Bittersweet Symphony: Cacophony and Grace

by jtm1848

As the Enterprise sits in drydock following her return from the Expanse, the crewmembers deal with the heavy psychological fallout. This portion is a heavily-adapted montage of Archer's stories in "Home" and "Twilight." MU story, if you prefer.

– Cacophony and Grace –

I

March 3, 2154

San Francisco, Earth

With a sigh of relief, Jonathan Archer—just that, with no rank—pushed open the recessed wooden door hidden a half-flight below the walkway outside.

It had been another rough night in a series of rough nights. With the Enterprise out of commission, Archer and his surviving crew were billeted in temporary quarters, occupying a converted warehouse in the restored Marina district along San Francisco's docks, a short jog away from Starfleet Command. The quarters were neither luxurious nor austere; if Archer had to choose, he would describe his set of rooms as being devoid. All of the basic amenities were present; but it had the depersonalized feeling of a hotel.

His beagle, Porthos, was steadily at work odorizing the lodging with the rich aroma of canine, the sort that clings to the carpets and furniture; but it would be a week or two before the captain's penthouse-level suite smelled like home. And tonight, like the nights prior, Porthos had fled his master's bed to seek rest elsewhere.

Archer was having trouble sleeping. He would toss and turn throughout the night; he would wake up suddenly, drenched in sweat. He would twist about, unable to find a comfortable position; his muscles were sore from being clenched. He tried sleeping under blankets, he tried opening the windows for ventilation. He had even procured a handful of sedatives from Phlox, but they were of little avail.

And so, at two in the morning, Archer found himself pacing the streets of San Francisco.

It was not raining, but the air was wet and cold. The tall buildings formed natural air corridors, channeling the gusts and spray from the bay and into the city. Archer had been on planets that were far worse, and yet he shuddered now; the bullet-like droplets bit at his exposed skin, making his nerves tingle with discomfort.

As he rounded Beach Street and onto Broderick, Archer took note of the signs of life that bustled about, even at a late hour. It was not a prime night of the week, and yet, many businesses were open for the night goers; bright, organic lighting shone from clear windows and open doors, tantalizing a promise of warmth and dryness.

And Archer was not the only person wandering along the walkway. The natives were well-accustomed to the weather, and were unfazed by the salty spray; they strolled in no hurry, taking time to appreciate the timeless architecture and stone work of the restored buildings. None were bothered by the shallow puddles, and easily stepped over the rivulets running down the lowered gutters.

Unbidden, Archer found himself at the foot of Broderick, only a block away from the bay. In the morning, he would question why his feet had led him here; but for the moment, he refused to think. Instead, he jogged down the stairs and opened the recessed wooden door.

The aroma hit him first. The swirling mixture of alcohol and yeast, the salty taste of peanuts, the earthy odor of human beings, it was all there; everything he remembered from days past.

The tavern was low-lit, its ephemeral essence coming primarily from old-fashioned lamps that were supplemented with discreetly-placed bioluminescent strips. Together with the walnut-stained timberwork, it gave an impression of timelessness and warmth.

Archer sighed as he let it soak in; he closed his eyes momentarily, letting a wave of relaxation sweep over him. It felt good; in many ways, it felt too good, but he would indulge himself for this night. Ten months in the Delphic Expanse—perhaps the most brutal mission since Hannibal had crossed the Alps—had earned it for him.

He hung his jacket on the coat rack and strolled across to the bar, and in a moment, a stocky man in an apron greeted him from the other side. "Scotch," Archer asked with a smile. He recognized the bartender; and here, in Starfleet's best-kept secret, the drink-slingers respected the anonymity sought by their well-known customers.

"Excuse me." A female voice came in from beside him, and Archer turned to address the newcomer. She was a head or so shorter than him; curly, black hair pulled back in a ponytail, and her body still cut a fine form, even with the onset of middle age.

"Pardon?" Archer asked, curiously.

She smiled at him. "The bar's reserved for regular customers," she answered. "Galactic heroes have to sit at a table."

"What are you doing here at this time of night?" Archer asked teasingly as the bartender set down a rocks glass of scotch.

"It's on me," the woman told the bartender, and she shifted her attention back to Archer. "The same thing you're doing here: getting away from Starfleet."

Her comment dispelled the sexual pretense that only old friends could muster. "How have you been, Erika?" Archer asked with a grin. "I heard about your promotion. It's Captain Hernandez now, isn't it?"

"Thank you," Erika replied. She took her own drink and held it aloft. "Cheers."

"Cheers," Archer responded. "So what are you doing here, anyway?"

Hernandez smiled ruefully. "I needed to relax before your debriefing starts tomorrow," she answered. Every NX-class captain—now numbering precisely two—would be at Archer's extended mission review.

"Well, I wouldn't want to spoil any surprises," Archer replied lightly. "Besides, we have more important things to worry about." He leaned inward, his face an expression of concern. "Seen any good movies while I was gone?"

Erika shrugged. "There's another World War epic out. It swept all the awards. But you haven't missed much." She paused for a sip of brandy. "Earth's been holding its breath for the past year," she continued. "Everyone's been on edge, wondering if the Xindi were going to come back and finish the job. No one's been in the mood for entertainment."

Archer sipped his own drink. "There must be some good news," he replied slowly.

"There have been more weddings than ever before," Erika answered with a smile. "In a couple months, we'll see a baby boom."

"And how about you?" Archer grinned laconically. "I don't see a ring on your finger."

Erika chuckled unrepentantly. "I'm married to Starfleet, Jonathan. Just like you."

**

The unseasonable warmth did little to brighten Jonathan's mood as he strolled across the grounds of the Presidio. Early morning, on the inland side of the spur of mountainous rock that formed the city of San Francisco, could mean anything; if the fog was heavy, or slow to burn off, it could be a cold, wet day. But if conditions were favorable, the sun would burn the ground-level clouds away, and brilliant blue skies would echo in the waters of the bay.

His debriefing session wasn't scheduled to start until noon, so Archer was taking his time as he meandered along the sculpted gardens that decorated the old military base. Here and there, portions of the Presidio still looked as they did almost three hundred years earlier, when the first forts were built by the Spanish to protect the valuable harbor; it was from here that Brigadier General Frederick Funston took charge in the aftermath of the Great Earthquake in 1906. As the decades wore on, hundreds of thousands of troops passed through on their way to the Far East.

Protected as a historical site and parkland, many of the original structures survived into the opening years of the Final World War; from the captain's vantage point, Fort Point was still out of sight, but it still stood strong at the base of the Golden Gate Bridge, which itself had oddly survived the three decades of recurrent destruction; but the assortment of buildings, barracks and otherwise, eventually fell victim to surges of refugees, and the golf course had become a tent city. By common agreement, the National Cemetery remained off-limits; but in those trying years, the Presidio once again served its purpose.

Now, Archer noted as he ambled along, Starfleet was taking great care to protect the natural beauty of the Presidio. The new buildings—Starfleet Headquarters, Starfleet Medical, and a dozen others—showed twenty-second century styling, but the lines flowed smoothly into the terraces and bluffs, and artfully-placed gardens and plazas intertwined throughout. Peculiarly enough, one such plaza was centered around a pre-War statue that had survived that turbulent era. It was of a creature called "Yoda."

Large tracts of forested parkland and grassy parade grounds now covered portions of the Presidio, and Jonathan knew that in years to come, new construction would arise within, designed with a sense of harmony and feng shui with those beautiful acres. Already, along the renovated boulevard of Montgomery Street, stakes were being placed for Starfleet's own engineering school; and within the Starfleet Planning Office was a full-scale development plan to convert the old base into the future hub for earth-space operations.

As Archer strolled along Mason Street, however, his thoughts were not on Starfleet construction or the Presidio. From his right side, chilled gusts tore without restraint over the rocky sea walls and sand dunes, across Crissy Field; the gusts hit him with the sharp bite of ocean spray, but the captain's uniform coveralls absorbed the cold and bite. And periodically, the gusts would dissipate, allowing the warmth of the sun to reach the ground, but Jonathan paid no heed.

**

Archer awoke suddenly as the ship slalomed sideways, nearly throwing him from his bunk to the carpeted deck plates. The sounds crashed into his ears like a cacophonous song of malodorous cats; the harsh, blaring siren calling the crew to general quarters, the unholy scream of the gyrostabilizers as they fought for balance against the wicked blows that pummeled the ship, the repetitive, pulsating whine every time a torpedo rocketed from the tubes.

He knew instantly that they were under attack, and years of training—honed mercilessly during their months in the Delphic Expanse—kicked in, guiding his actions before he could even think. He had not received a comm hail, but he would worry about that later; he rolled from his bed and slapped the panel as he struggled into his coveralls. "Archer to the Bridge!" he shouted out.

No response was forthcoming, a fact which the captain's brain filed away as he slipped his boots on and dashed across his quarters, nearly slamming into the door. He pounded the release button, and a delayed second later, the doors hissed open, releasing Archer into the corridor.

The caustic stench was immediately recognizable. He didn't need to see beneath the clouds of multi-colored smoke to begin to assess the damage; the nose-curdling smell of melting plasticine and the sulfurous odor of high-energy gas told him that a plasma conduit had ruptured and was burning freely somewhere in the corridor. He would trust his senses; they would instinctively tell him if he got too close.

Archer frowned as an anomalous problem emerged. He was outside his quarters, ready to dash to the lift and on to the bridge, but something was holding him back. Autonomous analysis raced through the back of his mind, telling him that he was not pinned down by debris; he had received no indication of boarders, and the corridor was not so dangerous as to force a crewmember to restrain him.

But restrained he was, with both shoulders pressed against the bulkhead, and his conscious mind shifted to deal with this new problem. The corridor was hazy and dark, but the two human forms were distinct and clear: they were holding him back, not letting the captain attend to his duties. "Stand clear!" Archer barked angrily as he twisted his body, seeking escape.

"I'm sorry, sir," one of the guards replied. His grip didn't relax. "I've orders to keep you here."

"Orders?" Archer snapped. "From who?"

"The captain," the guard replied flatly. "I have no choice, sir."

"What the hell?" Archer snarled back. Summoning his strength, he pushed forward, accomplishing only a momentary reprieve. "Who the hell is giving orders on my ship?"

The two guards exchanged guilty looks with each other before one replied. "I'm sorry, sir," he repeated. "You've been confined to quarters. My orders are to keep you here."

A thunderous jolt blasted the ship about, and Archer did not wait; the guards fell away for an instant, and he was on the ground, coming to his feet a pace away. One hand settled on a piece of debris that roughly resembled a pipe, and Archer rose in one fluid motion, arcing the makeshift weapon in front of him, striking one guard across the temple. The man collapsed to the deck, and Archer was off running to the nearest lift.

"We're losing forward hull plating!" Reed shouted in panic. His words fought with the roar of sirens pulsating from every direction, and Archer spun around as he tried to re-orient himself. Even amid the battle damage on the bridge, the massive fire engulfing the communications console stood out; the green-tinged flames radiated sweltering heat across the control center, and Archer felt as though he was breathing fire. The sickening odor of burning flesh nearly turned his stomach, and he suddenly saw Hoshi's crippled body being consumed by the hellfire.

"Target their engines!" It was a strong, female voice, coming from the general vicinity of the command chair; Archer's command chair, and his mind snapped forward to the imposter.

"Who are you?" Archer shouted as he staggered through the viscous smoke. His mind focused on one overriding thought: he would find the usurper who had stolen his command, throw them out the airlock, and take his ship back!

"No effect!" Malcolm bellowed. The tactical officer was somewhere behind a cloud of flame and ash; his voice floated, disembodied, to the rest of the bridge.

Archer reached his destination; he could see the form of the imposter before him, and he burst through the final tendrils of smoke with fury. "Who—are—" he began to shout.

His expression fell and his fury drained away as he saw the face. He knew who it was—it was his first officer, but she was bizarrely dressed in a standard Starfleet uniform. T'Pol's Vulcan face told him nothing; not how she had come to command, not why he had been removed and confined to quarters, not why the crew had betrayed him to someone not even human.

"Someone take him back to his quarters!" T'Pol shouted, giving Archer only the briefest of moments amid the battle fury. Unbidden, Archer felt himself sail across the bridge, his toes scrapping the deck.

"Weapons are offline!" Malcolm shouted.

It was followed almost immediately by the horrified scream of a resurrected Hoshi. "Captain!" she yelled, her shrill voice obtusely directing attention not to her, but to the main viewscreen.

The iron grips on Archer's arms disappeared into ephemeral nothingness; the clanging alarms and screaming sirens silenced themselves, and Archer felt the world around himself fade and disappear. A cocoon of stillness enveloped him; no sound, no smell, no sight, but yet he still saw; he could only watch, helplessly, without even infantile resistance, as the Xindi weapon shot out from its sphere.

The massive energy beam plowed into Earth itself, pouring immeasurable levels of energy into the ball of iron and nickel, rapidly overwhelming the atomic bonds that held each iota of matter together. From the inside-out, the planet exploded in the length of a second, leaving nothing behind but a million slivers of icy dust.

**

"I'm sorry," Archer said as he shook his head to clear out the somnolence. "What were you asking about?"

The debriefing sessions had continued, stretching day after day, with no clear end in sight, and the muted repetition of the same voices asking question after question numbed the captain's mind to his surroundings. Question after question, answer after answer, clarification after clarification, muddied recitations, and endless minutiae trickled on with little direction or conclusion, leaping from point to point and back again as Archer struggled to recall minor details of events that had occurred long months earlier.

Archer did his best to keep his attention focused on the panel before him. Three Starfleet officers—Admirals Forrest, Williams, and Gardner—sat behind a simple table, each reading notes from a stack of shuffled data pads. Beside them, however, was the Vulcan ambassador to Earth—Soval—and his aide, Skon. The two Vulcans had no notes; they retrieved details with laser precision from some obscure recess of their minds, never fumbling the way the humans did.

One side of the room—to Archer's right—was filled with windows, stretching from nearly floor to ceiling. Underneath their gaze, the reconstructed plaza of Long Avenue gave way to the bay-side bluffs that formed the peninsular highlands, and from there across the grassy park and on to the rocky sea walls. The Headquarters building sat at an angle, maybe 15° off the north-south axis, and the view extended eastward and slightly north across the gray bay.

Forrest smiled in sympathy. "On or around August 1, you entered an asteroid field," he repeated, providing a signpost for the captain. "Your reports state that you encountered a Vulcan ship—the Selaya."

Archer thought that Soval's ears perked up, but it was hard to tell.

There were only three other occupants in the room. Behind the front bench, to one side of the admirals, was a stenographer; the entire proceeding was being recorded, but long-standing tradition still dictated the presence of a steno. On the other end of the bench was an officer from Starfleet Security, who had the admittedly-easy task of being the bailiff.

Behind the captain, sitting along the back wall, was Erika Hernandez.

"That's right," Archer answered, buying a few seconds to collect his thoughts. The room was warm, and the ventilation was weak; the urge to doze off was strong. "The asteroids were loaded with trillium ore," he commented. "We think the Vulcans entered the field in order to mine it."

"Trellium?" Admiral Williams asked abruptly. "You've mentioned it several times. What's so special about this—is it a mineral? Some type of ore?"

Archer gave a languid nod as his thoughts caught up. "Trellium is an ore that occurs naturally in the Expanse," he answered slowly. "When processed, it provides an alloy that absorbs the gravimetric distortions. Ships in the Expanse used it to insulate their hulls."

"Captain, what basis do you have for your assertion that the Selaya entered the asteroid field with the intent of mining trellium?" Soval pushed his way in brusquely. "Or that the Selaya even entered voluntarily?"

Archer's temper flared under the ambassador's skepticism, forcing him to breathe deeply to reestablish his equilibrium. "The absence of other theories," he answered, choosing his words carefully. "This is the only explanation that makes logical sense."

Williams pointed a finger at his padd as he read a note. "Your log reflects that when you boarded the Selaya, you found the crew in a delusional, violent state." He set the padd down to address the captain. "If you'll forgive me for saying so, that's quite an extraordinary statement."

"It surprised us as well," Archer stated; he felt solid ground beneath his feet. "That—expectation—caused us to be unprepared. They attacked us the minute we docked," he said, shuddering as he remembered the berserk Vulcans. "It was a battle to survive."

"But you did survive," Skon pointed out. The younger Vulcan had a pleasant voice, roughly like a light tenor. "And the Selaya crew did not."

"According to your log, Doctor Phlox concluded that exposure to raw trellium was responsible for the abnormal behavior of the Vulcan crew," Forrest stated. It was less of a question than a reminder, one which the captain appreciated.

"Yes," he replied. "Trellium has a toxic effect on Vulcans; it damages neural pathways associated with their emotional control. Under prolonged influence, they lost the ability to suppress their emotions."

Soval seemed to pay it little heed. "According to your log, the entire crew of the Selaya was killed when you triggered a reactor breach," he declared.

With his temper flaring again, Archer couldn't help but bite back at the ambassador. "The breach was an accident," he retorted. "We were trying to disable their power grid. It was the actions of the Vulcan crew that sealed the Selaya's fate, not mine."

Soval carefully steepled his fingers. "But as far as I can determine," he rejoined, "you didn't try to save a single Vulcan crewmember."

Archer's anger began to burn slowly beneath the fuel of the implied accusation. "We did what we could, Ambassador. But they were too far gone. It was more logical to focus our resources on saving ourselves."

Soval tilted his head. "Is that a medical opinion, Captain?"

Inside his boots, where it could remain unseen, Archer clenched and unclenched his toes. "Doctor Phlox made that determination," he replied through gritted teeth. "I'm sure that, if you ask, he'll be willing to come here and testify to that effect."

Skon held up a data padd for the first time. "Our specialists have examined the medical data you brought back," he replied. His tone was a degree less stern than the ambassador's. "It's far from certain that the neurological damage was irreversible."

Archer shook his head. "Perhaps, in controlled conditions at Vulcan Medical," he answered. "But under the conditions we were experiencing out there? There was nothing we could do for them."

Soval raised an eyebrow. "But your own reports indicate that T'Pol was exposed to the trellium and contracted the—aberrant behavior. But you did not leave her behind."

"She had less exposure," Archer replied with a clenched jaw. T'Pol had been one of Soval's chief staffers for nearly a decade before joining the Enterprise, but evidently, gratitude was not a Vulcan trait.

Soval tilted his head, indicating that he noticed the tone; but Skon moved forward with the questioning. "You spent several hours in the ship's auxiliary control room, correct?" the aide asked mildly.

"Yes," Archer replied guardedly, unsure where it was leading.

"And in that time, did you try to access the internal sensors, or download the computer database?"

"We were more concerned with fighting off the emotional Vulcan crew," Archer shot back. Surging with anger, he nearly rose from his chair.

"So in effect," Soval added, rejoining the questioning, "we don't know what really happened aboard the Selaya."

"What the hell does that mean?" Archer retorted, rocking forward in his chair. He glanced over at the three Starfleet admirals, but none of them seemed inclined to intervene, leaving the captain feeling slightly betrayed. I guess I'm on my own, he thought furiously.

"Because of your oversight, we'll never have a complete picture of the events that led to the ship's destruction," Soval clarified. The ambassador's unvarying tone gave no hint of the vicious accusation he was making.

Infuriated, Archer shot to his feet. "I just told you what led to the ship's destruction!" he bellowed fiercely. The warmth of the room only heightened his ire.

Forrest, far calmer, rose to his feet as well. "Captain," he said, the one word carrying the weight of reproach.

The knife twisted in Archer's gut as he faced the admiral's opposition. "I'm not going to sit here and be accused of murdering those people!" he retorted.

"No one is accusing you of anything, Captain," Soval added mildly.

Archer shot a lethal glare at the impassive Vulcan. "Maybe that crew would still be alive if you'd been a little more helpful!"

Soval lifted a single eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?" he asked with unconcealed curiosity.

"You did everything you could to sabotage our mission, Ambassador," Archer bellowed; anger was flowing through him, and it felt good to finally release the pent-up fury that the Vulcan caused in him. "We got more help from the Andorians!"

Admiral Forrest sighed audibly. "That's enough, Captain," he expressed tiredly.

"The Vulcan High Command tried to stop us from ever entering the Expanse!" Archer was not going to be denied now. "This planet would be a cloud of dust right now if we'd listened to you!"

"That's enough!" Forrest barked. "This session is now in recess!"

**

Archer opened his eyes to the sight of a Denobulan hovering above him. "How do you feel?" Phlox asked with concern.

He winced in pain, unable to ignore the throbbing pain in his head. "Like a shuttle pod landed on my head," Archer answered, grimacing under the assault. Raising both hands, he tried to massage his temples, and he rolled onto his side. "Was anyone else hurt?"

"No," Phlox answered softly. The doctor gestured to someone out of Archer's sight, and the sickbay lights dimmed. "Captain, there are a few questions I have to ask you."

Archer unfurled his body with relief; the semi-darkness eased the throbbing in his head, allowing his thoughts to finally pierce the veil of pain. "Well, it'll have to wait," the captain replied as he stretched and flexed his legs. The muscles ached, but they felt alive, as if ready to run a marathon. "I want to get to the bridge."

"I'm afraid I have to insist," Phlox replied. With a firm touch, he pushed the captain back down into a supine position. "Captain…when did you last speak to Commander Tucker?"

Archer frowned involuntarily; he didn't understand the thrust of the question. In his experience, it was never good when doctors asked such seemingly-random things. "This morning, at the staff briefing," he answered. It scarcely took a moment of thought. "Why?"

A solitary point of red light emerged above the captain's head, causing Archer to twist away as the dim light sought his eyes. "Please hold still, Captain," Phlox murmured, placing a hand over Archer's forehead. "This will only take a moment."

"What exactly is this?" Archer replied, nonetheless holding his head still.

"Do you remember how you were injured?" Phlox asked. Seemingly satisfied, the point of light shifted to the captain's other eye.

Archer frowned. "There was a gravimetric anomaly in the corridor. It threw me against a bulkhead." Oddly enough, he felt few bruises. "What's going on, Phlox?"

The red light flickered and disappeared, leaving the captain blinking furiously to clear the impression from his retinas. "The anomaly passed through your body, Captain," Phlox replied. His voice conveyed a high level of tenderness. "In particular, through your brain."

"Oh no," Archer mouthed softly. A wave of dread coursed through him.

"It caused some structural abnormalities in your amygdala," Phlox continued. "It's not interfering with most of your brain operations."

"What is it interfering with?"

"They're preventing you from forming new long –term memories," Phlox replied.

There. It was out. "Long-term," Archer replied, his mouth forming around the somehow-alien words. As bad as it sounded, he still harbored some hope. "How bad?" he asked the doctor.

Phlox took a moment to answer. "You can recall events that happened before the accident," he replied. "For anything after that…" He shrugged in the darkness. "Your short-term recall is good for seven, maybe eight hours. Everything beyond that fades away."

"Eight hours?" Archer's hope was ephemeral, and it seemed to drift away on the whispery breeze of his voice.

The physician rested a hand on Archer's shoulder. "Captain, you've been in sickbay for the past three days," he explained. "You last spoke with Commander Tucker about seven hours ago. He came to see you."

The blinding pain was gone, but the crushing loss of hope was even worse. "There's nothing you can do?" Archer whispered.

"I'm synthesizing an antigen that shows some promise," Phlox offered, but his voice quickly betrayed him. "It will—it might strengthen the short-term recall. You can be assured that I won't stop working on this until I find a cure, Captain."

**

"This is bullshit, Admiral!" Archer bellowed as he stalked Forrest's office angrily. The room was neither cramped nor spacious, allowing a path just large enough for irate pacing. "How can you be taking his side?"

"You were out of line, Captain!" Forrest answered, equally furious. The admiral's ire seemed to steam the room. "And there are still limits on 'speaking freely'!"

"What am I supposed to do, Admiral?" Archer retorted. A hand gestured wildly away from the room, presumably pointing to the object of his rage.

"I expect you to act like a Starfleet officer!" Forrest snarled. He banged a hand on his desk. "Damnit, Jonathan, you're one of my best, but your behavior is making us look like rant amateurs!"

"What does their opinion matter?" Archer rejoined. "They didn't lift a finger to help us! Why should I justify myself to that sonuvabitch?"

"Because—" Forrest's fury was spent. "Hell, I don't know, Jonathan. But I'm putting the debriefing on hold, indefinitely." The admiral shook his head. "I want you to take some time off to clear your mind."

Archer's teeth gritted tightly. "With all due respect, Admiral, I don't need a vacation," he replied.

"Perhaps not," Forrest responded. "But I need you to take a vacation."

**

I think Chef can conduct miracles, Archer told himself as he took another bite of the savory stew. The captain wasn't completely sure what was in the mix; as their months in the Expanse wore on, Chef had taken to scavenging for fresh sources of edible food. Dinner included some type of meat, something that faintly resembled beef; there were starchy tubers and rich vegetables, at least one of which had a bizarrely-tangy aftertaste.

But it tasted good, and it was filling.

"It looked like we had a lead on that Xindi ship, the one we planted that tracking devise on," Commander Tucker commented around a mouthful of stew. "Trip" Tucker served the Enterprise in the dual capacity of chief engineer and second officer. The younger man was shoveling food as fast as he could eat it. "But it turned out to be a garbage scow."

Commander T'Pol, the chief science officer and executive officer extraordinaire, was picking far more delicately at her own bowl; as a rule, the Vulcan people were vegetarians. "They were carrying a shipment with the same radiolytic signature," she explained. Her Vulcan-style chopsticks emerged with a chunk of meat, and with a look of revulsion, she deposited it in a secondary bowl.

Trip gladly stabbed it. "The odds were pretty incredible," he admitted, taking the hunk in one bite. "But it happened."

Archer nodded in understanding; the odds were long, but so was space. "I had an idea this morning," he added, chewing a piece of tuber thoughtfully; I don't recall potatoes as being chewy. "I think we can upgrade the antimatter inducers to increase their efficiency. We can travel farther on less fuel." He was momentarily puzzled by the crestfallen expressions of his colleagues before realization hit him. "Let me guess," he added ruefully. "I already gave you the specs."

Trip exchanged a brief glance with T'Pol before answering. "A week ago," the engineer replied. "But your upgrades are working nicely," he added, trying to spin a sense of forced hope.

Archer leaned back in his chair. "I imagine that must happen often," he remarked. "How long have we been doing these daily briefings?"

"Thirty-seven days," T'Pol responded.

Archer faked a nod of understanding; he couldn't remember a single one of them. "Maybe these briefings aren't such a good idea," he said softly. Seasoned disappointment hung in his voice. "Looks like it's just a waste of time."

"I disagree," T'Pol rejoined. "We both rely on your experience, Captain. You can still contribute to the success of this mission."

"That makes me an advisor, not a captain," Archer replied. He spent a moment contemplating the folds of his napkin before looking back up. "I think it's time to make it official," he stated. Trip and T'Pol both rose to object, but Archer cut them off. "Can either of you truly argue that my continued command is best for this mission?" he asked.

Both officers fell silent.

"Very well," Archer acknowledged. "Due to my own—infirmities—I hereby relinquish command of the Enterprise to my executive officer, T'Pol of Vulcan. My final action is to grant her a brevet promotion to the rank of Captain." He shifted to look directly at Commander Tucker. "Trip."

"Yes, sir," the engineer acknowledged haltingly.

The ex-captain flashed a smile. "You can call me Jonathan now," he replied before turning serious. "I know the two of you don't always get along, but I'm counting on you to give T'Pol your utmost support."

Trip nodded. "Of course, sir—Jonathan."

Jonathan leaned forward, ready to return to dinner, but T'Pol halted. "Captain," she said, then: "Jonathan."

He looked at her expectantly. "In the corridor, when the anomaly hit, I urged you to leave me behind," T'Pol stated. It was new to him; Jonathan had no recall of the accident, but he would take T'Pol's word on it. "You didn't. If you had, it's likely I'd be the one suffering from this condition."

Jonathan smiled at her. "Fortunately, at the time, I didn't take orders from you."

T'Pol tilted her head and continued. "I never expressed my gratitude for what you did."

"There's not much point in thanking me," Jonathan replied wryly. "A few hours from now I won't remember anyway."

**

Archer shook his head, trying to clear the shards of errant memory from his thought. His pack sat on the bed, its contents neatly arranged with precision; Starfleet survival training was years in his past, but the lessons had been drilled in until they were instinctive. In too many occasions, it could be a matter of life or death.

"Jonathan, are you okay?" Archer nearly jumped at the sound of the voice; how long had his mind drifted in reverie? "You didn't answer the door, so I let myself in," Erika explained with concern.

Jonathan shook his head again and rolled it backward, arching his shoulders and pressing them down; his spine crackled from stiffness, but the rush of blood helped clear his mind. "What are you doing here?" he asked with a friendly smile.

Her look of concern did not go away. "I was at the debriefing, Jonathan. Remember?" She pried suggestively. "I was worried about you, and then you didn't answer your comm…"

Jonathan blinked his eyes in surprise; had he been out for that long? "I'm fine, Erika," he replied reassuringly. "Admiral Forrest suggested I take a vacation, that's all."

"Of course," Erika responded dryly. "How soon are you taking off?"

Jonathan glanced at his pack. "Right now," he said with sudden realization. He was cleared from Starfleet Command; Porthos was at the boarding club; and a flyer was waiting to take him out. "In fact, if you don't mind…" he suggested as he lifted the pack.

Erika stepped out of the doorway. "Not at all," she replied with an odd tone of humor.

Jonathan stepped into the main room, and his eyes fell on another pack sitting by the door.

"By the way," Erika said as she stepped out behind him. "Don't you know better than to go into the wilderness without a partner?"

**

From the inside-out, the planet exploded in the length of a second, leaving nothing behind but a million slivers of icy dust. For a moment in time, as the particles hung in a cloud, the evanescent light flashed with the reflected brilliance of the sun, creating a shimmering spectacle of delicate crystal and transitory beauty.

And then the shockwave hit, roaring outward from the center of the destroyed planet. Ripping outward, it sent the ice crystals scattering and dancing across eons of space, carried on unbroken waves to points unknown, leaving behind a pure emptiness where once billions of lives had lived. Empires and republics, philosophers and kings, citizens and yeomen, they all disappeared, blown away to reveal an empty hole in space.

Within a moment, the shockwave hit the Enterprise with a crushing force, sending the ship spinning through space. Archer found himself against a bulkhead, and suddenly, the weight of the world returned: the bone-crunching pressures, the screaming sirens, the curdling stench of battle all poured in instantaneously in a cacophony of sensations.

"That last one took out the warp engines!" Malcolm bellowed, struggling against the roar of the bridge. His knuckles were white with force as he clung to his console, fighting against the waves that threatened to hurl him across the bridge.

"They're locking on to the starboard docking port!" The cry of the alarm arose from the helm, but the voice was not Travis: Archer knew that somewhere, in the thick smoke and ash, the helmsman lay inert.

"Send security teams!" T'Pol shouted, although it was unclear who would respond. T'Pol herself clung to the command chair with a death grip as the chair spun around, trying to toss her from its sanctity.

Archer didn't think. Years of training and instinct guided his actions as he assessed the situation and responded. With little he could do on the bridge, the captain moved into the lift—half by himself, and half with the spinning pressure of the ship—and hurtled downward to deck E, where the intruders were battering their way in.

With little thought, Archer dove from the lift as the doors reopened, rolling to the floor to avoid both enemy fire and the viscous clouds of black smoke that hung everywhere. His senses detected no resistance, and he tumbled to his feet, his mind already locked on the objective: just a meter or two down the corridor was a weapons locker.

The corridor was a fiery furnace. On both sides, bulkheads were gone, smashed and melted beyond cognition; fires were rapidly consuming the robust conduits and delicate circuitry contained within the walls, and flames shot out into the main passageway with sweltering heat and demonic twists of red and yellow, white and green.

The acidic smoke tore at Archer's lungs as he lowered his head and entered the fiendish corridor. Free-floating molecules of burning plasticine burnt him in a thousand places as he ran, trying to out-race the leaping flames that snapped at him from every direction, but years of training held true against the iniquities of sulfur and brimstone; he emerged from the corridor with a phase pistol in one hand and the other slapping frantically to subdue a hundred points of fire.

Xindi weapons fire tore at him with a diabolical fury of its own, forcing Archer to dive into an alcove for cover. From his vantage point, dropping low to see beneath the exhaust of battle, he had a complete view of the angled corridor before him; and as reptilian forms began to emerge, he laid down heavy fire, driving them back into the sanctuary of the airlock.

Even as Archer fired, the pistol was draining power, and his mind raced through different battle tactics. The reptilians outnumbered him and outgunned him; but Archer's advantage was that he knew the ship. Even in the heavy smoke, he knew where to aim; and he rolled into the corridor, unleashing his final shots on a conduit overhead. He completed the roll right into the anteroom of an escape pod, and Archer slammed the protective doors shut behind him.

The conduit hissed for a scarce second before the compressed gas exploded outward, and as it met the heat of the corridor, the gas instantly ignited; the flash-bomb ripped through the passage, incinerating any organic flesh that stood in the way.

"We've lost weapons!" Malcolm shouted, warring against the din that consumed the bridge. With no more tactical systems working, the lieutenant had little reason to remain at his post; and the flames leaping from shattered panels gave him reason to absent himself. Letting go, he let the centrifugal force carry him away, depositing him at the base of the lift doors.

"Is their ship still docked with us?" T'Pol's voice, though quieter, carried throughout the bridge.

"It is!" The unidentified voice came from the proximity of the helm; presumably, a back-up officer had made it to the control center during the early stages of the battle, and was now filling in at that crucial post.

T'Pol finally let go of the command chair and leapt, lithely, through the hanging ash to assume the helm for herself; they lacked the time for orders to go back and forth, and she could save crucial seconds by piloting the ship herself. With a few commands, she added a slight variation to the sideways spin of the Enterprise.

As the great starship continued to whip around, the docked reptilian warship moved with it; heavy docking clamps warred against the sheering pressure that threatened to tear the two apart. But that was not T'Pol's plan.

As they spun, the precise path was altered by fractions, changing the location of the warship's arc to include the second Xindi vessel. Unable to respond in time, the two warships collided, smashing into one another with fury. Twisting with the force of impact, the docked ship ripped away from the Enterprise, and as the two warships drifted away, first one—and then the other—disappeared in massive explosions.

II

"We've lost thirteen of the crew," Phlox reported grimly. Even the ebullient Denobulan looked exhausted; dark shadows hung beneath his eyes, framed by skin that was wan and pale. He still wore surgery scrubs that were liberally marked with the body fluids of his patients, and the tangled mess of his hair lay flat in defeat. "Twenty-two injured. Several of them are critical."

"The Xindi?" T'Pol asked without preamble. She, Phlox, Tucker, Reed, and Captain Hossen of the Intrepid-class Diadem were gathered in the situation alcove at the rear of the Enterprise's bridge, the only meeting place still functional. The flickering lighting couldn't hide the shock that still numbed the officers.

Malcolm shook his head, as if to return from a distant state. "We've taken nine prisoners from the boarding party," he replied absently. "But the brig was only designed for two. I'm not sure what to do with the others."

"Blow them out the airlock," Trip Tucker offered. The engineer's eyes were vacant, his words scarcely weighted with emotion.

T'Pol's slowness to respond indicated the level of shock that the Vulcan herself was experiencing. "Put them a cargo bay under heavy guard," she replied, receiving an affirmative nod from Malcolm. She turned to Trip. "How are the repairs coming?"

Trip shrugged. "We should have hull plating and torpedoes in the next couple of hours," he answered. His words were almost mumbled. "Warp drive's another question, although. Half the coils have been fused."

"How long?" T'Pol asked quietly.

"If we were in dry dock, three weeks," Trip replied with a soft snort. "Out here, I'd have to rebuild the coil assembly from scratch. Six months minimum."

"What does that leave us with?" Malcolm asked. He dreaded the answer.

Trip shrugged again. "Warp one point seven."

The verdict deflated what little energy remained.

"If I may?" Hossen spoke up for the first time. "I know the NX-class and Intrepid-class aren't exactly interchangeable, but there are several…wrecked Intrepid vessels in the system." He paused in recognition of the deceased crews. "You might be able to scavenge some of the parts."

"Yeah, that might work," Trip said thoughtfully as he began to rotate schematics in his head. "We wouldn't get back up to warp five, but it would sure beat six months."

"We don't dare emerge until the last Xindi warship has left," Malcolm noted with a bleak twist of the words. The Enterprise and Diadem were both hiding in the system's extensive Kuiper Belt, using localized geomagnetic fluctuations for cover.

"Any word on that front?" Trip asked, steering the question to Hossen.

"We should be safe in a few days," the Swabian captain replied. He swayed slightly, and steadied himself on the central console. "The weapon itself has left the system."

"How much did it do before leaving?" Malcolm queried softly.

Hossen shook his head slightly, letting his gaze fall. "After Earth, they took out Mars, and then Ceres," he answered, just as softly. The words were painful to utter. "It entered a subspace corridor vectored toward the Alpha Centauri colonies."

"All of those people are gone?" Trip asked, still in a daze. "That's…what? Almost the entire human race?"

T'Pol's eyes shifted to the engineer, and she decided to give him the truth. "The residents of Earth and Mars represented over 99% of the human population."

Malcolm, too, could barely shake away the stunned stillness. "And now they're going for Centaurus?" he pressed softly. "Then what? Will they go after Berengaria and Deneva too?" The three systems were humanity's major interstellar colonies. "They really do want to wipe out humanity."

"Gentlemen, we knew this was a possibility," T'Pol responded sternly. "We have a duty to attend to. If anyone is incapable of focusing on it, then I must remove them from their position." She watched the faces of her colleagues carefully.

"That's easy for you to say," Trip grunted. T'Pol's Vulcan equanimity annoyed him more than he cared to admit. "But I'll stand my post."

"As will I," Malcolm added.

"Captain T'Pol," Hossen said formally, straightening himself with a slight air of discomfort. "I do believe that you're the senior captain…perhaps in all of Starfleet."

The irony was inescapable.

"There's no way for us to beat the weapon to Centaurus," Malcolm added. With the chain of command reasserted, he found it easier to focus on his responsibility—tactical options. "The weapon should be there by now."

"Can we at least send them a warning?" Trip asked. The engineer still looked slightly miserable, like he had just eaten an overripe pomegranate.

"We sent one out as soon as we determined the weapon's vector," Hossen answered.

"We may be able to beat them to Berengaria or Deneva," Malcolm suggested. "If we look at flight time…" A series of points and lines appeared on the console detailing the navigational values involved in faster-than-light travel.

"It's a crapshoot," Trip replied unhappily. "If they know where to go, they'll still beat us."

"At least we have a chance of beating them," Malcolm retorted. The engineer's pessimism did not sit well with him. "Isn't it worth trying?"

"It may be more productive to go to Alpha Centauri," T'Pol suggested. She, too, was studying the flight data carefully. "There may be survivors."

"And there may be survivors at one of the other colonies," Malcolm retorted. "Plus the chance of beating the Xindi there entirely!"

"And what if we do?" Trip's scowl was directed at Reed. "We couldn't stop them here, and Earth had better defenses! If we try to fight them again…" Trip's voice fell. "We'll only accomplish our own death."

"There's another point to consider," Hossen suggested as he tapped the console's controls. Detailed information on the colonies emerged. "Even if we warned them in time…neither of the colonies has the means to evacuate."

The verdict fell heavily on the gathered officers, as first one, then another, fell silent. They were beaten; they could see no way forward. They had failed the human race.

"There's no logic in getting the Enterprise destroyed," Malcolm remarked in a voice that cracked with regret. "There's bound to be some survivors—humans that were elsewhere during the attacks. Our immediate duty must be to preserve our ship, so we can best serve them."

"And completely write off the remaining colonists?" Trip's retort lacked fury, but was heavy with disgust.

"I'm not sure that we have a choice," Malcolm replied softly.

Hossen cleared his throat. "Your orders, Captain?" he asked, turning to face T'Pol.

T'Pol took an un-Vulcan moment to clear her thoughts. "Continue repairs," she ordered at last. "When the last Xindi warship has left the system, the Diadem will travel to Alpha Centauri. The Enterprise will begin surveying other systems. Our duty, gentlemen," she said, taking a deep breath, "is to find every human being who has survived."

**

Archer couldn't deny the raw beauty of the lake before them.

As per the captain's request—and the admiral's order—the Starfleet shuttle service had set down a short distance outside Hope, Idaho, along the shores of Lake Pend Oreille, leaving only a short walk into the lakeside town. It was quite intentional on Archer's part; the walk, though brief, helped him acclimate to the pseudo-wilderness. And with any luck, it would help prevent the celebrity enamor that seemed to erupt around him.

And the view along the shorefront was profoundly beautiful.

Across the lake, on the far side of the gray-blue waters, hills and mountains rose through the morning clouds. Starting with the nearer, lower slopes, they were dark greens and grays, before transitioning into lighter and lighter hues with each subsequent rank of altitude. And at the top, the blue-gray peaks blended in with the cloudy sky, almost abolishing any separation between land and atmosphere.

The two hikers paused for a moment as they made their way along the shore road. They had left Hope behind, meandering their way on the packed gravel to the junction with the Trestle Creek Trailhead, some five kilometers up the road. To the inside, the mountains rose sharply, challenging the trees and shrubbery with surfaces that nearly approached vertical. In the course of scarcely a mile in linear distance, the rocky ascent climbed half a mile in altitude, to the top of an unnamed mountain.

The road itself was part of the mud flats that wrapped around the shoreline of the lake; as the water level rose and fell over millennia, the flats too crested above and beneath the lake. They were fed by the fine sediment that came down from the mountains, carried by streams and torrents, and had long since been shaped into a pathway for vehicles and hikers alike.

As Erika stopped to readjust a strap on her lightweight pack, Archer paused to watch the elegant natural system. Ripples and waves moved across the lake's surface, lapping at the sandy shore in endless effort to re-sculpt the contours; and to one side, a sandy promontory extended outward, carrying with it a small thicket of trees.

Archer closed his eyes and raised his head, letting his body soak in the beautiful details of the semi-wilderness. The breeze, whipping across the lake, was chilly and wet, but it carried a certain vibrancy and power; the aroma was one of fresh mountain air and the detectable odor of fish. Gasoline-based watercraft had long since been banned, and without the pollutants, the water and atmosphere had regained the freshness and clarity it had enjoyed in time immemorial; Archer understood that he was experiencing the lake as had countless generations before, stretching back to the first humans to reach these mountains.

As Archer's mind quieted, his ears began to detect the miasma of sound carried on the lake breeze. Even in the early days of March, the lake was open water, with no trace of ice; and the rich coterie of resurgent life beneath the waters drew a menagerie of waterbirds to the lake. There was the familiar honking of Canadian geese; the din of coots; and as the sounds became distinct, Archer could even hear the call of a heron coming from the reedy wetlands.

Erika signaled her readiness to resume, and Archer—feeling refreshed—started back down the path beside her. "You probably don't want to hear this," Erika remarked, giving Archer a sly grin. "But I got a call from my brother yesterday. They renamed my old high school after you." She watched his face carefully, but saw no sign of the hoped-for reaction. "How many is that?" she asked, pushing ahead. "Two, three dozen?"

"I'm not counting," Archer replied, somewhat curt.

"That's just North America," Erika added. She shifted her gaze to the lake. "I don't think Zefram Cochrane has that many schools named after him."

As they walked along the shore, the two captains lapsed into stints of companionable silence, disturbed only by the occasional question or pointed hand, directing the eyes to an animal half-hidden in the ranks of wilderness. As the trailhead beckoned nearer, a large flat extended outward into the lake; once a site of drainage and settlement, it had been transformed back into its original sogginess, and both officers watched carefully for the wetland fowl that stirred within.

Soon enough, they reached the Trestle Creek Trailhead. The lower portion of the trail was easy hiking; it, too, was coated with packed gravel. The difficult hikes wouldn't begin for another mile or two, when the trail plunged into the mountain canyons; here, along the shore, it was a broadened plain where Trestle Creek had once flowed. Grassy meadows interspersed with groves of trees, and here and there wooden barns showed the locations of the acreages that dotted the plains.

The trail continued as such for a mile or so before plunging into a forested ravine, flanked on both sides by the steep slopes of mountains. Only now, enveloped in the protective bosom of the woods, did Archer finally relax. The trees did not care that he was the hero of Earth; they demanded nothing of him, nor took with insatiable appetite.

It was here, too, that the trail joined up with Trestle Creek. Little more than a couple meters broad and maybe half a meter deep, the clear-gray waters pushed downstream with miniaturized rapids and whitecaps; the snow melt had begun in the mountains, and in the days and weeks to come, the creek would swell to several times its current size. But for now, rocks and boulders still dotted the streambed, visible above the surface.

On either side, firs and aspens pressed against the creek side, their roots holding the muddy banks in place. They were hardly the giants of the forest, but they still stretched high overhead, several times the height of a person. The trail, by now a rocky path no wider than the creek, cut through the trees. At times, it followed the muddy bank; at other times, the creek disappeared behind a veil of evergreen.

In the rare clearings, when one looked up, the mountains towered overhead. Archer had to crank his neck to see the peaks of the rocky edifices, which sometimes had disappeared completely behind the whispery clouds that encircled the mounts. To every side, rank after rank of dark green trees scaled the slopes, coating them with an endless canopy of forest.

As the morning progressed, the emergent sun burned off the clouds and drove off the chilled bitterness, leaving the two officers grateful for their Starfleet thermal wear. Noon found them stopped along the creek, sitting on the remnants of a fallen tree. Before them, a stacked structure of logs and mud extended halfway across the water, creating a small, placid lake and a rush of rapids.

"So, did you get a chance to look them over?" Erika asked with seeming randomness. Resting on the half-rotten log, she was mixing a packet of high-energy powder into her canteen.

"Look what over?" Archer asked, snapped from a reverie. Before leaving, he had raided Starfleet for only the best ration packs. The physical work left his body feeling charged but hungry, and the vacuum-desiccated roast beef sandwich tasted wonderfully fresh.

"My senior officer candidates," Erika clarified. Since Archer had first-hand experience with many of the names, she had asked him to read over the list. "Any suggestions for tactical?"

Archer grunted. "You may want to look outside of Starfleet," he remarked. "Find someone with combat experience, like a MACO." The acronym referred to Earth's space commandos.

The gentle rush of the make-shift rapids filled the lull before Erika spoke again. "I'm not sure how I feel about a military officer on the bridge," she answered. She shook her head slowly. "Starfleet isn't about combat, after all."

"I used to think that too," Archer replied slowly. He took a full bite, and chewed and swallowed it before continuing. "I had an argument once with Captain Jefferies. I didn't even want weapons. It didn't seem right to be making 'peaceful' first contact at the point of a gun."

Erika handed him her canteen, and he took a long swallow. "But things sure have changed since then. It seems like we spend our time boldly going into battle."

"Don't you think you're being a little cynical?" Erika replied, adding an upbeat lilt to her words.

Archer's face darkened. "It's only going to get worse, Erika," he answered. He tossed the last bite of his sandwich into the creek, and three fish appeared to fight over it. "We were safe—because no one knew about us. But we're a marked species now; we're not strong enough to ward off enemies through deterrence alone. Rather than exploring the skies…we're going to end up fighting off a new enemy every year."

"So what would you have us do?" Erika asked softly. "Give up? Roll over? Beg someone for protection?"

Archer shook his head. "Of course not," he replied. "But for me…I've had my fill of battle. It's not why I joined Starfleet, Erika, and if I'd known…I'm not sure that I would have joined."

**

Nerves on board the Enterprise were wired high. Since the destruction of Earth and its colonies, the starship had been cruising about the near sectors of space, running and dodging from Xindi patrols and search teams. The crew tried to avoid contact whenever possible, in the interests of preserving their ship; battle was joined only when the risk of damage was light or they had no alternative.

Slack skin hung beneath darkened eyes. The surviving crew had all lost weight, as rations were carefully meted to last, and foraging was a slow affair. Hollowed cheeks and brooding eyes became the norm, and T'Pol had even taken the step of lowering the standard lighting to ease the strain of eyes that followed sensor readings with religious devotion.

Three months had passed, and in that time, the Enterprise had made contact with nearly two dozen groups of isolated humans; a freighter here and there, a small group living in a Tellarite colony, a pair of traders working in the (beta) Rigel system. In every case, the crew learned that news of the destruction of Earth had pre-empted them; it spread like wildfire throughout the sectors.

But increasingly, as time wore on, the Enterprise crew learned of growing rumors and stories claiming that a small trace of humanity still survived. T'Pol's Vulcan sensibilities could not quite understand why people clung so tightly to such a small hope; but more and more, the starship's arrival was seen as a prophesied emblem of strength and endurance. Many even declined the offer of retreat and protection, choosing instead to stay active, reaffirming with each passing day the incredible tenacity of their people. The unflagging optimism and persistence of the human diaspora amazed the Enterprise captain.

"Captain." Despite the gauntness of his face, Malcolm's words still carried the same precision tone. "There's a ship approaching at high warp. It's Vulcan."

"They're hailing us," Ensign Rahimi added from the communications station.

At T'Pol's order, the Vulcan hail appeared on screen, showing a countenance that was aged enough to be distinguished, but not old; his hair was silver and white, and he was dressed in the simple robes of their homeworld. "Administrator," T'Pol acknowledged properly.

"Captain T'Pol," Soketh replied formally. Soval, the Vulcan ambassador to Earth, had perished in the destruction of that planet; in the weeks and months that followed, Administrator Soketh had voluntarily assumed the position of ad hoc liaison and refugee counselor for the serving humans. "I need to speak with you, T'Pol."

T'Pol took one last moment to check her appearance. It was a human conceit, she knew, but years of serving among humans had grafted the habit onto her; she ran her hands down the front of her coveralls, smoothing out the ripples in the heavy fabric, and pushed a strand of hair from her face. "Come in," she called out.

The doors of the ready room hissed open.

Soketh entered with the steady, graceful stride of their race. Physically, he was unremarkable, but he carried himself with poise and bearing that bespoke many years of practice; the robes wrapped around him rippled slightly with the movement. "It is agreeable to see you again, Captain," he said with a slight tilt of his head.

"It is agreeable to see you as well, Administrator," T'Pol replied.

The formalities complete, Soketh took a proffered seat. "That uniform fits you well, Captain," he observed as his robes fluttered. "There were many in the High Command who believed Vulcans could never serve aboard a human starship without losing their way. I am—pleased—to see that you have proven otherwise."

"It has been an educational experience," T'Pol replied with equanimity.

The slightest ghost of a smile creased Soketh's face. "You didn't remain here for the sake of education," he countered with a tolerant tone. "But I must admit, your success has been remarkable. It is interesting to wonder…if Earth had survived, might there have been a joint future for Vulcans and humans?"

T'Pol cocked her head. "It is illogical to speculate on what might have been," she answered slowly. "However, I doubt you came this far to discuss counterfactuals with me."

"Your logic is precise," Soketh acknowledged, dipping his head slightly before coming to the point. "I want you to return with me to Vulcan."

"I'm no longer under your authority," T'Pol retorted, catching her tongue midway through. She had once been part of the Vulcan High Command, but had since resigned and accepted formal enlistment in Starfleet.

A perked eyebrow was the only sign that Soketh had noted the slight lapse. "It's not an order," he answered. "However, I am concerned about your safety. Xindi warships are still patrolling the region, and the Enterprise is undoubtedly their prime target."

"We have survived this long," T'Pol countered. "We will continue to do so."

Soketh raised both eyebrows. "That's an almost…human attitude," he replied at last. "What does your logic tell you?"

"We are acting to preserve not just lives, but an entire culture," T'Pol rejoined. "Didn't Surak himself say, 'The preservation of life is always logical'?"

"Indeed," Soketh acknowledged. "But the laws of cause and effect still apply; there is no logic in futile sacrifice."

"If I may, Administrator?" T'Pol asked. Receiving permission, she continued. "Why the concern now?"

Soketh let out a deep breath. "Two weeks ago, the High Command received a distress call from an Earth convoy in the Mutara system. When our ships reached the source of the transmission, they found only a field of debris. The weapon signatures were Xindi."

T'Pol didn't let her concern show, even though the statement struck her deeply. That particular convoy, carrying over a thousand humans, had gone silent; this was the first news of its fate. "We're prepared to confront them," she answered, marshaling her strength.

"And perhaps you are," Soketh replied with a slight nod. "But most of your convoys are light on weaponry and defenses. The Enterprise is the only cruiser left in Earth's fleet."

"Once we arrive at the Furnace, defense will no longer be a concern," T'Pol answered. A lengthy search of starcharts had eventually yielded a single, ideal place to resettle the human race: a stellar cloud and mass of anomalies in the Fornax constellation, some seventy light-years distant. 'Fornax' was the Latin term for 'furnace,' and the name was thus inevitable.

"You must reach the Furnace before it can protect you," Soketh countered. "The V'Shar—" Vulcan Intelligence—"believes that the Xindi are refining their search. When they locate the Enterprise, they could easily come after you with an entire armada."

"I won't leave them," T'Pol rejoined firmly.

Soketh cocked his head. "Them, or him?" he asked with curiosity. "There are specialists on Vulcan that can help Archer."

"The High Command would allow that?" T'Pol asked, rushing to conceal her surprise.

Soketh nodded affirmatively. "Vulcan wants its prodigal daughter to return. If the cost is providing medical care for one human…then it is well worth it."

T'Pol sank back in her chair. "We could have saved all of them," T'Pol retorted. Unconcealed bitterness emerged in her voice.

Both eyebrows rose above Soketh's eyes. "How?"

"We held back their technological development for one hundred years," T'Pol snapped back. "If we had helped them develop faster ships, better defenses—"

"It is illogical to speculate on what might have been," Soketh replied mildly.

**

"Come in," Archer replied automatically to the two-toned ring of the door. His room was lit only by the low-level bioluminescent strips that skated its circumference; the subdued effect cast his quarters in a subdued hue of blue, tempered to allow human eyes to watch the stars outside. "Did things go well with the Vulcans?"

T'Pol entered slowly, still hesitant in what had become Archer's private sanctuary. "How did you know they were here?" she asked at last.

"There was a reason why I chose these quarters," Archer replied. "You can see a lot from this window." He sat in the semi-darkness, having pulled a chair over to the viewport; it was a habit of his, these days, to spend hours watching the stars fly by. Many of the crew privately found it depressing, but Archer seemed little troubled by the consequent lack of visitors.

With a sigh, Jonathan closed the viewport shutter and punched a panel, bringing the light level up to normal. "What did they want?" he asked. In the moment, the melancholy amnesiac was gone, and the captain of old reasserted himself.

"They were here to replenish our supplies," T'Pol offered. It had been the recorded purpose of the visit; her conversation with Administrator Soketh was strictly off-the-record.

"Of course," Archer replied dryly as he rose to his feet. He bounced slightly as the energy inside uncoiled itself. "I've been thinking about our situation," he added; Jonathan had adopted the habit of recording his thoughts at the end of each day, preserving at least a little of his experience for the next dawn. "I realize I'm not fit to command the ship, but there's got to be some way I can help."

T'Pol half-sat on the edge of the desk. "How so?" she asked, one eyebrow lifted in the universal Vulcan language of curiosity.

"I could give Trip a hand in engineering," Archer suggested hopefully.

T'Pol's brow fell. "We tried something similar to that a few months ago," she replied unwillingly. In spite of the past few months, Jonathan Archer was still 'the captain' to her, but now she felt an added obligation to lift his spirits. "It was uncomfortable for you," she explained, struggling to find the right words.

Archer's voice turned bitter. "So I'm supposed to stay locked up in my quarters all day?" he asked, shaking his head. "I may not remember yesterday—or the day before—but I know I need to get out, T'Pol."

T'Pol nodded slowly as she shifted through her daily recollections. "You often take Porthos for a walk," she remarked, watching Archer's face carefully for a sign of interest. At the sound of his name, the beagle stirred slightly, rolled over, and resumed snoring. "The two of you visit the classrooms on D-deck. The children enjoy hearing about our earlier missions. And Porthos takes them for a jog in the corridors."

"So that's what my dog does," Archer said wryly. "Are you telling me that the best I can do is tell stories to children?"

"The role of storyteller is a highly-regarded position in many cultures."

Archer shook his head. "I don't remember the last couple years, T'Pol. How good of a storyteller can I be?"

"Porthos always enjoys your stories," T'Pol replied, deadpan.

**

"What the hell is this place?" Trip Tucker muttered as the interstellar monstrosity materialized in the path of the Enterprise. The primary viewscreen, cued in on the phenomenon, was filled with a bewildering miasma of blue lightning and liquid fire; uncountable crackling bolts of energy tore through the soupy mixture, each one dwarfing the power of the Enterprise. It was as if St. Elmo's Fire had multiplied a thousand full, and then again, and then had sucked in the heat and intensity of rendered stars.

"Coming to a full stop," Travis Mayweather reported from the helm. Within moments, the starship shuddered to an abrupt stop; the inertial dampeners, like everything else, had been stripped to their bare requirements.

Trip stumbled backwards, not as much from the sudden halt as from the sense of stunning accomplishment that surged through him. It had been nearly three standard years since the Xindi had destroyed Earth; and Mars, and Centaurus, and Berengaria, and Deneva…and the alien bastards hadn't stopped there. Any sign of human habitation, no matter how faint or insignificant, warranted utter destruction, and Earth's former neighbors were loathe to intervene on behalf of a failed race.

The surviving representatives of Starfleet—the Enterprise, the Diadem, and two other Intrepid-class vessels—plied the space lanes for two full years, seeking out survivors as they dodged the Xindi raiders. Slowly, a community-in-exile had begun to form out of these stray parties, most of which numbered no more than three or four.

Occasionally, the exiles would bring with them additional resources, and when the two-year hunt drew to a close, the human fleet included several dozen ships of various tonnages and classifications; primarily freighters, but a handful of luxury yachts and even two Conestoga-class colony vessels dotted the lot. The exiled community, spread across four convoys and assorted drop-off points, had reached nearly fifty thousand.

And then the long, nerve-racking flight had begun. Their destination was less than a hundred light-years away, but only one or two of the ships could travel above warp two. The convoys crawled along for months in the open of space, far from any protective shelter; and if a Xindi raider chanced upon them, the loss of life would be catastrophic.

But we did it, Trip realized with some surprise as the railing caught him. In his deeper recesses, he hadn't believed they would do it; the whole thing seemed like a fool's errand, the sort of Quixotic crusade that was nothing more than an exercise in staving off irrelevancy and death. He had clung to it, although, because the alternative was to give up. And humanity does NOT give up.

Regrouping at Fornax X-1 was T'Pol's idea, which indicated just how few options there were; the exile community had placed their survival in a Vulcan. But, Trip had to admit, T'Pol had done it: she had seen them through the impossible flight, holding the desolate refugees together and pressing the crew to reject their fate. Even T'Pol would deny it, but she had demonstrated a remarkable mastery of human motivation.

It was a simple enough thought, and yet it stunned the engineer: we did it. We're actually here. The Enterprise hung several million kilometers outside the horizon of Fornax X-1, dubbed "the Furnace." The Diadem and the Polyphemus were only days behind; in all, six of the seven convoys were on course to arrive with casualty rates below five percent.

Their success was illogical; hope was illogical. And yet, Trip thought, it was a Vulcan who led us through. In the years to come, he would have to rag T'Pol about it; but thanks to her, he would have the opportunity to do so.

From inside the boiling mess, the Repulse—serving scout duty—emerged. The Intrepid-class vessel came to a stop alongside the Enterprise, and the viewscreen shifted to show the face of Captain Poi. "Greetings, Enterprise," the trim Vietnamese man acknowledged. "And may I say, it's good to see you!"

"Thank you, Repulse," T'Pol replied formally. She showed none of the joy and elation of her human colleagues, but only a fool would believe that she felt no sense of accomplishment. "We are ready to receive entry instructions."

"Once a Vulcan, always a Vulcan, 'ey?" Poi laughed heartily as he shook his head. "Stand by to receive."

Trip, snapped from his sense of ennui, jogged across the bridge to the secondary engineering controls on the port bow quarter. Within moments, a stream of data began pouring in to the console.

Despite the brutal violence of the region, the selection of the Furnace as the future home for the human exiles had been an inspired choice. The phenomenon itself, spanning several light-years, was a nebulous package of hot gas and plasma, roiled into constant activity by the presence of a giant Wolf-Rayet/blue-white subgiant pair at the center. The binary pair fed each other with a fury that matched most novae, and pockets of dark mass added to the disruptions, rendering the Furnace utterly inhospitable to sublight travel.

But therein lay the genius: a starship protected by a calibrated static warp shell could successfully transit the Furnace. And the Xindi didn't have warp technology; they relayed on subspace vertices to travel faster-than-light. The Furnace was one of the few known places that were completely safe from Xindi warships.

And within the soup, several pockets of space had been cleared by the network of massive stars that populated it. And in particular, one of these stars—the 'D' in the D-E binary—had formed a small planetary system. The first of the four planets was hot and humid, but still habitable; the thick atmosphere protected it from the vicious radiation that permeated the Furnace.

During their hours-long transit of the gas and plasma mixture, Trip couldn't escape the sense of disbelief that had taken root inside him. Even from their point of safety, shielded within a bubble of subspace, the superheated fire outside cast a sense of terror amongst the human crew. And this is where humanity would carve out a new home?

**

As he stood on a sandy promontory, projecting outward into a lagoon of cerulean blue and white sulfur, Trip felt the unmistakable urge to look over his shoulder; some long-dormant instinct told him that a predator may be hiding in the thick ferns, and a childhood fantasy informed him that it might just be a velociraptor.

"This planet's barely M-class," he groused to his Vulcan companion, who stood uncomfortably beside him. T'Pol's homeworld was equally hot, but arid; at ground level, Hestia had an atmospheric density nearly three times that of Earth. The thick, enveloping humidity made the engineer's previous experiences in the Everglades seem downright dry. "Maybe we should've picked one with a little less water."

In many ways, T'Pol was suffering more from the dense, water-filled air; evolutionary needs on Vulcan prioritized saving water, and consequently, her people lacked sweat glands. "There are possible colony sites in the mountains," she remarked shortly. Even as she envied Trip's ability to sweat out his discomfort, her nose wrinkled at the odor of the human beside her.

Trip looked into the hazy horizon, trying to spy the distant mountain range. Hestia had several spans of tall, young mountains, many of which stretched kilometers above sea level; but many of them were volcanic as well, belching out towering clouds of smoke and flowing rivers of lava. "We might be safer down here," he remarked; despite his apprehension, Hestia lacked entire branches of animalia. "You sure this is the best we could do?"

T'Pol's glare was almost as poisonous as the phoratoxic leaves adorning a particular nearby fern. "You're welcome to try to do better."

Trip finally cracked a grin. "Don't worry, I trust your judgment, if not your taste in planets," he retorted. "If you don't mind, although, I'd like to grab a survey team and a shuttlepod, and head up to the mountains to scout for colony sites."

Obliquely, T'Pol realized that she didn't know the human social protocols for going naked in a climate such as this. "I need you to return to the Enterprise," she replied. "The civilian leaders will want to meet with you."

"Me?" Trip responded with surprise. "You're the Starfleet commander."

"Commodore," she corrected archly. "And I'm resigning my commission."

"You're certain of it?" Trip asked, expressing his skepticism. The two had discussed the possibility for several weeks, but he hadn't expected it to come to fruition. "You're sure you want to do this?"

"Jonathan Archer will be better off on the surface with the others," T'Pol replied, providing the same rote response she had every time before. "And he'll need a caretaker, someone he still recognizes and trusts. I am the logical choice."

Trip shook his head in wonderment. As close as he was to the ex-captain, Tucker couldn't help but feel that T'Pol had led the human exiles into the wilderness, and then chose that moment to abandon them. "Whatever happened to the needs of the many?" he countered crossly. "Isn't that the logical choice? The survival of humanity is on the line here, T'Pol."

The trim Vulcan woman was silent for a moment as she watched a cloud of sulfurous steam rise from the lagoon. "My logic is…uncertain, when it comes to Jonathan," she answered finally, exhaling into the steamy mist. "Most uncertain."

III

Dusk found the captains making their way along the hardest portion of the day's hike.

Trestle Creek trail hugged the valley as it plowed deeper into Kaniksu National Forest, twisting and weaving its path on the lower flanks of the surrounding mountains. The creek itself dwindled away as the hike progressed, trailing backward into ever-smaller rivulets of water, before finally disappearing completely into a muddy streambed. In the month to come, as the upper ranges thawed, the creek would appear again and rush with the swollen waters of snowmelt; but for now, only the occasional squelch promised the potential for water.

After many miles, the trail finally reached its first cutback as it climbed the first tier of mountain slope, snaking its way up eight hundred feet over the course of half a mile. Already, the skies were beginning to darken; and on the leeward side of the mountain range, beneath the protective canopy of aspen forest, shadows quickly lengthened. The ground grew dark while the heavens were still kissed by reddened sunlight; but Archer and Hernandez left their palm beacons in their packs, relying instead on raw eyesight to plot their path.

The trail shifted back to nearly-level terrain as it skirted a midlevel ridge for the next mile and a half, giving the captains time to adjust to the dampening light. As they hiked along in the growing dusk, the forest around them began to stir; trained hearing detected the sounds of animals moving through brush, disturbing the undercover of shrubbery with their passage. On one occasion, Erika spotted a moving shadow not twenty paces from them; a single flicker of white identified the cautious deer.

Enjoying the soft sounds of life stirring around them, the two captains remained silent as they pressed forward along the slender hiking path. Darkness fell quickly on the lee side of the mountain, but intensive Starfleet training served them well; Archer and Hernandez barely slowed as they reached the next cutback, navigating through the wilderness with a skill only slightly less than that of the native inhabitants of old.

At five thousand feet, the trail split; one route followed the ridge to the northeast. That would be their path the following morning, but for tonight, the two followed the alternate route. It traced to the northwest, scaling the last three hundred or so feet, before emerging on a precipice jutting out over another muddy valley nearly half a mile below.

Now, an hour later, Jonathan and Erika sat on the ledge, lying against the sloped ground to watch the emerging stars above them. Their campsite was ready, a couple hundred feet away, far enough to avoid light interference. The crackling fire was unneeded for the heat; Starfleet survival gear could handle temperatures far lower than the gentle freezing degrees of March. But some primordial urge compelled the two humans to construct the fire anyway, drawing a sense of comfort and mystery from its life-giving flames.

The veil of the night sky extended overhead as an arcing dome like a piece of fabric punctured by countless points of infinitesimal light. It was bright and brilliant, made clearer in the crisp, cool air, undisturbed by artificial haze, and the mesmerizing depth of the skies grew until it encompassed both captains.

"How about that," Archer remarked at last, nearly an hour after the stars had appeared.

"What?" Erika asked, not turning her head.

"There, just to the left of Polaris." Archer pointed to a dim point of light; it had taken that much time for his eyes to adjust sufficiently to see the little smudge. "We found our first M-class planet around that star," he explained, feeling a sense of wonderment. Humanity had watched the stars for millennia; even the most powerful of telescopes could see little more than blurs of light. He, on the other hand, had walked the heavens.

"Maybe humans will go back some day," Erika suggested. "Build a colony there?"

"I doubt it," Archer replied with a soft snort. "The air was filled with a psychotropic compound. My senior officers nearly killed each other." His voice fell quiet. "Space is filled with danger, after all."

Erika glanced over at her comrade. "Is that what this is about?" she asked softly.

"Erika," Archer asked slowly, "have you ever thought that the Vulcans might have been right? That humanity wasn't ready for interstellar travel?" It galled him to say it—it felt like he was ripping out his own spleen. Jonathan had been one of the strongest advocates for Earth, fighting the conservative approach of the Vulcans at every turn. He would never—could never—publicly acknowledge these private thoughts.

"Not ready?" Erika replied, scoffing. "Jonathan, if we waited around for the perfect moment…then we would never go anywhere. At all."

"But seven million people might still be alive," Archer answered. The words hung heavy before them. "Was it worth seven million lives?"

"What would you have us do then?" Hernandez countered. "The future is here, whether we're ready for it or not. Even if we retreat from the galaxy, it'll still find us."

"And we can defend ourselves at home," Archer rejoined. "Look at the Vulcans—they don't go about poking their noses under every comet. They keep their ships close by."

"What kind of life is that?" Erika replied. "Living in constant fear and paranoia…scared that every asteroid hides a boogeyman? That's not the human way, Jonathan. We tried it once, remember? It nearly destroyed us. Humanity can't just survive; it has to grow, has to press outward. The risk will always be there…but where's the growth, without any risk?"

Archer exhaled slowly, forming a puff of frozen breath above him. "We almost lost Earth, Erika."

"The Enterprise saved Earth," she countered.

"We didn't deserve to," Archer replied, barely audible. "It was thin luck." He swallowed hard. "What would have happened if we had failed?"

**

Erika rolled over, sometime in the dark hours of the night, awoken by the vague intuitive sense that something was amiss. The fire still burned brightly, casting its glow about the campsite; she peered through the flickering flames, and realized that Jonathan's sleeping bag was empty.

A mournful scream erupted from nearby, reverberating down the ravine and echoing off mountain slopes with an eerie glee.

Without alarm, Erika opened her bag and stood up, draping it over her shoulders like a cloak. The night air was clear and cold; her breath formed momentary clouds of frozen droplets as it drifted off. A coating of thin ice lay atop the rock, crunching under her feet as she moved.

"You all right?" she asked softly, sitting down beside Archer. How long he had been sitting there, she didn't know; but given the placement of the Big Dipper, arcing its away around Polaris, they were well into the long hours before dawn.

Archer's gaze was fastened to the blackened ravine below. "I'm not even sure what all right means anymore," he replied absently. Like a woeful supplicant, he lifted his face to the heavens above. "Sometimes I wish that I had died out there."

Erika looked upward with him. The sky was clear, and the firmament overhead was deep and rich; uncountable stars twinkled above them, tantalizing with their nearness. "Want to talk about it?" she suggested, prodding gently. She was uncertain if her comrade was even aware of her.

"I had to get out of there," Archer replied. He leaned backward, catching himself on his elbows. "I had to get away from all that shit…people who want to shake my hand, or take my picture, or tell me I'm an inspiration to their children."

"You saved Earth, Jonathan." Erika fell backwards as well, taking care to reposition her sleeping bag as a blanket.

"And now I have to live with it." Archer's words drifted away. "Do you know what it's like to be a false savior? They think I'm a hero…and every time I try to correct them, they won't listen. Except Soval," he added with a snort.

As Erika's eyes continued to adjust to the darkness, the sky paradoxically lit up; the concord of stars glittered like a diamond chandelier, glowing even in the dimmest reaches of the heavens. With surprise, she realized that even the faint, three-star line of Pyxis had become visible.

The moment drew out before Archer spoke again. "I feel like I'm living a lie," he said, capping the lengthy pause. "But it's not even a lie of my own making; I'm the one trying to correct the record, but others are trapping me in this…this artifice. Hell, I don't even know what's real anymore, and what's part of this…this legend."

"Why do you think that you're not a hero?" Erika asked in curiosity.

Archer rolled in head in rough approximation of the negative response. "Marooning a ship of innocent people? Abandoning innocent convicts? Leaving my people at the mercy of psychotic aliens? Dealing in opium? We may have saved Earth, but we sacrificed everything it stands for."

"As long as humanity survives, we can reclaim those ideals," Erika offered with sincerity. "And you made sure that humanity will survive."

For the first time, Archer turned to look at his fellow captain. "You really don't get it, do you?" His voice was almost muffled by the breeze. "You're part of it. You look at me, and see a hero; I look at you, and I see the person I was three years ago. The explorer that my father wanted me to be."

Erika bit her lip and let him continue.

"We lost our way," Archer went on. "We lost…we lost our compass, our sense of purpose, our…hell, I don't know." His breath puffed above him before drifting off. "Three years ago, I had never even fired a pistol in combat; now, I can't even number how many beings I've killed. This is wrong, Erika."

Erika shook her head. "I'm not worried, Jon, and you know why?" she asked, pushing forward with her answer. "We had a problem—an alien race that wanted to destroy us. But rather than viewing them as enemies, you saw them as potential friends."

"Friends who nearly killed us," Archer replied wryly.

"The galaxy is always going to be a dangerous place," Erika countered. She rolled over on her side to better address her colleague. "The way I see it, we have two choices: we can deny and hide, in which case the galaxy will find us anyway; or we can go out there boldly, and make allies out of our enemies." She took a deep breath. "You did the latter, Jon, and that's why I think you're a hero. You put aside your hatred and anger and saw the gleam in the eye of our fellow being."

"I don't know, Erika," Archer said quietly. "I lost something out there—I lost myself out there, and I don't know how to get myself back. The life I'm living now has all the reality of a bad dream to me."

Erika pointed overhead at a star. "Did you visit that one?" she asked.

"I don't even know which one that is," Archer replied. A smile creased his face.

"If the Enterprise had failed to stop the Xindi weapon…" Erika took a deep breath before pressing forward. "I think humanity would have been just fine, Jon. We're not quitters, after all. I think the survivors would have gathered together, gotten a fresh start, and pressed on. Without losing sight of who we are. As long as a human being survives…humanity will survive as well."

**

Captain Reed leaned back with relief as the Enterprise pulled to a halt a short distance from the blooming plasma clouds of the Furnace. Ten years later, and Xindi scouts were still plying the space lanes, looking for human survivors; and the NX-class starship was their Holy Grail. The Diadem, Polyphemus, and Repulse, all much slower, rarely traveled far beyond the Furnace; they policed the disruption, providing transport and support, and kept a very close eye on any alien ship that drew close.

"Incoming hail, sir," the comm officer reported, right on cue. "It's the Polyphemus." The Starfleet survivors had long since crafted careful protocols for approaching the Furnace, and a constant sense of menace kept them alert and precise.

"On screen, Lieutenant," Malcolm acknowledged as he rose from the command chair. Unconsciously, he tugged the front of his uniform downward, trying to hide the lines and wrinkles of the past six months.

The screen cleared, revealing a familiar face. "Malcolm!" The southern drawl drew it out to three syllables. "I wasn't sure you'd bring her back in one piece!"

"To be fair, Commodore," Malcolm retorted, "didn't you always say that she brought us back?" His grin was nearly as wide, and considerably straighter.

"True," Trip replied, "but I wasn't sure how she'd do with a trigger-monkey in command." Tucker's face fell slightly as he surveyed the Enterprise bridge. "Any run-ins with the Xindi?"

"One," Reed replied, grimacing tightly. "Outside the Eta Boötis system. We lost two members of the crew, but we destroyed their scout vessel before it could report our presence."

Trip nodded somberly; he, as well, had lost too many crewmates over the last decade. "You're cleared for entry, standard trajectory. We'll see you on the other side, Enterprise."

**

Archer rolled over as the sun pierced his eyes with brilliant light. The beam was soft and warm, almost massaging him with tenderness; and he kept his eyes closed as his muscles wilted beneath the gentle force. He flipped his pillow over, finding the cool side for his head, and drifted off again into the light sleep of a sunlit nap.

Sometime later, a stray, troubled thought crossed his mind, forcing his neurons to awaken as they considered the anomalous sensory data. You don't have a pillow, he remembered. Starfleet sleeping gear had raised padding built into the bag instead. His hands started moving, searching for something familiar, and landed on a scratchy blanket.

A part of him wanted to remain where he was, half-somnambulant and dozing in the comforting beam of light and warmth; but even as Archer re-sought the deep embrace of sleep, another portion of his mind was stirring into action. Years of training and experience were not to be denied; the material data streaming into his head told him that something was wrong. He had moved; this is not where he had fallen asleep.

Even then, Archer's movements were lethargic and unwilling as he rolled onto his back and raised all four limbs aloft, stretching out muscles and sending his blood circulating. Not wanting to open his eyes, he kicked off the blanket, allowing the rays of sunlight to wash over his bare body; he nearly dozed off again before it sunk in. He was clad only in his underwear.

Regretfully, he opened his eyes at last, releasing his last tantalizing grasp of repose.

I'm not on Earth anymore, he realized, even as he flexed various muscles. The waking ache told him that this was not a dream; and as he lay, still on the bed, he took note of the brilliant light streaming through the open window. It was brighter, hotter, whiter than Earth's own sun; it wasn't even in the same spectral class. Definitely not on Earth.

In no hurry—no one was rushing in—Archer swung his legs over the cot, and with a little boost from his arms, stood up with a slight sway; more neural pathways awoke as he caught his balance, and the momentary dizziness faded away.

His room was no more than a couple meters squared; it was a ramshackle hut, with barren walls made of corrugated sheet metal and stem bolts. On one side, above the bed, was the window; Archer leaned in to inspect it more closely, and surprisingly discovered that it bore no glass nor other transparency. The view outside told him little; other than the glare of the sun, all he saw was the exterior wall of another shack.

In one corner, strewn on the packed dirt that made the floor, he found a pair of trousers and a simple tunic-style shirt, and he dressed himself quickly, absurdly wishing that there was a clean pair of underwear available; and as the tunic fell over his shoulders, Archer gave the small room a final look, then pushed open the door.

Archer began to separate different aromas in the breezy air. It was rich with spices and potpourri; there was something akin to black pepper, and something similar to curry powder. The unmistakable scent of fresh-baked bread was everywhere, but something about it seemed far different, as if the flour had come from a far-different source.

It was a single room, stretching maybe seven meters in length and two or three in width, constructed of the same corrugated sheet metal. The flow was open, giving the room a light and airy feel; on either side, open windows allowed the breeze ingress and egress, stirring its way through the warm room. One end was set aside as a kitchenette; the counters and appliances were rough and homemade, but recognizable. The other end held a simple wooden table and a pair of chairs.

Archer turned his head, still exploring the room, and his eyes fell on a solitary mirror hanging from the wall. He swore softly with unpleasant surprise; he leaned closer, challenging the first perceptions of his eyes, but it was to no avail. He ran a hand through his hair, noticing that it was longer than usual, and unavoidably gray.

A rough, mechanical sound reverberated behind him, but Archer kept his composure as he turned about. "Hello?" he called out strongly, his eyes shifting from the shadowed mirror to the powerful sunlight streaming through the main door.

"You're up early," a feminine voice replied, and Archer's ears identified the newcomer before his eyes.

"T'Pol?" Archer replied as his mind struggled to keep pace. It was, indeed, his executive officer, even though her appearance had changed somewhat; her hair was longer, parted along one side, and she too was clad in civilian clothing.

"I know this all seems unfamiliar," the Vulcan said gently as the door banged shut behind her. It eased the painful glare of the sun, but the room was still well-lit by ambient light. "I promise I'll explain everything." She placed a cloth bag on the table and withdrew something faintly resembling an eggplant. "Why don't you have a seat? Breakfast is almost ready."

Archer stepped forward warily, uncertain of what was taking place. The person before him could easily be an imposter; given the strangeness of his surroundings, the odds almost favored some sort of scam. At the same time, however, he couldn't ignore the subtle force that drew him to the Vulcan woman; a sense embedded deep within him cried out that she was familiar, in this sea of anomalies, and that he could trust her.

"Where are we?" Archer asked hesitantly as he took a seat.

"I'll answer all of your questions," T'Pol promised, "but for everything to make sense, we must start at the beginning." With surprisingly violence, she jabbed a knife into one end of the fruit and twisted, popping out a chunk of rind. The fruit itself she rested on the rim of a large measuring cup, and gravity started pulling the juice out. "Today is a very important day," she said quietly, taking a seat beside him. "I have a great deal to tell you. What's the last thing you remember?"

Archer opened his mouth, ready to answer the easy question, but nothing came out; his jaw dangled stupidly as his brain misfired and froze. "I'm not sure," he admitted with stunning realization. "I remember two things. How is that possible?"

"One is a dream, and one is a memory," T'Pol replied. "If you can tell me what they are, I may be able to clarify it."

Archer nodded. "I was…on a mountain ridge, up in Idaho," he answered. "I was camping out, with…I think it was Erika Hernandez." His brow wrinkled as he concentrated. "It was nighttime, and we were watching the stars."

T'Pol's inflection gave nothing away. "And the other?"

"The other?" Archer frowned. "You and I. We were in a corridor on the Enterprise. I think we were going from the command center to the bridge."

T'Pol leaned forward and surprisingly took Archer's hand, holding it gently between her own. The Vulcan's serenity and strength flowed into Archer; once again, it was familiar somehow, although he couldn't recall ever having felt her touch. "The corridor is the real memory, Jonathan," she replied. "This will be difficult for you to accept, but that was twelve years ago."

"What?" The sight of his gray hair ran through Archer's mind. "How is that possible?"

"Jonathan, you had an accident in the corridor that day," T'Pol answered, cushioning the words as best she could. "The Enterprise was in the Delphic Expanse, and we were hit with an anomaly. I was in danger, and you saved me…but you were hit by the anomaly."

"No. But…" Archer's voice was hoarse. "What did it do to me?"

"It restructured several your neural pathways, particularly the ones dealing with—"

"Long-term memory," Archer completed the phrase with T'Pol. "It's logical," he explained, in answer to her quizzical expression. "And we're not on Earth, are we?"

T'Pol shook her head. She had been over this many times with Archer, and long experience had taught her well. "Jonathan…we didn't make it," she replied, easing into the bad news.

"Earth?" Archer's voice cracked as his thoughts warred within; he knew what T'Pol was saying, but his mind could not accept it.

"Destroyed," T'Pol answered firmly. "The Xindi didn't stop there. They attacked every human outpost they could find—Mars, Alpha Centauri, Berengaria, all were destroyed."

"How many of us are left?" Archer asked, still in a stunned daze.

"This colony has around fifty thousand," she replied. "There's another five thousand or so in diaspora."

Archer tilted his head, as if it would help the words register. "And that's all?"

"That's all," T'Pol confirmed. "That's the entire human race."

**

The village—more of a refugee camp, really—was composed of a couple dozen shacks, all designed more or less like the one Archer had awoken in. Pieces of sheet metal were welded and bolted together in forms resembling buildings, many containing curved walls in unusual places; and the coloring bore no fixed pattern, showing instead a random montage of rusting gray, oxidized red, and the occasional blue hue.

"So where are we?" Archer asked as he paced alongside his comrade. They had barely stepped outside, and the tour of the village was half-complete; running between the scattered shacks were meter-wide pathways, consisting primarily of thin, brown grass and the irregular green sprout.

"The planet is called Hestia," T'Pol replied; even she seemed discomforted by the intense heat. "We are inside the stellar anomaly named 'Fornax X-1.'"

"The Furnace." Archer nodded knowingly. "I've heard of it. I didn't know there were any habitable planets inside, although."

T'Pol let it go—she had led the human exiles here without knowing for certain if there was a habitable planet. If need be, she would tell Archer later. "The exiles here are split up between twenty-three communities," she added, pointing the way down another alleyway. "And several humans have opted to strike out on their own."

They reached the edge of the camp, and Archer could now look around and assemble the local geography; the village occupied a bowl-shaped area inside a roughly-circular ridge of mountain. It was likely the remnant of an old volcanic caldera; once the volcano went inert, the recess would collect water and provide a prime settlement ground.

"And the Enterprise?" Archer asked. He pressed on ahead of T'Pol and began climbing the rocky slope; it was made of stone and sand, with little greenery clinging to the ramparts. The ridge itself towered overhead, blocking the view beyond; if he craned his neck backward, Archer could follow the intense, hazy-blue skies all the way to the large, white sun hanging overhead. "What happened to the crew?"

"The Enterprise is still in service," T'Pol replied. She moved up the slope with more grace than her human companion. "Although it has been rebuilt several times. It handles the missions outside of the Furnace; keeping in touch with the diaspora, with other friends, obtaining supplies, and collecting intelligence on Xindi patrols."

Archer shot her a look of surprise. "I guess I figured that they were gone," he admitted.

"The Xindi are still searching for us," T'Pol answered. "They have shown no signs of giving up."

"What about the crew?" Archer asked. Feeling the effects of the heat, he began to lift his tunic over his head, but paused midway.

T'Pol arched a brow. "I have seen you naked many times," she rejoined. "Must we always go through this arcane ritual?"

Jonathan found himself speechless.

"Most of the crew is still around," T'Pol added, as if there had been no interruption. "Charles Tucker is now the Starfleet Commodore. Malcolm Reed has command of the Enterprise, and Travis serves on board." She waited a respectful beat before adding the bad news. "Hoshi Sato perished in the first wave of attacks."

Archer glanced upward, gauging how far they had to climb; the slopes weren't especially difficult, and they were already reaching the apogee. "How did everyone get here?"

"After Earth was destroyed, the remaining Starfleet ships gathered every survivor we could find, and brought them here," T'Pol explained. She was lagging a step behind Archer; the heat was insignificant for the Vulcan, but the humidity was something else altogether. "We needed a place of refuge."

"And the Xindi ships don't have warp drive, so they can't break into the Furnace."

"Precisely," T'Pol confirmed. "The civilian ships were disassembled for their components and raw materials. We used to them construct the settlement."

"That makes sense," Archer replied. It explained the decrepit look of the village.

"At this point," T'Pol continued, "you often wonder if you're a victim of some elaborate deception."

"The thought did cross my mind," Archer admitted freely. In his dreams, he could recall staging a deception like this to fool one of the Xindi; but the details were fuzzy in his mind, disappearing into the shadows.

"Margaret Mullin," T'Pol stated.

Archer whipped his head around. "What do you know about her?" he demanded, now irate.

"You met her when you were twenty-four years old, while you were in flight school in San Francisco. The night before you graduated, outside of her apartment on Westgate Avenue, you asked her to marry you." T'Pol recited the facts like a long-practiced report. "She turned you down. She said she didn't want to become a Starfleet widow."

"And how the hell do you know that?"

"Our relationship has evolved over the years," T'Pol replied.

Archer narrowed his eyes. "Exactly how far has it evolved?"

"How do you feel?" T'Pol responded, side-stepping the question.

It was an odd question to hear from a Vulcan, and it took Archer a moment to follow. "Remarkably peaceful," he answered at last. "The story is amazing, but something about this feels natural. My instincts are telling me that this is the reality," he added, smiling to show that the dig was in good humor. The truth was, it was the Vulcan's presence that made everything feel right.

Together, they reached the crest, and Archer stopped in stunned disbelief. Below them, stretching out beyond the horizon, was an unending carpet of green jungle interspersed with vast, shallow seas; dark greens warred with sapphire blue until the two merged in the muddled distance. To one side, he could even see a bank of dark gray clouds pouring a torrent of rain onto the treetops below; to the other side, a great reptile spread its leathery wings as it sailed on a contrail of heat, squawking loudly with prehistoric glory.

IV

"Phlox!" Jonathan expressed his surprise and excitement as the jovial Denobulan appeared in a swirl of transporter materialization, accompanied by a young Terran woman. The doctor's hair had grown longer, but other than that, Phlox still appeared the way he had yesterday—twelve years ago.

The corners of Phlox's mouth nearly reached his ears. "Captain!" he replied, sharing the joy. "How have you been?"

"They tell me I've been fine," Archer replied dryly. He shook his head. "I feel like I fell asleep one night, and lost twelve years."

"It's bound to be a little disconcerting." With no delay, Phlox raised a mediscanner and waved it over Archer. "Nothing seems to have changed since your last exam," he added with upbeat sensitivity. "Your health is doing fine."

Archer's eyes danced between the slender Vulcan woman beside him the robust Denobulan before him. "Phlox, I, ah, was told that you had returned home. You didn't come all this way just to check on me, did you?"

"Oh, it's no bother," Phlox answered, still smiling broadly. "The Enterprise was in my neighborhood, so I hitched a ride, as you humans like to say. I'd like you to meet a colleague of mine; this is Shannara Dariel."

Archer extended a hand in friendly greeting, feeling a minor chill when Shannara took it, and his eyes lingered a moment as they were entranced by the woman's beauty; he noticed that the irises of her eyes seemed to be black, but thought little of it. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said gallantly.

"The pleasure is mine," Shannara replied, giving a slight curtsey. It was a nearly-dead custom among humans, but Archer found it mysteriously enchanting. "Would you like to take a walk with me?"

Archer glanced back at T'Pol. "I have some business to discuss with the doctor," she replied in answer to the unspoken question, and with that, the two were off.

**

Phlox waited until Archer and Dariel were out of hearing before speaking again. "How has he been doing?" the physician murmured, keeping his voice low. The two stood side-by-side, watching the captain and young lady disappear in the morning haze.

T'Pol shook her head to manifest the stubbornness of Archer's condition. "No significant change," she replied. "His short-term memory is slipping. And from time to time, he seems to forget where he is."

"That was to be expected, I'm afraid," Phlox answered with dysphoric sadness. "I had hoped that time would begin to heal his wounds…but the great cosmological maestro seems to have something else in mind."

"Doctor." T'Pol's firmness caught the physician's wandering attention. "Your last communiqué suggested that you had found a treatment."

Phlox's face brightened only slightly. "Yes, there's some…good news and bad news," he admitted. He began shuffling his feet uncomfortably, and the two fell into a gentle, strolling pace. "As you no doubt recall, the problem is that the spatial anomaly twisted the physical structure of his amygdala."

"Yes," T'Pol replied. Her hands were clasped behind her. "It prevents him from forming new memories, or accessing his old ways."

"That's only half-true, I'm afraid," the doctor replied. He let his gaze linger on a patch of scruff before continuing. "The brain is a remarkable thing, T'Pol. Over the years, the captain's neural pathways have rerouted themselves around the warped tissue."

"So…" T'Pol suffered a momentary lag as her mind parsed the doctor's words. "So he should be able to form memories again?"

Phlox nodded in affirmation. "New memories, yes. The last twelve years, I'm afraid, are gone completely."

T'Pol's brows furrowed with confusion. "I know Jonathan quite well, Doctor," she responded. "I can state with certainty that he has not been forming new memories."

"And therein lies the problem," Phlox answered softly. "Listen to me, T'Pol: there's no longer any physical reason for his lack of memory formation."

"But if there's no physical reason…" T'Pol's voice faltered as her mind struggled to accept the verdict.

"There's a psychological problem," Phlox replied tenderly, doing his best to ease the weight of the blow. "Shannara is a quite proficient psychotherapist. She came along to confirm the general diagnosis."

"But…why?" T'Pol's inner defenses were rallying against the news. "He's had a comfortable place to live, a good diet, physical exercise, stimulating conversation… what more can I do?"

Phlox fought the urge to give the lithe woman an enveloping hug. "Every day here, Jonathan is surrounded by the physical proof of his failure," Phlox replied. "This colony only exists because Earth was destroyed—and he blames himself for that." The physician raised a hand to cut off the obligatory objection. "I know, I know, T'Pol," he said caringly. "Many people would argue the objective blame. But subjectively, Archer believes that he bears the responsibility. Can you imagine trying to live the rest of your life, surrounded by the constant reminders of such a failure? Some people would describe that as being the cruelest level of hell."

"So his mind is blocking new memories?" T'Pol queried. In the end, she was still a Vulcan; her visceral objections were fading as they were confronted with the light of reason.

"That is the theory," Phlox admitted. "The mind finds ways to protect itself. Somehow, Archer's mind is using this memory blockage to shield itself from that guilt."

"What can I do?" T'Pol asked.

Phlox smiled again. "The four immortal words…" he mused, then continued. "As long as he remains on Hestia, he will never recover. Shannara's homeworld has several excellent institutes for this area of medicine, even better than Vulcan's own. Her superiors are willing to take Archer in, provided she recommends it."

"And it would be…" T'Pol looked to the sky as the words tangled in her mouth.

"Safe? Yes," Phlox confirmed. "It's far from here, and his medical privacy would be closely protected. The Xindi won't follow him."

T'Pol turned her eyes to Phlox, expressing an unseen depth. "Would I be able to go along?" she whispered.

"Of course, T'Pol," Phlox replied. He gave her an encouraging smile. "I'm sure the captain wouldn't want it any other way."

**

It was more than a little discomfiting, Archer realized, to return to the Enterprise only a day after leaving it. So many things were familiar, yet morphed in slight manners, as if staring through a looking glass; a color was faded, a bulkhead was smudged, a conduit made a slight rattling noise as it shunted energy across the ship.

It's like being a stranger in my own home, he thought, as his mind fought the inconsistencies. A day ago, the Enterprise had been a strong and vibrant starship, and he was the captain, standing strong on the bridge; but today, a single day later, it was a tired and weary vessel, a veteran of many trying years of exile. Now we see but a poor reflection, as a blurred image in a shadowy mirror.

The shrill whistle of naval pipes startled Archer from his reverie, and as he stepped down from the transporter platform, the once-captain couldn't help but be amazed. The corridor outside the alcove was lined with Starfleet officers, standing proudly at attention, as if receiving a noted dignitary; Archer nearly glanced behind himself before it sunk in that they were doing this for him.

At the head of the corridor, two men stepped forward, the first extending a hand in greeting. With a sense of vertigo, Archer looked into a face that had been bright and youthful, once brimming with hope and optimism; it was aged now, the hair gone gray, the eyes bearing the burden of bargaining with Providence. Where once childlike excitement had glowed, a man now stood in wary exhaustion.

"It's good to see you, sir," he said.

Archer smiled and clasped the proffered hand. "Is it commodore now?" he asked, glancing at the rank insignia on Trip's chest. "I don't think you need to call me 'sir' anymore."

"Old habits," Trip replied, finally cracking a familiar grin. "I've got some people who would like to say hello."

Standing next to Tucker, Malcolm Reed extended a hand of his own. "You're looking well, sir," Reed offered with a friendly grin.

It took Archer a beat to recognize his old weaponry officer. Malcolm's curly hair was now salt-and-pepper, and a thick, trimmed beard covered the lower part of his face. His eyes still glinted with impish enthusiasm, but he wore the lines of experience heavily; his cheeks were gaunt, and his coveralls hung loosely about his frame.

"Thank you," Archer answered. "Are you a captain now?"

Malcolm nodded with pride. "The Enterprise is under my command, sir," Reed answered. "And may I say, I look forward to having you back on board."

With a gentle nudge from Trip, Archer turned to walk the gauntlet of admiring officers, making it precisely one meter before stopping again. "Travis!" he exclaimed loudly, causing the helmsman to lose his formal posture. The two men enveloped each other in a bear hug, pounding a hand heartily on the other's back. "How have you been?" Archer asked, stepping back for a good look. Unlike the others, Travis seemed even more dynamic.

"I've been doing good, Captain," Travis replied with a grin.

Archer glanced around, and his face fell slightly. "Where's Hoshi?" he asked quietly.

"She didn't survive the original mission," Travis answered somberly. Archer winced; T'Pol had told him so, earlier that day.

"Sir," Trip said, stepping in smoothly, "there's a reception in the mess hall, if you're feeling up to it."

"A visit to sickbay may be in order first," Phlox intervened. "In fact, if we could move it along?" he suggested, prodding not so subtly.

"Of course, Doctor," Archer answered, but he kept a leisurely pace as he walked through the ensembled officers. Some of them he knew; some were undoubtedly recent additions, the grown children of the exiles. Still others were somewhat familiar, if he accounted for a decade of wear and tear; he had served with them, many years ago—and he remembered it like it was yesterday.

Amidst the weary and tired expressions, the haggard looks and the drawn faces, Archer noted something else: in every set of eyes burned an unquenched fervor of conviction and dedication, the courage and ardor of a thousand generations. Archer's mind strayed momentarily to a verse he had learned as a child: And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love.

And he understood that humanity would thrive again.

**

The burning light of the Furnace glowed as a distant cinder behind the wake of the Enterprise, dwindling in the colossal distances of the universe until it was but a faint pinprick in the sky. For my days have vanished like smoke, Archer thought, and my bones burn like glowing embers. At high warp, the exiled home of his people vanished quickly in the twilight glow of interstellar space, until it was but a distant memory. My days are like the evening shadow; a dozen years that disappeared unbidden, lost forever in hidden recesses of his mind. " I wither away like grass," he murmured audibly.

"You left the reception early," T'Pol said quietly as she entered the makeshift observation room. Located on the aft side of G-deck, the view it provided was wistful, as if a reminder of worlds long gone.

Archer didn't shift as he answered. "It was a little disturbing," he replied. "From my perspective, I saw most of those people just a few years ago—they look so different now." He shook his head in wonderment. "And yet, so much the same…I wonder if I would've fared as well."

"Jonathan, you have kept yourself alive," T'Pol responded, pressing softly. "You don't need to question your presence here."

"But if everything I hear is right, then it's all my fault," Archer replied bitterly. "Attracting the Xindi in the first place, failing to stop their attack, and now I've been an invalid for the last twelve years, living off the kindness of others. They treat me like I'm some sort of goddamned hero, T'Pol." He nearly spat the words. "But I'm the fool."

T'Pol sat down beside him and clasped his hand, allowing an iota of her serenity to flow into him. "Jonathan, listen to me," she stated strongly. "You're not god. Don't hold yourself to that standard."

Archer nodded slightly. "Thanks, T'Pol," he murmured. "I can't imagine it's been easy for you, telling me the same story over and over again for twelve years."

"I don't always tell it in detail," she replied.

Archer leaned back and sighed. "I hope I've told you before, but I'm very grateful for everything you've done for me," he added. "If this works…what comes next?"

T'Pol thought for a second before responding. "The verse you were reciting," she said slowly, pulling the data from her head. "How does it end?"

Archer smiled. "Let this be written for all future generations: that a people not yet created will live to praise the Lord."

**

"Have you considered what you will do?" Phlox asked curiously as he bustled about sickbay. It was missing his Pyrithian bat, but the compartment had otherwise changed little over the years. "He will no longer need daily care, after all."

"I will remain with him for the time being," T'Pol replied. Her cadence was halting, as though she was choosing her words carefully. "He may need my help during his recovery. If nothing else, I will be a familiar face."

Phlox's face concealed little. "Have you told the captain how you feel about him?" he asked with understanding compassion. "It's obvious you've become quite attached. Now, now, T'Pol," he added quickly, shaking his growing mane, "it's nothing to be ashamed of. Vulcans experience the same emotions as any other species."

"I'm not hiding anything," T'Pol retorted primly. "He risked his life to save me. I'm merely repaying a debt."

Phlox's eyes glowed with the most remarkable hue of sapphire as he spoke. "I can only imagine what it must have been like," he mused. "Spending all those years in the same house, learning so much about him. And yet, he remembers nothing about you beyond the day he became ill."

"I will be fine, Doctor," T'Pol rejoined crossly. "But I will go with him."

**

Captain Reed exploded through the lift doors, pushing them aside as he hit the bridge. "Report!" he shouted automatically, taking the command deck in with a single glance; subconsciously, he identified each crewmember and logged the data, storing it for future use.

"Six Xindi ships have entered the system," Travis responded alertly. He, too, was on the move, vacating the command chair for Malcolm and shifting to the auxiliary console in one corner of the bridge. "They're on course to intercept."

"Weapons online, defenses up!" Malcolm barked. Later, he would ask how the Xindi found them; but he had bigger concerns now.

"The Xindi ships are in range!" Travis shouted, sliding into his console.

"Full spread! Fire!" The recoil of the adapted weaponry shook the Enterprise as the phase cannons spat out across the void, followed closely by a volley of torpedoes. The ship shuddered again moments later, this time the result of enemy fire.

"Our shields are holding!" Travis reported. "I'll remember to send a note to General Shran!"

Malcolm nodded, his mind already racing forward. "Adjust your heading," he ordered sharply. "Three-one-zero-mark-two-seven. Full impulse!" A shrieking whine rattled the bridge as the Enterprise turned sharply, but the ship held, withstanding the strain of the violent maneuver.

"Two ships are still behind!" Travis called out. The Enterprise shook again as Xindi weaponry struck amidships. "Four took the bait!"

That only buys us a minute, Malcolm realized grimly. "Hit the reptilian ship with everything!" he shouted. Twin volleys shot between the starships, and Reed clutched the arms of the command chair tightly as the Enterprise shook again.

"The reptilian's damaged!" Travis reported, pulling the information from the raw sensor stream. "He's veering off!"

"Target the second one!" Malcolm bellowed. Bolts of red energy shot out again, striking the insectoid vessel. The aim was true, and the Xindi ship spiraled away as small explosions ripped along the hull.

"Enemy status!" Malcolm shouted. His voice was growing coarse from the smoke pouring into the bridge; a power conduit had ruptured somewhere. He could hear the roar of flames beneath the screaming alarms.

"They've adjusted!" Travis answered. "Ten seconds to firing range!"

"Hold tight, everyone!" Malcolm ordered. "We're going to find out how much of a beating these new shields can take!"

**

T'Pol ran out of sickbay and dove headlong into the mass of black smoke that cloaked the corridor. She had a breathing mask pressed to her face, connected to a pony tank of compressed oxygen that she carried in one hand; without it, the toxic mixture would have killed her within moments. As it was, she barely made the mad dash before cutting sharply to the left and sealing a pressure door behind her.

"T'Pol?" This corridor was scarcely clearer, but her Vulcan hearing caught the sound of the voice over the shrill howl of an overloading processor. T'Pol pushed herself forward, stumbling through the acrid air, barely avoiding a scorched body that lay in her path. Beyond, in the shadow of red flames, she could make out another person, waving her forward; she trusted the summons and dashed between the fires, emerging moments later in a clearer section of corridor.

"T'Pol, what's happening?" Archer shouted. The tumult of noise nearly covered his voice.

"Jonathan, you need to rest!" T'Pol shouted back. She caught his arm as he turned to leave. "Where are you going?"

"To the bridge!" Archer responded. The force triggered an eruption of bloody phlegm that he spat to the ground. "I'm not going to just lie here while they destroy what's left of humanity!"

Around them, the Enterprise leapt in space, shooting upwards as the gyrostabilizers screamed to compensate. T'Pol realized, to her dismay, that Archer was right: after twelve years, the Enterprise was reaching the end of her luck. Either they held…or they died. She pointed forward in the general direction of the lift, and they took off running, hunched over beneath the clouds and gases billowing overhead.

**

The bridge burned around Malcolm.

Communications and tactical were both gone, enveloped in blazing conflagrations that scorched even the durable graphene and incinerated the human officers. Whistles and alarms fought with each other for supremacy, as a multitude of disasters struck simultaneously.

In the clamor, he could barely hear the voice of Travis, who lay draped over the helm console. "Hull breaches on B-deck, C-deck!" Travis shouted, manipulating the dying controls as best he could.

The high-energy beam struck the Enterprise just meters below the dome of the bridge, severing the final connections of duranium beams and twisting bolts.

Malcolm felt the rush of air around him as the fires and smoke were torn away into open space. He, too, was ripped upward, past the now-gone ceiling, hurtling through the breach into the absolute frigidity. For a moment, he was able to look back, and see his fragile home disappear behind him, a cacophony of grace against the indifference of the universe.

Time returned, and the gases within his body exploded outward.

**

Archer pounded the control panel of the lift several times before he stood back, his face ashen.

"What is it?" T'Pol asked, straining to look beside him.

"The bridge is gone," Archer responded, stumbling back slightly.

"Engineering," T'Pol replied. As they disappeared into the lift, three reptilian Xindi materialized behind them.

Phlox, pounding hard, swung himself through the hatch-like main entrance to engineering. He brought his phase pistol forward, rapidly sweeping the compartment for signs of life, friendly or otherwise, but he saw little movement in the dim, fractured light. Flames leaped from numerous panels, and a flash-bomb of white light hit Phlox, twisting and tossing him to the ground.

Above, a set of feet rattled down the stairs from the upper level, and a firm set of hands helped pull Phlox to his feet. "Are you okay, Doctor?" Archer screamed into the ear of the Denobulan, and Phlox nodded dumbly.

"They're coming!" T'Pol shouted from the upper scaffolding. With a steady hand, she pointed her phase pistol, slicing into one reptilian; in the fog, a second Xindi stepped forward, unleashing a pulse of energy at the Vulcan that struck the middle of her chest.

Archer watched in horror as T'Pol fell backwards from the scaffolding, landing on the lower deck with an audible splat.

"Captain! We don't have much time!" Phlox shouted harshly. Two more Xindi pounded through the main hatch behind him.

The din softened around him as Archer's eyes tunneled in on the physician as Phlox fell forward, his hands thrown in the air, bearing a blackened hole in the middle of his back. As Phlox's body hit the deck, a lifetime of memories catalyzed within Jonathan Archer.

And some days, you realize, you're just not okay, Jonathan thought as he watched the misery unfold before him. The words played like a song, registering at the edge of his mind. And it's not alright now…I'll be waving my hand, watching you drown, watching you scream…

Jonathan's eyes came up slowly to locate the reptilian soldier and the weapon pointed directly at his breastbone. Now you need to understand, there's nothing fake about this…as clumsy as you've been, there's no one laughing.

A thousand lifetimes, a million deaths, and he stood by inertly, unable to move a muscle. And in his moment of indecision, the Xindi fired; Jonathan's chest exploded with heat and pain as he glided to the deck. Well, you will be safe in here…and Archer slipped away.

**

The warm sound of chirping birds drew Erika from her slumber.

Giving a yawn, she rolled over once in her bag and stretched her arms above her head, feeling the slight ache of tightened muscles unfurling. She tensed her legs, bringing her feet up and pointed down, before finally rolling back onto her abdomen and lifting hands and feet upward. Her back cracked with relief as she ruefully noted that middle age was fast approaching.

Her morning ritual satisfied, Erika crawled out of the warm recesses of her bag and into the cool, crisp air of the morning. It was still somewhat below the freezing point, but the air was clear, and fresh oxygen raced to her head as she took a deep breath, rejuvenating her with its crispness.

At some point during the early morning hours, the fire had died away, perhaps a victim of the thin coating of snow that had accumulated overnight. It was still a bright white, clean and reflecting the new sunlight above, and Erika had to cover her eyes momentarily as they adapted.

Jonathan was already up, and was standing on the rocky precipice that gave the campsite its raison d'etre. He stood at the top of a great valley; mountain ridges ran on either side of him before wrapping around like a bowl. At the foot, they sloped downward, creating a V-shaped opening through which a mountain creek ran, and from there emerging into gently-rolling meadows still knee-deep with white snow.

And all this, Erika noted as she came up alongside him, could be seen from the precipice. This incredible world of beauty lay before them as a giant canvas, and at this moment, it was just for the two of them; no one else saw the meadow below, nor the spruce-lined slopes above. And they could see nothing beyond the high ridges; for Jonathan and Erika, in this moment, this incredible world was their entire existence.

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" Jonathan murmured softly. He didn't want to disturb the rich silence of the frozen world.

Erika scarcely noted the cloudlets of icy breath that floated away before her. It was not widely known—not intentionally, but rather by anonymity—that not a single tree before them was more than a century old. At that time, in the desperate closing gasps of the Final World War, these forests had been obliterated, and the mountains left as radioactive wasteland.

These isolated ranges had been the final redoubt of the religious militias which had almost single-handedly triggered the great catastrophe, safe in their belief that they would be carried above on gilded wings; but when left behind, the militias had been among the last holdouts to the patchwork of peace accords that gradually ended the War.

Engaging in hit-and-run operations from their strongholds, the militias were prepared to trigger another war in order to preserve their myth of privilege. The rest of humanity, exhausted by a generation of war, finally obliterated the militias in a thermonuclear holocaust.

"It's beautiful," Erika replied softly. She knew—she had known from the start—why Jonathan had chosen this particular range. It was a testament of resurrection and rebirth, of enduring life and survival.

"'If a man dies, will he live again?'" Archer asked softly, quoting an ancient question.

"I think you know the answer to that, Jonathan," Erika replied.

**

It was a blustery day in the city by the bay; but then again, it always was. Ocean winds poured through the Golden Gate, pounding the southern prominence with the cold, wet froth of the sea, and fog horns resounded mercilessly in the gray soup.

Jonathan Archer found himself only semi-protected as he strolled through the ancient structure of Fort Point. Built over three hundred years previously, it had withstood the beating of nature and somehow survived the crueler beatings of humans; the original brickwork was still intact, with scarcely a sign of where restoration work had been done.

The vaulted corridor, down on the main level, was open to the central grounds of the fort, but windows in the outer wall sealed it from the elements. At one time, many centuries past, great cannons had lined this walkway; the shorings were still visible in the tiled floor. But military technology had long since rendered the fort impotent; and then peace struck.

"Captain Archer." Ambassador Soval tilted his head with proper etiquette and raised one hand, splitting his fingers in the familiar Vulcan salute. The ambassador was wrapped in voluminous robes; thirty years on Earth had yet to acclimate him to the weather.

"Ambassador Soval," Archer replied, raising his hand as well. "I'm glad you could make."

"Your invitation…intrigued me," Soval admitted. "You wish to discuss something privately?"

"Yes, Ambassador." Archer steeled his nerves and jumped in. "I want to apologize for what I said to you at the debriefing last week. I was out of line."

"Yes, you were," Soval replied firmly. "But perhaps I was in error as well. I was addressing you as I would a Vulcan…it would appear that, after three decades, I still have quite a bit to learn about your people."

Archer was caught wordless.

"I want you to know, Captain, that I meant no slight nor intended any denigration by my inquiry," Soval continued. The Vulcan's face stayed passive, but his words carried a certain timbre. "It was simply a factual inquiry. I happen to think that you did an exceptional job during your mission to the Expanse."

"Thank you, Ambassador," Archer replied, pleasantly surprised.

Soval gestured down the pathway, and the two fell into step alongside each other. "Logic provides the correct route ninety-nine times out of a hundred," the ambassador mused as they strolled. "You humans have an uncanny ability to identify that one percent, and the tenacity to stick with it."

Archer could feel his heart fall slightly. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Ambassador," he responded, "but it was just dumb luck."

Soval shook his head. "Once is luck. Twice, perhaps, is luck. What you humans have shown is something else."

**

The ceremonial gavel fell heavily on its block, causing the bailiff to visibly jump. "This debriefing is hereby in recess until 9 am tomorrow morning," Admiral Forrest announced solemnly. "I remind everyone present that the details of today's session are classified, and may not be disseminated even to your colleagues unless proper authorization is given by the Command Council. If there are no further questions?"

Forrest stood up, and the air of formality dissipated as the other attendees rose and milled about. For his own part, Jonathan Archer made a beeline for the door; his communicator had been vibrating mercilessly for the last ten minutes. "Archer here," he said, flipping open the unit.

"Captain, this is Doctor Phlox. We have a bit of a problem."

Various quotations from:

1 1 Corinthians 13:13

2 Psalm 102 (paraphrase)

3 "Clumsy," by Our Lady Peace

4 Job 14:14