here we are, and the crew needs their captain." Phlox thought he saw Archer nodding. "May I ask what you're planning to do?"

Archer's voice floated through the shadows. "Honestly, I'd rather not tell you. If I have to lose my own respect, at least I can keep yours. Just be prepared for more casualties."

"I'll be ready," the doctor replied reassuringly.

…

To Archer, the ship's armory felt like a kiln. It was no small trick for the battle-damaged Enterprise; while the collection of exposed power taps, sparking circuitry, and laser torches put out great amounts of heat, much of it bled out through the punctured hull into the coldness of space. However, in the days since the battle, Malcolm had been devoting nearly his entire time to getting the armory—which contained not just the hand weapons, but also the photonic torpedo controls—operational, and the concentrated array of people and tools heated the room well past the point where the chugging environmental controls could compensate.

Wiping a torrent of sweat from his grimy face, Archer located Lieutenant Reed and exchanged terse greetings. "Put together an armed boarding party," the captain continued.

Malcolm looked confused. "Who are we boarding, sir?" The only ship within range was the Illyrian vessel.

"The alien ship we docked with," Archer replied flatly.

"Captain, I—I don't understand." Is the captain seriously ordering us to turn into pirates?

"We need their warp coil, Malcolm," Archer answered. "Degra wants to rendezvous with us, but we can't make it at sublight speeds. And if we don't make it—" Archer ran a hand through his hair, leaving it spiked with sweat and grease. "We have no way of tracking the weapon. Making this rendezvous may be our last chance."

"Captain, how do you intend to get their warp coil?" Malcolm asked carefully. He was a consummate military man, and would follow his orders, despite his moral qualms. But I want very explicit orders, he told himself.

"They're not going to give it to us," the captain said. He glanced around the armory, unable to look his tactical officer in the eye. "We're going to have to take it, by force." Archer bit his cheek, then turned to leave.

"Captain!"

"Yes, Lieutenant?" Archer's voice dropped dangerously low as he spun back around.

"Don't we have any other choices, sir?" Malcolm challenged, refusing to back down from the fierce gaze.

"I gave you an order, Lieutenant!" Archer snapped, but the burst of fury passed quickly. "Malcolm, if you have another idea, say so now. I'd love to hear it."

Reed paused before answering. "It just seems wrong, sir."

"It is wrong! But what choice do I have?" Archer could feel a vein throbbing in his head.

"There are always choices, sir," Malcolm offered gingerly.

"Not when the other choice is our failure," Archer countered wearily. "And trust me, Malcolm, if we don't make this rendezvous, then our entire mission will fail. And Earth will be destroyed."

"But if we do—this," Malcolm waved a hand in the air. "Won't a little bit of humanity be destroyed?"

"Malcolm, I've been over this already. I'm giving you a direct order: prepare an armed boarding party. Prepare to seize the Illyrians' warp coil by force. I appreciate your moral concerns, but morality went out the window a long time ago."

…

The great Council Chamber: the heart and soul of the Xindi Union, where the five Xindi species came together to discuss and debate the major issues confronting their peoples. It was a symbol of their unity, but today, only two of the races were seated at the round table: Jannar, on behalf of the arboreals, and Depac and Degra, on behalf of the primates. There was also a fourth figure in the room, decidedly not Xindi—and not even of the same dimension.

The trans-dimensional Being, the same Being who had provided the Xindi with their information from day one, who had guided the Xindi actions and their preemptive assault against Earth, appeared wraith-like before them, flickering in and out of existence. It was of average height, her skin a pale yellow, its face smooth and head bald. Its voice echoed, as if traveling through a modulator, and it was not happy. "Where are the other members of the Council?" it demanded, staring down at the three delegates.

"We didn't want them here," Depac countered forcefully, leaning back in his chair.

"Why?"

The normally sloth-like Jannar leaned forward aggressively. "We've learned something about the reptilians that concerns us. Alarms us."

"There's distrust among you," the Being observed. "Why must you sow these seeds? Xindi strength comes from Xindi unity."

Jannar visibly bristled at the accusation. "You can help alleviate our concerns," he continued. "I'm sure they are unfounded, but hearing it from you would—" he gestured with his hands. "Solve any misunderstanding."

The Being began to pace around the Chamber. "Continue," it said cautiously.

"We were told that the reptilians attempted to build a bioweapon," Degra charged in vehemently.

The Being's head snapped around. "Who told you this?"

"We've also learned that they were building this bioweapon in the past," Depac added, his eyes narrowing. "On Earth."

"As far as we're aware, reptilians don't possess the technology for time travel," Degra tacked on, leaving the final accusation unsaid.

The Being knew what the accusation was. "You want to know if they had my help," it said, continuing the pacing.

"Well, did they?" Degra challenged.

The Being darted its head back and forth. "Of course."

On hearing the admission, Jannar's face drew long.

"After you prohibited them from constructing a bioweapon, the reptilians and the insectoids were prepared to withdraw from the Council," the Being said. "I assisted them so that the Council would remain unified." It spoke as though it saw no contradiction in its own words.

"You keep us unified by encouraging the reptilians and insectoids to ignore the rulings of the Council?" Jannar spoke disbelievingly. The logic defied his mind.

"You helped them circumvent our authority!" Degra shouted, hot on Jannar's heels.

"I protected your authority by keeping the Council intact," the Being insisted.

"You protected the Council's authority by rendering it meaningless?" Jannar spoke again. "That is—" If he had been human, he would have used the term 'Orwellian.'

Degra was bristling. "What happened to the bioweapon?"

"It was never completed," the Being admitted. "The three reptilians were never found."

"You mean that you can't locate them," Jannar countered. He had a suspicion that he knew exactly where they were, a suspicion that he was coming to trust.

"There are limits to what we can do in your realm."

"It seems you can do more than we thought!" Degra retorted, by now abandoning all thought of trusting the Being. If only I could convince the others to do the same…Drawing a breath, he went in for the kill. "Is it true that your species built the Spheres?" he demanded.

The Being stared at him, letting a pregnant silence fill the room before answering. "What makes you think you can subject me to this interrogation?" it replied at last. "If it weren't for my assistance, your species would be facing destruction. I am making your survival possible. Or do your people always attack the hand that saves you?"

"We are grateful for the help you've given us," Jannar replied diplomatically. Degra gave the arboreal a baleful glare.

"Then prove it," the Being answered. Its body became wavy and began to flicker. "Focus on the task at hand. The weapon is nearly complete." Degra exchanged a hooded look with Depac; they hadn't revealed to the Being that the weapon was finished.

"If you permit yourselves to become distracted," the Being continued, "you'll fail to destroy your real enemy. I brought the Xindi together so you could stand strong against your real enemy—the humans. Now don't summon me again unless every member of the Council is present. I won't be a part of your internal bickering." With that, the Being vanished into air.

The three Xindi stayed silent, looking at the now-empty space that had held their purported benefactor, until Depac broke the tension. "You don't believe her," he said, looking at Degra.

"No," Degra replied, still visibly roiled by the communication-cum-confrontation. "Do you?"

Jannar leaned forward, crossing his hairy hands on the Council table. "Why should we take Archer's word over its?" the arboreal asked slowly. "It has brought us this far already. It brought the Xindi race together in the Council. It showed us our future, and offered us protection and help. Archer is just trying to save his own pink skin."

Degra sighed. "I'm a scientist, Jannar, not a politician, and definitely not a priest. I trust only what I can see with my own two eyes. Think about everything it's told us—this claim that humanity will eventually destroy the Xindi. Has it offered any proof of that?" Degra asked. "No, it hasn't. Just these vague promises."

"How can it prove something that won't happen for four hundred years?" Jannar queried.

"How can it?" Degra replied skeptically. "And yet, Archer has. He's offered proof that there are still Xindi alive in the twenty-sixth century. He's offered proof that the reptilians and the Beings have been conspiring behind our backs, and that they shouldn't be trusted. Archer's offered something that the Being hasn't, and something that I personally place my trust in: proof."

…

Feb. 3, 2154

When you launch a starship, Archer pondered to himself, there are certain things that you never even contemplate doing. Possibilities that you don't imagine are possible, or contingencies that you can't believe will ever take place. At the moment, he had assembled the senior staff for the worst thing he could think of: he was defiling a ship of peace with a council of war. If he needed a reminder of why, he need only look as far as the meter-wide hole blasted through the bulkhead behind him.

"Under normal circumstances," Lieutenant Reed observed, pulling up a schematic of the Illyrian vessel on the central console of the situation room, "they'd be no match for us, but we've sustained a lot more damage than they have." He paused meaningfully. "This could be risky."

"One lucky shot to our starboard nacelle—" Trip began.

"Let's make sure they don't get any lucky shots," Archer cut him off. The captain leaned forward on the table. "Listen, I know I'm asking a lot of you. I know this mission makes all of you uncomfortable—it makes me uncomfortable too. Here's the deal: if anyone can come up with a better option, I'll take it on the spot. But if no one can…" he looked at their faces. "There's far more at stake here than our morality."

"Don't we have anything that we can trade?" Hoshi asked gingerly.

Archer shook his head. "I went through our entire inventory with them," he answered. "Trellium-D, EPS taps, freeform plasticine, even those miraculous self-sealing stem bolts. But they don't want to be stranded without warp drive, and I can't really blame them."

"Can we transport their warp coil to the Enterprise?" Travis asked. The question marked the staff's acquiescence to Archer's plan.

"It's tied into their injector system," Malcolm answered. "If we remove it without sealing the intake valves, it'll trigger an overload and destroy their ship."

"Someone has to go in there and decouple it by hand," Archer said, finishing the explanation. "Which means an armed squad."

"The question is how long it'll take," Malcolm added, looking at Trip for an answer.

The engineer shrugged. "Ten minutes, give or take," he said noncommittally. "Won't know for sure until I see it."

Malcolm whistled. "If they fight back, ten minutes will be a very long time."

"We'd have to seize the entire ship," Travis said, thinking aloud. "Stun the entire crew. It's the only way we can keep the engineers protected for that long."

"I don't relish the idea of a deck-by-deck firefight," Malcolm muttered.

T'Pol broke in to add her own thoughts. "Perhaps we should reconsider negotiation. Vulcans have a long history of brokering deals. I might be able to come up with something."

Archer shook his head. "We can't risk tipping them off," he answered, even as he noticed T'Pol's discreet shaking. And I'm not sure you're up to it, he added for himself. Something's wrong with you.

"We have to take them by surprise," Malcolm confirmed through tight lips. "That'll reduce the losses on both sides."

"Speed is most important," Archer continued. "We'll disable their ship as quickly as we can, beam in, extract the warp coil, and get out, hopefully without any casualties." He looked around, checking for any last questions.

"Um, Captain," Travis spoke up hesitantly. "What if they see us coming and run?"

Malcolm provided the answer. "There's a rogue planetoid in roughly the same direction," the tactical chief said. "I'm sure they'll notice us, but it'll look like we're traveling to the planetoid for raw resources. By the time the Illyrians know any different…it'll be too late."

Hoshi had a question as well. "How do we know that their warp coil is even compatible with ours?"

"We don't," Trip answered flatly. "The principles are the same, but the engineering could be too different to integrate into our systems."

"It's one more risk that we have to take," Archer said grimly. The dark shadows in the room cloaked the expressions around him, but he imagined that they mirrored his own. "Malcolm, assemble your assault team. Trip, prepare your equipment. Travis, set a course for that planetoid. You're dismissed."

Without waiting, Archer turned and stalked away, not consciously realizing that he was using the hole in the bulkhead as a doorway for a shortcut to the corridor. Behind him, the other staff members moved slowly as they grappled with their orders. One, however, moved quickly.

"Captain," T'Pol called out coarsely at Archer's retreating back. "May I have a word with you?"

"No," Archer replied without a thought, and he disappeared into the black corridor.

T'Pol, undeterred, doggedly followed the captain's footsteps through the darkness, her enhanced Vulcan senses providing better navigation than Archer's. The chase—albeit slow-speed, short-distance, and mildly farcical, it was nonetheless a chase—took the two around the remainder of A-deck and onto B-deck before returning to the bridge. As Archer physically opened the doors to his ready room, he admitted defeat.

"If I had another option," he said over his back, "I'd take it. Can you offer me another option?"

"We are no different than the marauders who attacked us when we entered the Expanse!" T'Pol countered vehemently, following Archer into the smaller room.

The captain turned and looked at T'Pol with surprise. The statement itself was not bizarre, although he would have expected it from Trip instead; but the naked belligerence in T'Pol's voice, the lack of self-control in her movements, was alarming. I need to have Phlox take a look at her, Archer realized. And soon. I can't have my first officer falling apart in the middle of the most crucial mission in human history. "We're a lot different from those raiders," Archer said finally. He picked his chair up and sat down, taking care to brush off the dust and debris first. "We're not doing this for just ourselves. You know how many lives are at stake—don't the Vulcans have a saying that 'the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few?'"

T'Pol glared at the captain, her body weaving. "Isn't there a human saying, 'for what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?'"

"I think you're misapplying the saying," Archer muttered darkly.

"And you're misapplying our maxim," T'Pol shot back angrily. "Vulcans don't use logic to justify murder."

"We're not murdering them, T'Pol!" Archer rose from his chair. "I've given strict orders to avoid killing them!"

"Are you a fool, Captain?" T'Pol countered bitterly. "By stealing their warp coil, we could be condemning them to death! What does it matter if the final blow comes from our hand or not? We're responsible for what happens to them!"

Archer gritted his teeth. "We're going to leave them a supply of trellium, along with some extra food," he said, forcing his voice level. "I'm not saying it'll be easy for them, but they'll stand a chance of making it home."

"Is that supposed to make it okay?" T'Pol shouted in disbelief. "We're taking their warp coil, but we're leaving behind some emergency rations? Is that the kind of morality you practice?"

Archer's face hardened. "You're out of line, Commander!" he said forcefully.

T'Pol wasn't finished. "You're forgetting that we're in a dangerous region of space! Our assault could cripple their defensive systems!"

"Not if we do it right!"

"And what if something goes wrong?" T'Pol said, pressing her point home. "Are you prepared to leave them at the mercy of roving pirates?"

Archer glanced out the window, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. While T'Pol was out of order with her arguments—and bizarrely emotional—their time in space together had given Archer a great level of respect for the diminutive Vulcan. But enough is enough, he thought tiredly.

He turned back to face her. "You haven't made a single argument that I haven't already considered," he said finally, his voice stripped of any residual anger. "We can debate this all day, but it's not going to change the situation. I've made my decision."

T'Pol's anger had bled out as well, and she replied with an imploring tone. "'We can't save humanity without holding on to what makes us human,'" she quoted. "Those were your words to me."

Archer ran his hands through his hair, feeling the sting of the words. "You're not making this any easier, T'Pol." When she didn't respond, he went on. "I'm no happier doing this than you are, but we're not going to make a habit of it."

"Are you sure?" she replied, challenging him. "Once you rationalize the first step, it's easy to fall into a pattern. 'The road to hell—'"

"'Is paved with good intentions.' Yes, I know that one. But I'm not rationalizing anything."

"Then what do you call it?" T'Pol demanded furiously.

"I call it the only logical choice!" Archer shot back, his ire rising. "I know what I'm doing!"

"You're invoking logic to justify killing those people! I can't accept this course of action!"

"Damnit, we don't have a choice!" Archer bellowed.

"I won't let you do it!" T'Pol screamed uncontrollably. Picking up a stray padd, she smashed it wrathfully on the edge of the captain's desk. It exploded in a shower of sparks and shards.

Archer watched quietly as T'Pol heaved in the shadows. He could see her struggle to regain her equanimity. "We've had our share of disagreements," he offered softly, "but you've never taken it out on my desk before."

T'Pol's chest was rising and falling madly as she sought to recover control of her breathing. For a Vulcan, it should have taken no effort—control over autonomic systems was a lesson taught in early childhood, and her inability to master such a rudimentary skill only added to her frustration. One, she counted. Two. Three. Four. Each beat was a breath, in and out, each one incrementally slower than the last. She closed her eyes to increase her focus, hearing only the beat of her heart and the sound of her own breathing. She let her thoughts and emotions fade away as she followed the solitary beat.

T'Pol stood still for nearly a minute before she re-opened her eyes. "I apologize," she said softly. "You are right." She took another breath. "I'm not performing correctly as first officer."

"Damn right you're not!" Archer's anger filled the room for a moment, but evaporated quickly. "What's happening to you, T'Pol?"

"It's been a difficult few days," T'Pol demurred. "I haven't had time to meditate." She straightened up. "I won't let it interfere with my performance again."

"T'Pol." Archer ran a hand through his hair. "It's not your performance I'm worried about, it's you. Maybe you should find the time to meditate. Or even check in with Phlox."

"I'll be fine, Captain," T'Pol said, firming up. "Although, with your permission, I'll take the next hour off."

"Take a few," Archer replied. "We have some time to spare while Malcolm and Trip get ready. But, Commander—when the time comes, I'll be leading the boarding party, and you'll be commanding the bridge."

"I understand, Captain."

"You need to have yourself pulled together by then. There's no margin for error, and if we don't do this right, people are going to die."

"Yes, Captain," T'Pol acknowledged. "If I may be excused?"

"Of course, Commander." Archer smiled. "We won't catch up with the Illyrian vessel until this afternoon, so you're off-duty until 1300." With a nod, T'Pol turned and left the ready room, pushing the door aside on her way out.

Archer watched the lithesome Vulcan as she left, turning the encounter over in his mind. Something was clearly wrong with T'Pol, but whatever it was, she didn't want to discuss it with him. If she were human, I know exactly what I'd do, he thought. But what's the cure for a Vulcan?

Archer crossed his fingers and triggered the comm panel, and was rewarded with a satisfying beep. "Archer to sickbay," he said aloud. "Phlox, do you have a minute?"

…

"Make way!" came the bellowed shout through the doors of sickbay, scattering assorted crewmembers from the pathway. Phlox looked up with tired alarm; the constant flow of emergency patients was taxing even his patience, but he was a professional. Then he saw the injured crewmember being carried in by Crewman Billy and Ensign O'Malley.

Cradled in their four-handed lift was T'Pol.

"Bring her in!" Phlox ordered, accelerating into action. The medics, well-trained from experience, hustled to obey, not even needing the verbal orders anymore. The primary biobed was cleared by the time Billy and O'Malley reached it, and they laid T'Pol down. Or, at least, tried to.

T'Pol's body was shaking violently, quaking like a demon possessed it. Her limbs flailed about, threatening to hit anyone who stood too close, and more than once, Billy was forced to block what could have been a debilitating hit. Vulcans relied as much on the precision and speed of their blows as brute strength, but even a thrashing backhand could do a lot of damage.

"Strap her down!" Phlox ordered. He couldn't do anything while he was weaving between the hectic, jerky movements of his patient. Billy and O'Malley were promptly joined by two other medics, and it took the four of them to hold T'Pol down long enough to reach the wide restraining straps across her body, holding down her torso, her limbs, and the last one across her forehead, to prevent her from shattering the back of her head. The restraints held her down, and in place, but T'Pol's body still shuddered beneath them.

Phlox's mind ran quickly as he took in the symptoms. The seizures in her body indicated a neurological problem, and a cursory scan with his eyes indicated no obvious physical injuries—at least, nothing that could be a cause; there were already swelling welts and bruises incurred by the furious convulsions, and the obligatory collection of cuts, scrapes, and minor burns that came from working in the destroyed hulk of the Enterprise.

"She's in neuropathic shock!" Phlox came to a diagnosis quickly, and set in course a series of protocols designed for such a situation. "Five cc's tetracaine bromide!" Seconds later, the hypospray was slapped into his waiting palm, and he injected the neurolytic agent directly into T'Pol's brainstem. "Five cc's phenylethyl amitriptyline!" The medicine appeared in Phlox's hand, and he injected it as well.

Phlox looked up at the overhead monitor. "Get the neurostatic sensors!" he ordered roughly, and within seconds, they too appeared in his waiting hands, and has Billy held T'Pol's head still, Phlox fixed the small sensors to her temples. When he glanced back up at the display, he was rewarded with an in-depth look at her brain activity.

There was a time when the report would have shocked Phlox, but that was early in his residency. Years of experience allowed his analytical skills to take precedence, and so the sight of chart-bending, erratic neurological activity failed to even faze him. "Prepare a spinal tap!" he ordered. There was a severe imbalance of something in T'Pol's neurological system, but he needed to analyze the spinal fluid to track it down.

In the meantime, T'Pol's seizures were dying off, although her breathing remained furious and volatile. The neurolytic blockers were doing their job, effectively deadening most neurological activity below the brain stem. Waiting for the results of the spinal tap, Phlox took a second to ensure that a medic was watching the lower autonomic functions closely, in case they had to shift T'Pol to machine-assisted breathing.

"Doctor!" Billy called out from a console. "The fluid analysis is ready!"

Leaving his medics to watch over T'Pol—after nine months in the Expanse, they were well-trained and heavily experienced—Phlox trotted over to join Billy. The list of compounds ran into the hundreds; Vulcan neurology was not simple. Phlox ran down it with a finger, murmuring as he went, comparing every compound to his memorized charts for Vulcans.

His finger stopped when he hit something that shouldn't be present. "N-acetyl-p-benzo-quinone imine," he breathed softly. It was not a natural compound for a Vulcan, and the concentration was incredible. "Billy," Phlox said, thinking as he went, "run a Vulcan metabolite regression on NAPQI."

"Doctor!" O'Malley shouted behind him as simultaneous sirens went off. Phlox wheeled around and ran back to the biobed, his mind already moving to the immediate problem. It only took one glance at the monitors to confirm his suspicions: T'Pol had gone into cardiac arrest.

…

Phlox pulled off his sanitary gloves and tossed them into a biohazard bucket, weary after the last hour of emergency medicine. While cardiac arrest was still a substantial danger, with the benefits of twenty-second medicine it was eminently treatable. But with the level of neurological damage that T'Pol had suffered, her heart was only the beginning; just when he had it stabilized, another system had gone out, then another. He had spent his time frantically repairing the cascading failures, and only now had caught up.

Phlox sighed as he noticed the captain quietly leaning in the doorway, and steeling his resolve, the doctor walked over to make his report.

"Phlox," Archer said, greeting his physician with a friendly smile. "I didn't want to interrupt you."

"She's stabilized for now," Phlox replied. His voice had become gravelly.

Archer held up a thermos. "Care for some coffee?"

Phlox smiled for the first time. "Don't mind if I do." Taking the thermos, he unscrewed the lid and took a swig directly from its mouth. The hot liquid burned slightly on the way down, but the jolt of caffeine was every bit as strong for a Denobulan as it would be for a human.

Archer waited a moment to allow Phlox to recollect himself before continuing. "What's the diagnosis?" the captain asked gingerly, gesturing at T'Pol.

"I do practice doctor-patient confidentiality," Phlox answered, feeling the warming in his stomach.

Archer gave a soft grin. "Consider me next of kin."

Phlox snorted. "That must be an odd family." He thought for a second, but realized that the captain would have to be told eventually. "Let's step into my office," he said, pointing the way with his head. "Most of my staff doesn't know the root cause yet, and I'd like to keep it between you and me." Archer nodded and followed, sparing a long glance at T'Pol's immobile form. She had always looked small, but never so…defenseless.

When they reached the doctor's office, Phlox slid closed a privacy curtain and pulled a medical schematic up on a console. Archer looked at it, frowning.

"You're looking at an analysis of the neuroactive compounds in her body," Phlox said, explaining the schematic for the captain. "When T'Pol was brought in, she was exhibiting all the symptoms of neuropathic shock, which typically indicates the imbalance of various compounds in her neurological system. We gave her two neurolytic blockers to ease the symptoms, and we've spent most of our time dealing with those effects."

Phlox pointed to a particular line in the schematic. "The spinal fluid analysis indicated the presence of this compound—it's called NAPQI. Don't ask," he said, catching the captain's questioning look. "It's completely foreign for a Vulcan, and a powerful neurotoxin for them. In such high concentrations, it accounts for all of the symptoms. If we hadn't caught it when we did—" he frowned. "She only had hours left."

"How did she pick it up?" Archer asked.

"That's the bad news." Phlox looked grim. "NAPQI is a metabolite of another compound, NAPA. NAPA rarely exists as a lone agent, but if you catalyze it with the appropriate bases—" Phlox input a command, bringing up another schematic.

Archer recognized it at once. "Trellium-D."

"You win the prize, Captain."

"I thought we had the trellium shielded. How did she get it in her system?"

"It's not just a question of getting a little in her system," Phlox answered. "These are extremely high concentrations. Captain, the only answer is that she's been injecting herself with freebased trellium. Probably daily, for at least six weeks."

Archer's stomach fell as he heard the words. "That's not possible," he choked out hoarsely.

"Nonetheless, it's the only explanation that fits the facts," Phlox answered.

"You said it was toxic. Why would she do that to herself?" Archer asked, still disbelieving.

Phlox turned off the schematic. "I won't know for sure until I talk to her."

"Do you have a theory?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then theorize."

Phlox sighed. "It's been an extremely stressful mission, Captain, for all of us—the crew's been pushed to the limits and beyond. A humanoid body just isn't designed to handle the stress and tension that we've endured."

"What does that have to do with it?"

"T'Pol has an added weak point—her telepathic senses. She can't pick up thoughts from the air, of course, but the overall level of tension was bound to wear her down. And APAP has a certain degree of effectiveness at blocking the Vulcan telepathic receptors."

"And it was helpful enough to make her ignore the toxicity?"

"No, Captain, it was addictive enough. She probably figured that one or two doses wouldn't hurt her—and within days, she was completely dependent on it."

Archer said nothing, but Phlox could see the anger welling up in the captain until it broke through the levees. "Shit!" Archer screamed, lashing out with a foot and kicking over a biohazard bucket.

"Captain!" Phlox replied forcefully.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, it's just—what the hell was she thinking?" Archer felt the ire wash over him. "I need my first officer, and she puts herself in sickbay! Damnit, Phlox, I need her on the bridge, not on a biobed!"

"Captain!" Phlox said, still perturbed. "That might be half the reason—she pushed herself too hard! Just like you're pushing yourself too hard!"

Archer quieted down, the wave of anger having dispersed, and the two men pushed aside the privacy curtain to look at their friend. "How long is she going to be down here?" the captain asked, surprised at how peaceful T'Pol looked.

"I don't dare even wake her up," Phlox answered. "Her body's been seriously abused. It can't handle the shock. On top of that, we have to do a managed withdrawal—I can ease the process by weaning her onto an alanine aminotransferase serum, but it'll be several days yet before I can take her off the sedatives. I'd say at least a week before she's on her feet, and another week after that before she can return to duty." Phlox paused, catching the questioning look in his captain's eyes. "I said, at least. Any number of things could still go wrong."

Archer stepped up beside the biobed, taking T'Pol's hand in his own. Giving it a firm squeeze, he barely noticed as Phlox stepped up beside him. "The funny thing is," Archer said tenderly, "I always figured she was stronger than any of us."

…

Travis sat at half a table in the mess hall, the other half having been torn away during the battle at Azati. Two of the legs remained intact, and a third leg—taken from some piece of wreckage—had been wedged underneath, giving the table a modicum of stability, although it looked like a sharp breeze would knock it over. He was supposed to be on-duty—the Enterprise was officially in the middle of alpha shift—but it was only midday, and he had already put in eight hours, with another eight ahead of him. Commander Tucker had given him fifteen minutes, and Travis was trying to eat. It's a little hard to get excited about vacuum-desiccated casserole, he thought mournfully.

"Ensign!" Travis automatically shot to his feet at the sound of the captain's voice, knocking the table over in the process.

Archer's stern face dissolved into laughter. "At ease, Travis!" he said, chuckling hard. "I think you can still salvage your lunch there."

Mayweather looked down at the sprawled casserole and gave it a little kick. "Not anymore, sir!" he replied jokingly. "Is there a problem, Captain?"

"In a manner of speaking." Archer sobered up quickly. "T'Pol's stuck in sickbay with—an injury." The specific nature of the injury would only be revealed later, if T'Pol chose.

Travis nodded. "I'm currently assigned to repair work on the impulse engines, but if you'd like me to do something else…" He trailed off suggestively.

Archer gave the young ensign a firm pat on the shoulder. "How do you feel about command, Travis?" he asked, keeping a friendly smile on his face.

Travis broke into a grin. "I'd love to, sir, just give me the word."

The eagerness rubbed off on Archer. "T'Pol was going to command the bridge while we—visit the Illyrian vessel," he said. "I'd like you to do it instead. Now—" he cut Travis off quickly. "We're set to launch in ninety minutes, so you'll have to keep moving."

Travis nodded, the grin wearing off. "I've already set the intercept course, sir, and Ensign Rahimi has the firing pattern set. I'll get Ensign Hutchinson to handle the helm. It shouldn't take long to brief him."

"Very well," Archer replied. "Report to the bridge, Ensign."

…

1300 hours. Travis read the chronometer on the arm of the command chair. He had been checking it every few seconds, waiting for the minutes to flick over, and his leg was bouncing in time with the clicks.

With precision, the captain's voice came over the intercom. "Archer to the bridge."

Travis jumped to his feet and nodded at Hoshi, who opened the comm channel. "Mayweather here, sir. We're ready to proceed."

"Acknowledged," Archer replied. "We're a go on your command."

"Aye, sir. Good luck, sir," Travis answered. He took in a breath, giving the bridge a final once-over: it may look ready for a salvage yard, but he knew that every console was repaired and in peak condition, and the crew sat poised, ready to go. Hoshi returned Travis' look, giving him an added jolt of confidence. Hell, I'm twenty-six, Travis mused suddenly. I can handle this.

"Lay in intercept course, maneuvering thrusters only," he ordered, going through the pre-determined sequence. "Power up weapons and stand by."

"Aye, sir," Ensigns Hutchinson and Rahimi acknowledged simultaneously, and the Enterpriseeased into a gentle arc, its armaments bristling for war.

…

Aboard the damaged Illyrian vessel, repairs were proceeding more fitfully, and Soriano cracked his knuckles in frustration. "Run another test," he said, indicating the circuitry display on the monitor before him. He was in the tiny vessel's engineering bay, having had to personally take charge of the repair effort. "If it doesn't hold, we'll have to bypass the entire assembly." A sharp beeping sound yanked his attention away. "What is it?" he barked at the intercom.

"Sir," the watch officer's voice came through covered in static. "There's a vessel approaching—it's the Earth ship."

"Have you contacted them?" Soriano asked, his attention rapidly shifting back to command.

"Yes, sir," his subordinate replied. "But they're only sending a text message—they say they're on course to intercept the rogue planetoid we noticed nearby. When we ask for more information, they just repeat that."

"They're still hailing us," Hoshi reported, shutting off the incipient beeping. "They're getting suspicious, but I don't think they've figured it out yet."

"Two hundred kilometers," Hutchinson reported from the helm.

Travis leaned forward in the command chair. "Target their propulsion systems," he ordered.

"Target acquired," Rahimi replied a moment later.

"Fire." Three sequential bolts of red lightning shot out from the Enterprise's phase cannon, striking the Illyrians' warp compartment. An explosive blast was promptly snuffed out by the vacuum of space.

"Direct hit," Rahimi reported. "Their warp drive's offline. They're charging weapons and coming about."

"Bridge to transporter," Travis called out. "Energize!"

"They're firing!" Rahimi shouted almost immediately. The Enterpriseshuddered with the impact, but the jury-rigged hull plating held.

…

In the engineering bay of the Illyrian vessel, Soriano reacted with alarm at the first impact of weaponry. "Soriano to the bridge!" he barked out loudly. "What's going on up there?" Without waiting for an answer, he turned his head and noticed the gases venting from the warp drive. "Someone shut off the anti-matter shunt!" he ordered, roughly shoving a crewmember in the general direction.

A shrill whine caught his attention, and he turned about in time to notice the glimmer of a transporter effect diminish as three humans took form. A second later, Soriano was laying unconscious on the deck.

Archer, Reed, and Major Hayes of the Enterprise's MACO contingent had transported first, and they moved quickly, emptying the transport coordinates for the next wave of the assault team. Behind them, two more MACOs and Commander Tucker materialized, followed by another three MACOs.

Before the Illryians could react, the lead team had darted behind a plasma conduit, using it as physical shielding. Their weapons darted around the room rapidly, seeking out targets, and an Illyrian security contingent was shot down the moment it rounded the corner into engineering.

"Secure the bay!" Archer called out, followed by a welcoming chorus of "Clear! Clear! Clear!"

"Engineering is secure!" Major Hayes reported a second later, stepping out from behind the shield.

"Trip, get to work on the warp coil!" Archer gestured roughly with his free hand. "Malcolm, secure his back! Major, clear the rest of the ship!"

The Illyrian vessel shuddered with the impact of the Enterprise's weaponry, sending the boarding teams scattering for footing. Archer could hear the shrill whistle of Illyrian weapons returning fire, and an explosion of smoke and sparks reverberated through the bay as a power relay overloaded.

…

For his part, only a few hundred meters away, Travis was carefully calculating the Enterprise's firing pattern; he needed to lay down enough fire to keep the Illyrian crew occupied, but not so much as to cause damage to the warp coil. Gritting his teeth, he ordered the helm to pull the larger ship away in battle maneuver, shaking off the counter fire; then he brought it swooping in for another strafing run.

…

The MACO contingent worked their way into the corridor, sweeping the deck before them with near-constant phaser fire as they went. While the Illyrian crew had not had time to organize a defense, Hayes realized that most of the crew had already been carrying weapons; and a determined resistance sprung up, as the aliens used their knowledge of the ship and its cubbyholes to fight from relative safety.

Hayes led the assault squad down the external corridor, his mind subconsciously receiving the barked notices of success from his commandos, and he drew to a halt beneath an overhead hatchway.

"That's the access port!" Private Carendar shouted, raising a hand scanner upwards, before he was spun around with the force of a weapons blast. Snarling loudly, Hayes leveled his phaser rifle at the source, and unleashed a full-bodied answer, causing a bulkhead to explode in flames and sending the Illyrian to the ground, bloody and unconscious.

Two more privates ran up and, forming a four-handed lift, raised Hayes up to the ceiling. The access panel was simple; the hatchway was unlocked, and the MACOs scattered as it slid open, dodging the Illyrian weapons shooting blindly into the deck below.

"Stun grenade!" Hayes called out sharply, and leaning into the fire path, Corporal Chang hurled a fist-sized chunk of plasticine into the deck above. The sharp whoomp was followed by the dull sound of several bodies hitting the deck plating. "Go! Go! Go!" Hayes shouted, and the commandos quickly reformed ranks, using the four-handed lift to assist each other up through the hatch.

…

"Their weapons are at fifty percent!" Rahimi shouted out her report, struggling to be heard over the clanging alarms on the Enterprisebridge. Normally, the battle would not be a contest, but the Starfleet vessel was in no condition for an extended firefight.

"We have another hull breach," Hoshi called out, handling damage control. "On E deck!"

The next report was far more alarming. "Our port thrusters are offline!" Hutchinson shouted, and Travis could feel the Enterpriseplummet into a lateral skid underneath his feet. He gripped the arms of the command chair tightly, trying to keep his seat.

"We have to take out their weapons!" Travis shouted, rewriting the firing plan in his head.

Hoshi looked up in alarm. "We can't leave them defenseless! The captain's orders were to—"

"The captain's not here, and I'm in command, Hoshi!" Travis shot back. "The situation's changed! Rahimi, target their weapons banks!"

"Sir!" Hoshi responded through clenched teeth.

"We don't have a choice, if we want to get through this in one piece!" Travis gripped his chair as the ship shook again. "Rahimi, fire!"

The Illyrian warp core stood firmly in the center of the engineering bay, glowing a sharp red that contrasted with the dim, damaged lighting in the rest of the compartment. It looked familiar; but then again, Trip thought, a warp core is a warp core. There's only so many design differences that you can make. As Archer and Malcolm did a second sweep of engineering, Trip ran over to the core, opening his tool case as he went.

Trip ran headfirst into a forcefield, and was flung backwards. "Shit!" he screamed, picking himself up off the deck. He shook his right hand rapidly, trying to disperse a tingling feeling. "Captain!" he shouted across the bay. "We've hit a little snag!"

…

On the decks above them, the firefight was continuing. The MACO squad was advancing, corridor by corridor, using every centimeter of cover they could find as they conducted the difficult task of rooting out a resistance that knew the ship better than the assault team did. Streaks of phased energy shot back and forth, few blasts hitting a person, but the heat of so many energy beams quickly overwhelmed environmental controls. The battlefield became cloaked in the palpable heat and smoke. "Go!" Hayes barked, gesturing for the rear echelon to move forward in the precious seconds of cover. They needed to reach the bridge to stop the Illyrians' return fire.

…

"They're targeting our starboard nacelle!" Rahimi reported as a klaxon went off, signaling to the bridge crew that a plasma conduit had ruptured in engineering. "A couple more hits, and it'll be gone!"

"Evasive maneuvers!" Travis ordered. "Hutch, take us out five hundred kilometers, and keep our port side turned to them! Hoshi, can you raise the boarding party?"

"Got them!" Hoshi shouted a second later.

"Captain! How much longer do you need?" Travis shouted. "We're taking heavy damage over here!"

"Hang on, Enterprise, we're going to need a few more minutes!" Archer shouted, and flipped his communicator shut. "Trip, what's the problem?"

"There's a forcefield around the warp coil!" Trip shouted back, running across the bay. "I'm trying to cut power to it!"

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Yeah! Can you stop the firing? It makes it a bitch to work in here!"

Archer couldn't help but chuckle. "I'll bring it up with the captain!"

Trip fiddled frantically with the controls. "Give it a try, Malcolm!"

Reed reached a hand out gingerly, and yanked it back when he encountered the forcefield. "Still there!"

"Captain," Trip shouted, thinking as he went, "can you find the main EPS grid?"

"I'm on it, Trip!"

…

Hayes whipped around as he heard the unmistakable sound of weapons fire coming from behind him. Somehow, a team of Illyrians had gotten behind his cohort, and the MACOs found themselves caught in crossfire.

"Chang!" Hayes cried out loudly. The corporal, without answering, tossed his last stun grenade back down the corridor, and was rewarded by a flash of light and several bodies dropping to the ground.

"Hold this point for a second!" Hayes ordered, and ran over to one immobile body: this one wore MACO camouflage, and he quickly assessed the physical injuries: in addition to the normal stun effect of the Illyrian weapons, there was a serious head injury, and blood and gray matter were oozing out of the wound. "Hayes to Enterprise!" he shouted, flipping his communicator open. "Parson's been hit! Lock onto her communicator and beam her out!"

…

"Hoshi, get on it!" Travis ordered, trusting Ensign Sato to rely the appropriate commands to the transporter alcove. His attention rapidly jumped back to the battle, just in time to hear another shout.

"We're venting atmosphere on C-deck!" Rahimi reported, slamming a fist into her console to shut off the siren.

"Sir, I got a firing solution!" This one came from Crewman Rossi, who was manning the science console. She had been scanning the Illyrian vessel closely, looking for pressure points for the Enterprise's phase cannons.

"Do it!" Travis ordered gruffly.

"Adjust phase cannons to a narrow confinement beam!" Rossi shouted, as she stood up and ran across the bridge to the tactical station. Rahimi had the changes made by the time Rossi arrived. "Target this power juncture," Rossi commanded, pulling the schematic up on the targeting display.

"Got it!" Rahimi shouted.

"Fire!" Travis ordered instantly.

…

On board the Illyrian vessel, the lights flickered and died as main power cut out, causing Trip to look up and shout "thank you, Travis!" As the engineering consoles and monitors winked off in turn, the forcefield protecting the warp coil sparked and died.

Without pondering their serendipitous luck, Archer used the torch on his phaser rifle to light up the core. "Right there," Trip said, pointing to the access junction he needed. Archer held the light steady as Tucker began his work.

…

Above, the firefight continued in the darkness, the red and green energy beams providing the only light in the corridors. They shot back and forth, and the Illyrians began to lay down a murderous fire, pinning the MACO squad down. The path behind them was clear, but they could no longer advance towards the bridge. Hayes shrugged and focused on the battle at hand; the Enterprisewould have to handle the vessel's weapons fire.

Hayes fired off several more blasts before he shot to the ground, rolling in a tight ball across the hallway. He timed the weapons fire perfectly, and was through the main gap before the next blast punctured the darkness, and he jumped to his feet on the other side of the corridor. From his new vantage point, he could draw a bead on one of the Illyrian defenders.

"Mayweather to Hayes!" The major let out an inaudible curse. The timing was impeccable; it would reveal his new position before he had a chance to fire. Nonetheless, he flipped open his communicator.

"Hayes here!" he answered, laying down a barrage of cover fire.

"Commander Tucker's aboard with the warp coil!" Travis responded. "Prepare your team to beam out!"

Hayes nodded gratefully, realizing that no one could see his relief.

…

Reed and Archer spun around at the sound of movement behind him, and stared with depressed shock at the energy pistol leveled at them. The stun effect of their phaser rifles was brief; too brief, apparently, for Soriano was on his feet, holding them at gunpoint.

Soriano, however, didn't fire. His face bore a distinctive look of shock and disappointment. "What you can't have, you take by force?" he demanded, searching for an answer.

Archer's shoulders sagged, and he lowered his rifle. "We've beamed three containers of trellium into your cargo hold as compensation," he notified his fellow captain. "There's also food and assorted supplies."

"Anything as valuable as our warp coil?" Archer didn't answer, so Soriano continued. "I didn't think so. I thought you humans were different—that you actually meant what you said about peaceful contact, and respecting other races. I should've known better."

"We have no choice," Archer answered, his voice cracking.

"You're stranding us three years from home!" Soriano shot back. "Why are you doing this to us?"

Archer's answer was swallowed up by the transporter beam.

…

"Everyone's on board and accounted for," Hoshi reported from communications.

Travis sat back in the command chair, finally allowing himself to relax. "Helm, lay the departure course, full impulse, and engage."

With a curving arc, the Enterprisetook off, leaving the Illyrian vessel drifting in its wake.

…

Feb. 4, 2154

T'Pol's insensate form still in the center of sickbay, sending a shudder down Archer's spine. Intellectually, he knew what had happened to his first officer—his friend. But it was nothing compared to seeing it firsthand. He had so often relied on T'Pol for her strength, her certainty; while not many of the crew realized it, T'Pol was the true backbone of the Enterprise. To see her lying there, so small, so thin, so helpless—it shook him deeper than he cared to admit.

"Captain," Phlox's acknowledgement snapped Archer out of his reverie. "I assume you're here to check on the casualties?"

Archer nodded, not quite trusting his voice.

"Two dead, three seriously injured," Phlox reported quietly, trying to not disturb his patients. "Parson and Romero were both dead on arrival. Socorro has third-degree plasma burns. Hamboyan and Forbes both have energy burns from the Illyrian weapons."

Phlox hesitated, but Archer didn't respond, so the doctor pushed forward. "I don't suppose you got a casualty count of the Illyrians?"

Archer shook his head numbly. "No idea."

…

"A few tweaks and it fit right in," Trip commented, as he checked a reading on the warp core. "I was a little surprised, but I guess all warp coils have to follow the same rules, so…" his voice trailed off.

"Good to know," Malcolm said absently. "What's our top speed?"

"Three-point-two."

"That should get us to the rendezvous point with time to spare." Malcolm started down the ladder before noticing that Trip was still staring at the warp core. "We did the right thing, you know," he said, catching the engineer's attention. "The captain's decision was necessary."

Trip moved his eyes from the engine to Malcolm. "It seems the longer we're out here, the more I have to keep saying that to myself," he said. "When we first came out here, I was so eager—so ready to strike back against the Xindi, revenge the death of my sister. But the longer we stay out here…it seems like we're only hurting innocents. People who aren't even involved in our battle."

"The Illryians are resourceful," Malcolm commented. "They'll get home okay. And they'll have a home to get back to."

"I suppose you're right," Trip said, licking his lips. "Sure don't make it any easier, though."

Their conversation was interrupted by a voice on the intercom. "Captain to engineering."

Trip hit the comm control. "Tucker here," he replied.

"Prepare to go to warp," Archer ordered.

"Aye, sir." Trip closed the comm channel. "I wonder how many others we'll leave in our wake?"