Bittersweet Symphony: Hero of the Day

by jtm1848

An alternate take on Trip's recovery, following the Enterprise's return from the Expanse.

Author's note: this only loosely-canon. It opens with Trip still on Earth, under medical observation following the Enterprise's return from the Expanse. It gets a little rough at points, so please, read at your own discretion.

- Enter Sandman -

Like any night, the hectic frenzy of the emergency room came and went in ebbs and flows, currents of activity flaring suddenly in frenetic commotion and moments of temporary abeyance riding upon a becalming sense of transitory tranquility; respites serving to pace the onrush that hit in scattered intervals, offering the staff a makeshift moment to catch their balance before wading into the next swelling wave of crises.

Long years of working the night shift at San Francisco General Hospital had acclimated Doctor Grayson, licensed M.D. and triage specialist, to the irregular rhythms, honing his abilities to swerve on a dime from snatched moments of needed respite to prolonged periods of alertness nonpareil and back again. With a moment to breathe, he stepped aside; placing his hands on his lower back, Grayson leaned backward and twisted from side to side, rapidly stretching taut muscles until the pain began to subside.

Some nights it was hard to believe that he still worked here, having turned down several offers for less strenuous placements; and other nights, he could imagine doing little else.

Something vibrated deep within Grayson's bones, alerting him to the new arrival scant seconds before the alarm bell rang, notifying the staff of the incoming ambulance.

Riding the sudden animated surge, Grayson followed closely behind two nurses as they ran to the entrance, arriving scarce moments later as the aeromobile lowered itself onto the seal-coated concrete floor. The back doors were opening even before the craft was in place, the first EMT out and on the ground, easing the anti-grav stretcher out behind him.

The patient was unconscious, but twitching randomly; his skin was turning a pale blue. Grayson grabbed the man's wrist as he jogged alongside the stretcher, on their way to critical care; trained touch gave him the basics, indicating lowered body temperature and a slow and irregular pulse.

And the man stank.

It would take proper tests to verify, but Grayson suspected that he already had the cause-in-fact; pulling into a bank of machinery, he barked out shorthand orders to the nursing staff, many of whom had already reached the same conclusion. With a single phrase, the patient's clothing was torn off and tossed aside; restraints wrapped over him, monitors attached over his torso and a forced-breathing tube fastened to his nose.

Medicine had advanced in untold ways since First Contact; but critical care was about effectiveness, and not finesse. Two large-bore needles were injected directly into either arm, sluicing out contaminated blood; two others were injected slightly lower, pumping in a clean stock of the critical fluid. If done properly, the method could completely replace the patient's blood supply in under an hour.

Once the fluids were flowing smoothly, Grayson paused to collect his patient info. The man had been found, unconscious, on the pavement outside a drugstore. His body showed little exterior sign of serious medical maladies, but a standard battery of fluid analyzes would be run.

Oddly enough, the patient carried no ID; not that it was required—by any stretch—but it was customary, particularly in the city. Grayson shifted to give another order, but the nurse was ahead of him; scans of the man's fingerprints would be fed into the database. Perhaps one person in two had a match there.

Grayson allowed himself a sigh of relief as he checked the vitals; under machine stimulation, both respiration and blood circulation were picking up, and the bioelectric convulsions were easing. Their patient would recover; at least, from this episode.

But Grayson knew that this was but a transient victory. His new patient bore all the markers of chronic and severe alcohol abuse.

"Doctor," the nurse called out with a note of curious inflection, pulling Grayson's attention aside for a moment. "We have an ID match."

Perturbed, Grayson stepped over to view the computer panel himself, and raised his eyebrows with surprise: the match had come from Starfleet, of all places.

Commander Charles Tucker III.

The rays of the morning sun had barely crossed the distant horizon when Archer and Tucker arrived.

The red-tinged light kissed the sky in front of them, still cloaked behind the vast veil of dirt and dust churned up in the atmosphere, giving the impression of a flame-lit firmament arching overhead and before them. From the yellowed core of the sun, it radiated outward in a cascading sheet stretching through the continuum, culminating in the dark violets that merged into the still-black heavens to their backs. That morning, like the mornings before, and the mornings still to come, echoed the devastation beneath.

{Tuck you in, warm within.}

The gash in the ground was nearly a kilometer wide and a kilometer deep, extending along a roughly north-south path until it vanished in the red haze. The walls of the new canyon were scorched a charred black, crystallized like volcanic basalt. The expected interruptions—tree roots, sewer systems, subway tunnels—were gone, broken off and capped behind the black walls of the abyss. The sides were alternately sleek and jagged, and they dropped off nearly straight, plunging down to the floor of the canyon below.

{With time the child draws in.}

Trip knew that, if he looked closely, he would see tiny lights scurrying about the bottom below, like a handful of ants searching the wreckage for signs of hope. But there would be none; there was not even debris within the confines of the gash. Everything had been vaporized, exploded, or immolated. All that remained within were the waist-deep currents of ash and muck, the remnants of hundreds of buildings, roads, homes, and lives.

{Exit light!}

At least, in the disaster zone extending to either side of the gash, wreckage remained. Along the rim, it was little; burnt into fine dust, one could find only traces of the former occupants, but if you walked away—slowly, picking your course carefully—by the end of a day's hike, you would find entire skeletal remains of buildings, cleansed by the great shock waves and fires that had reverberated outwards from the beam itself.

{Enter night!}

But the black—the black was unavoidable, no matter where you looked. Flame had touched everything, superheated by the weapon well above even the strongest tolerances, the great wave of fire had done the most damage of all, extinguishing everything in its path in the unholy terror of its roar. Whipped to a frenzy, carried across make-shift fire lines by the windstorms, the maelstrom of fire had eradicated every trace of life for kilometers in every direction.

{Take my hand!}

Around the two officers, the scant repair crews worked slowly, moving carefully in the wreckage. The emergency crews had long since departed; there were no survivors left to rescue, and it would be many days yet before the civic authorities would agree on a course of action. Instead, a handful of ants worked their way through the debris fields, tending to hot spots and capping gas leaks, seeking only to prevent any further flare-ups.

{We're off to never-never land!}

It had taken Admiral Forrest's personal intervention to obtain clearance for Archer and Trip, but the admiral's support had never been in question: he took care of his people. Commander Tucker was not the only member of Starfleet to lose a loved one in the attack, and here and there, down the length of the great scar, other officers slowly made their way through the ash to see with their own eyes the gaping holes that had been ripped from the surface of the Earth.

{Dreams of war, dreams of lairs!}

"Her house was over there," Trip said morosely, pointing towards the center of the gash with a solitary finger. Archer had to strain his ears to hear Trip's quiet voice. "Less than a kilometer."

{Dreams of dragon's fire!}

There was nothing left, not even a plumbing pipe. The house was gone, vaporized by the beam, ripped from the planet in only a heartbeat. Trip stared at the empty point in silence, stone-faced as he struggled to imagine his sister's home.

{I dream I dream!}

Holding back a tear, Trip finally looked away, and noticed a familiar piece of wreckage lying on the ground. "See that?" he asked. "That was the old movie theater. They used to show double-matinees." He couldn't swallow back the lump in his throat; there was too much dust. "When we were kids, Lizzie and I would spend every weekend there."

{I dream I might!}

"Are you certain she was here when it happened?" Archer asked softly. He knew that the Enterprise was a beehive of activity, but there had never been any question that he would take the time to return to Florida with his chief engineer—his closest friend. Some things were just that important.

{Have the dream I dream tonight!}

"It's been two weeks," Trip replied at last. "Someone would have heard from her by now."

Archer found that he had no more words to share, and stood silently alongside.

Trip Tucker growled softly as the glare of sunlight pounded on him, pummeling his battered body with unwanted heat and merciless radiation. He didn't want to be here, not today, not ever; and yet here he was, on the eastern tip of Jamaica, with two medical attendants present to keep him on his feet.

What am I doing here? The question voiced his misery; the physical agony of brilliant sunlight, the gentle roar of the ocean…and the resounding, sonorous echo of the three bells behind him, one every five seconds, the vibrant rumbles assailing the throbbing beat of his own body, the waves magnified grotesquely as they reverberated against him.

The bells sounded, every five seconds, and would do so for over a year; all told, they would ring more than seven million times before falling silent, each one a remembrance to the victims of the Xindi attack only months in the past. Somewhere out there—amidst the expanse of rich, turquoise waters—was the exact midpoint of the Scar.

Many observers had pointed out the discrepancy—that the Xindi could pilot the first weapon across hundreds of light-years, and then manage to strike more water than land. Even here, after neatly bifurcating Cuba, the deadly beam had sliced through the passage between Jamaica and Hispaniola; and south lay over five hundred kilometers of open water.

Trip leaned against the stone seawall, carefully shading his eyes as he looked skyward. In the distance, billowing clouds of white and gray reached from the surface of the water to the highest reaches of the sky. He knew—while few cared to admit it—that the Xindi were either far smarter or far luckier than that; for the attack had effectively dumped immeasurable quantities of superheated, ionized water into the atmosphere.

The resulting mega-hurricanes came close to rivaling those of the previous century, around the start of the Final World War.

The truth is, Trip thought to himself, that I don't much care. In ten years' time, the weather patterns would return to normal; in a hundred, the Scar itself would be gone, but that did not bother him; nothing seemed to bother him anymore. The world will go on as it will, he knew. But he could find no reservoir of energy, no passion of any sort, to propel himself forward. It was a hollow reality, and he little more than a shell. Even the physical beating failed to excite him, not even moving him to curse the sun.

The memorial here was little more than an ad hoc affair—the location chosen by the steady flow of visitors and the gracious understanding of the locals, who had quietly arranged for the construction of the plaza and the visitors' tram, winding its way along the coastline from the primary aeroport in Kingston. Nearly the entire length of the Scar itself was still off-limits, along with a cordon many kilometers wide, where the radiation containment teams worked day and night to clean up the soupy mixture of exotic particles created by the Xindi weapon.

The Memorial's power lay in simplicity.

Scarcely more than thirty meters in breadth, the courtyard was laid out as if the base of a triangle; the angled walls not touching, but rather projecting outward across the water, the focal point resting over the seabed median of the Scar. Every line in the Memorial was similarly situated on angles, channeling the eye and the mind outward across the still-turbulent waters.

Along the seawall, itself about a meter high, ran a row of looking scopes; from there, three terraces of sculpted tile led upward and to the rear. The third terrace, at the base of the triangle, held three connected arches, each one reaching high overhead; and from the apex of each hung a large brass bell, each new clang sounding out long before the previous could pass away. Behind the bells, a rotation of masons worked night and day, chipping the names of the lost into the marble wall.

To the right side of the bell stand were a pair of gates, their power lying not in heft but in solemnity; by common consent, only a small number of people were allowed on the plaza at any given moment, and anyone who violated the stricture found themselves shunned. Those who had lost family were given greater deference; and one group, little more than four dozen people, were quietly allowed carte blanche.

The surviving crew of the Enterprise.

Now, as Trip Tucker staggered slightly, unsteady with heat and dehydration, the plaza slowly emptied; the medical wardens stayed near the gates, and a pair of visitors from Bonn held the front of the waiting line. Only one person pressed forward.

Trying to clear his vision, Trip blinked and squinted in the abusive sunlight, and his face broke into tearful recognition. "Nathan!" he shouted out in love and desperation, as the newcomer jogged onto the plaza; and the two men met, gripping each other tightly, embracing the loss of their sister and fiancée.

The walls of the simulator buckled under the assault of heavy boots as six MACOs burst in, catching Degra in the midst of his leap. The pointed blade swept forward, scoring a path down Archer's torso, slicing his prisoner garb and ripping a bloody path from his chest bone to his abdomen, and the captain sprawled backwards, falling from his chair.

{Exit light!}

The commandos seized the Xindi by every limb, dragging him through the slumping walls of the simulator until they tossed to the deck of the launch bay, where he landed with a resounding thud. Behind them, Dr. Phlox led the charge of medics within to tend to their injured captain.

"Let me at the bastard!" Trip shouted in fury as he ran across the bay. "Let me at him!" Major Hayes motioned for the commandos to step back and clear a path for the seething commander.

{Enter night!}

Before Degra could roll over, Trip was on him, screaming obscenities from three different planets. "You murdering bastard!" he repeated, as he rolled Degra onto his back.

Wrathfully, Trip dragged the primate to his feet, hands clenched on the chest of Degra's tunic. "WHERE'S THE WEAPON?" he shouted, letting spittle fly in Degra's face. "WHERE'S THE DAMN WEAPON, YOU MURDERING BASTARD?"

{Take my hand!}

Degra sputtered a few times, fear etched across his face, but no answer came out. Snarling furiously, Trip started pushing the Xindi backwards across the open space; with the medics busy attending to the captain, and the commandos holding back, there was no one to stop him. Moments later, they reached the bulkhead, and Trip slammed Degra into it with full force.

{We're off to never-never land!}

Degra felt himself go woozy from the impact as his head crashed into the metal, and in front of him, the face of the Destroyer blurred into two, then four; it grew long, then wide, its eyes shifting colors throughout the spectrum as they spat out hatred. His terror was palpable, and he felt frozen in his boots before the onslaught. This is the end, his mind kept repeating. This is the end.{Now I lay me down to sleep.}

"You think you're going to get away with this?" Trip snarled. He brought his face close, breathing hot air into Degra's nose. "You think you're going to stop us? Your little attack left me unscathed, you putrid piece of shit!" Trip was aware little now, save the rushing blood that cloaked his hearing and turned his vision red. Somehow, it fit: this arch-murderer, this anti-life standing before him, drenched in the blood of death. The rush of blood transmuted in Trip's mind; now he could hear the hollowed screams of seven million people, destroyed on a spring day, their bodies ripped apart by the enduring fire of the Xindi.

{Now I lay me down to sleep.}

Every death is a right to hate. The mantra gave Trip the energy to live, the energy to keep going in this deadened world. "Only one of us will walk away!" Trip screamed, close enough to bite off the bastard's nose. "Only one of us!" Degra staggered against the bulkhead, his thoughts growing weary and confused. The lights dimmed, then recovered, before blinking off; for a moment, he was outside, then back inside.

"What is this, a joke to you?" Trip demanded as he slammed the Xindi against the bulkhead again. "Where is the damned weapon?" He was running out of ways to hide from the rage, but no longer cared. It thrived under his skin, gave him drive, gave him energy.

{Pray the lord my soul to keep.}

Trip yanked Degra away from the bulkhead and pushed him through a nearby hatchway into the access corridor. The primate staggered as he marched backwards; his head dangled about his neck, and his eyes rolled mercilessly, but still Tucker pressed. "Where's the weapon?" Trip demanded. "Where's the damn weapon!"

{Pray the lord my soul to keep.}

The staggering march continued down the corridor. Degra stumbled and tripped, his limbs barely functioning; only half-aware, his conscious mind was frozen into paralysis by the Destroyer's onslaught. In his panic, he couldn't even recall the weapon he was being interrogated about.

{If I die before I wake.}

At the end of the access corridor, the two foes went through a double set of doors, into the EV staging area located behind the launch bay. Tucker had his mind set on something very particular; and as they continued their awkward march, Degra dimly realized that they were approaching an airlock.

{If I die before I wake.}

"Tell me where the damned weapon is!" Trip repeated, his words snarling with their own palpable hate. "Where is it!"

No answer—no words, other than a few mewling whispers—came forth, and Trip hit the controls to open the inner airlock. No one else was with them; no one to stop him. He was going to get the information, and then he would have his rightful vengeance. That he could accomplish both simultaneously…it was a sign that his cause was just.

{Pray the lord my soul to take.}

Degra fell backwards into the airlock, and the inner hatch whooshed shut. Now, finally, his senses snapped out of their paralysis, as the realization of his impending death crashed down. He could already hear the hiss of evacuating atmosphere; the voice of the Destroyer, repeating the same question over and over, began to grow faint.

{Pray the lord my soul to take.}

"WHERE'S THE WEAPON? WHERE IS THE WEAPON?" Trip kept shouting, pounding his fists to emphasize the fury. The arch-murderer had to be suffering by now; as the atmosphere vented out, the gases inside the being's body would expand gradually. Rather than the sudden explosion associated with rapid decompression, Degra's body would undergo intense, debilitating pain as every cell expanded and pressed outwards.

Trip howled with shock as Degra's body disappeared into a transporter beam.

Ocean breezes rippled across the beach, barely disturbing granulates of the fine white sand that shed heat, almost burning the bare feet that ran and dashed and scampered across it, seeking out the coolness of the clear waters. Overhead, palm branches rustled, whispering to one another with delightful melodies; and around their trunks, floral bushes reigned, adding a hundred scents of soothing aromas to the soft air.

Trip Tucker, having carefully placed a beach blanket atop the hot sand, stared out across the water with distant gaze. Swimmers were visible, along the shoreline; and sailboats were visible, out past the breakers, but he did not see them. Instead, he was focused, perhaps abstracted, on a distant point, as though watching a spot on the far horizon which only he could see.

Ambling along the beach, undisturbed by the burning sand, was a solo Denobulan. Clad in loose-fitting gear in deference to the hundred eyes unaccustomed to alien physiques, he came to a stop near his comrade and friend. Without a word, he sat down next to Trip, burrowing his feet into the cooler layers of the sand.

Trip gave his new companion a lazy glance before spinning his head in double-take. "Phlox, what's…that?" he asked, perplexed, raising an eyebrow at the beverage in Phlox's hand.

Phlox lifted it up before him, the glassware appearing to contain a fruity slush; a grenadine red at the bottom, before rising into deep shades of pineapple yellow, with three rings of lush blue, it was topped off with a lime, a strawberry, and a miniature umbrella. "I'm not really sure," Phlox confessed, turning it about. "But it has a touch of kiwano horned melon. And a little strawberry guava."

"Ah," Trip acknowledged lightly, and the moment of levity passed away on the breeze. "I was expecting you a little sooner, Phlox."

"I got held up," Phlox replied as he took a sip of the beverage. "The reception after the funeral ran over."

A gust of wind sent a chill rippling across Trip's skin. "Oh, yeah." His voice was hollow. "I forgot about that."

Phlox casually popped the lime, rind and all, into his mouth. "I passed along your condolences," he said, chewing around the fruit.

For a long moment, neither man spoke; Trip staring into the cyan-blue waters, watching as gentle waves lapped along the shoreline, creating miniature rivulets and ridges in the powdery sand. "How many does that make?" he asked at last, shifting his gaze back to the present.

"Six." The word hung there, heavy and dismal. "Crewman Inyo makes six."

"How'd she do it?" Trip asked softly.

Phlox hesitated before answering, uncertain if he should say. "Photonic pistol to the head," he explained haltingly, hoping he was doing the right thing. It was treacherous ground, walking the path between honesty and benign falsehood. The commander was a friend…but he was also a patient.

"Have you ever tried to make sense of death, Phlox?"

Phlox nearly spit out the lime. "What do you mean, Commander?" he asked, struggling to regain his composure.

"Well…" Trip bit his lip as he sought the right words. "See…here's the thing, Phlox. When someone dies in combat, I can understand it. I don't like it…but I can understand it; it makes sense, somehow…like there's a certain balance to it, or something…do you get what I'm saying, Doc? It's like…when someone dies after a long battle with disease, it makes sense. Even Inyo and the others, they're long-term casualties of the Expanse; I can understand why they died." His thoughts disappeared for a long moment before returning. "Does that make any sense, Phlox?"

"It makes perfect sense, Commander," Phlox replied. "In those cases, you can identify a reason."

"Yeah, that's it, Doc," Trip responded with an air of relief. "Like, when Lizzie first died, I knew why; the Xindi killed her. I had something to blame it on…and that was enough for it to make sense, as long as I could blame it on the Xindi."

"But that's changed, hasn't it, Commander?"

"Yeah, Phlox." Even though the breeze was light, Trip's voice was barely audible. "In the beginning, it was easy; the Xindi killed her because they're mean, evil, hateful beings…it gave me a sense of comfort, somehow. But then we began working with them."

Phlox waited patiently.

"And you know what we discovered, Doc?" Trip picked back up a couple seconds later. "When we looked closer, it turned out that these diabolical demons were really just fragile, scared beings trying to survive as best they could…no different from us. And now I don't even blame them for Lizzie's death."

"And that's almost worse, isn't it?" Phlox prodded softly.

Trip shook his head. "It makes her death…" He paused again, fumbling for the words. "I can't blame her death on anything, Phlox, and it has left me completely lost…when someone dies like that? Here one moment, gone the next, for no discernable reason? I'll tell you, Phlox: I can't understand that. I don't know what to do know…the anger and the hatred are gone, and there's nothing left. I'm empty, Phlox; I have nothing left to draw on…the emptiness is everything, now."

"Phlox to the captain!"

The physician's voice carried across the intercom with uncommon force, bringing a quick curse to Archer's lips. He knew Phlox, and trusted the doctor; Phlox wouldn't be paging him if it wasn't crucial. Caught in the middle of a corridor, Archer jogged the handful of meters to the nearest comm panel.

{Hush little baby don't say a word!}

"Archer here! Report!" the captain replied with alacrity, falling into well-honed patterns of conciseness.

{And never mind that noise you heard!}

"Medical emergency! Please report to Commander Tucker's quarters!" The intercom beeped off before Archer had a chance to respond, but the captain was already engaged in a fast trot down the corridor, moving as rapidly as he could through the obstacle course of debris. It wouldn't do much good to twist an ankle, Archer knew. Or brain himself on a duranium beam.

{It's just the beasts under your bed.}

Trip's quarters were only a deck away, a distance that Archer could cover in under a minute. As he saw the small crowd gathered outside of Trip's doorway, he noted swiftly that he was far from the quickest responder; his mind, snapped into high alertness, quickly catalogued the waiting people, recognizing it as a mixture of a medical team and several MACO members. Phlox and Major Hayes were not present, although, and were presumably inside Trip's room.

{In your closet in your head!}

A path melted through the waiting crew, a fact which Archer was only peripherally aware of; as he entered the doorway, the world around him screeched to a halt.

{Exit light!}

Trip's quarters were an unrevised mess of battle damage; dirt and grime still hung in the air, and a solitary light fixture hung, weaving, from an exposed beam in the ceiling. In the infantile light, Archer saw Major Hayes standing to one side, his phase rifle lowered to the ground, barking orders into a hand communicator; he was preparing sickbay for the medical emergency.

{Enter night!}

Trip's body hit Archer with a blow. It was apparent that his friend wouldn't even last to sickbay; Phlox was straddled across Tucker's chest, two palms planted firmly on Trip's sternum, counting in rhythm as he applied precise pressure to Trip's heart. Tucker's head was obscured; the captain could only see the back of a medic, arched over Trip's face, pumping two-second bursts of air into his friend's starving lungs.

{Take my hand.}

Archer froze in the doorway. Oh my god, he thought frantically, his usually-strict crisis management shorting out. Even the captain could only take so much stress, and the sight of his best friend lying there not breathing and nearing death, was more than Archer could take, and he felt himself staggering backwards into the bulkhead. Oh my god, he thought again. This can't be happening. Not Trip.

{We're off to never-never land!}

The next realization shocked Archer's world into slow-motion. Trip lay sprawled on the deck, his limbs flung uselessly about him; centimeters away from Tucker's right hand was an empty fifth of Skagaran whiskey. Archer watched, helpless, as a booted foot slowly kicked the bottle away, and it rolled gradually into the unlit corners of the room; a medic knelt down by Trip's hand, and fingers flying, attached a biorhythmic pulse to Tucker's arm.

---

- Hurt -

It was an unseasonably warm spring along the Florida coastline; unusual weather patterns in the Gulf were sending warm, moist air up the Atlantic Gulf Stream. The moisture, however, had not yet reached the critical mass in which it resided throughout the summer; and the resulting conditions of warm air and low humidity were bringing visitors by the flock, eager to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime (twice, if one counted the previous year) opportunity.

Maxwell Forrest, Jonathan Archer, and Phlox barely noticed it.

Instead, the thoughts of all three men were drifting along different currents as they walked, briskly, through the cloistered plaza of the county courthouse, making their way through the loose aggregate of court workers, visitors, and various members of the public. The pace outside would not slow down, although the composition would change once the courtrooms officially opened for the day's sessions; and the fresh morning vigor boosted the steps of the three sleep-deprived men.

At the foot of the garden, moving almost in unison, they jogged up a half-flight of low stairs leading to the back entrance. Above them, with squared towers on either side, the brownstone building rose in the air; the top spires peaked at nearly a hundred feet, over five floors of lofted ceilings and flying archways.

Security at the rear was more pronounced, requiring their Starfleet credentials for the trio to gain admittance; but once inside, using the corridors normally reserved for court personnel, they were able to move briskly. A friendly check with the central clerk led the threesome to the fourth floor; and an obsequious law clerk brought them to the judge's chambers.

"Gentlemen." As the clerk made introductions, the Honorable Judge Brune rose to his feet in casual greeting. Not a large man, Brune was more Bynar than Orion in physique, but he projected an air of dignified authority. "Have a seat," he offered—ordered—gesturing to a group of chairs before his desk.

As the threesome settled in, a cup of steaming coffee appeared before each of them.

"I assume you gentlemen are here about Mr. Tucker?" the judge asked, one eyebrow raised wryly in unconscious Vulcan style. It was a largely rhetorical question; there was no other reason for three representatives of Starfleet to be in his chambers that morning.

"Yes, Your Honor," Forrest replied, his visage unusually stiff; the admiral could deal with alien diplomats, but the judge made him nervous. "The hospital indicated that there's an emergency medical hold on him."

"Indeed," Brune observed, not tipping any hand. "And why might that be?"

Damn you, Archer thought as he entered the conversation. "Your Honor, we're aware that this is the third time that Commander Tucker was brought to the emergency room—"

"The third time in two weeks, isn't it?" Brune interrupted with pointed drollness.

Archer gritted his teeth. "Yes, the third time in two weeks."

"And yet I assume you're here to challenge the medical custody?" Brune added wryly.

"Yes, Your Honor," Phlox offered, leaning forward. "You see, Commander Tucker has been through a lot—"

"He just needs some time—" Archer added, speaking simultaneously.

"We feel it would be best—" Forrest adjoined alongside his two companions.

"Gentlemen." Brune silenced all three with a tart glare. "You're not disputing that it's been three times in two weeks?"

"No, Your Honor," Forrest acknowledged unwillingly.

"And you feel an intense loyalty to your colleague," Brune conjectured, steepling his fingers in the air. "Consequently, you'd prefer to handle his situation yourselves. Keep it all 'in house,' so to speak."

Archer's instincts were blaring as he replied. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Which is exactly how it's been handled up until now," the judge went on. "And resulted in Mr. Tucker being rushed to the emergency room. Three times in two weeks."

Damn you, Archer thought again as his face began to burn.

"Gentlemen," Brune emphasized, leaning forward across his desk. "I understand your concern for your colleague, and I understand that you want to handle this yourselves…in fact, I can appreciate that sort of loyalty. It's a rare thing, and I like it." Nonetheless, he shook his head. "But here's what you must understand: my sole concern is providing necessary care for Mr. Tucker. Your loyalty—and yes, that sense of guilt written across your face, Captain—are not my concern."

Brune gestured to a data padd resting before him. "Now, I've reviewed the medical charts, and in particular, the singular opinion of every doctor who's looked at him over at County Medical," the judge went on pointedly. "It leads me to the inescapable conclusion that Mr. Tucker's case should never have degenerated so far in the first place, but the people around him brushed it under the rug and tried to handle it without involving proper medical care. And if I'm not mistaken, the three people primarily responsible for that sit right before me."

Archer shifted his weight so that he was physically sitting on his hands, forcing himself to accept the chiding censure. It stung—but the self-reprobation stung more.

"Preliminary diagnosis," Brune continued, reading off the padd. "Post-traumatic stress disorder. Acute alcohol abuse, severe depression, suicidal ideation. To tell you the truth, I'm surprised that the entire Enterprise crew hasn't been diagnosed as such."

Phlox's thoughts flashed back to Crewman Inyo's funeral.

Brune took a deep breath. "As of this time, Mr. Tucker is an imminent danger to himself, and quite possibly others. I cannot in good conscience release him, and I am granting the County Medical Director's petition for involuntary psychiatric commitment, for a period of ninety days, thereafter subject to renewal."

The three words pounded, like drumbeats, in Archer's head. Involuntary. Psychiatric. Commitment.

"Now here's what I can do for you gentlemen," Brune continued, offering a mollifying tone. "I'm ordering him into the custody of Starfleet Medical, and transferring his case to your local judge. But let me make this quite clear for you: any further attempts to avoid medical treatment in the interests of keeping this quiet will be considered criminal neglect. His care, and the medical decisions, are in the hands of his doctors; not even you, Admiral. And as for the doctors: Mr. Tucker doesn't so much as take a piss without them observing."

{I hurt myself today.}

Scarce beams of dying light fell upon the window pane, playing upon the stained yellows of discolored glass, casting only a dull, soiled glow into the room within. Smears of dirt and splatters of bestial matter added tints of amber and sepia, themselves drab and dismal, not even an echo of the decaying embers that once frolicked and romped in such light-hearted élan; and along the cracks of splintered glass, only solitary rays of mortal sheen glistened. The pale twilight, the bleakness of the coming night, bathed the room with lengthening shadow, a foretaste of the night to come.

{To see if I still feel.}

He crouched in a corner, slumped against the joining walls of withering planks; flecks of crumbling detritus falling upon him like motes of dust. Unable to move—unwilling to move—he stayed there, his body propped up, his head wedged into the crevasse; his nose tickled, but he did not move, instead slipping further away from the discomfort. His body ached; his muscles were sore, his bones in pain, but it was little more than a background rhythm, poor and insignificant against the ravages of his mind.

{I focus on the pain.}

He lifted the bottle clumsily, no longer able to control the tremors of his hand nor guide his arm in smooth dispatch. The tapered bottle hit his lower lip, and he adjusted it upward, catching it between his lips; and with a jerky movement, he tilted the bottle, sending a slug of the vile liquid into his mouth. He choked it down, doing his best to not hack the poison back up; and the fiery pain was a welcome relief as it left a trail of burning embers in his chest.

{The only thing that's real.}

He escaped into the burning conflagration of his belly, relishing in the searing flames of the pyre, the soothing embrace of a sledgehammer; it tore holes in the walls of his stomach, seeking purchase within the vulnerable blood vessels beyond, and the fire spread throughout his body, the life-giving fluid ablaze with devouring inferno. He lifted his arm, seeing the blaze leaping from his limb; and it burned through him with gusto, consuming him in furious frenzy, intent on extinguishing all that remained.

{The needle tears a hole.}

And yet, amid the excruciating relief of his torment, a certain something remained; a little detail, a solitary neuron, a pinprick amid the affliction. He tried to escape it, diving further into the agony of fire, but it hung on; clinging to him like a desperate parasite, chasing him past the river of Phlegethon and into the depths of the pit of despair. It pursued him, relentless with tenacity, the dogged refuse of a life that he could not burn away.

{The old familiar sting.}

And he dove deeper, trying to evade the growing nothingness that pursued him from behind, but his desperation was futile; from a speck of frozen darkness it grew, displacing the torrent of flames in which he sought refuge. It surged about him, extinguishing the fires that sought to fend it off, consuming all it found in the frozen winds. He pressed hard against it, but it pulled him back; his momentum slowed and stopped, and it drew him backward, enveloping him within that from which he fled.

{Try to kill it all away.}

Unbidden dreams and nightmares returned to him; ghosts of the past, and ghosts of the future, hopes and promises and despairs and failures, agonies and afflictions, the throes of torment appearing and fading away.

And there, it was, laid out before him like a drooping tapestry; the sewer of his life.

{And I remember everything.}

Cold winds tore bitterly at Phlox's jacket as he walked through the forest, jogging this way and that as he circled about the massive trees, some nearly ten meters in diameter. The lofty redwoods of Muir Forest soared over him, stretching high into the layers of fog before finally capping out; beneath the canopy, beneath the clouds of sea spray, little sunlight intruded to highlight the darkened greens and mottled browns of the littered forest floor.

It is not, Phlox supposed, the first place that he would look for the captain; in the doctor's recollection, Archer had never mentioned an interest in these ancient giants, some of which dated back to the days of Earth's Roman Empire. But a shuttle transport log had led Phlox to the forest, and Archer's communicator provided a strong beacon, guiding the doctor along winding pathways among the towering sentinels.

"Captain!" Phlox wore a tepid smile as he rounded a plus-sized trunk. The human was within two meters, and then one; and then Phlox saw him, sitting on a tangled knot of mossy roots, a remote expression on his face. "Mind if I join you, Captain?" Phlox asked carefully, stepping carefully into the human's abstraction.

"Hm?" A full beat later, Archer turned and lifted his head, the sight of the Denobulan bringing wearied relief to his face. "Oh, hey, Phlox. What brings you out here?"

"I was getting a little restless," Phlox answered, his inflection intentionally light, as he took a seat beside the human; sheltered in the lee of the tree, the earthy aroma of moss and dirt grew stronger, enveloping the two companions within its fragrant bouquet. Some things remain consistent across planets; and the scents reminded the Denobulan of his own homeworld, nearly forty-two light-years away.

"I've been thinking a lot about trees lately," Archer mused, his gaze shifting back to the broadened trunks before them.

Phlox waited a moment before responding. "Trees?" he echoed, prompting the captain to continue.

"Trees," Archer repeated.

Phlox waited another moment. "These trees?" he pressed at last, asking what he hoped to be an easy question.

"Redwoods," Archer replied, distantly; Muir Woods was famous for these behemoths. "Did you know that these trees survived the Final World War?"

Phlox knew, but only offered a non-committal hm.

"No one's been able to explain why," Archer continued. "The…tree scientists, and those people—they've never been able to explain why. This forest should've been wiped out…but here it is." He shook his head in vacant disbelief.

Phlox knew there was a metaphor coming, but couldn't quite locate it. "The natural world is full of quirks," he remarked. It was a placid and meaningless comment, but it shifted the conversation back to his companion.

"I heard something…I don't know, some years ago," Archer reflected. He stayed silent for a moment, nearly becoming lost in the recollection, before continuing. "It was…pointed out that redwoods never grow alone. You'll never find a solitary one, or even a small group. They only grow in forests."

Phlox's memory ran quickly, summoning up the sum total of his knowledge regarding these trees. "You're right," he remarked, expressing some surprise.

"You see…" Archer faltered, as if ruminating over a point, before picking back up. "The trees are so tall, and so heavy, that the wind knocks them over. In order to stay standing, they have to interlock their roots."

"Ah." Phlox nodded, as if he understood.

Archer's eyes finally lost their distant focus, shifting back to the present. "I failed him, Phlox," he said quietly. His voice cracked slightly, quivering with the pain of personal admission. "I failed him."

"You didn't fail him, Captain," Phlox replied, stepping with care into dangerous terrain. The weight of Archer's world was evident now, and Phlox found himself oddly grateful to be there, at this moment.

"Hm?" Archer's head swiveled about with apparent surprise.

"You didn't fail him, Captain," Phlox repeated, keeping his voice calm and steady.

"How can you say that, Phlox?" Archer's tone rose in ire. "The second I heard about the attack, I knew he was at risk—yet I'm the idiot who let him go with us in the first place, charging out into the Expanse! I thought I was doing him a favor, but—" he shook his head firmly. "And then I saw him break down out there, Phlox. I saw him hit bottom…and improve a bit, and hit bottom again. And yet, when we returned, I tried to protect him from medical scrutiny…what the hell was I thinking?" Archer's grief was written in painful detail across his face. "To believe that I had the answers, that I alone knew how best to help him…and it almost got him killed. And still might," the captain added, dropping to a whisper; the words were nearly lost within a gust of the breeze.

"Captain, you can't blame yourself for what's happened," Phlox replied gently.

"Can't I?" Archer's retort bit back, stinging worse than the sea spray. "It's my fault, after all."

"Captain—Jonathan." Phlox made a vague gesture to emphasize his words. "You're not responsible for things that are beyond your control, and what happened to Commander Tucker…honestly, Jonathan, it was inevitable. If not now, it would have been later—or earlier. He's dealing with stuff that only he can affect. You've been an extraordinary friend to him."

Archer's voice was drenched in acid. "What are you saying, Phlox?"

"In the end, it turns out that we can't save people from themselves," Phlox answered softly.

{What have I become?}

The darkened harbor glowed in sickly gray beneath the black-stained clouds of angered sky, roiling with mass and fury possessed of tempestuous wrath. The putrescent sultriness of fetid air sank with squalor on the rickety wooden planks of wharf and pier, forming of the malodorous effluvium of once-stagnant brine uncovered beneath frothy seas receding from the moorings; and in the distance, scarcely beyond the breakwaters, corkscrew crests of seething stew rose into the sky, merging into a single maelstrom of intemperate rage.

{My sweetest friend.}

Floating, as if his head were detached, Trip moved through the eerie barm of cadaverous glow, his vanished nerves tingling within the ghoulish pale. For within his hollow vesicle, the thunder pounded not; the crash of fuming breakers was but a distant dream. And at first, barely audible, but growing in strength, came a single whistle; pitched high, then dropping, and raising again, repeating with amplifying strength, echoing through the elegiac gloom.

{Everyone I know…}

The whistle sounded again, and again; until, as if in reply, a rheumatic hand appeared in the pale mist. And in a moment, following behind, emerged an arm, a body, and a gnarled, scrawny old man. A derelict, disfigured old wreck, an aura of dark, a figure undefined, a shadow of chasm that could not be real. His habit was grimy, a tattered attire, twice-stained in pigments of soot and coal. A heavy cowl did adorn his crown, concealing within a face blotched with time.

{Goes away in the end!}

From within the shroud of misty obscurity, a hand gradually emerged; a grizzled, shistaceous thing. In place of fingers, it bore a pentad of tentacles; each dancing and twitching in the thickening soup.

{ If I could start again…}

"Stay away!" Trip screamed, but the being paid no heed; and Trip, willing himself to move, to shift in propelling fashion, found himself arrested in space. The wretched mortality transfixed him with a glare; two eyes, glittering strongly from within the dismal shadow, swirling eddies of whorled fumes combining and shifting in drifting forgery. The glowing coals beguiled Trip with the frenzied despondency of captivating fire, rending his heart with fiery scorn.

{A million miles away…}

With desperation he fought, in quaking dread and shivering shock, as if the touch—nay, as if the mere presence—of this abomination of iniquity could condemn Trip unto its infamy. "Get away from me!" Trip exclaimed again, and exquisite horror piqued his voice; he wanted to run, to flee the piers from this depravity of this chthonianic fiend.

{I would keep myself…}

But the distant roar of hemorrhaging skies disappeared as the gentle lapping of a crick as Trip remained in place, sinking into the depth of smoke and cloud beneath the being's hood; and when it spoke, Trip clung to the words with bewitched assent, enraptured within the being's will as a young child before a flame. The ancient wreckage, antediluvian debris, held firm in vigor with the grip of burning time.

{I would find a way!}

---

- Iris -

E—b-g-b, a-f-a, d-a-d, c-a-c, b-g-b, a-f-a, d-a-d, c-a-c… b-g-b, a-f-a, d-a-d, c-a-c…

Phlox stepped lightly around the well-lit bend in the corridor, puckering his lips tightly in close approximation of the human whistle, the unnatural movements of the alien affectation straining his Denobulan musculature. The notes bounded through his mind, vibrations that lifted and sank, upward and downward, moving across the scale in melancholy and joy.

E—b-g-b, a-f-a, d-a-d, c-a-c, b-g-b, a-f-a, d-a-d, c-a-c… b-g-b, a-f-a, d-a-d, c-a-c…

Starfleet Medical, located in the heart of the adopted Presidio, was a hub of upbeat activity, as it so often was; part hospital and part research institute, the network of interconnected buildings possessed a certain brio of liveliness and vivacity, a sense of unburdened hope and promise that drew together the best medical minds of humanity together in high spirits and sprightliness. It was here, in these rooms and laboratories, that the illnesses and plagues of mankind would one day be solved; and Phlox could feel the energy coursing through his cells, adding a vivacious lilt to his step.

As Phlox strolled down the hallway, he nodded in greeting to passersby; most returned a hurried smile as they bustled past, intent on their duties, but Phlox felt no slight. A handful stopped to exchange warm words and a friendly handshake, but the felicitations were brief; the aura of buoyancy kept the staff moving about, and the Denobulan himself was not immune.

He found his way, unerringly, through the beehive passages of the inpatient facilities; with a bounding gait he cleared the stairs, eschewing the lifts for the heart-lifting exertion of physical movement. His heels clicked once as he reached the landing, and passing the nurses' station, he lightly doft his brow as if wearing a hat.

A practiced physician, Phlox maneuvered nimbly around the busy hum, still whistling with earnestness as he scanned each doorway, quickly taking in the room numbers as he passed. He knew his destination; but once, early in his career, he had entered the wrong room, and delivered bad news to the wrong patient. Now…he made sure.

"Commander Tucker!" Phlox called out warmly as he went in. The room was warm and well-lit, having been designed to maximize the occasionally-meager sunlight of San Francisco. A large window provided a view across the Presidio, out to the gray waters of the Bay; and in the distance, towering mountains indicated the far side of the Golden Gate.

Abruptly, Phlox ceased his airy whistling and looked around, a perplexed expression wrinkling the ridges of his face. Everything was in order… the machinery was running, the not-so-artificial tree that the doctor had snuck in still smelled of floral…

But the room was missing its patient.

Not that it necessarily meant anything; Phlox was not the staff doctor, and his involvement in Trip's care was only by friendly arrangement with an old colleague. There was no requirement that Phlox be notified whenever Trip was moved; but there had been no notation in the day's treatment schedule, and to his knowing, nothing was due.

Ill at ease, he left the room, assessing it one last time for any indication of an answer. Moving with purpose now, he returned to the nurses' station, waiting for a stoical moment as the duty nurse slid over to help. Phlox knew her—it was in his nature—but the pleasantries were short before he queried about his friend.

"Commander Tucker?" She wrinkled her nose as she thought. "Someone from Starfleet Security picked him up about an hour ago. The order was counter-signed by the doctor," she added, hastily, upon seeing Phlox's disquietude.

It sounded plausible, if a little unlikely; the commander was meeting regularly with security. Not irregularly, however; the meetings were normally scheduled in advance, and the attending physician usually accompanied his patient.

Phlox's brow bent and twisted as he sought the anomalous fact, the preternatural piece that would pull the puzzle together. "Can you describe the security officer?" he asked at last, centering on the unknown entity.

"Sure," she replied, scrunching her face as she thought for a moment. "Just one—middle thirties, maybe. He had a British accent. But the clearance codes were all in order."

"I'm sure they were," Phlox muttered sourly. "I'm sure they were."

T'Pol's eyes blurred, casting the world around her into unfocused shapes and colors, the shades of light and dark and the rays of candlelight, stretching out from the solitary candle to illuminate her quarters. Her body swayed slightly as she focused on the source of light; the flickering flame danced before her, and then danced within her, filling the shadows of her mind with the radiant glow of light and perception.

Her room faded out, then back in, as her eyelids fell heavy, and the steady thrum of the ship's systems merged into a rush of water, then the babble of a crick, before disappearing completely. She was only lightly dressed, and her Vulcan heritage preferred the burning heat of her homeworld, but she felt no chill; external sensation dropped away as the flame twisted and leapt before her mind's eye.

It had been a lengthy mission, and a trying one. The serenity of pure logic was becoming increasingly hard to attain amid the emotional onslaught of her fellow crew. To her knowledge, no Vulcan had ever spent a prolonged period in such tight quarters, surrounded completely by humans; even the long-serving Vulcan diplomats on the Terran homeworld had each other, and the withdrawn solitude of their walled compounds, to provide solace.

The flame grew taller, the colors slowly diffusing. The long tongue turned yellow and orange; around the base, it glowed with a brilliant blue, burning the hottest at the source and fount. Symbolically, it represented the brain stem; the pinnacle of the spine, the highest point achievable for the lower self, and the springboard into the higher recesses of the mind.

Aggravation, irritation, frustration and fury…they all slowly bled away, trickling from her with a soothing whisper, and she began to feel the equanimity of transcendence. It did not come easy these days, but if she concentrated, focused on the disciplines and exercised the powers of her mind, it was still there: the serenity of Surak, the knowledge of true logic, the heritage of all Vulcan people. She felt it grow in her mind, and she seized on it, fostering its growth and encouraging it to take root within the needy soil of her being.

The door chime sounded, but not in her ears. Instead, T'Pol heard it in her mind, where it appeared as a natural part of her tableau.

Her observational self wasted no time in analyzing the anomaly. It was not remotely a part of her standard meditation regime; she could not recall having experienced anything like it before. But she did recall, from her lessons on Vulcan, that a deep state of meditation may generate seemingly-abnormal sensations; not dreams, not hallucinations, not visions, but something more fundamental, arising from an even deeper level of her being.

Even as that self contemplated the strangeness, T'Pol was moving in her mind, imagining herself standing up and crossing her quarters. She did not know who it could be; the crew rarely visited her quarters, and it was a curious motif for her mind to use.

The door hissed open, revealing the upright, vibrant form of Commander Charles "Trip" Tucker." Of course, T'Pol reasoned. There was a part of her that was worried about him. But she had not believed it to be so deep.

"Can I come in?" the simulacrum asked. He tilted his head forward to glance around her cabin.

"Of course," T'Pol replied automatically, and she watched herself step back to allow the human entrance. She self-consciously noted the revealing cut of her skimpy sleepwear; but Trip—the real Trip—had seen her dressed this way before, during their many sessions of massage therapy.

Trip stepped forward, looking oddly stiff and uncomfortable. "Did you have a chance to look at my calculations?" he asked.

"I reviewed them thoroughly," T'Pol heard herself acknowledge. In point of fact, her statement was nearly correct; before beginning her meditation regimen, she had reviewed the engine equations that Travis had written. It was unsurprising, she decided, that her mind chose to identify the engineering work with the ship's chief engineer.

"And?" The illusion of Trip appeared hopeful, as if the equations were the key to understanding the cosmos.

"A fusion overload has never been attempted with a shuttlepod engine," the illusion of T'Pol replied.

"That doesn't mean it won't work," Trip stated.

"I agree," T'Pol answered. "Despite the risks, I believe it's our best option."

The simulacrum fidgeted, as though he felt he didn't belong. "So you're going to recommend the plan to the captain?" he asked finally, clasping his hands behind his back.

"I already have," T'Pol answered. It had been her last duty before retiring for the evening. "Was there something else, Commander?"

Trip followed Malcolm closely as the shorter man wove his way amid the milling crowds populating the central level of the Midas Docking Facility. The terminal was packed; not claustrophobically, to be sure, but the mass of beings was dense enough to inconvenience the hardy traveler and vex the inexperienced.

The facility—at one time a pearl example of human neo-futuristic design—had passed its storied prime long years before, when the first solar colonies were still une nouveau idée, the first passenger liners only beginning their lumbering odysseys across the barren gulfs separating the still-recovering Earth to fledgling colonies; the first human hegira passing through, en route to Selena and Ares and not beyond.

As the years passed by, and Starfleet emerged, bringing a sense of order and method to near-earth space, the civilian dock slowly fell on hard times; its business patrons migrated to newer, cleaner accommodations, slowly depriving Midas of badly-needed revenue for overdue maintenance and upgrades.

And now, Malcolm noted absently as he steered his ward between unwashed bodies and unvarnished aromas, drab and gray had replaced the bright and cheery colors, dirt had replaced sparkling cleanliness, and stench had replaced…well, it always stank, he acknowledged, with a frank recognition of reality. Transshipment facilities in any age were seldom known for possessing a delicate bouquet, particularly when space was at a premium.

Behind him, Trip growled softly as he was jostled from the side, but the sullen commander said little else; aside from an initial burst of relieved appreciation, his morose expression had changed little in the hours since his covert escape from the grasp of medical confinement.

The rambling mass of travelers began to thin, first slowly and then quickly, as the two men reached the aging joints linking the terminal to the second concourse. Of the six, concourses one, three, and five were quite large for their time; but two, four, and six were smaller, providing docking facilities for private yachts and the like, and it was to the fourth concourse lock that Malcolm steered them, rebounding slightly off a Tellarite bombastically proclaiming the Word of Krishna.

As the two men made their way through the concourse airlock, Malcolm's ears popped with a change in pressure. The facility was old; it lacked the precision equipment of a Starfleet ship, or even the sprawling spacedock being constructed half an orbit away. Reed barely noted the flux, but Trip's unpleasant growl indicated that the engineer had noticed.

So be it, Malcolm told himself as they entered the docking bay. You pay a price for anonymity.

Resting in the center of the bay was a slightly battered Rigelian harrier.

"This is it?" Trip asked skeptically, eyeing the decrepit craft.

"Don't worry, Commander," a third voice called out, echoing outward from within the open hatchway. "Once you take a look under the hood, you won't want to take anything else."

Trip's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Who's there?" he demanded.

A young man, wearing civilian clothing, stepped down the gangway. "I'm your pilot," Travis Mayweather replied, grinning. "It's good to see you, Commander."

{And I'd give up forever to touch you.}

"Was there something else, Commander?" T'Pol asked, looking at Trip with unabashed curiosity. He recognized the look, though not nearly on this scale; the Vulcan woman often had a gleam of curiosity, but she routinely masked it beneath the deep, brown waters of her eyes.

{Cause I know that you feel me somehow.}

Trip watched himself fidget again, and wondered if he had always felt that uncomfortable in her quarters. The massage sessions did wonders for his body and mind, forcing him to relax in ways unimagined; but there had been some core element that was unwilling to surrender. He wondered, perhaps this is it?

{You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be…}

"You and I—you and Trip used to spend a lot of time here," he said at last. "Together." Everything about her quarters seemed familiar: the candlelit radiance, glowing on the geometric tapestries that decorated the walls. The soft aromas, one of which reminded him bizarrely of pumpernickel. The warm body of the Vulcan woman at the center of it all…no, he admitted. The warmth of T'Pol's mind was more engaging than even her raw physical attractiveness.

{And I don't want to go home right now.}

"I was instructing him in the practice of Vulcan massage therapy," the simulacrum of T'Pol said flatly, revealing no hint of added meaning behind her words. Her face fell passive; even her eyes glazed over, protecting the privacy within.

{And all I can taste is this moment.}

Nonetheless, Trip thought he sensed something, and he focused on it, allowing the tickle to grow in his own mind. During their sessions, he had sometimes caught a glimpse; a stray perception, a feeling, a thought, but now it filled his head. T'Pol's form revealed nothing, but he knew her mind, on a level deeper than emotion or thought.

{And all I can breathe is your life.}

"I remember," Trip's form said carefully. He watched himself closely, wondering how he would react to this development. "We were lying right there," his form added, pointing to the deck. "We were talking about the warp engines. How I was hoping to modify them."

Trip felt a surge of sensation wash over him as T'Pol reacted to the words. "How Commander Tucker was hoping to modify them," she replied. The curtness in her words blended with the unease in her mind, and Trip found himself distracted momentarily by that relationship.

{And sooner or later it's over…}

"Right, Commander Tucker," his simulacrum answered. Trip's form had responded by straightening up, tightening his shoulders and his stance, as if he had taken offense.

It is odd, Trip thought, as he knew that T'Pol had intended no such thing, but his form did not relax. The simulacrum grew still, frozen in the warm room.

{I just don't want to miss you tonight.}

With trepidation—he could not begin to understand what was taking place—Trip felt himself float into the scene, coalescing behind his form. He did not understand, but he knew what to do; he stepped forward, merging into the simulacrum until he grew to inhabit it.

It was the strangest thing he had ever experienced.

{I just want you to know who I am.}
"You know," he said, "I—he—was really starting to enjoy those sessions with you."

"They were helping him sleep," T'Pol replied blandly.

"I'm not sure that's the only reason," Trip answered cautiously.

"Damnit, Jon!" Forrest's face was nearly purple with rage—or a nice aubergine, Archer thought, clinically—as the admiral's ire spiraled upward, stewing beyond the top of his balding head. Always a fiery man, Maxwell Forrest had long since mastered the fine line of channeling his wrath; the combination made him singularly effective at navigating the clashing demands of the UEP, the Prime Minister's office, the Vulcans, the other alien embassies…

And it normally served to keep his own people in line.

"Damnit, Jon!" Forrest bellowed again, struggling to find other words amid the tempest of his anger. "I understand what your people—no, I take that back!" Archer strove mightily to not flinch in the face of his superior's spittle. "I don't understand what your people have been through, because quite honestly, I can't imagine what they've been through! But I can't have your crew running around rampant, doing whatever the flying fuck they feel like! I've tolerated quite a bit, Jonathan, but I'm sick and tired of cleaning up after their insanity! Bailing them out of jail, hauling them out of hospitals—and stopping you from assaulting the goddamned Vulcan ambassador! What the hell is next? Do I have to court-martial the entire heroic crew of the fucking Enterprise? What kind of rat's-ass asylum is it? Damnit, Jonathan, what the hell do you expect me to do? I have fucking reporters hounding every goddamned little thing, fucking parliamentarians who want to cut our funding, and I have a thousand other officers who actually do their goddamned fucking job! I should throw you all in the damned brig, and be done with it!" Forrest roared savagely, punctuating the final words with a lashing kick, sending his desk chair flying across the office.

Archer flinched involuntarily as the chair bounced off the floor-to-ceiling transparent aluminum windows. After a moment he spoke up, prodding gingerly. "May I make a suggestion, sir?" he asked cautiously.

Forrest's glare sent piercing daggers of flame through the captain's eyes. "Make it good."

Archer's spine chilled suddenly as he realized that he was placing his career on the line. "Let us go after him," he replied carefully, keeping his tone friendly and even. Only once, several years earlier, had he seen Forrest this furious; the officer on the receiving end had been intelligent enough to die before facing the admiral. "I think…if he does what he's going to do…he'll return voluntarily."

"I don't care if Commander Tucker returns voluntarily!" Forrest barked reflexively, his acrimonious pique beginning to subside. He leaned over the desk, catching his weight on his hands. "I suppose you know what his destination is?" the admiral queried, voicing more exasperation than fury.

"We…have an idea," Phlox answered circumspectly, speaking for the first time. The resulting glare punctured the Denobulan's resolve. "I'm fairly certain that he's heading to Vulcan…he thinks that reuniting with Sub-Commander T'Pol will heal him."

"I'd rather try a fistful of thorazine," Forrest growled, before giving a sigh. "I could simply send a platoon of security officers after him."

"You could, Admiral," Phlox replied, solicitous with his wording. "But that wouldn't help with the commander's medical…situation."

Forrest sighed again. "I'll sign the two of you out for a high-warp shuttle," he answered, his tone resigned as he picked up a data padd. "It looks like the Portland is ready for departure; I'll clear you with Vulcan Orbital Command. Don't get too eager," he added with a glare. "I'm dispatching the Monmouth from the 82 Eridani system. You'll arrive about a day ahead." The Intrepid-2.4 class Monmouth had roughly half the speed of the Portland. "I'm not giving you any more time than that."

{And I don't want the world to see me.}

What does he mean by that?

For several minutes now, T'Pol had experienced the oddest sense of knowing. The form of Trip had grown wooden, two-dimensional; but simultaneously, she had come to sense a depth of being that could only be coming from one place.

Now, that being compelled her, drew her forward. A part of her experienced pure confusion; but another part knew with certainty.

{Cause I don't think that they'd understand.}

She stepped into her form. "What do you mean?" she asked. Now, when she looked at Trip, she could see every strata of his being; not just the physical surface, but the depths of his existence, extending far deeper and broader than he could hope to realize.

"Was there ever anything between us?" Trip asked, the pretense of duality disappearing.

"If you're referring to a romantic relationship…" T'Pol chose her words with care. "There hasn't been, no."

{When everything's made to be broken…}

Trip stepped closer, exhibiting an uncanny sense of ease. "The reason I ask is…well, I can barely admit it to myself, but you're all that I think about. And I'm not talking about an adolescent crush. This is much more serious…it's like you're in the very foundation of my thoughts. Your presence is always there…sometimes stronger, sometimes weaker, but always there."

{I just want you to know who I am.}

T'Pol stepped in, a breath away.

"Anyway," Trip continued, "what's driving me crazy is…I don't know what these feelings are."

"I can't answer that," T'Pol said softly. She stood eyelevel to his chest, gazing up at him.

"I just thought I should tell you this," Trip said, looking down. "In case I never have the chance."

{I just want you to know who I am.}

Trip poked his head cautiously into T'Pol's quarters. It felt like a lifetime since he had been here last; a coma will do that to you, he thought sardonically. But it looked the same, felt the same, as it always has. The same collection of candles, aromas, and un-Vulcan softness beckoned, luring in his aching muscles and his weary mind.

"What with Phlox's medical rehabilitation, I've been looking forward to this all day," he commented, his smile slightly crooked, as he entered her room. "I think he's getting a little carried away with it."

"Sit down," T'Pol replied primly, pointing to a pad on the floor.

Trip did as he was told, and he felt the firm pressure of her fingertips rest on the sides of his neck. A little motion, and he began to feel the strain drain away; her touch felt oddly…charged, somehow, but it was invigorating. He tried to rotate his head, but she held it firm.

"You aren't saying much tonight," he observed. He let his eyes drift closed, and inhaled the soft aromas. They played on his senses, encouraging rigid muscles to relax and unclench, rigid knots to unfurl, and easing his thoughts from the frenetic pace of engineering to something more conducive to meditation.

"There is not much to say," T'Pol answered. Confused, Trip began to turn his head to face her; but two lithe hands gripped either side of his jaw and pointed him forward. "This will be more productive if you maintain the recommended position."

Her hands shifted again. One found purchase on his left shoulder, near the base of his neck; the other fell to his lower back. Working together, they straightened his posture, applying unyielding pressure as needed. He could hear his abused back muscles crackle and pop as they eased back to a natural position, easing the strain and reducing the load.

Trip closed his eyes, and his thoughts began to drift. The warmth, the soft aromas, the firm touch all helped his mind ease, and he focused on the wave of physical sensation sweeping through his body. "You are being quiet tonight," he murmured. "Almost like you have something awkward to tell me."

{And you can't fight the tears that ain't coming.}

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she retorted.

"Oh, you know how it is," Trip replied. "Like…when someone's about to die, and you don't want to tell them. Or you have a crush on someone, and can't get it out."

T'Pol's fingers became instantly cold, causing Trip's back to arch. "You're implying that I'm attracted to you?"

{Or the moment of the truth in your lies.}

"No, you're inferring that," Trip replied, grinning through the shock of frozen fingers.

"I think you're mistaken about who's attracted to whom," T'Pol retorted.

What the hell? Trip spun around to face the Vulcan. "Are you saying that I'm attracted to you?"

"I believe you inferred that." In a bit of a fit, T'Pol rose to her feet.

Trip looked up at her. "Are we really having conversation?" he asked, feeling a little dazed.

{When everything feels like the movies…}

"We don't need to," T'Pol answered. Her eyes burned with a surprising degree of fire. "We already have."

Trip rose to his feet as well, and looked slightly down at the shorter Vulcan. His mind was reeling with confusion. "I don't remember that conversation."

"It wasn't you," T'Pol replied with a snort. She refused to back away.

"Okay, I'm lost," Trip admitted. He started to place his hands on T'Pol's arms, but her tempestuous look convinced him otherwise. "What's going on here, T'Pol?"

{Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive.}

Hoshi felt an unexpected lightness in her step as she strolled down the corridors of Earth's embassy in Shi'Kahr. It felt good to be home; at least, the relative familiarity of the climate-controlled complex. With walls veneered in light-colored sandstone and dimmed, recessed full-spectrum lighting, the inner arboretum soothed eyes unaccustomed to the blinding glare of 40 Eridani A; water gardens abounded, feeding natural moss and ferns, providing welcome coolness in the otherwise-oppressive aridity of the Vulcan homeworld.

On second thought, Hoshi realized, this is nothing like home. A stylized version of Earth, perhaps; but little like the polished asepticism of Starfleet Command.

"Ensign Hoshi Sato." The computerized voice of the overhead comm system broke into Hoshi's brief reverie, but the young woman paused for a moment, taking time to ease out of her peaceful cogitation; the warm, feminine voice indicated that the hail was not an emergency. "Ensign Hoshi Sato, you have an incoming transmission."

Hoshi rolled her head backward, stretching her neck one last time, the floral aromas easing nerves long since fried by a year in hell. She was, she had to admit, a little curious; not many people knew where she was. It wasn't impossible to track her down…but that would require more effort than a simple salutary greeting.

The garden was deceptively small; she emerged, a few short paces later, in the exterior pathway. Every ten paces or so, within insulated cubbyholes embedded in the sandstone walls, was a comm panel; and finding one that was unoccupied, Hoshi punched in her access codes and opened the link.

"Captain!" she exclaimed, straightening unconsciously into formal stance. One part of her mind rushed into overdrive, berating Hoshi for her casual appearance; the other part was caught, flatfooted, with surprise.

"Hoshi. It's good to see you." Jonathan Archer's face was itself split in contradictory moods; joyfulness, and perhaps relief, warring with the bone-weary expression of worldly ordeal.

"Yes, sir," Hoshi added, half-consciously, as trained instincts belatedly kicked into motion. "What can I do for you, sir?"

"Just to verify, Ensign, you are on Vulcan, right?"

"Yes, sir," Hoshi replied, wondering why it was so important. "I'm at the embassy in Shi'Kahr. I haven't been cleared to return to active duty, although," she rushed to add, suspecting that it might make a difference.

"I…know," Archer said slowly. "I may have neglected to mention that to Admiral Forrest."

Hoshi nodded as if she understood. "I'm sure I can handle whatever you need, Captain."

"I know you can, Hoshi," Archer replied, dour-faced. "Commander Tucker is racing to Vulcan. When he arrives…I need you to arrest him."

"You came to me," she said unwillingly. "During my meditation."

"I what?" Trip's brow furrowed, then shot straight with cold realization. "Shit…that was real?" The crash of cymbals rang in his head, and he suddenly felt weak.

{And I don't want the world to see me.}

"You told me…that you have feelings for me." T'Pol wasn't mad or angry; instead, she took a half-step closer to the engineer, wavering slightly as she moved. It was unnatural for a Vulcan, but she, too, was confused.

{'Cause I don't think that they'd understand.}

"I can't believe this." The shock still paralyzed Trip, freezing him in place. He should be embarrassed, humiliated; hell, he was embarrassed and humiliated, but he would have expected coldness. Instead, T'Pol was close enough for him to feel the heat coming from her body.

"Believe it," T'Pol replied. "We were both there; we both know what you said."

{When everything's made to be broken…}

"Maybe I wasn't thinking straight," Trip said, fumbling a bit. "I was in a coma, after all. It's like a dream, right? It doesn't mean much of anything!" He couldn't deny that he was excited by her proximity, and it threw him badly from his figurative feet.

{I just want you to know who I am.}

"I, however, was not," T'Pol retorted. "I was meditating. You intruded."

"T'Pol, I, ah…" Trip finally admitted the obvious. "I have no idea what this means."

{I just want you to know who I am.}

"It means that we have formed a telepathic connection." T'Pol moved the final half-step closer, and placed her hands on Trip's chest. "It is something Vulcans do prior to mating."

Trip was speechless, but it didn't stop him. Gently, he wrapped his arms around the petite woman, and guided her to her bed.

{I just want you to know who I am.}

Trip sometimes wondered if Vulcans even understood Vulcans.

Once, as a child, Trip had visited an old-style nursing home. It was laid out, block and ward, block and ward, with unwavering logic; an exercise in cold-hearted purpose, designed along strict mathematical considerations to secure the greatest number of patients with the smallest possible staff.

He had expected the same of Vulcan architecture.

Instead, the network of buildings that coalesced into the convalescent compound arose from the desert rock with the smooth-flowing lines of a bird taking flight.

Neither had it been hard to find the complex. One day, Trip would have to ask Malcolm just how the armory officer had managed to hack the Vulcan medical registry, but for now, the engineer accepted it on grace; and it scarcely took a pilot as skilled as Travis to navigate a planetary surface.

The hard part, Trip acknowledged, was finding the courage to follow through.

With Malcolm and Travis still held for questioning at the embassy, it had fallen to Hoshi—Trip's putative legal custodian—to arrange the short flight into the desert, but she astutely remained at the front desk; allowing him—forcing him—to do this on his own.

Sucking in his breath, Trip pushed the chime panel beside the door.

Shifting his weight from foot to foot, then forcing himself still, Trip folded his arms across his chest; but that was too severe, so he lowered them. Becoming acutely aware of how ridiculous he looked with his hands dangling at his sides, Trip shifted him into his front pockets; but that gave him a forward stoop, so he used his back pockets. Then, realizing that his hair was tousled, he lifted a hand to comb it straight before noticing an unbelievable itch in his nose.

Remarkably enough, when the door hissed open a moment later, he didn't look like a fumbling idiot; but he sounded like one.

The sight of the delicate Vulcan woman froze Trip's mind with incoherence, as if doing somersaults on ice. She looked like he remembered, but a little frailer, perhaps; always petite, she now appeared slightly shrunken. Lines appeared on her face, with all-too-human bags under each eye; and her gaze was spacey, as if unfocused and uncertain.

And yet her beauty bedazzled him, stunning Trip with alluring grace and sublimity.

"Hi, T'Pol," he croaked, realizing that he must say something, but no other words came to mind.

T'Pol responded slowly, as if unsure whether the image before her was hallucination or corporeal. "Commander Tucker?" she replied softly, shocked into stillbound dumbness. "What—what are you doing here?"

---

- Bittersweet Symphony -

Well I never pray
But tonight I'm on my knees yeah

T'Pol closed her eyes for a moment, trying to clear her mind of thoughts unclear and amplified; the mental fog of a hundred dead dreams clouding her senses and benumbing her awareness.

"Commander Tucker," she replied softly, shocked into stillbound dumbness. "What—what are you doing here?"

Before her, the human groped about for words, as if suddenly unsure of himself. "I—I came to see you," you managed to say, his voice cracking with uncertainty.

Why? The single thought intruded deeply, searing its way through the fractures of T'Pol's perception, burning upon the claustrophobic scars buried within the severed chords. She felt small, almost insignificant, before him; a shell, naked within and without. "Why don't you come in," she croaked out.

Trip entered her room slowly, looking about at the austere beige and tan. "So…how long have you been here?" he asked stupidly, his own prepared script having vanished before him.

T'Pol forced herself to concentrate, pouring tattered and torn focus through her mind's eye; the man before her offered a respite, an anchor within the churning storm. "The question is imprecise," she answered on momentary lag, the instinctive response slowly slithering its way to her tongue.

Trip's face was opaque to her. "I, uh, thought I'd take a vacation," he answered.

"A vacation…to Vulcan?" There had been a time when, like true Vulcans, T'Pol had been quite skilled at reading humanoid faces. But now, as she stared into his eyes, all she saw was the two-dimensional reflection of herself.

"Yeah," Trip stated, gaining a little strength in affirmation. "Problem is, I'm not sure where to go."

The words slipped out. "There's a guest room in my mother's house."

Trip's face stiffened perceptibly. It was a step further than he had expected. "Oh, your mom's house, huh?" he queried, making noise while he pulled errant thoughts together. "What does she know about me? About…us?"

Again, the response came on its own. "I've never mentioned you."

I need to hear some sounds
That recognize the pain in me, yeah

Mother Vulcan.

The desert seared with punishing grace, scorching the jagged wastelands of ferric rock with the sterilizing blaze of devouring wind. Isolated patches of life, little more than hermitary twigs and barren moss clinging, forlornly, to the unforgiving surface, ignited in the cauterizing heat; sirocco winds of swirling ember and grit scoured the bedrock, tearing away crystalline sediment one microscopic layer at a time.

Tangerine and amber skies disappeared overhead, lost behind the blinding whirlwinds of fine-grained dust that shifted the troposphere with dizzying swirls of amaranthine lava and burnt mahogany, sketching a masterpiece of incinerating flame which few virtuosos of impressionism could hope to approximate; the brutality of a shattered wasteland, the kiln of nuclear conflagration, a testament to the scorching might of incendiary destruction.

From serrated promontories and shattered mesas, the barrens staggered high and plummeted low, split apart by staggered ravines jutting chasms; rivers of molten rock and primeval lava writhed their way through the fiery depths, spending countless eons to repair the damage wrought by a handful of generations. Within the contrails of heat that rose, viper-like, from the liquidified rock, even the hardiest of biomass instantly combusted.

But down in these fissures, sheltered from the scorching winds that leapt across the gaps overhead, a different sort of thing clung to existence; maybe not life, perhaps, but the memory of life, the remembrance of the beings that once inhabited these fiery arroyos, making their way along the rivers of fire and across carefully-navigated portages of bedrock. Their purpose, their rationale, for choosing an existence within these infernal reaches was a secret of history, confounding any attempt at understanding; all that was known of them were the great statues left behind.

Reaching twice or three times the height of a person, the ranks of giants claimed the known and the unknown; the imposing features of Akraana and Khosarr, the feminine and masculine aspects of war, side-by-side with mystifying beings bearing the appearance of the xirahnah, the legendary silver birds of Vulcans. For every depiction of Tyr-al-tep was one of Kal-ap-ton; and holding a massive ahn'vahr sword was Glan-famu, baring its teeth at the world. Cast in polished obsidian, it reflected the pyroclastic glow, adding another layer to the fiery Valley of Gehenna.

"What about that volcano we saw on the way over?" Trip asked finally, uncomfortable in the prolonged silence. T'Pol had spoken barely a word to him, even as uncounted hours elapsed, even as they flew deep into the barrens without a word spoken in explanation. "Mount Tar'ana?" he added, tongue and lips struggling to form the alien word.

T'Pol sighed, loudly, as if it were an imposition to respond. "Tar'hana," she corrected him, without looking at her companion; her eyes were opened wide to the lava pits, with reds, yellows, and oranges swimming in the blackened depths. They sat near the top of the ravine, gazing down upon the broiling currents of molten magma, isolated between the burning heat below and the scorching wind above.

Taking his time, Trip lifted a waterskin to his mouth, allowing the chilled water to settle upon his parched tongue and run down his starving throat; the Valley was brutal, even upon the native Vulcans, and only the medicine-laced water lifted from the transport shuttle allowed him to fend off the grueling elements. "Is it still active?" he asked, returning to the volcano.

"There are frequent eruptions," T'Pol replied, noncommittally, as if without thought. "We can schedule a tour of the crater, if you're interested."

It was more than he'd gotten all day; from the moment of greeting her, in the doorway of the convalescent home, to their unexpected flight across Vulcan, T'Pol had only spoken twice. "Volcanoes, ancient ruins, fire plains," Trip remarked, rapidly exhausting his new-found knowledge of the planet. "I'm not sure where to start…so, this is where you grew up? It's not like I imagined."

T'Pol tilted her head slightly, shifting the human into her field of vision. "Meaning?"

Trip shrugged casually as his mind backpedaled furiously. "Well, it's beautiful," he replied, stumbling a bit.

"And what were you expecting?" T'Pol's feigned calmness couldn't quite conceal the bite in her words.

"I was expecting…I don't know. Right angles. Utilitarianism, not abstracts."

"Like a machine?"

"That's not what I mean," Trip answered, somewhat miserably. "I just…didn't expect so much intentional beauty."

T'Pol shot a dagger from the corner of her eye. "Vulcans appreciate beauty, Commander."

"Don't get me wrong here, but…" Trip fumbled again. "Isn't beauty about triggering an emotional response?"

"It is more complicated than that," T'Pol replied archly.

What about this world isn't? "So explain it to me."

"You wouldn't understand."

"Why?" Trip sought to quell is swelling temper. "Because I'm only human?"

"No," T'Pol answered peacefully. "Because you're not Vulcan. One must understand the context…and no non-Vulcan can."

Trip flared again. "And why is that?" he demanded, his ire growing at the perceived slight.

"You have not been through what we have been through," T'Pol replied. "You must walk the path of Vulcan…if you have not, then any effort to understand the Vulcan Way will ultimately fail."

"T'Pol, do you actually understand what you're talking about, or are you simply repeating something you've heard?" Trip rejoined, feeling better as he released a surge of passion. "This sounds more like rote repetition to me."

"I have stumbled along the path," T'Pol acknowledged quietly.

"So that's why we came out here?" Trip pressed, shaking his head as he spoke. "So you could find your way again? Why did you drag me along then?"

T'Pol took a lengthy moment of silence. "There's something I need to tell you," she admitted, slowly and hesitantly.

Trip felt the cold breeze, but his ire kept him hot. "Then just tell me!"

"It's about Koss," T'Pol answered unwillingly.

The breeze got colder. "Your ex-fiancée?"

"No," T'Pol replied. "He is still my betrothed. And…we are marrying. Soon."

"Wait." Peeved anger boiled to the surface. "You told me—three years ago—that you don't even love him!"

T'Pol raised both eyebrows in mock surprise. "It is the Vulcan Way."

But the airways are clean
And there's nobody singing to me now

Trip sat down heavily on the rocky incline, sending miniature landslips of rock and pebble scurrying down the reddened slope, some stopping in their tracks, others dislodging additional material before slowing to a halt; moments later, the movement had once again stilled, restoring a sense of immutability to the undulating vista.

The words were somehow difficult to say, and Trip launched in without preamble, denying himself the opportunity to back out. "Captain," he said, addressing the man sitting beside him. "I wanted to…to thank you."

Archer harrumphed acerbically. "You mean, for not throwing you in manacles?" The captain was gazing, distantly, into the landscape; his voice carried a bite, but his eyes carried a yearning, as if dreaming of a far-receding place and time.

"Well…" Trip floundered a bit, but pressed ahead. "Well, yeah. I mean, I know you didn't have to…do the things you've done, you know, sending Hoshi, coming here yourself…" he stumbled on through half-formed thoughts. "I know you went out a limb for me, Captain," he concluded, quietly.

"Hm."

It was not the response that Trip expected; granted, he didn't know exactly what he expected, but…the non-committal grunt was not it. "Is something going on, Captain?" Trip asked, consciously suppressing the urge to raise an eyebrow.

Archer nodded, slowly. "Have you read the latest news from home?" he asked, expectantly, though knowing what the answer would be.

"No, I haven't," Trip admitted. Little, beyond his own affairs, had been on his mind.

"Admiral Forrest went on the record the other day," Archer answered with distressing solemnity. "He said he believes that one day, quote, humanity and the Xindi may become friends."

"Good God," Trip whispered involuntarily. "He's getting crucified, isn't he?"

"One network is already calling for the admiral's impeachment," Archer replied, nodding affirmatively. "I'll give you three guesses as to which one," he added with caustic bile; both men knew, without having to think, which network it was.

And that was, perhaps, the saddest thing of all.

It was then that Trip noticed the small metallic coin cupped in Archer's hand. "Is that…"

Archer held the object up, in the slowly-dying light of Nevasa. "It's the Xindi family badge," he confirmed. "The one from Daniels."

"From five hundred years in the future," Trip whispered gingerly. "From a Xindi officer of Starfleet."

I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
You know the one that takes you to the places
where all things meet yeah

Trip suddenly realized that he knew very little about Vulcan weddings.

The attendants, less than a dozen, were gathered below in the mouth of the stone grotto, standing in nearly inert repose as they wanted, silently, for the ceremony to begin. Clad in unusual fashion, as if the stilted representation of a long-gone style, the human eye could only guess at the role of each; the Temple Priest, the ceremonial guards, and the others, each adorned in varying displays of silver fabric.

The grotto itself was more a depression carved into the side of a bluff than a true cave, as if a depth of rock had once fallen away from the otherwise-unbroken line of the rocky crag. Roughly even, extending some ten meters across and ten deep, it ended with a hollow concavity cut into the rock like a den; within there, Trip supposed, the wedding itself would take place. It took little insight to conclude that the small inset had been hewn and shaped over many centuries, amplifying the acoustics for those in the larger depression; but those standing around the top lip, visitors like Trip, would not hear a word spoken from below.

But it was a good view, Trip admitted in private solitude. Sanding near the rim, like a handful of other onlookers spread about the circumference, he could see the entire grotto laid out below. And from here, he now watched as T'Pol crossed the threshold of the depression; she was clad like the others, wearing a thigh-high dress made of silver sheen. Her hair was pulled up, deftly woven with an artificial hairpiece that sat atop her head, vaguely similar to the beehive 'do which had briefly resurfaced on Earth only a decade earlier.

No change, I can't change
I can't change, I can't change

With her mother in attendance, a step behind and to the right, T'Pol stepped through the ranks of ceremonial guards; their lower faces hidden behind blackened masks, the guards were broad-chested and rippled, muscles exposed in the dwindling twilight of Nevasa and the rising flickers of torch flames. And their duty was not solely ceremonial: even now, one looked upward, training a pointed glare of warning at Commander Tucker. Our blades are real, it warned him, referring to the full-size weapon each one carried.

And towards the front—this, at least, was familiar to human eyes—the groom stood by the Temple Priest, awaiting the dignified arrival of his betrothed. On either side stood an apprentice who hammered solemnly on an inverted drum, keeping beat with the footfalls of the bride. And here T'Pol approached, without waving, until she stood before Koss; the drums fell silent.

Trip watched, motionless despite the overwhelming desperation stabbing painfully within, as the newlyweds-to-be each raised a hand, extended two fingers, and touched one another, forming a psychic bond. It was painful, it was gut-wrenching, it was brutality incarnate for Trip as he watched the woman of his dreams, the woman of his salvation, say the unheard words of her marital vow, wedding herself to another man for all time. And yet, Trip could not look away; his feet rooted, his body rigidly still, he awaited the final crushing blow of his shattered spirit.

And it didn't come.

This can't be right, Trip told himself, running a mental checklist of his afflictions; his hopes and dreams were crashing before him, his lifeline fracturing in mutilating ruination. The world, as he knew it, was ending, the love of his life marrying another; she-who-would-save-him, and she-who-was-leaving.

He waited for the pain, but it didn't materialize.

Slowly, Trip's senses noted the presence of another being, this one coming up beside him. "What's going on, Doc?" Trip whispered. "I…I don't feel right."

Phlox spoke just as softly. "How do you feel, Commander?" Phlox asked.

"I feel…nothing." Trip exhaled deeply, digging down within, searching into the depths for some sign, any sign. "I feel nothing." It consumed him, swelling up from the lowest fathoms, washing over him the stunning weight of hollowness. "Is this it, Phlox?"

"You're thinking too hard, Commander," Phlox replied quietly, his voice drifting outward on the breeze.

"I don't—I don't—" Trip stumbled over his thoughts, but he clenched his fists and let go.

And it hit up, a sucker punch hard in the belly: relief.

"That can't be right," Trip whispered, confused. "This can't be right, Phlox." But there it was, pouring over him like a gushing river in the desert, washing away the weighty lugubriosity of his despair.

Phlox smiled faintly, waiting for Trip to continue.

"I feel relief, Doc," Trip went on; his eyes continued to watch the ceremony below, but it was little more than a distant haze. "How can I feel relief when T'Pol is marrying someone else?"

Phlox shrugged lightly. "Perhaps it was never about her, Commander."

"What—what do you mean, Doc?"

Phlox shrugged again. "She's out of the picture, now…you can focus on yourself."

Trip's words were barely audible. "It's been about me all along, hasn't it, Doc?" The river pounded against him, throbbing mightily as it washed away the lingering ghosts and spiderwebs, the surge roaring in his ears as the barren truth lay unveiled before him; spread out, as a tapestry on the ground, he saw his life unfolding. Birth and childhood and adolescence; the misfit teenager becoming the hotshot engineer, but the clouds nonetheless always remained. And through it all was one constant: him. "It's been me all along."

No change, I can't change
I can't change, I can't change

Phlox kept his joy under careful wraps. "And now we can begin."

"Begin what, Phlox?" Trip's response was slightly acerbic. "How do I go forward from here?"

"You live, Commander."

"I'm not sure that I can, Doc…I don't have the strength to deal with it anymore."

Abruptly, Phlox shook his head, expressing a powerful sense of contrary conviction. "Commander—Trip," he emphasized, "This is life. Yes, there's blood and gore alongside the beauty and glory; good things that go bad, bad things that go good, and a thousand mysteries every day that we can't even hope to explain…but you have to embrace the pain. It's a part of this bittersweet experience that we call life…and the critical fact, Trip, is that we are alive, and you owe it to yourself to live."

A rhythmic chant began to sound below, but Trip did not notice it. "I don't understand."

Phlox barked sharply with Denobulan laughter. "Let me tell you a story," he replied, smiling widely in bemusement. "Some years ago—decades, actually—a well-known Denobulan monk was asked by an alien journalist if Denobulans believe in a god. He said: 'That's a fascinating intellectual question, and someday, I might be able to answer it. But here's the reality: here and today, I have my hands full trying to ease the suffering of the living. I can't abandon them and waste my own life trying to answer a question that is, by definition, beyond our determination.'"

Trip's face scrunched in confusion.

"Do you see, Commander? There's no shortage of people who are alive and who need our care and attention. Why did your sister die? Honestly, I don't have a clue. But what I do know is this: my duty is to the living, not the deceased. Don't you get it? It doesn't matter why you're alive, when someone else isn't. All that matters is that you are. And because you are…you have an obligation to pass it along."

"And if I don't?" Trip asked quietly.

"Here's the other part of reality." Phlox allowed his voice to drop again. "If you keep dwelling on death, instead of life, you'll end up right back in that hospital bed."

But here in my mold
I'm a million different people
from one day to the next

A thousand conflicting thoughts swirled through Trip's head, colliding with a thousand abstract feelings, each one clashing with the next. Dissonance and discord, disharmony and dispute, each fighting for momentary supremacy over his abused thoughts; but rather than organizing them, he let them go, releasing the melee from his mind.

He didn't know how, but it made sense.

"What about her?" He gestured to his one-time paramour, who was now partaking in the ritual drink with her husband-to-be.

"T'Pol?" Phlox lifted a solitary brow in approximation of the Vulcan pantomime.

"Yeah. She's been through a lot, Phlox…and now she's being forced to marry someone she doesn't love."

"Is she?" Phlox snorted lightly. "Or are you disregarding her decisions because they seem irrational to you? She's not human, after all."

"Damn Vulcans," Trip replied, grimacing wryly. He sucked in a breath of hot air and exhaled, releasing it slowly. "You really think she'll be okay?"

"I think…she's where she needs to be."

"Ah." Not understanding for a moment, Trip let this confusion, too, pass into the breeze. "Let's head out, Phlox," he suggested. The wedding ceremony was wrapping up; T'Pol and Koss were interlocking fingers, in the Vulcan equivalent of kissing the bride, as Trip turned away. For the first time, looking up the shallow incline behind him, he saw four forms standing back. "How long have they been here?" Trip asked, whispering again.

Phlox smiled widely. "The entire time."

Trip nodded, a warm smile on his own face as he crossed the gap.

Archer was the first to greet him, and then Malcolm and Travis, and finally Hoshi, his putative warden; manly backslaps and less-manly teary eyes welcomed the prodigal engineer into the warm embrace of his family.

Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life!

Years later, in the twilight of his days, gazing back upon a career and life that seemed more legend than fact, Charles "Trip" Tucker would identify one particular moment—one key event—as being Starfleet's finest hour; the turning point, the fork in the figurative road, the juncture where all the veins met and the soul of Starfleet crystallized

The flight back to earth was surprisingly short—nearly four days, but the excitement and joy made it pass quickly, even as they flew back into the crucible of Earth. On the homeworld, controversy reigned; angry dissension and fiery arguments, extreme accusations thrown back and forth, leadership embroiled in petty squabbling as the streets were embroiled in cold hostility, neighbor fighting with neighbor in polemical excess. Spurred into fury by self-appointed demagogues, flames fueled by concocted fears, the planet seemed to be slipping backward, into the paranoia and fear which had lit the catastrophic world wars a century earlier.

As they crossed the light-years of interstellar space, Trip developed the kernel of an idea; and discussing it with the others, the notion grew like prairie fire. Upon their return, the besieged Chief-of-Staff swung from hell-bent anger to decidedly-wicked glee; and under the carefully-negligent eyes of Admiral Forrest, the officers of the Enterprise put their covert plan into motion. They had two weeks at their disposal; but rank after rank of Starfleet joined in, using every hook and scheme to prepare for this day.

And it was, truly, a beautiful day on the eastern tip of Jamaica. The blue waters, reaching out into the unseen horizon, shone brightly beneath the warming sun; even the storm clouds, which so often hung heavy in the distance, had drifted away in seeming collusion. White wave-caps rippled against the rocky shoreline, in and out with the soothing rhythm of nature, and the gentle breeze of the Windward Passage floated across the plaza of the Memorial.

They were gathered this day, the crew of the Enterprise, several dignitaries, and the awaiting press, for the unveiling. The stone itself, waist-high and covered with a hood, stood to one side of the bell arches; and on the tiered steps beneath the echoing bells were Admiral Maxwell Forrest, Captain Jonathan Archer, and Commander Charles Tucker III.

All three men seemed bright and eager, even as they murmured between themselves, allowing the moment of expectation to build. Forrest had just given his consecration address; and he tilted his head, to speak directly into Archer's ear. "I submitted my offer of resignation to the Prime Minister this morning," he whispered, scarcely audible. "We'll see if he takes it after this."

Archer made a similar gesture, protecting their conversation from the cameras. "If he does, I'm right behind you."

The onlookers were waiting patiently, but Archer judged that enough time had elapsed; he took a step forward, but rather than crossing to the stone, he gave his friend a smile and a nod, and returned to place. Trip smiled warmly, nodding in recognition, and calmly crossed the dais to the hooded monument.

The crowd stirred slightly as the ceremony departed from the released script. Cameras followed the engineer as he walked by, largely missing Archer's momentary wink to the assembled crew of the Enterprise; they came to attention, but not in regular ranks. Instead, carefully-choreographed placements now put the crew in a semi-circle around the platform, as forming a human chain blockade between the dais and the onlookers.

Reaching the stone, Trip paused, letting his eyes roam over the watching faces; then he pulled back the cloth.

It took several seconds for the attentive eyes to scan down the marble and notice the alteration.

At the top of the stone, carved in, was a simple dedication: TO THE CREW OF THE ENTERPRISE. Listed below it were all one hundred and twenty-one names; many, far too many, had the infamous initials "KIA" following them.

And at the bottom, there was a new line, carefully added by Trip during the wheeling and dealing of the previous two weeks. As the onlookers discovered it, there was an audible gasp and a physical stir; a storm was breaking open, but Trip stood by proudly, a positively gleeful smile on his face.

AND FROM THE CREW OF THE ENTERPRISE TO DEGRA: OUR FRIEND.

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Lyrics are from Metallica's "Enter Sandman"; Nine Inch Nail's "Hurt"; the Goo Goo Dolls' "Iris"; and The Verve's "Bittersweet Symphony."