Blackened (5): Turn the Page

by jtm1848

The days stretch into weeks and months as the Enterprise continues through the Expanse.

– TURN THE PAGE –

September

There were some duties that Jonathan Archer never looked forward to.

Death was part of the Service. It was an unavoidable specter that haunted every day when one worked in space. A thousand problems, any of them small, could quickly cause a spacecraft to become a coffin; outside the thin metal shell, coldness reigned supreme, bare degrees above absolute zero, and the harsh wash of radiation emanating from the heavens took its toll on life of every form. Nature had never intended for the planet-bound to enter the firmament, and worked its best to drive life back to the safe havens of rock and gas.

The crew had gathered in the armory—not all of them; someone had to watch the controls and fly the starship. Someone had to make sure that the volatile mix of matter and anti-matter didn't overheat. Someone had to watch the sensors, and someone had to calibrate the great fields that warped the very structure of space-time. But enough had gathered; enough to honor the fallen, those who had given their lives in the Service.

The punishing vastness of interstellar space stretched around them to infinity. It was a never-ending emptiness filled with silence, penetrated only by distant points of light, trying to send warmth and heat out into the dark, freezing stillness; these attempts at heat, however, were ran over as the frigid stillness would quickly bypass these beacons of light, rapidly overwhelming the brightness with its own dark solitude, uninterrupted in its envelopment of the visual continuum. All around was darkness, and cold, nary a breeze to be felt, but the impenetrable enormity of the barren space hiding and concealing the deadly array of threats it harbored.

On the upper catwalks of the armory, Jonathan Archer had gathered his senior staff; by his side stood the leaders of this intrepid crew, the men and women who daily challenged the universe for supremacy. Commander T'Pol and Commander "Trip" Tucker, his closest friends; Doctor Phlox, his Denobulan physician and confessor; Malcolm Reed, his ever-faithful tactical officer; and Hoshi Sato and Travis Mayweather, the youth of his command staff.

The lone stars tried their best to bring light and warmth to this freezing desolation, but they were too few, too weak, and too far apart to stand a chance. They succeeded only in sending out a silent ray, functioning solely as a dimly lit beacon in the wilderness, drawing the far-flung children back to the comforting embrace of home. The separation of the stars in the sky appeared to be only a hair's width, but the real distances made travel a precarious venture, where distance was measured not by feet or miles, but by years.

Down below, on the floor of the armory, stood his crew; the people who faced those dangers, day in and day out, without surrender or retreat, striving against the great forces to establish the heart of humanity in the darkness. In such a pursuit, death was truly unavoidable; six months into their mission, where once had stood a hearty crew of 121, attrition, accident, and battle had already whittled their number to 110, as they fought the great war of survival.

A few intelligent minds, including Jonathan Archer's own father, had served to change the nature of spaceflight; their sweat and tears, coupled with fuel that could render the skies, condensed the mind-numbing stretches to something that could be thought of as distance, not time. It was small compensation for the handful of adventurers throwing themselves to the cosmic lions, but it was enough for the first ones, the adventurers eager to see all they could see. They succeeded in piecing together several frail pieces of metal, the atomic bonds sealed shut for the long journeys now made possible.

But death stalked every step of the journey, compelling the voyagers to remember their frailties in myriad ways as the humans struggled to establish themselves among the stars.

What is there to say? Archer asked himself, his thoughts wore thin by the constant toll of the Delphic Expanse. It was the eleventh funeral on board the Enterprise, and undoubtedly not their last. What can I say—what can I say that I haven't already said? Even in his mind, the eulogies had begun to run together; the words meant to honor the life and sacrifice of an individual blended into a montage of grief, the unyielding determination to persevere, even into the jaws of death.

Archer took a deep breath. "The most difficult task facing any captain, any crew, is the loss of a shipmate," he began, aware of how incomplete his words were. How could he sum up a person? Explain what made them unique, what made them complete, and do it over and over, varying it enough each time to respect the vast diversity of human experience?

"We've come here to honor one of our own," he continued. To his sides, the command staff stood rigid, holding their bodies at attention. Some eyes were misty, others were clear, but all bore the mote of loss; Archer knew that these people—his friends, his comrades—would never adjust to losing a member of their new family. And for that, he was profoundly grateful.

"Elizabeth Cutler has served with us from the start," he went on. "In the time we knew her, she showed us the best that humanity has to offer. In her daily activities, she showed us what we strive for; she inspired us to uplift our own natures, and surpass our own transgressions."

She made her mark from the very beginning, Archer recalled. While humanity still harbored certain xenophobic tendencies, and a marked suspicion about alien races, Crewman Cutler had stood above. On the Enterprise's first mission, just after leaving the Klingon homeworld, Cutler was trapped on the surface of a strange, new world with T'Pol, Trip, and Crewman Novakovich. An airborne biochemical had played upon their minds, accenting their suspicious, distrusting animalistic instincts, resulting in a nearly-fatal conflict between Trip and T'Pol. But somehow, Cutler was immune; she had no such xenophobic fears to accent.

"In the time she was with us, she showed us just how much one life can truly matter," Archer stated. Phlox was snuffling loudly. It was unsurprising that Elizabeth Cutler had been the first crewmember to truly reach out a hand of friendship to the alien doctor, and she had helped bring down the racial barriers between him and the rest of the crew. In the process, Cutler and Phlox had developed a deep affection for one another.

"We will go forward with renewed determination to complete our mission," Archer added, vocalizing the words with the force of inner strength. "So that her sacrifice won't just have been for the people on this ship, but for all the citizens of Earth."

On the floor of the armory was the photonic torpedo casing, gutted of its destructive innards and converted to a coffin. As Travis lifted the bosun's whistle to his lips, and gave the shrill, solemn hail of honor and respect, the two-man honor guard stepped forward, laying the folded flag of United Earth underneath Cutler's crossed hands. Next came the casket lid.

"Atten-SHUN!" Travis barked out, and the assembled snapped into rigid postures. "Torpedo, LOAD!" The honor guard slid the torpedo casing forward on the loading tracks, inserting it into the launch tube. The protective door slammed into place.

Captain Archer stepped forward to the catwalk railing. The final command was his to give; he allowed a moment of silence before speaking. "FIRE!"

The torpedo, bearing the mortal remains of Crewman Elizabeth Cutler, shot out from the launch tube. Its journey would take it several days as it traversed the radius of this, one of countless unnamed star systems, before it plunged into the roiling star. In the flame and pressure, it would join the stellar life cycle, to one day give birth to new life and new civilizations.

But the silence was never interrupted, as the hurling rocket could send no sound waves into the wasteland. The small particles of space dust, hardly more than a few atoms wide, posed no danger to the tritanium shell; but the giants of the vastness, the chunks of rock left over from creation, dashed around, spinning out of control with nothing to stop their careening course. These asteroids and comets were a great danger to the fragile metal, threatening to smash into the atmosphere-designed casing and with one quick snuff end the existence of all inside.

And a thousand smaller dangers beckoned.

Beneath the hull of Shuttlepod One, the Sphere hung suspended in the frozen grip of interstellar space, the reflection of starlight rendering its surface visible to the naked eye. Stretching five thousand kilometers from pole to pole, the Sphere was the size of a small moon, but its origins were clearly artificial; sheets of metal plated the construct, welded together to provide a seamless exterior that defied Starfleet sensors.

As the Sphere hung, it stayed immobile, fastened into the underlying fabric. It created its own pocket within the stellar void; a powerful force field and cloaking barrier ringed the Sphere, shielding it from prying eyes and flying debris. It was dumb luck that the Enterprisehad discovered the first Sphere, sheltered within the protective field, and the crew was still trying to smooth the journey thru the Sphere's shields.

It certainly is scenic, Commander Charles "Trip" Tucker thought to himself from the shuttlepod cockpit. The interaction of the protective cloak and thin gases of the region created a whispery, green backdrop for the Sphere, with thousands of pinpricks of light shining thru from remote corners of the Milky Way. In other circumstances, I'd be enjoying the view.

Trip's companion, Ensign Travis Mayweather, piloted the shuttlepod downward into the Sphere, and as it grew to fill the sky before them, Travis pulled the pod up into a shallow flyover of the metallic exterior. Experience—most of it brutal—had taught Travis how to navigate within the spatial disruptions surrounding the Spheres, and he was able to hold the shuttlepod steady on its course as they allowed the sensors to soak in data. Even the new, trellium insulation was not perfect, subject to the worst vagaries of the surrounding nightmare.

"It's identical to the other two," Trip commented disgustedly as the data rolled in. A 2-D image of the Sphere rotated on his computer monitor, mapping the contours of sheet metal, hatchways, and instrumentation that ringed the Sphere. It did little good. "Even the smallest features are exactly the same," Trip went on, pointing to the readings.

Travis peered at the viewer, and had to concur with his superior. "Like they came off an assembly line," he observed, as the computer compared the construct to previous ones. "Everything's the same—not even a centimeter off. And we still can't get a view inside."

"I'd like to see the factory that made these," Trip answered wryly. It's almost as if they were made by a pattern replicator—that's centuries ahead of Earth technology, but so is everything else about these damned Spheres. The two officers lapsed into companionable silence as they finished the survey, Trip working the sensors while Travis kept the shuttlepod hovering close to the Sphere's surface.

"Well, that's the last sensor sweep," Trip finally announced, banging a hand on the monitor irately. For all the hassle of getting the pod in here, and what do we have to show for it? Sensor readings that may as well have come from any other Sphere. "At least it'll give T'Pol plenty of data to chew on," he commented philosophically, knowing that their Vulcan science officer would willingly spend days reviewing the warmed-over information. "Take us out of here, Travis."

"Aye, sir," Travis answered, a little gleefully. While he was a pilot by nature, flying within the protective fields of the Spheres required hundreds of minute, precise course corrections, making for difficult flying without any letup; and the incredible sameness of the Spheres killed the excitement of exploration.

Travis brought the shuttlepod up into an exit vector. As they crossed the cloaking barrier, the pod's interior lights flickered twice before dying, bathing the pod in darkness. "Power fluctuations," Travis announced, checking his controls. It was nothing unusual, and at this point, not even noteworthy; the Sphere's barriers were too powerful for the pod's electromagnetic shielding, but the effect was temporary. Indeed, moments later, the lights came back on as the pod emerged from the field.

"I think we're getting the hang of this," Trip noted wryly. With each passage, their flight became smoother, as Travis learned how to mitigate the disruptions of the protective cloak. "How long?"

"We're coming up on the outer edge of the cloaking barrier," Travis reported as the shuttlepod slipped thru the last band of energy.

"I'll contact Enterprise," Trip announced, his southern accent sounding laconic. He had grown up in Florida, in the North American continent of Earth, but his home was gone: it had been destroyed in the Xindi attack on Earth six months earlier. The same attack that had killed his little sister, Elizabeth, along with seven million others. The same attack that sent the Enterprise hurtling into the Delphic Expanse, far from known space, intent on finding the Xindi before they could launch their next attack, one which could destroy the planet Earth.

Several parsecs away, towards the edge of active sensor range, a small ship watched the shuttlepod with interest. Far smaller than the Enterprise, its size and distance hid it from the scans of the Starfleet vessel.

On the bridge of the alien ship stood two men, both humanoid in appearance. A ridge of cartilage ran upwards from the point of their noses to the top of their brows, and both wore their hair long, pulled back in carefully-braided designs. A dark red tattoo highlighted the right side of their faces, stretching from the temple to the cheek. The older of the two had hair that was silver with age; the younger, rich brown.

The younger man, Yarrick, put a real-time image of the shuttlepod on their ship's viewer. "They're emerging," he announced, "heading back to their ship. Should we pursue them?"

"Hold your position," the older man, D'Jamat, replied serenely. He stood, unmoving, in the center of the bridge, his hands clasped behind his back.

Yarrick turned to look at his superior curiously. "But they entered the barrier of a Sphere," he said. "They have desecrated the holy sanctuary. Shouldn't we destroy them?"

D'Jamat smiled at his young pupil. "I believe they are here to serve a different purpose," the elder answered. "They may have been sent by him, but we will use them to carry out the will of the Makers. Their presence here is no accident; it is the fulfillment of prophecy."

Never too rushed to provide a lesson, D'Jamat assumed his teaching mien. "Don't the prophecies say, 'Forces from him will arise to desecrate the sanctuary fortress, but you shall do away with the regular sacrifice; you shall put in place the abomination that makes desolation'?"

"Yes, Pri'Nam," Yarrick acknowledged, referring to his captain by the religious title. "You believe that this craft—" he gestured to the image of the shuttlepod. "—will bring about the desolation?"

"No," D'Jamat answered abruptly. He turned to the officer manning the small ship's tactical controls. "Visual," he ordered.

The viewer switched from the diminutive shuttlepod to show the graceful image of the Enterpriseas it glided thru space. "I want to know what kind of armaments they're carrying," the Pri'Nam commanded. He stepped forward. "That craft may be what we're looking for."

For reasons that Archer could not yet fathom, T'Pol—alone of the entire crew—showed no interest in using the holographic stellar cartography display installed in the Enterprise's research lab-cum-command center. She instead preferred the old-fashioned, 2-D display on the wall monitor, which was now configured to show the network of charted anomalies and distortions in the Delphic Expanse.

"This new data should help us map the anomalies more accurately," the Vulcan said calmly, as if reporting on the life cycle of fruit flies. Travis and Trip's latest excursion into the protected realm of a Sphere had brought back a rich set of data, despite the humans' pessimism.

"It should allow me to calculate the exact number of Spheres in the Expanse," T'Pol added. While there was nothing capable of advancing their knowledge of the Sphere network by leaps and bounds, the added package of data helped to refine the margins of the analysis, enhancing the details of their map and the still-spotty understanding of how the network functioned—and why it existed at all.

Archer decided that he preferred the 3-D display. "Any new theories on their purpose?" he asked. Experience had driven the hope from him, but he asked anyway.

"Not yet," T'Pol answered. The captain wasn't certain, but he thought that even the Vulcan's precisely-modulated voice betrayed a slight hint of frustration.

"Bridge to Captain Archer." Malcolm's hail over the intercom interrupted the briefing.

"Archer here."

"We've picked up a vessel approaching at impulse," Malcolm reported. "They're transmitting a distress signal."

Archer sighed, but he had no choice. "Change course to intercept."

As Captain Archer emerged from the turbolift, he subconsciously took note of the movement around him. The night crew was moving with precision and alacrity, a testament to their dedication and professionalism; even after months in the Expanse, his officers still performed their duty to Starfleet standards. He was displeased, however, to note that Malcolm had apparently been on-duty thru the late shift; his tactical officer was on the verge of exhaustion from working a series of double-shifts, and had been ordered off-duty to rest.

It was something the captain would have to address. Later. "Report," he ordered, stepping into the well of the bridge.

"They're trapped in a cluster of anomalies," Reed reported as he vacated the command chair. The spatial anomalies seemed to permeate every corner of the Expanse, providing a thousand snares and traps for the unfortunate. Reaching the tactical station, he double-checked the sensor readings. "They've taken engine damage," Malcolm confirmed. "They're stranded."

"Let's see them," Archer ordered. His muscles ached with weariness, but he had a job to perform.

The viewscreen flickered momentarily, shifting from the cloaked Sphere to a small vessel. Composed of an ovoid carapace and a thin, lengthy sheet hanging below, it belonged to a species unknown to the Enterprisecrew. That much was unremarkable: the Expanse seemed to teem with various races, but most of them knew how to avoid the anomalies. This vessel hung, unmoving, in space.

"Twenty-three biosigns," T'Pol reported from the science station. She had followed Archer to the bridge, promptly assuming her post.

"Hail them," Archer ordered, looking at Crewman Sorenson. The late-shift communications officer tapped her console, and a soft beep signaled that the communications channel was open.

"This is Captain Jonathan Archer of the starship Enterprise," he declared across the stellar void. "Can we assist you?"

"Enterprise!" The viewscreen remained fixed on the alien vessel; it was either unable—or unwilling—to communicate visually. The alien's voice cut thru the static on the audio channel. "Thank the Furies for your timely arrival! Our engines are inoperative, our life support system is failing. We need immediate assistance."

Archer quietly turned to Malcolm. "What kind of weapons do they have?"

"Minimal," Reed reported. "Our sensors are confirming what he said, although the anomaly could be masking a false signal."

Archer groaned internally, but knew he had little choice on the matter. "Can you get us thru the anomalies?" he asked T'Pol.

"I believe I can plot a safe course," she confirmed, running a quick series of vectors and calculations.

"Very well, then," Archer sighed. "Travis, one-quarter impulse." The captain momentarily wondered why Travis was on the bridge during his down time, but shelved it for later. At the moment, he was glad to have the crack pilot available.

The Enterpriseslid thru space, cautiously navigating thru the disruptive tendrils of the anomalies, and after several minutes of tense silence, the Starfleet ship came alongside the alien vessel.

"Their life support's system failed," Reed notified Archer as the two ships docked.

"Take full security precautions," Archer ordered decisively as he went to the turbolift. Humanitarian gesture or not, he had learned better than to trust anyone in the Expanse without verification. "Full sensor sweep of their ship. Have a security team report to the docking port—make sure none of them are armed, then have them escorted to sickbay."

What time is it? Archer thought distractedly as he emerged from the corridor into sickbay. He expected to enter a hastened environment, with Dr. Phlox and his aides scurrying about to provide medical attention, but was pleasantly surprised by the slower pace of the medical staff. It was a good sign; none of their new passengers were in need of dire medical attention. Apropos of nothing, another thought ran thru his head. Hell, what day is it?

"You'll be fine," Phlox was telling one of the aliens, a young man sitting upright on the primary biobed in the center of sickbay. The man thanked him, and as Phlox turned to prepare for his next patient, he noticed the captain. "Ah, Captain Archer!" the Denobulan physician called out, crossing the room to greet Archer.

Archer kept his voice muted. "How are they?" he asked the doctor, desiring a semi-private conversation.

Phlox, having become versed in human ways, picked up the hint and spoke softly. "Oh, superficially, there's nothing severe," the doctor reported. "Minor cuts and abrasions, some slight plasma burns, nothing unusual. There was one case of slight malnutrition, but for someone eating rations for months at a time…I was a little surprised, actually: I was expecting much worse."

Archer filed the comment away, and tiredly seized on the more glaring omission. "You said 'superficially?'" he asked Phlox, both to confirm the doctor's words and ask for details.

"I'm unable to perform detailed bioscans," Phlox responded with a Denobulan hmmph. "They refuse any kind of invasive medical care. For religious reasons." Phlox's skepticism showed in his voice; while some religions did truly prohibit invasive care, he knew that it was often used dishonestly, as a means to avoid treatment—or in worse cases, to hide a condition.

At the same time, Phlox ascribed to a strict set of medical ethics, one of which was respecting the expressed religious concerns of his patients. "There's no indication of deeper medical issues," Phlox added in clarification, although privately, he was strongly dissatisfied.

Doctor and Captain lapsed into momentary silence, as they mentally surveyed their guests. The passengers were clearly all of the same race: a basic humanoid body, with a raised ridge on their nose and forehead; the same red tattoo on the right temple; long, black hair, pulled back and bound behind the head. This looks familiar, Archer thought to himself. I've never seen this race before, but…the sameness, the same clothing, the same tattoo, the same hairstyle…his sleep-deprived brain struggled to find the explanation.

Not wanting to point, Phlox drew the captain's attention toward one patient in particular. This one, sitting on a biobed with his right side to the Enterpriseofficers, bore a disfiguration on the side of his face. Almost as if some being had grabbed his skin and pulled it in opposing directions, the man's face looked like it had been stretched horizontally, the rippled remnants refusing to lay flat.

"They're no strangers to anomalies," Archer observed, recognizing the aftereffects of an encounter with the Expanse's spatial disruptions. A part of him was heartened to note that a humanoid could survive such an experience; the part of him that yearned in compassion for the mutilated individual lay submerged, ground down by the constant demands of their mission. "That looks like an old scar," he mused quietly.

"I found similar injuries on four others," Phlox whispered in response. "Apparently they've stayed in the vicinity of the Sphere for several months." He couldn't help but wonder why they didn't leave when the dangers had become manifest.

"Can I talk to them?" Archer asked. It was more a courtesy than anything, but the doctor recognized and appreciated the gesture.

That didn't mean that Phlox would agree. "How are you feeling, Captain?" he asked in concern. "You've been a little…short-tempered lately."

Great, Archer thought to himself. Not only am I worn out, but my crew's starting to notice. A more alarming thought dawned on him: I hope I haven't botched anything. We can't afford it. "When I'm done here, I'll go to my quarters for some sleep," he said.

Phlox beamed a wide, Denobulan smile. "I'll give you a sedative on your way out," the physician promised.

Recognizing that he was trumped, the captain held back a curse, rewarding the doctor with a glare instead. "Which one is the Captain?" he asked, gesturing toward their new patients.

Phlox nodded towards the man sitting on biobed three. His gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he was holding a cold compress to his shoulder. "He prefers the term Pri'Nam," Phlox said, clasping his hands behind his back. "It's a religious designation."

Archer pursed his brow, feeling the pieces of the puzzle starting to come together, but the final connection still eluded him, sitting, tantalizing, on the edge of his sleep-deprived mind. Maybe some rest would do me good, he thought grudgingly. I can always figure this out tomorrow. First things first, although.

"I'm Captain Archer," he introduced himself, stepping across the room. "Welcome aboard."

The Pri'Nam set down the cold compress, and held a hand out. "My name is D'Jamat," the Pri'Nam said with a welcoming smile. "I can't express how grateful we are—you saved our lives." He spoke serenely, his words emanating a peaceful warmth. "We've been trapped here for several days, and our systems were dying. I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't come for us."

Archer nodded, the Pri'Nam's words only registering semi-consciously. His mind was preoccupied with another thought, one far more important to their mission. "I understand you've been in this region for quite some time," he said invitingly.

"Yes, we're on a pilgrimage to the twelfth Sphere," D'Jamat replied. Behind Archer, Phlox stiffened momentarily. "It's taken us a year to make the journey—our technology is not on par with yours, I'm afraid, but we make do with what we have."

"Your ship's in pretty rough shape," Archer continued. "My engineer's taking a look at it—he thinks he can get it back together, but it'll take a few days."

D'Jamat nodded in acceptance, telegraphing a fondness about his ship. "It's an old vessel, but sturdy," he commented. "It's made the journey several times, and never failed to bring us back home. Unfortunately, although, my people are not that skilled at space travel—we're better at prayer than we are at science." He paused, then said musingly, "It's quite remarkable that you showed up when you did."

"We've been spending time investigating the Spheres ourselves," Archer offered. "Maybe there's some information about them that we can share—if you're feeling up to it, I'd like you to have dinner with me and my Science Officer tonight."

"I'd be honored to accept your hospitality, Captain," D'Jamat replied gracefully. "Perhaps we can help each other."

Night turned to day aboard the starship Enterprise. The crew went about their rotations, shifting duty posts and bunks. Months had worn the routine into fine sand; but it also invited sloppiness, the casual fidgeting around the edges, that could eventually blossom into a full collapse of the self-same habits.

Seated once again at the helm, Travis couldn't help thinking that the star fields in front of them looked the same as those behind them, as they had for day after day, stretching backwards into the forgotten recesses of his mind. He knew the sensation; it was like traveling down a long and lonesome highway, listening to the one-note melody of the engines as they pressed on, light-year after light-year.

Ensign Hutchinson, the night-shift pilot, had named a passing star system "Omaha." No doubt, Travis concluded, we're now east of Omaha. His thoughts began wandering slightly, the way they do when staring at an interminable horizon, and the joys of being on the road sublimate into exhaustion. Even the indefatigable helmsman found himself wishing that the trip was through.

"Commander!" Travis announced with surprise as his glazed eyes noted the obscure shift in navigation readings.

"What is it, Ensign?" Commander T'Pol gracefully rose from the command chair and came up behind Travis.

"I'm not sure, sir," Travis answered, talking as he ran the monitor readings again. "It's like the stars keep shifting positions." As he watched, the stellar symbols bounced around like jumping beans. "There, they just did it again."

"Are you certain that it's not an equipment failure?" T'Pol asked.

Travis knew better than to take offense—in fact, his first thought had been the same. "I'm certain, Commander," he answered. "I ran two diagnostics. The equipment is working fine."

"So something external is interfering with our sensors," T'Pol noted. It was the next logical step of analysis.

"I think I have the cause!" Crewman Gunderson, standing duty at Science, spoke up excitedly before cringing under the withering gaze of the Vulcan. "Sorry, sir. But our sensors are detecting an unusually strong gravimetric disturbance in the appropriate direction. Its focal point appears to be approximately three light-years away."

It was an opportunity that T'Pol could not pass up. "Change course to match," she ordered, then hit the intercom. "Commander T'Pol to Captain Archer. We may have found something."

Archer slowly rotated his head, feeling the cricks and aches working themselves out. On the doctor's orders, he had finally taken a day off, spending the bulk of it sleeping and playing with Porthos. Now into the evening, he felt more refreshed than he had in… days? Weeks? Their time in the Delphic Expanse seemed to blur into one, long, never-ending stream of consciousness.

The captain absent-mindedly bit his inner cheek. The shock knocked him back into the present, and he thanked the steward for re-filling the iced tea. In keeping with tradition, Archer was hosting the Pri'Nam for dinner in the captain's mess; the opportunity to sit down and converse with new species was rare in the Delphic Expanse, and the captain was determined to make the most of this encounter.

"Our home world is called Tria'nnon," D'Jamat was saying between mouthfuls of food. The Pri'Nam seems to be enjoying the Earth cuisine, Archer thought, although after months of eating rations, even gagh might look good. "It's six-point-three light years from here, in the Maradas star cluster." D'Jamat looked at the captain curiously. "Have you heard of it?"

Archer shook his head politely. "Doesn't ring a bell," he answered. "But we're new to the Expanse. We're still learning where everything is."

"The Expanse?" he queried. He believed he knew what the captain was referring to, but proper preparation for the race ahead meant making sure.

"This region of space," Archer replied, gesturing around them with his fork. "With the spatial anomalies."

"Ah," D'Jamat replied approvingly. "I think we're talking about the same thing, then. We call it the Chosen Realm."

"We're here to learn everything about a particular species, the Xindi," Archer went on, apologetically shifting the topic. "Have you run into them?"

D'Jamat frowned. "I'm not familiar with the name," he said doubtfully. "But we know little about our neighbors. We place very little emphasis on meeting other species—unlike you, I suppose. For us, space travel is merely a means to bring us closer to the Spheres."

T'Pol spoke next. "You've studied them for some time?" she asked.

D'Jamat smiled gently. "We're not here to study the Spheres, Commander. We're here to venerate them. They are a gift from the Makers, after all." He spoke reverently.

"The Makers?" Archer looked up sharply.

"Yes, Captain," D'Jamat answered patiently. "The creators of the Spheres."

"Who are these Makers?" Archer pressed, more patiently this time. If they are powerful enough to create the Spheres, they might just know something about the Xindi.

"What does it matter?" D'Jamat replied guilelessly. "They are beyond understanding."

Archer leaned forward. "Then, if you'll forgive the question, Pri'Nam, how do you know that the 'Makers' are real?"

D'Jamat smiled warmly, used to this sort of challenge. He rolled up his left sleeve, showing a scar of warped skin on his forearm. "In the vicinity of the Spheres, the Makers' presence becomes manifest. I'm among the lucky who have felt their presence."

"You—allow this…physical damage?" the captain queried, struggling to find the right words.

"The prophecies call upon all true believers to do so, Captain. Therefore, I urge you to offer your bodies as living sacrifices. Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the Makers' presence."

T'Pol covered her alarm. "You're referring to gravimetric anomalies, not a supernatural presence."

"Commander," the Pri'Nam replied, "do you honestly believe that anything less than a god could have created something so mysterious, so powerful?"

"Yes," T'Pol answered flatly. "It was a human philosopher who once noted that 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.'"

D'Jamat spoke calmly, rejecting T'Pol's reasoning with pure assertion. "They are not random anomalies. They are the Maker's Breath, crossing over from the greater realm. The Breath reshapes our reality, allowing ordinary men like myself a glimpse of the divine." He paused. "You refer to advanced technology, Commander, but no person of this realm has ever been able to explain the Maker's Breath. None."

"That Breath nearly destroyed your ship," T'Pol retorted.

"A small price to pay," D'Jamat smiled. "What is this world to someone who has seen the next?"

"The Spheres are certainly impressive," Archer interposed diplomatically. "We've found three of them so far."

"Ah, you're fortunate to have such a fast ship," D'Jamat replied. "I regret that I'll die having seen only one of the many thousands of Spheres."

"Actually, we've determined that there are only fifty-nine Spheres in the Expanse," T'Pol noted, unable to restrain herself.

"I think your estimates are a bit low," D'Jamat answered with veiled hostility.

"That's doubtful."

"With the Makers, there is no doubt."

"Doubt is the basis of all scientific progress."

D'Jamat tilted his head. "The tree of knowledge is fed through spiritual roots," he quoted. "Trust in the Makers with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. Faith, my friend, is the basis of science. But scientific progress, stripped of that faith, has led many people astray."

T'Pol's blood burned as she struggled to control her offense at the apostatic words. "Faith is antithetical to logic. Logic is the core of scientific thought. Thus, faith is inimical to scientific progress."

"Our prophecies teach us that the cynics will lead you astray with persuasive words, seducing you with smooth talk," the Pri'Nam spoke, self-assuredly. "Our faith will be proven not with wise and persuasive words, but with a demonstration of His power, so that our faith might not rest on men's wisdom, but on the Makers' power."

"How is one supposed to debate a theology that rejects any logical argument out of hand?" T'Pol demanded, her ire beginning to break thru her Vulcan composure. "Claims that any objection is merely deceitful sophistry?"

"Perhaps this is a subject we should discuss some other time?" Archer proposed, cutting off D'Jamat's response. The captain had never seen an angry Vulcan, and truth be told, he had no desire to. Besides, debating theology didn't further their mission—and he didn't want to alienate a potential source of information.

"I agree, Captain," D'Jamat smiled graciously.

Archer wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a glimmer of anger in T'Pol's eyes. "You'll be glad to know my engineer believes that he can repair the damage to your vessel," the captain continued. "He thinks it shouldn't take more than a couple days."

"That is good news," D'Jamat replied. "I certainly hope that we'll have the opportunity to repay your kindness."

Carefully-adjusted duty shifts conspired to bring the senior to the bridge at zero hour for the Enterprise's arrival near the distortion field.

It looked like a boiling field of gloop. Colored orange and brown, the viscous region had sharply defined edges where the distorted space ended and normal space began. The border, however, bulged and twisted, as if balls of gas were forcing their way through from within, expanding outwards towards the surface of the wrecked realm.

"It appears to be a convergence of spatial anomalies," T'Pol reported from Science.

That makes as much sense as anything, Archer thought. Every day in the Expanse, his definition of 'normal' changed to accommodate the bizarre array of anomalies that populated the region. This one differed, not in kind, but in scope; as the captain stood before the viewscreen, he could see the tendrils of fluidic movement beneath the heretofore-unseen membrane.

"It's more than seven hundred million kilometers in diameter," Malcolm added, gauging the breadth of the distortion field. At nearly thirty-nine light-seconds, it was larger, but not significantly so; Archer surmised that the point of the distortion field was not the spread, but rather the deepness of the effect within. That would help explain the defined boundaries; the other distortion fields had slowly materialized, like the edge of fog. Gravity-disrupting fog, that is.

"Captain!" Hoshi's surprise sent the tension level skyrocketing. "I'm picking up an intermittent signal, very faint!"

No one had expected this—was there an alien ship, inside the distortion field? If so, how was it surviving? And best yet—maybe the occupants know something about the Spheres.

"I have it," T'Pol confirmed. "An oblong object, approximately two meters in length." The dimensions fit an escape pod. "No sign of wreckage or debris." It was possible that the mother ship had been annihilated within the distortion field; no other explanation was obvious.

"Let's see it," Archer ordered, and the viewscreen shifted to zero in on the pod. There, floating a short distance behind the membrane, was a clearly-artificial object; it was obscured by the veins and currents of the fluid, but the sharp, angled edges were still perceptible.

"I may be reading one biosign," T'Pol added, with unusual confusion. The muck was interfering with the faint readings. "It appears to be very erratic."

"And no other ships in the vicinity?" Archer asked, directing the question to Tactical.

Malcolm shook his head. "No sign of anyone, sir."

The captain had no intention of leaving the stray behind; not only was their humanitarian duty clear, but the pod's occupant could also be a crucial source of information. "Is it close enough to the edge to use the grappler?"

"Should be, sir," Malcolm confirmed. "Might take a couple shots, although."

"Bring the grappler online, then, and reel it in," Archer ordered. "Let's see what we found."

It looked, unsurprisingly, like an escape pod.

Roughly two meters long and half as wide, the exterior shell was solid and smooth, showing no indication of propulsion systems, sensors, or other assorted paraphernalia necessary for ordinary space travel. On one end, a cone-shaped nosepiece was sealed to the cylinder, showing the presumed means of ingress and egress.

"We're ready to proceed, Captain," Malcolm reported, having verified the security status of the pod. His scans showed no indication of weapons or other threats—although, by his own admission, they were having problems scanning past the dense, alloyed shell. Four armed MACOs stood around the perimeter, phase rifles at the ready.

"Proceed," Archer ordered. With a nod of agreement, Malcolm and Trip triggered the chemical explosives lining the seal, separating the nosepiece from the rest of the pod. A magnetic pulley helped ease the nose away.

From behind the protection of weaponry, the assembled crew watched curiously. At first, there was little to see; vapor poured out from the interior, rolling across the floor of the launch bay like a low fog. Phlox clucked nervously, but said nothing: his silence meant that temporary exposure was fine, even if not recommended.

Archer watched, spellbound, as a clear plasticine tube ejected itself along a mechanized track.

The tube was crossed with a bewildering array of tubules and old-fashioned fiber optic circuitry. Various connection points glowed an eerie, pale green, and others shown with bright, white light; flashes ran up and down, indicating the rapid transfer of information from one point to another.

In the midst of the forest of circuitry lay a body.

The alien quivered and shook on the primary diagnostic bed in sickbay. To all appearances, it was humanoid; the standard format of two legs, a torso, two arms, and a head invited unwarranted assumptions. But the being's skin was cracked and torn; it looked like the bottom of a parched river bed, with unnatural scales cloaking its entire body.

"He's suffering from a form of rapid cellular degeneration," Phlox reported softly. He stood off to the side with the captain. It was unlikely that the alien would hear and understand the words; but it was a matter of medical courtesy to keep their conversation private. "It's affecting his version of a neurological system, and manifesting itself as low-grade seizures."

"Do you think you can stop it?" Archer asked, eyeing the patient warily. "Was it his exposure to the anomaly that caused the damage?"

"Right now, I can only speculate about the cause," Phlox answered. His priority had been treating the effects. "I can give him some medication to help with the seizures, but as for stopping it…I don't know yet, Captain. His physiology is quite unusual."

"Is he awake?"

"Mostly," Phlox replied. "You can talk to him for a couple minutes, but try not to aggravate him. I don't know what the added strain would do to him."

The captain nodded in agreement and approached the alien carefully. "I'm Captain Archer," he began.

The being's quaking grew more pronounced. "You had no right to take me away!" it rasped.

The alien's voice combined a unique group of shrill, hissing tones that echoed in Archer's head. "We brought you here to save your life. Your ship was trapped inside a region of distorted space."

"I don't want your help!" The alien coughed fitfully before continuing. "Return me to my ship."

Archer glanced at the doctor, making sure it was okay to proceed. "We couldn't find…any mother ship," he answered. "Just your escape pod. And it has minimal life support; you won't last too long if we take you back."

"That's none of your concern," the alien wheezed. His upper body rose from the bed with the torque. "Respect my wishes. Return me!"

"Perhaps," Archer replied gently. The being's condition was growing visibly worse. "But I have a few questions to ask first. What was that pod designed to do?"

"I'm not answering any of your questions!" the being retorted. The contortion nearly caused him to fall off the side of the biobed, and Phlox scurried forward to catch him.

"You're dying," Archer replied softly. The words were never easy to deliver. "If you can tell us a little more about you, about your ship, we might be able to do something for you."

"Take me back to my ship!" the alien hissed angrily. His upper torso began bouncing up and down.

"That's enough," Phlox said finally, cutting off the conversation. "He may be going into shock!"

Archer stepped back as the doctor and his medics bustled about, trying to preserve the life of the recalcitrant stranger.

In deference to T'Pol's superior rank, Travis had foregone the usual holographic map. Instead, as the captain entered the command center, he noted that the isogravitic mapping was displayed on the wall monitor.

"How's it going?" he asked casually, investigating the display. There were a lot of lines; it meant that the distortion fields were shifting rapidly, from one meter to the next. The earlier anomalies they had encountered had fractions of this strength.

"Good, sir," Travis answered promptly. "At least, from a navigational perspective. We've adjusted the sensors to compensate for the distortion."

"How soon can we get underway?" Archer asked.

"Half a day or so. I need to upload the programming alterations and test them."

"Good work, Ensign," Archer replied, dismissing the young man with a nod.

Left alone, he turned to the Vulcan. "How about your studies, T'Pol?"

"I have learned a great deal," T'Pol replied with equanimity. "The disturbance appears to expanding at a fluctuating rate of several kilometers per second."

"We'll have to back away as it grows," Archer said, nodding in understanding. "Anything else?"

"Yes." T'Pol changed the schematic. "It's location is equidistant from the theorized locations of five Spheres."

The Spheres again, Archer noted. Whatever they were, those—things—seemed to be the linchpin of the entire Delphic Expanse. "Do you think the Spheres are creating this distortion field?"

"It is a strong possibility," T'Pol admitted, unwilling to commit herself further. "We already know that the Spheres create localized gravimetric distortions, and that the more severe anomalies occur where the waves overlap. The severity of this distortion would definitely fit those tendencies."

"But what the hell are these anomalies?"

"Still unknown, Captain." T'Pol drew a breath. "I have discovered one more item of note, sir." She adjusted the viewer to show the shattered remnants of a planet. "I found this stellar body within the distortion field. Our readings suggest that it was once an inhabited world, but I could not find any remaining signs of life."

They're all dead, Archer recognized. It was possible that the inhabitants had died long before the planet was torn to pieces by the anomaly—and it was possible that the anomaly itself was responsible for their extinction. If this field—or others—keep growing, they'll eventually do the same to the rest of the Delphic Expanse.

"Maybe the alien we picked up is the last survivor." Even as he said it, the captain realized that it was a weak guess.

"A possibility," T'Pol acknowledged generously.

The image of the shattered planet burned in Archer's eyes, forcing him to look away. "When you finish here, join Trip in the launch bay. If we can't revive the alien, that pod may be our best source of information."

Archer reclined in his ready room chair, seizing the all-to-brief moment of respite. Outside the door, his crew was functioning with its characteristic level of efficiency; at this second, there was little the captain could do besides watch over their shoulders, and that was not a productive style of command on board the Enterprise.

The door chimed, ending the moment of rest. Something always comes up, Archer mused wryly as he sat up. "Come in!"

The hatchway whooshed open, revealing Pri'Nam D'Jamat. "Am I disturbing you?" the Tria'nnon captain/priest asked, peering within.

"Of course not, Pri'Nam." Archer waved their guest forward. "What's on your mind? I'm sorry that we can't offer you larger quarters, but space on board—"

"No, our quarters are fine," D'Jamat interrupted. "My thoughts are of a far more cosmic nature. My people couldn't help but notice the view outside the windows."

Of course, Archer realized. In the excitement, he had forgotten about the Pri'Nam's veneration of the gravimetric anomalies as being 'the breath of the Makers.' The nearby distortion would be like…I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down, he decided.

"I had wondered for a great time about our chance encounter with your vessel," D'Jamat continued. "It seemed so unlikely: you had desecrated a Sphere, right before our eyes. But it could not be coincidence. Our encounter had to have been ordained by the Makers."

"Naturally," Archer replied warily, unnerved by the hyper-religious pontificating.

"I said before that I hoped to be able to repay your kindness," D'Jamat continued, undeterred by the captain's hesitation.

"That isn't necessary."

"It's already underway, Captain. You, your crew, this vessel, were sent to us! Together, we are about to embark on a glorious mission! We stand on the precipice of the Chosen Realm itself!"

With a jolt, the Pri'Nam's serene ramblings fell into place.

The Tria'nnon taught that the 'Makers' were using the Spheres to transform the Expanse into a new phase of reality, creating a paradise for their eventual return.

And myth often has a basis in fact.

What if—and Archer knew it was a stretch, but it made so much sense—what if a race of 'supernatural' beings really ARE using the Spheres to transform the Delphic Expanse? If this race exists in a different realm, then logically, they would have to alter it in such a way as to make it habitable. Is it possible that, somewhere in the universe, there is an alien species that can exist inside that distortion field? Yes. Infinite diversity in action.

Two more thoughts struck him simultaneously.

That's who our alien guest is.

I'm really glad the Tria'nnon haven't found out about our guest yet. It's one of their Makers.

By a stroke of serendipity, T'Pol followed soon after.

"There's no mistake," she said bluntly, skipping the human pleasantries. Over the preceding couple years, she had taken the time to learn Terran communications customs; but when circumstances warranted it, she would still dispose them. "The pod's hull contains the exact combination of alloys we found on the surface of the Spheres."

And there's our proof, Archer realized, excited that his instinctual leap over logic had born itself out. The implications were far more troubling.

Losing his excitement, Archer dropped the report to his desk. "Do you remember the Tria'nnon creation myth, T'Pol?" he asked. His shoulders drooped at the thought.

"Of course," T'Pol answered. Vulcans had a nearly-didactic memory, and the conversation had only been the day before. "They believed the Spheres were created by divine beings who will one day return to the Chosen Realm."

"And that the Spheres were reshaping the Expanse into a paradise for the Makers and their faithful," Archer finished.

T'Pol tilted her head. "And you believe that the Tria'nnon myth has a basis in fact?"

The captain sighed gently. "It fits so neatly, T'Pol. The only thing I can't account for is the origins of the Makers—the Sphere Builders, that is. What 'realm' are they crossing over from?"

"Perhaps—" T'Pol paused to think. "Without more information, it would be irresponsible to theorize. Cosmological theory allows for too many possibilities."

"Do we have any way of narrowing it down?" Archer asked hopefully.

"No, Captain," T'Pol answered carefully. "Based on this analysis, however, I can offer a theory regarding our patient."

"Go on, Commander." Archer gave the petite Vulcan a verbal prod.

"Commander Tucker and I discovered that the pod was designed to transmit data regarding the occupant's physiological status," T'Pol explained. "It's not an abnormal function for an escape pod—it allows a search-and-rescue vessel to tell if the pod's occupant is still alive, and if so, what sort of medical treatment is needed."

"But if the Sphere Builders inserted him into this region—"

"It is probable that he is a test subject. He was inserted into the disturbance so someone could monitor his exposure to the environment."

"A canary," Archer muttered. T'Pol's sensitive ears picked it up; her perplexed face called for an explanation. "In the old days on Earth, miners used to take canaries into the tunnels with them. If the air was still poisonous, the canary would die first; and the miners would have time to escape. If the canary didn't die, then the miners knew that it was safe to proceed."

"A rather…barbaric example, but essentially accurate," T'Pol replied, masking a fleeting look of disgust. "Unfortunately, we are unlikely to determine anything more by analyzing the pod."

"Which leaves us with the pod's occupant," Archer concluded.

As the captain strode into main sickbay, he calmly noted the presence of two armed MACOs by the door. He had dispatched them upon realizing the other-worldly alien doubled as a god for their Tria'nnon guests; the last thing he needed was a religious riot breaking out in sickbay. The identity of the alien was being kept secret from the Pri'Nam, but Archer knew that rumors only took time.

Phlox, standing by the diagnostic bed, greeted the captain tersely. "His condition has worsened," the physician reported. His usually-ebullient persona had vanished. "He's literally disintegrating, Captain, and there doesn't seem to be any way of stopping it. He's dying a very painful death."

"Like he doesn't belong here," Archer commented. "Doctor, if he was from—some sort of other…physical realm or something…" The captain struggled with finding the appropriate terminology. "Would that explain his condition?"

The doctor had to pause and think. "Theoretically…life is calibrated for its physical environment. If his natural environment was sufficiently different…but Captain, it's occurring on a sub-molecular level. We're not talking about a minor change in environment."

Archer folded his hands to keep them immobile. "Doctor…that distortion field outside. Is there a way to tell if this being is better calibrated to exist inside it, rather than outside?"

Phlox let out a low whistle. "That's quite a provocative idea, Captain. What you suggest would turn the laws of exobiology on their head!"

Archer grunted dryly. "Can you do it, Doctor?"

"It would take quite a bit of work," Phlox admitted. "I would need to borrow Commander T'Pol, and several other members of the science staff…I'd have to requisition several science labs…" The format of the analysis was coming together in the physician's head even as he spoke.

The Tria'nnon attempt to seize the Enterprisewas over almost before it started. The well-trained crew and their MACO counterparts responded with precision and alacrity.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Captain Archer barked through the intercom installed in the brig. The sixteen aliens were crammed into the two cells; accommodations may have been tight, but Archer had little alternative.

D'Jamat smiled serenely. "I promised you an explanation. I owe you that."

The serenity grated on Archer's nerves. "Why did you try to take my ship? What did you hope to accomplish with it?"

"I was taking my people home, Captain," D'Jamat replied. His eyes glowed brightly. "We stand here, on the cusp of the Chosen Realm itself! With your vessel, it is less than a day's travel. We could be the first among the faithful to elevate!"

"Are you crazy?" Archer snarled. "Entering that distortion would mean instant death! Your people can't survive in there!"

"Maybe not in this form," D'Jamat agreed. "But these forms are temporary. We must dispose of them to realize our spirits, and in the Realm, we can accomplish both!"

"And what of my people?" Archer banged a hand against the barrier. "Would they have been elevated as well? Or would they have just died?"

"Your species is obsessed with temporal existence," D'Jamat stated placidly. "A characteristic of your misguided belief that the secrets of the universe can be revealed through science.

"This may sound barbaric to you, Captain, but it doesn't matter how many heretics die in the here and now. When the Makers return, only the faithful will survive; all non-believers will be swept away. Not only Trai'nnons, but every race within the Chosen Realm, including your own."

"Doctrines like that give you a rather cavalier attitude towards life," Archer retorted. "And justify murder."

"How you misunderstand us, Captain," D'Jamat replied. "What is the value of this world, when compared to the greatness of the Chosen Realm? Don't you see, Captain, that everything here—" he spread his arms wide. "That everything here is insignificant? That it has no meaning, no intrinsic worth? The Chosen Realm is everything."

The captain let out a discordant chuckle. "If you really believe that your life is meaningless, then I feel sorry for you, Pri'Nam. The true glory comes from within, not from on high. This ship, and this crew, are living examples of that, and that is where I place my faith."

D'Jamat continued to smile tranquilly. "My people have a destiny to fulfill, Captain. At the very least, return us to our own vessel, so that we may walk in the steps of the Makers."

Archer returned to sickbay, noting that the guards still stood post by the door; it is remarkable, he reflected, that in all the mess with the Tria'nnon, they still haven't learned that our alien patient is one of the their 'Makers.' It spoke well of his crew's ability to keep secrets, at least when it truly mattered; ordinary rumors, of course, still flew around the Enterpriselike dozens of caffeinated carrier pigeons.

"Ah, Captain!" Phlox treated Archer to his usual, broad Denobulan smile as the captain entered, but the doctor's tone quickly became quiet. "Our patient is awake, but I don't know for how long."

Archer nodded and crossed over to the diagnostic bed. The alien—the Sphere Builder, Archer reminded himself—looked worse. The being's skin looked ravaged by the onslaught, and he continued to twist and turn, contorting his body beneath the restraints. Most disturbing, certain parts of his body appeared ephemeral, wraith-like, as if they were there, but not.

"We know you were sent here as some kind of test subject," Archer began, taking the hard route from the start. He leaned over to glare directly downward at the alien. "From a different realm. So don't bother denying it. The region of space where we found you—what is it?"

The alien's body torqued painfully. "I don't know. I was sent against my will."

"I find that hard to believe," Archer hissed harshly.

"It's the truth." The alien's words were nearly inaudible beneath the croak of his voice. "I was a prisoner. I've spent nearly my entire adult life inside a cell. One day the guards offered me freedom if I would participate in an experiment."

Try as he might, Archer could find no flaw with the alien's words. Using prisoners as test dummies may be a barbaric act, but it was one with a lengthy history on many worlds, including the captain's own. In fact, the practice had only ended on Earth a century earlier, in the aftermath of the Final World War.

And there's no way to test the veracity of his claim, Archer realized. "That's not enough," he blustered, hoping to jar something more loose. "You expect me to believe that you have no idea what's going on out there?"

"That's all I remember," the alien croaked. "They took me to a medical bay, and when I woke up, I was here."

"We found you drifting in a pod, hooked up to banks of monitoring equipment," Archer charged. "You're telling me you have no idea why?"

"No. But they wouldn't abandon me! You must take me back!"

"That's impossible." Even if the captain were inclined to do so, the alien's pod was laying in hundreds of dissected pieces on the floor of the launch bay. "You must know something more. Didn't they tell you where they were sending you?"

"No." The alien's eyes were riven with fear. "If you don't send me back, I'll die. Please!"

A silent nod from Phlox confirmed the diagnosis. "His pain medication's wearing off," Phlox said softly, intervening in the interrogation.

The being's left hand faded away, as if dematerializing into nothingness. "What's happening to me?" he screamed, panicked by the sight. "What's happening to me? What's happening to me?!"

Phlox injected the alien with a pharmaceutical cocktail, and the being's head slumped back to the pillow. Slowly, the missing hand reappeared. "He's dying a painful death, Captain," Phlox said sotto voce. "I don't know if I'll be able to revive him again. And even if I can—at this point, to keep him conscious would be unethical."

"Do what you can, Doctor," Archer ordered numbly, knowing that this route was at an end. He knew that Phlox wouldn't budge on his ethical obligations, and even if the doctor would—for some unknown reason, the captain actually believed their patient.

"Captain," Malcolm said tentatively, "I must say that I'm a little surprised by your decision." The captain seemed to have quite a bit on his mind, and Reed wasn't sure how hard to press.

"Sometimes I surprise myself, Lieutenant," Archer replied dryly. He had just overseen the transfer of the Tria'nnon prisoners back to their ship, and now the two men were taking a slow walk back to the bridge. It appeared that neither of them wanted to arrive in time to see the end. "But what could we really do?"

Malcolm furrowed his brow thoughtfully. "I suppose we could have returned them to their homeworld…they said it's only six light-years away."

"And a few months later, they'd just try again," Archer countered. "Once D'Jamat learned about that distortion…he would keep trying until he got there."

"His people could have locked D'Jamat up," Malcolm suggested.

"Indefinitely? And on what charge?" Archer's face was worn ragged by the weight of his decision.

"Even on Earth, you can detain someone if they're a threat to their own safety," Malcolm replied.

The captain sighed slowly. "But there's also the religious aspect to consider, Malcolm. Do we really want to interfere with their exercise of religion?"

"If it means saving their lives? Of course, sir."

Archer's face was cast in shadow by the dimmed, night-time lighting of the corridor. "My maternal grandmother grew up in one of the last compounds, out in the American West," he responded contemplatively.

"I didn't know, sir," Malcolm replied cautiously, uncertain of where the captain was going.

"Oh, she left when she was in her early twenties," Archer continued. "The compound itself shut down a few years after that." Religious separatism and isolation had reached a crescendo during the Final World War, as prophets proclaimed that the end of the world was nigh. In the aftermath, as people grew to realize that 'the end of the world' had a more ephemeral than literal meaning, the strength of the isolationists had rapidly disappeared.

"Pardon me, sir, but…"

"She told me stories about growing up in that environment, Malcolm. The absolute primacy of religion, the unquestioned obedience to doctrine, the rigidity and harshness of the teachings…it warps a person's very understanding of the universe until they reach the point where they would truly be happier sacrificing their lives on the altar."

"And you think these Tria'nnon are the same," Malcolm replied, understanding at last.

"At the least…" Archer sighed. "I'm not prepared to be the one to tell them no."

"Doctor Phlox to Captain Archer." The physician's voice intruded on the conversation.

"Archer here, Phlox." The captain hit a nearby comm panel.

"Our patient has died, sir," Phlox explained without preamble. "At least, I think he's dead. His body has completely disappeared…and it doesn't seem to be coming back."

October

Travis Mayweather and Malcolm Reed walked into the alien café, feeling strung out from their lengthy journey in the cramped confines of the shuttlepod. Faced with two potential leads to follow, both of which threatened to disappear quickly, Captain Archer had decided to dispatch the two officers by shuttle to investigate one, while the Enterprisetracked down the other. It meant nearly two weeks in the shuttle for the two men, with just each other for company, eating emergency rations and not bathing.

All in all, Travis thought, it'll be good to get back home. He, of all the Enterprisecrew, was most comfortable referring to the mobile ship as his sanctum sanctorum: he had grown up on a space freighter, running the trade routes between Earth and Draylax. But Travis also suspected that many others among the crew had slowly come to see the mighty starship as being house and home.

Travis could feel a dozen pairs of eyes turn to stare as the humans entered—and some trios of eyes, a couple singular units, and some things which he could only imagine were sight organs. It was an intragalactic truck stop, and the clientele was suitably diverse, representing many different worlds and races. They all had one thing in common, although: they were supposed to be here. The two humans were the outsiders, the different ones, sticking out like a cloudy day on Vulcan.

Feeling the eyes upon them, Travis and Malcolm hurriedly commandeered an empty table that seemed to roughly match human proportions. Travis eased his heavy-wear duty jacket from his shoulders, trying to shake off the cold from outside. The café's location was no mystery; stuck on a frozen planetoid in the outer reaches from a standard, G-type star, the café's main purpose was to provide an outlet from the nearby ore transshipment facility. This was the only place for the workers to relax, and they intermingled freely with the familiar faces of the regular cargo runners.

But when it came to the not-so-familiar faces, the alien eyes stared suspiciously, picking apart the newcomers for any potential weaknesses, sizing them up as threats to the domain.

Travis eased himself into his chair. With the movement came a gust of breeze, trickling upwards from his own body. It carried the unmistakable odor of human stank, the sort that can only be accumulated by going two weeks, in cramped confines, without a chance to clean. Stale sweat mixed with dirt, caked blood and overlapping chemicals, it was the stench of fatigue. Travis tried to pretend that it didn't bother him; but inside, the smell—and the constant reminder—made him want to explode.

The constant chatter of the restaurant had died off as the strangers walked through, seeking their seats; and now, as the two humans chose their table, the murmurs started back up, more quietly this time. Soft though it was, Malcolm swore he could hear them talk; his wearied mind filled in the blanks, imagining that they were talking about him and Travis. Whenever Malcolm turned his head to look, the mutters died off; and when he turned back, the low rumblings resumed, accompanied by pointed looks in the direction of the two humans.

In Malcolm's mind, he pictured the same old tired clichés of space travel; the aliens gazing upon them where wondering if each newcomer was a woman or a man. Well, they're going to be disappointed, Malcolm thought, taking a guess as to the preferences of the regulars. Malcolm realized that he had been looking too long, and averted his gaze, studiously analyzing the placemat set before him.

Travis debated taking a shot at the crowd; when everything else had failed, it often became appropriate to stand up, announce themselves, and ask if anyone knew anything about the Xindi. If the captain was here, he would, Travis decided, although two weeks of weariness changed many things about a man. Maybe he wouldn't.

Travis looked around surreptitiously, trying to disguise his studying look with an air of casualness. The aliens were all around them, outnumbering the humans by several factors. On this mission, the humans always seemed outnumbered, but the odds were stacked even worse this time; and the downright hostile expressions convinced Travis that this wasn't the time to make a stand.

Thank the Furies for coffee, he thought, accepting an alien version of the caffeinated beverage. That and showers.

Five days later

Captain Jonathan Archer stood firm in the well of the bridge as he squinted at the main viewscreen, trying to dissect the image before them, but with little success. "Magnify," he ordered.

The planet beneath the Enterprise was a desiccated hunk of rock and frozen methane, forming a network of dark gray gashes slicing through the battered crust and expanding outwards into vast pools of bluish-gray ice. It was a dead planet, having survived many cycles beyond its natural life: the central star had grown, aged, expanded, and collapsed in the days since the planet's birth. The outer ranges of the stellar effects had tortured the planet, but the star was simply too weak to rip the planet asunder; the remnants, the floating ball of rock and ice, was the end-product of a thrice-abused planet.

Beginning its life as an outer, gaseous planet, it was now the inner of two surviving planetary bodies; the rest had been consumed in the vicious maw of the ballooning star, many eons earlier. The heat and pressure nearly collapsed the planet's core; its diameter shrunk by half as the atoms reformed a super-dense interior. The planet's crust endured millennia of seismic upheaval, as mountain ranges and valleys were born and died in the span of a breath.

When the stellar corona retreated, the planet rapidly cooled, and the remnants of the gaseous atmosphere rapidly sublimated into frozen rivers of methane and nitrogen. Only the light of far-distant stars still brought illumination to this wasteland, barely enough to allow the eye to discern between the gray rocks and the blue-gray ice.

"It's definitely Xindi, sir," Malcolm reported. His sensors were picking up what the captain's eyes could not: the wreckage of a ship, dashed across the planet's surface. It was scattered in half a dozen large chunks, with dozens of smaller fragments spread along a crash site several kilometers in length. "The signatures of the alloys match the other Xindi ships we've seen." Which, to be fair, did not make it a conclusive match; but it was strong enough to keep even T'Pol from objecting.

"I am unable to match it with the contours of either reptilian or primate design," Commander T'Pol observed. She was running a secondary analysis of the debris at the science console.

"There's three other Xindi species," Archer replied hopefully. "Maybe this will give us a look at the insectoids—or possibly even the aquatics." It was also possible that the wreck was simply a heretofore unknown design from one of the familiar Xindi races, but Archer believed strongly in the optimism of the spirit.

"I'm not detecting any biosigns," T'Pol added. An array of analyzes ran before her fingers. "There is a faint electrical signature which may be biological in origin, however."

"What about life support?" Archer asked.

"None, Captain," Malcolm confirmed. "There's no atmosphere aboard."

"Anyone else in the system?"

"No, sir." This reply came from Travis. While the tactical and science stations had focused on the debris, he had scanned the system for other ships; it was long-practiced synergy that came from a veteran crew.

"Nothing on the comm channels, either, Captain," Hoshi Sato added from communications. It would be rare to detect comm chatter before detecting an alien vessel, but thoroughness had saved the Enterprisebefore.

"Very well," Archer said, reaching his decision. "T'Pol, Malcolm, Travis, report to the launch bay; grab three guards on the way. I want to take a closer look at this thing."

Upon closer look, Travis decided that the wreck really didn't resemble anything from the reptilian or primate sects; as it grew in the shuttle's viewscreen, made perfectly clear by the lack of atmosphere, the ensign was able to make out the original lines of the craft.

It once had resembled a bird's talons, albeit with three fingers rather than four, positioned equidistant from each other. Stretched out forward, the talons accounted for almost three-quarters of the vessel's length; they came together as a rear base, which undoubtedly housed the stardrive section. Emerging in the center was a stubbed appendage, running maybe half the length of the ship. The craft, overall, appeared to be roughly half the length of the Enterprise. Travis estimated that, when the various design specifications were taken into account, it would have maybe a third the internal volume.

Of course, that was parsing out the original design from the fractured ship. The lower talon was snapped clean, near its base; a second talon had decompressed. It was missing nearly all of its hull plating, and only the internal support beams were left intact, giving it a skeletal look. The rest of the vessel was mostly intact, although dense scorches criss-crossed the hull in myriad places, and several more hull plates were missing.

The Xindi craft had come to rest in the middle of a flattened plain, sandwiched around a solitary, rocky outcropping. Gouges in the ice showed where it had skidded for kilometers; Travis guessed that the missing talon was somewhere along that path, stuck point-first in the methane.

Landing on a methane ice sheet is little trouble for an accomplished pilot. Travis brought them down near the alien vessel, and clad in bulky EV gear—protection against the cold, the stellar radiation, and the vacuum that once was an atmosphere—the landing party made their way to the ship.

As it loomed larger before their eyes, Lieutenant Reed guided the party towards a gaping, man-sized hole in the hull. One by one, the team flipped on the lights embedded in their helmets; the interior appeared to be a giant, black chasm, and they stepped into its maw.

Whichever Xindi race it is, they're clearly human-sized, Travis thought as he swept the interior with his lights. They had stepped into a corridor that slightly over two meters tall. At the base, it was just as wide; the walls tapered inward as they went up, narrowing to a ceiling that was roughly a meter and a half. Definitely alien, Travis added, noticing the odd geometry.

The walls were coated with iced-over plant matter, glowing like green crystals in the spotlights. More than once, Travis had to duck his head, maneuvering around similar vines, hanging from above like methane stalactites; when the ship had crashed, it froze so quickly as to extinguish any latent heat before it could burn the fragile material.

Stepping closer to a wall, Travis experimentally tapped the ice sheet with his gloved fist. Emboldened by the minuscule crack that formed, he grabbed an ice piton from his gear belt, and punched its tip into the sheeting.

The methane ice fractured. The bulkhead beneath was still covered with frozen chips, but as Travis brought his head closer, it was enough to make out the design beneath.

The bulkhead was covered with a form of overlay—be it decorative tile, or some functional shielding, Travis couldn't tell. But the overlay was clearly made of hexagonal pieces, and hexagonal design indicated one thing to him: insectoids.

According to their sources, the Xindi-insectoids were the most difficult to find of the five Xindi species. While the aquatics were the most reclusive, the insectoids' sheer lack of numbers made them ghosts in the Delphic Expanse. Allegedly, their population was scarcely large enough to maintain genetic viability; this also had the unpleasant effect of making them deeply paranoid.

Travis came to a stop behind Malcolm, who had knelt down on the floor. The lieutenant's find cinched it: before him lay two dead insectoids. Ugly sons of bitches, Travis thought; even the veteran spacer felt the inherent human repulsion towards insects, and the burnt exoskeletons only added to the bizarreness of life-size cockroaches.

"We'll take them back to the Enterprise," Malcolm decided. His words sounded slightly mechanical; the suit-to-suit intercoms needed a diagnostics check. "Phlox will want to run a complete autopsy."

"Corporal McKenzie, stay here with me," T'Pol ordered. "Lieutenant Reed and Private Maroney, search in that direction." She indicated with a flash of light. "Major Hayes, you and Ensign Mayweather take the other direction."

A chorus of 'yes, sir's' responded to the commands.

Following the MACO commander, Travis made his way around several bends in the corridor, noting as they passed the absence of any 45º turns; the insectoid geometry clearly favored angles based on the hexagon. Thus it was with great surprise that Hayes and Travis found a large hatchway angled off the main corridor; the etched pattern on the hatch was separated into four sections, not three or six, as the ensign had expected.

Hayes gestured forward, and the two men approached the hatchway. Running his scanner along the base of the hatch, the major found a favorable pressure point; and with Mayweather's assistance, he eased the door upwards along smooth tracks.

The flashlights in their helmets scarcely reached the other side of the cavernous bay.

And it's nearly empty, Travis realized. The bay had been damaged in the crash, but its structural integrity held, despite the presence of several hanging girders. He moved his head slowly, allowing the weak light to play over the interior; more debris beckoned, casting the room into a dancing display of shadow.

And then he noticed a shuttlepod smashed against the wall.

"My father'd love to get a look at this place," Malcolm muttered as he worked his way down the darkened corridor. "He's fascinated by insects."

"Maybe we can bring something back for his collection," Maroney offered with a friendly smile. The MACO private followed Malcolm closely; she knew how hard some bugs were to kill, and didn't trust the corpses they had found moments earlier.

"Let's give this a try," Malcolm said. He pointed to a smaller hatch embedded in the bulkhead; this one was hexagonal in design, and measured roughly a meter tall. "My scanner indicates that it's heavily reinforced," Reed added. "A good sign that there's something important back there."

"I'm not detecting any locking mechanism," Maroney responded in surprise. She pushed the hatch release button, and the metallic sheeting pivoted upwards and away.

"Well, that's just weird," Malcolm replied as he flattened his body along the hatch's side. With practiced caution, he eased himself around the rim, phase pistol first.

The room inside was empty. Too empty, Malcolm noted at once. None of the frozen plant material was inside.

Malcolm entered first, stepping over the threshold of the hatchway. It was a self-contained chamber, barely the size of a large cell. At the far end was a second, smaller hatchway; the side walls were angled outwards, but no sublimated gases coated them.

The lieutenant refused to jump as a mechanical sound reverberated behind him, but he spun to confront it. The hatch was shutting itself; a delayed second later, he heard the recognizable sound of gas being pumped into the room.

But no life forms moved.

"Readings, Private?" Malcolm asked, completing his second security sweep.

Maroney took the readings from her handheld scanner. "It's pressurizing, sir," she reported. "Oxygen nitrogen atmosphere. Ambient temperature is increasing quickly. It should be breathable…now, sir," she added.

One of the first lessons in Starfleet tactical training is don't be stupid. Thus, Malcolm double-checked the atmospheric readings on his own scanner before releasing the catch on his faceplate. "A little stale," he noted, "but breathable."

"Sir, I'm reading biosigns!" Maroney reported. "Very faint, as if it's dying. They're coming from the next chamber."

Malcolm's eyes shifted towards the glowing green hatchway.

"This must be some kind of shuttlecraft," Travis said in impressed quietness. Entering the craft had required little effort; now, as he swept the interior with his flashlight, he noted with amazement the sleek lines and understated deadliness of the small vessel.

"More likely an assault vehicle," Hayes countered. "I'm reading half a dozen launch systems. I doubt they're all for survey probes. There's something here that looks like a particle cannon as well."

"This must be the pilot's seat." Travis whistled slowly. There was no helm, as he recognized it; instead, in front of the jump seat was a single console with a lever on either side. It looked like an old atmospheric system.

Their intercoms buzzed simultaneously. "This is Lieutenant Reed. We've found something."

Five humans and one Vulcan stood silent in the chamber, staring at the alien beauty surrounding them.

Along every wall were bulging half-spheres, glowing greenish-white from within. Movement could be seen in the light, as indistinct blobs floated in what must have been a liquid medium. More spheres, smaller this time, hung draped from the ceiling, wrapped up in netting made of the plant material. These spun slowly, pulsating with a soft glow, yellowish-green this time. And amid these otherworldly displays, a network of recognizable computer consoles ringed the floor.

Unsurprisingly, T'Pol spoke first, dashing the sense of mystical awe. "The DNA inside those sacs matches the bodies we found earlier," she noted. "They would appear to be in the pupae stage of development."

"The crew's offspring, perhaps?" Malcolm suggested. While the Enterprisedidn't carry children, it definitely wasn't unheard of.

"This room is almost like a nursery," Travis added. He set his helmet down on a console and started working the controls. "I suppose for insects it would be called a hatchery."

"Whatever it is, they built it to take quite a beating," Malcolm noted in response. "Reinforced bulkheads, back-up power systems…it's the only part of this vessel that's still operational." The low hum of generators supported his analysis. "I wouldn't be surprised if this room is better protected than our own sickbay."

T'Pol had begun circling the room, scanning the sacs individually. "Thirty-one pupae are still viable," she observed. The green-hued glows cast a devilish light across her pointed ears.

"They won't survive long," Travis called out from the control console. "Most of these readings are…alien, but it looks like the bio-support is losing power."

T'Pol turned from her studies. "Can you repair it, Ensign?" she asked with her usual, understated evenness.

"I wouldn't even know where to start," Travis admitted uncomfortably. "I can't even read most of these controls. Commander Tucker may be able to make some sense out of it."

"Understood." T'Pol took a second to catalogue the necessary tasks in her head. "Ensign, you reported that there is a shuttlecraft in their port bay. Get it back to the ship. When you return, dispatch Commander Tucker and Ensign Sato; Corporal McKenzie, you go with him."

She shifted her eyes. "Lieutenant Reed and Major Hayes, conduct an analysis of their tactical systems. Private Maroney, you'll stay here with me." A round of acknowledgments returned, and the various members of the landing party quickly departed into the dark, frozen tunnels to attend to their assigned tasks.

T'Pol stepped forward to a cluster of dangling sacs and, mystified, held one in her hand. It pulsed with noticeable warmth, and she thought she could detect a bioelectrical charge; in fact, she realized, if I concentrate…

Under the powerful thrust of its twin engines, Shuttlepod One pushed itself off the planet's surface. At the far end of a durable towing cable was the insectoid pod; it was slightly larger than the Enterprise's auxiliary craft, with a higher mass and weight. The Starfleet shuttle was not designed for this sort of duty, and Travis had to push its engines into the red zone to maintain sufficient forward velocity, countering the heavy drag that burdened them from behind. The tow cable itself was made of a new-age duranium polymer; only several meters were even in existence, and Captain Archer had requisitioned the entire length for their mission into the Delphic Expanse.

Between Travis' steady hands on the helm and the razor-fast corrections of the inertial dampeners, the shuttle drew a stability that fought with the turbulence from the howling engines. Despite the best efforts of the skilled pilot, some volatility was inevitable; and one such stroke of gut-wrenching torque resulted in an audible thud from the rear portion of the shuttle's cabin.

Travis didn't dare take his eyes off the controls. "Can you secure our guests?" he shouted out, sending the words floating over his shoulder.

Behind him, Corporal McKenzie released her own seat restraints and stepped over to the body bag that had fallen to the floor of the shuttle. Frowning, she kicked it cautiously, once, then twice.

"I think it's safe to assume that it's dead!" Travis added, keeping his voice loud.

"Just being cautious!" McKenzie replied over the ruckus of the shuttle. Satisfied that the corpse had not come back to life, she slid both arms underneath and hoisted the burden back onto the opposing bench. Two sets of restraining straps would serve to hold it in place. "Certain insects on Earth are known to hibernate, sir. I wouldn't want this bastard to wake up on us!" She drew her phase pistol and trained it on the body.

Travis saw it in the corner of his eye, and burst into a heart-felt laugh. "Do you intend to shoot me, Corporal?" he asked, wiping away a tear.

McKenzie's words were serious, but she was smiling too. "Do I need to be worried about you, sir?"

"I did beat you at our last sparring match," Travis retorted, referring to the twice-weekly practice sessions between the Starfleeters and the MACOs.

"I gave it to you," McKenzie replied. "I grew tired of seeing that embarrassed look on your face!"

Travis glanced back at the blond woman. "You're on for next Monday, Corporal!" he pronounced firmly. Mayweather knew to bring the conversation to an end; in a couple seconds…

"Enterprise to Shuttlepod One." Hoshi's voice was on the comm. "You're clear for approach."

"Acknowledged," Travis answered, becoming serious again. "We're on approach."

"Come in," Archer ordered, slowly climbing to his feet. He was giving real consideration to a change in shipboard policy: prohibiting anyone, and absolutely anyone, from entering his ready room. He could always take reports in the short hallway outside, or on the bridge; if it required privacy, there were a dozen nooks on A-deck alone that would suffice. And that way, he could preserve his closet-sized office as a private retreat…

"What do we have?" the captain asked as Travis Mayweather and Trip Tucker entered the small room.

"I think we figured out what happened to them," Travis stated as he came to a formal halt. Travis looked a little wore out; piloting the Enterprisethrough the Expanse was a stress-racked job on the best of days, and the ensign had a habit of volunteering for extra duty.

Trip, who was coming off a sickbay-mandated half-day vacation, looked far more rested and energized. "One of their nacelles fractured long before they crashed," he said. "The stress points show microscopic damage consistent with one of their subspace vortexes. You have to fly precisely through those things, or else…" he modeled with his hands. "The sheering forces can tear a ship apart."

"It looks like they emerged from the vortex close to this planet, and tried to make an emergency landing," Travis added. "But they came down too fast."

Archer absorbed the information as they spoke. He recognized that the conclusions were still tentative; verification would require a great deal more time and energy—resources that they might not have. "Phlox has delivered a preliminary autopsy on the corpses. He says that they weren't killed in the crash, but suffocated instead."

It was a question phrased as a statement. "Yes, sir," Travis agreed. "It looks like the life support systems survived the initial crash, but the crew transferred the support to the hatchery."

"They sacrificed themselves to ensure their children's survival," Trip filled in. "I'm not sure that it'll do much good, although. According to the readings Travis brought back, the hatchery's losing its own life support."

"How long?" Archer asked warily.

"Another day, at most." Trip shrugged. "I'd have to look at it personally."

"When you get down there, make it your first priority," Archer ordered.

"Sir—" Trip's face became masked in confusion. "We're racing against the clock on our mission, Captain. Are you sure it's a good idea to waste time on this? Every day we spend here gives them more time to finish that damned weapon!"

Archer choked back the slowly building rage. "This is a sentient species, Commander. We can't walk away and let them die."

"Captain, with all due respect, why the hell not?" Trip burst out angrily. "These are Xindi! I've got half a mind to take a plasma torch to that place!"

"Commander." Archer's voice became ice cold. "This is a nursery, filled with infants who have never even heard of us, much less have anything to do with the weapon! I'm not going to condemn them on the basis of their racial affiliation! We have a moral duty to preserve life—even if it's the life of a putative enemy! And damnit, I'm not sacrificing another principle! At least, not today!" The captain was breathing heavily by the time he finished.

"Sir, this is crazy." Trip was knocked back, but he wasn't done. "These people are trying to kill us! Why should we do them a favor?"

"This isn't open for discussion, Commander." The captain didn't often resort to the death stare with his crewmembers, but he pulled it out now. "Either do your duty or take a leave of absence."

It was one of the rare days in the Delphic Expanse that main sickbay was empty of patients. Between missions gone awry and the continuing presence of gravimetric distortions, Doctor Phlox was accustomed to having a regular stream of crewmembers, some briefly, and others for lengthier stays. The emptiness meant that things had been going relatively well as of late.

It also meant that fewer people were around while he dissected the insectoid corpse. Phlox knew that many humans had an instinctive repulsion to insects, and a human-sized sentient one triggered long-buried fears in the human crew. He had gone so far as to release most of his medical staff for the duration; the constant, surreptitious looks of fear and anger created an atmosphere of palpable tension within the room, and Phlox could do without it.

His Denobulan hearing detected the faint whooshing of the doors sliding open, and Phlox took a second to secure the grip of his clamps before looking under his arm. "Ah, Captain!" he said brightly, welcoming the new arrival.

Archer's wan face smiled at the warm greeting. "At ease, Doctor. I just wanted to check in." He came to a stop beside the doctor.

The grip secured, Phlox set down his tools. "I've learned quite a bit about this fascinating fellow," he replied, quite pleased with his progress. "Although 'fellow' might be the wrong word…their species is genderless."

Archer leaned down over the giant insect, trying to make sense of its exposed physiology. "Then who made all those eggs?"

"They reproduce asexually," Phlox answered. "Each adult appears capable of producing multiple egg sacs. Given the potential numbers, I wouldn't be surprised if every insectoid vessel has a hatchery."

"I thought their population was struggling with numbers," Archer countered, catching the discrepancy.

"Ah, that's because of a short life span." Phlox's fascination was expressed in his tone. "I'd estimate their life span to be no more than…twelve or so Earth years. In fact, this individual may be one of the elder members of the crew; it was nearly ten years old!"

"Breed fast and die young," Archer observed. It was a familiar pattern in many biosystems, albeit rare for a sentient species. Of course, nothing about the Xindi races fits the norm. "What about the hatchery below? Can you tell when the pupae will mature?"

"Not without more information, Captain." Phlox seemed crestfallen. "I would need to study their incubation cycle at length to make a solid prediction. If it follows a pattern similar to lower insect forms…a week or so."

"Understood, Doctor. Keep me apprised—and try to give me a warning before those babies mature."

"Are we ready?" Commander Tucker shouted across the alien hatchery. With his arrival had come a bevy of engineering equipment and three additional engineers. The engineering team had quickly set up base in the chamber, and now Starfleet equipment and computers were dispersed throughout the room in a manner hopefully consistent with restoring the biosupport systems.

"Just a few seconds, Commander!" The response came from one of the technicians, manning a power flux regulator. It was important to get the power flow calibrated exactly; too much would overload the insectoid systems and trigger a cascade failure. Too little would simply hasten the power drain.

"Take your time!" Trip replied. "Let's get this right!"

A moment later, the all-clear signal came.

"Let's kick this off!" Trip ordered. He still felt conflicted about saving Xindi, be they babies or not; but the opportunity to solve an engineering puzzle was something he relished. "Start us off at forty megajoules!" As he gave the order, the power flow was opened, and the energy flowed into the hatchery's networks. In the center of the room, the primary control console started glowing, beginning with a dark, luminescent blue, and gradually built towards a lighter shade of ultramarine.

"Keep an eye on that matrix converter!" Trip called out. He was getting excited; the power grid was holding, and appeared ready for more. "Take it up to fifty megajoules!"

More systems started to light up as they came to life, adding to the ambient glow of the hatchery, but Trip's trained ears could hear a building distortion. "What's the flux reading?" he shouted out, turning rapidly to address—and before he could reach it, a ring of minor explosions ripped through the power taps. "Shut it down! Shut it down!"

As the thrumming sounds terminated abruptly, one of the dangling sacs burst open, spraying the room with fluid.

"What happened?" Trip called out, scrambling to run his own diagnostic as his technicians checked their readings.

"There was a surge in the power grid, Commander!"

Trip cursed silently; he had considered adding a second flux regulator to compensate for potential surges, but his eagerness had gotten the best of him. We'll just have to give it a second shot, he told himself. For a first try, it had actually gone relatively well.

"We have a problem, Commander!" a voice shouted. "Over here!"

Trip nearly slipped on the thick fluid as he darted towards the summons; one of his people was kneeling on the floor, beneath the burst sac.

But it wasn't the Starfleeter who was injured.

On the floor lay two insectoid babies. They were smaller than his hand, but recognizable nonetheless. One was completely motionless; the other twitched slightly. The fall from above had been over two meters; and undoubtedly, their exoskeletons were not yet fully developed. "Shit," Trip muttered, and the second insect went still.

"For what it's worth, sir, I think I figured out the problem." Tucker had returned to the shuttlepod to make his report to the captain; the comm relays boosted the signal to considerable clarity. "Our converters can't adapt to their power grid. We'll have to take a couple units apart and modify them by hand."

"How long?" Archer asked. His face was framed in the shuttle's comm viewing panel.

"It's going to take at least three days," Trip answered glumly. "Captain…" following their last conversation, he was a little hesitant to speak up; but it needed to be said. "Sir, can we really afford that much time?"

Archer sighed audibly. "Do we have any other engineering options? What about their reactor? Can we get it back online?"

Trip shook his head. "It would be a bitch and a half just to figure it out," he replied. "And if we somehow managed to get it working, well, they're plum out of fuel. It looks like they use a standard matter/anti-matter system, but the storage pods are flat out of anti-matter."

"Could we transfer any of ours?" Archer asked across the channel.

Trip couldn't ignore the feeling that things were going from bad to worse; somehow, he had to convince the captain that their only good option was to abandon the hatchery, but Archer seemed stuck on saving those things. "To get that reactor running again, we'll have to use a third of our own reserves."

"Why so much?" Archer asked skeptically. "We don't need to get it flying, just enough to power life support."

"Every system on that ship is integrated," Trip explained. "The only way to bring biosupport back online is to power up the whole shebang."

"A third?" Archer replied, turning it over in his mind. "See if you can find us another option, Trip."

Trip grunted loudly as he kicked the recalcitrant panel. His boot left a sizable dent in the sheet, but failed to dislodge it.

"Physically abusing the equipment will not make it more cooperative," T'Pol observed, materializing beside the engineer.

Trip looked at the Vulcan, thought for a second, and kicked the panel again.

"I take it the captain did not agree with your assessment?" T'Pol asked.

Her composure drove nails beneath Trip's skin. "He agreed with part of it," he growled. Frustrated with the equipment, he let his dynospanner clatter to the floor. "He's not willing to part with so much anti-matter, but he's insistent on saving these bugs."

"There are lives at stake here," T'Pol noted. "It would go against the captain's values to abandon them."

"And there are billions of lives at risk on Earth, T'Pol!" Trip shouted with exasperated fury. "And we're just wasting our time sitting here, trying to help them breed more Xindi to throw at us!"

T'Pol kept her poise. "It is irrational to conclude that these Xindi would automatically become our enemies as well, Commander," she countered. "And it violates some of Earth's most basic tenets to hold one member of a species accountable for the actions of others, solely on account of their racial kinship."

"I know, T'Pol," Trip growled. "But wasn't it a Vulcan who said, 'the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few'? Well, these bugs are the few, and those people back on Earth are the many."

"I believe you are misapplying Surak's maxim," T'Pol retorted. It made her a little sore. "Surak also stated that a single life is precious, beyond the cold calculus of mathematics. To hold otherwise would deny the inviolability of life. Not to mention that the threat to the few is immediate, while the threat to the many is prospective."

"Anything else?" Trip answered harshly.

"Yes," T'Pol replied mildly. "You are assuming a false dichotomy—an either-or situation, when additional alternatives may exist." She titled her head. "Such an assumption seems to be a very human tendency."

Trip growled back.

"Captain!" With the majority of the senior bridge crew attending to the crashed insectoid craft, the second-shift operators had been called onto duty. Archer, standing watch for the—fourteenth?—straight hour was pleased to note that they barely lost a step; while the senior staff was still the best, their many months in the Delphic Expanse had drilled the backup crew into a comparable level of efficiency.

"What is it?" Archer was on his feet, even as he spoke. He had been sitting on pins and needles for the last several hours, knowing that time was short; eventually, another Xindi craft would be arriving, looking for their missing comrades.

"A subspace vertex is opening off the port bow, sir!" Ensign Rahimi reported. In Malcolm's absence, she had the tactical controls.

"Tactical alert," Archer ordered immediately. He turned to Crewman Sorenson at the comm. "Notify the landing party!" The alarm siren overlapped with Sorenson's acknowledgement.

"They're emerging! It's insectoid, sir. Reading comparable make to the ship on the surface!"

At least we know how they're armed, Archer thought as the Enterpriseshook under the blow of the alien weaponry. The insectoids were wasting no time in pleasantries. Whether they had anticipated the presence of the Enterprise, or simply stayed on constant combat footing, he didn't know; nor did he care to figure it out at the moment.

"Return fire!" Archer ordered, standing tall in the well of the bridge. "Load a spread of torpedoes. Target their impulse manifolds!" It was one of many pieces of intelligence they had garnered from the wreck.

"Ready, sir!" Rahimi replied a moment later.

"Fire!"

Four photonic torpedoes leapt out from the forward tubes, crossing the gap in a scarce second. The first went wide, but the remaining three struck home, knocking the insectoid craft from it path.

"They're veering away, sir!" Rahimi reported momentarily as the captain watched the action on the viewscreen. "Their main deflector is charging!"

"They're trying to re-open the vortex, sir!" This came from Crewman Gunderson, standing duty at science.

"Stop them!" Archer ordered.

Before Rahimi could respond, the insectoid craft vanished into a ripple. "Damnit!" Archer growled. Their presence was no longer unknown; when the enemy vessel returned to the other end, it would spread the word that the Enterprisewas orbiting the planet below—a planet which contained the recent wreckage of another insectoid ship, and very possibly held live pupae. We don't have any more time, Archer realized. We'll be up to our asses in insects before we know it.

Commanders T'Pol and Tucker were crowded in the cockpit of the shuttlepod, listening to the captain's news with building dismay; when he finished, they gave each other a momentary side look.

"I know what you're asking, sir," Trip began cautiously. "But to pack up all our supplies and transfer everything back to the Enterprisewill take a couple hours." The bulk of the time was required for disengaging the Starfleet equipment from the insectoid systems.

"And there is far more to learn still," T'Pol noted with her customary poise. "Ensign Sato has barely begun downloading the computer database."

"I wish I had better news for you," Archer answered. His head filled the center of the viewing panel. "But we're out of time. I need your teams back on board before the Xindi return."

"Aye, sir," Trip answered unwillingly. "We'll get to work on it."

Hoshi watched with mesmerized delight as the data stream flowed through the buffers, radiating a steady, thrumming pulse of green-hued light from within the translucent conduit. If she watched closely, she imagined, she could see the individual data packets traveling from one end to the other; each smaller than an atom, composed of quantum particles, etched with the knowledge of an alien civilization, and she would be the first human to ever see it.

"Ensign Sato!" She was also the senior-most officer in the hatchery; the commanders were gone for a discussion with the captain, and Lieutenant Reed was elsewhere. So Hoshi tore her gaze away to answer the shouted hail of the technicians.

"What is it?" Hoshi asked. The technicians were standing still, equally mesmerized. Hoshi followed their gaze, and quickly understood why.

The dangling sacs were beginning to fracture. Tiny cracks ripped through the surfaces, crackling outwards in the delicate weave of a web. The light from within shone through with greater force, and seemed to wedge the cracks still further, expanding and breaking them with sudden sparks.

As Hoshi watched, some of the birthing liquid began to trickle out, dripping down to the floor underneath. She noted with amazement that the liquid itself was a milky-white; and as it drained from within, the lights leapt to life, shining with brilliant force. Hoshi could feel the warmth of the glow, and realized with delight that it was the equivalent of an insectoid heat lamp, designed to provide life-giving tenderness to the maturing pupae.

"Ensign, we have to—" Trip's loud words were cut off by a half-dozen shushing noises as he entered. He followed their eyes, and saw the splinters that were rapidly shattering the sacs. Even his hardened hatred of the Xindi seemed to disappear behind the miracle unfolding.

The sacs continued to fracture, until one came apart completely, dropping several pieces of thickened membrane to the floor. Inside, a baby insectoid—roughly the size of a humanoid hand—was wrapped around a stalk. The human crew watched, spellbound, as the newborn slowly stretched out its legs, amazed to no longer find the resistance of the sac's walls; and it pulled itself upwards, finding the dangling vines that had supported its prepubescent home. The insect skittered upwards, quickly finding its legs, and disappeared into the darkness along the ceiling.

"That's everything, sir," Trip reported as he crawled out of the crammed shuttlepod. The captain had left the bridge to greet them upon their return. "If they look closely, they'll find traces of us in their systems, but there's no hardware—or software—left for them." He handed Archer a bulky power generator from within.

The captain good-naturedly took the heavy piece of equipment. "Good work, Trip," he answered. "How much of the survey were we able to complete?"

"Hoshi reports that she got almost two-thirds of the computer database," Trip replied. Freed from the cramped confines, he placed his hands behind his kidneys and stretched his torso. "T'Pol would point out that its sixty-four-point-seven-two percent of the estimated data storage."

"What about engineering and tactical?" Feeling the ache of a dozen old injuries, Archer set the power generator down with a thud.

"We completed the first survey sweep." Together, the two men stepped into the corridor and away from the hubbub of the cargo teams unloading the shuttle. "We identified the primary systems and did the basic stress analyzes. We only got part-way through the in-depth diagnostics before you called, although." In essence, they knew what systems the insect craft had; but they hadn't figured out how those systems worked.

"It's not bad for a rush job, Trip," Archer commented. The corridor jogged a meter to the left before resuming. "You did a good job, getting as much as we did."

"I know, Captain," Trip replied with a sheepish grin. "I just wish we could've gotten more, ya know? Who knows, we might've been able to hold off that second ship, and stayed long enough to gather the rest of the data."

"Luck was on our side the first time, Commander," Archer replied. "We weren't going to get the element of surprise again, and you saw their weapons systems: I'm not sure that we could've survived a pitched battle."

"I suppose, sir." They rounded the corner and entered the curving arc of the outside corridor. "It was a little odd, seeing those babies," Trip said, his voice lowered. "I gotta say, Captain…it doesn't feel right, letting them live like that."

Archer gave his engineer a concerned glance. "They're just babies, Trip."

"But they're Xindi babies, Captain. You know that they'll be raised as cannon fodder to throw at us. With what Phlox said about their life cycles, those babies could be pointing guns at us in a year." Trip mimicked the action of a phase rifle.

"They're not big enough to tote rifles just yet, Trip," Archer replied. "And I really hope this mission is over before they are."

"Yea, but…" Trip shrugged his shoulders. "Even after we finish this mission, and destroy that weapon, the Xindi are still going to be gunning for us. And today's babies are tomorrow's soldiers."

Archer gestured Trip through a doorway. "My advice to you, Commander, is that you have to start cutting yourself some slack," the captain answered. "And learn to recognize the small victories when we get them."

Trip looked around in confusion. "What are we doing in the mess hall?"

"You're off-duty for the evening, Commander," Archer answered with a gracious smile. "And I hear that Chef made a special today."

"Are those your orders, sir?" Trip asked with a crooked grin.

"They sure are. And enjoy the rutabaga pie."

The Enterprise, having originally been chartered as a ship of scientific exploration, had no shortage of research labs; definitely enough so that Hoshi Sato, as a member of the senior staff, had long ago adopted one as her favored workplace. It was here that Jonathan Archer found his communications officer, working long into the dead of the night.

"Ensign," he greeted Hoshi as he entered. The petite Asian woman was hunched over a desk, studying insectoid glyphs at eyelevel. She sat up and leaned backwards; Archer could hear Hoshi's spine crack from across the room. "How's it going?" he asked with a friendly smile.

"I think I have the translation matrix down, sir," Hoshi replied, smiling wanly. Her face showed her weariness; in the day and a half since they left the Xindi craft, Ensign Sato had scarcely been seen outside of her lab. In concern, Phlox had even taken to delivering meals to her.

Archer had known Hoshi for several years prior to joining on board the Enterprise, back to the days when he had tried to coax the young doctoral student to set down her work for a night of carousing. Chance encounters thereafter had sparked a friendship, and when Archer learned that he was to be given command of Starfleet's first NX-class starship, he dug deeper into Hoshi's credentials.

What he learned was nothing short of amazing: the studious young woman was a true prodigy at linguistics, displaying savant-level skill in the field. Like many other savants, he knew, she had to be given the leeway to work according to her own pace and style; which at times meant a manic, days-long focus on her material. And it didn't hurt that Phlox was providing regular medical checks.

Hoshi leaned back in her chair, and pushed several strands of loose hair from her face. "But the translation was the easy part, Captain," she continued. "Their encryption protocols are unlike anything I've seen before." The same skills that made her a potent linguist—the ability to understand the structure and patterns of another being's thinking—also made her a talented cryptographist. "But I think we struck a rich lode. I'm finding things in here that look like highly-classified files."

"That's great news, Hoshi," Archer replied. "I'm sure you'll have it in no time…have you found anything that looks like navigational logs?" Even partially-obscured logs would help Travis piece together their ongoing map of the Delphic Expanse.

"Not yet, sir," Hoshi apologized. "At least, I think I've found the files, but I have to create a matrix for them. The insectoids use a radically different mapping system. Their compound vision creates maps that a human mind can't cope with."

"Very well, Ensign. Keep up the good work." Archer turned to leave.

"Captain…" Hoshi's hesitant voice caught him in the doorway. "Do we know if another insectoid vessel has found the crash site?"

Archer couldn't help but smile. "You're concerned about the babies, aren't you?" Hoshi nodded. "Long-range sensors suggested that another ship did arrive. Those babies should be in good hands by now."

"Thank you, sir," Hoshi answered gratefully. Hunching back over, she returned to her work.

November

"It took a while, but I think we finally got it figured out," Trip said as he applied gentle pressure to the inside of T'Pol's heel. His fingers moved in a slightly-circular fashion, stimulating the neural nodes that resided just beneath the skin. "We can reroute the system taps and compress the anti-matter stream before it reaches the injector."

"That will stabilize the warp field?" T'Pol asked, her voice soft. It was as if she didn't want to disturb the haze of serenity in her quarters.

"Every simulation I run comes back with the same result," Trip affirmed. "We'll be able to cruise at warp five-point-zero with no field fluctuation. I'm talking about a ride so smooth you could build a house of cards on the warp reactor." The engineer had good reason to be ecstatic: the gravimetric anomalies had plagued the Enterprise's warp drive since nearly day one, forcing them into lengthy detours around the distortion fields. With a solution finally in place…

"If we can maintain high warp for extended periods, we can cover the Delphic Expanse more quickly," T'Pol noted. She lay parallel to Trip, applying the same massage therapy to him.

"And that boosts our chances of finding that damned Xindi weapon in time." The centered feeling slipped away from Trip for a moment as he thought about the weapon.

T'Pol snorted a breath of air and stiffened as Trip pressed too hard. "To the left."

"Oh, sorry," Trip replied, easing the pressure. He took a deep breath to re-center himself; the delicate aromas of scented candles played on his senses, easing the feelings of strain and tension. "You get me talking about the engines and I forget where I am," he added apologetically.

"Perhaps we should talk about something else," T'Pol offered. She continued the circular motions. Her low-grade touch telepathy could sense the human relaxing under her fingertips.

"I don't know what it is about fine-tuning a piece of machinery," Trip said reflectively. "But there's something about it that's just fascinating, you know? To see the different parts come together, working as one, accomplishing a task…and knowing that I did that."

"Lie on your back," T'Pol ordered.

Almost unbidden, Trip rolled away, shuffling his body into a new position of comfort. Both shoulder blades were on the mat, with his back flat against the deck; he angled his knees until T'Pol pushed them down firmly. "You know, you made this sound a whole lot worse than it is," he remarked.

T'Pol knelt above his head, her knees beside his ears. "Advanced massage therapy can place great demands on the body," she stated as she pressed her fingers along either side of his neck. "You have come a long ways since we began."

The warmth of her nearness helped soothe Tucker's frazzled body. "Well, I have to say that so far, it's been a piece of cake."

"We have yet to try some of the more challenging postures," T'Pol answered. She leaned forward, placing her hands on his lower ribcage.

Trip looked up at the underside of her breasts. "Well, I'm always up for a challenge."

"Breath," T'Pol commanded.

Tucker closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and felt the daily aggravation slip away beneath T'Pol's touch.

"Tucker to the bridge."

"Archer here."

"We're all set down here, sir," Trip reported. He was in main engineering. The simulations had been run, and the modifications were made, checked, and verified; they were ready for the first live test. Commander Tucker had a full twenty-man engineering crew on duty for the test run; a dozen stood watch in the engineering compartment, while the remaining eight were stationed at various intervals along the anti-matter relays.

In order to maintain the required gravimetric value inside a distortion field, the anti-matter stream had to be severely compressed before it even reached the injector assembly; this required that the relays be lined with magnetic constrictors, reaching all the way back to the primary anti-deuterium storage tank. This, is turn, meant that any number of localized field variations could thwart the stream compression; every centimeter had to be watched closely.

"Remember, Travis, we need to hit warp four-point-nine," Trip called out over the intercom. They needed to trigger a sufficient flow of anti-matter before the compression effect would kick in.

"Understood, Commander," the navigator responded. Travis had been briefed earlier, but last-minute checks were a staple of any experimental work.

"On your order, Commander," Archer added.

"Aye, sir!" Trip checked the readings at the anti-matter injector assembly one last time before continuing. "Take us to warp, Travis! Use a steady acceleration curve!"

"Aye, sir!" Travis' voice came back over the intercom. Behind Trip, the powerful matter/anti-matter reactor started thrumming as the volatile fuel rushed in.

"Reports!" Trip's voice rang out across engineering.

"Crossing warp two!"

"Reactor ratio holding steady at one-to-one!"

"Stream flow increasing, as per specs!"

"Crossing warp three!"

"No variation!"

"Warp four…four-point-five, point-six, point-seven—"

"Reactor ratio is fluctuating, Commander!" Trip could feel the ship begin to vibrate around him as the thrumming of the core grew unsteady. On the injector monitor before him, the stream symbolically grew red-hot. "Increasing quickly!"

"Warp four-point-nine!"

That's it, Trip told himself. "Initialize stream compression!" he shouted as he hit the commands on his console. The computerized orders raced outward instantaneously, past the watchful eyes of the monitoring technicians, activating the constrictor sheathing down the length of the anti-matter relays.

On his monitor, the fat red stream morphed quickly, turning into a thin, white line, and the powerful thrumming quieted as the reactor balanced. "Damn, that's a beautiful sound," Trip whispered to himself. The first stage had gone according to plan.

"Field fluctuations have dropped to zero!" The confirmation came from one of his engineers, up on the control platform at the base of the reactor.

"Hold her here!" Trip called out. The reminder may have been unnecessary, but it was a reasonable precaution; now that the stream compression was initiated, it had to hold without variation.

Engineering shook suddenly, almost knocking Trip from his feet. The blare of alarms created instant racket, warning everyone that disaster beckoned. On the monitoring screen, the pencil-thin white line had disappeared; now, a thick and violent red line fired across.

The report came flying across engineering. "Something's flooding the intake manifolds!"

It's not a problem with the compression stream itself, Trip thought, mentally cataloguing the problem. The manifold—the last intake stage before the reactor itself—was clogged, causing a backwash and buildup within the anti-matter injectors.

Emergency action: cut the anti-matter flow. "Drop to impulse!" Trip shouted.

"We've lost helm control!"

Damn it.

"Commander, I read a primary injector flare!"

Shit.

"Emergency shut-down!" Trip yelled out as he pushed himself away from the monitoring station. The Enterpriseshook underfoot as he staggered across to the control platform. "Close the power taps and vent!"

As Trip clambered up the ladder, the engineering crew scattered and re-formed quickly as they shifted into containment mode. On the platform now, Tucker grabbed the railing as the ship shook again, and then jammed the manual control levers all the way down. A loud bang echoed through the compartment, announcing that the matter and anti-matter flows had been physically blocked.

But that left the potent fuel still in the engine system.

"Vent controls aren't responding, sir!" one of the technicians shouted out. "The flare's causing systems failures!" A billowing cloud of flaming gas erupted from the coolant conduits that stretched along the top of the reactor.

"Vent the deuterium internally!" Trip shouted as he jumped from the control platform. It was a last-ditch emergency maneuver: regular matter could be vented inside the ship, but the deuterium was highly flammable.

The shuddering increased as miniature explosions started ripping through the engineering compartment. As he staggered, Trip grabbed the rungs of a maintenance ladder; he climbed it with abandon, up to the top of the reactor itself.

Tucker dashed down the length, his arms splayed wide for stability. The air was nearly unbreathable; flashes of fire erupted around him as the hydrogen mixed with oxygen and flame. In a way, it was good news: it meant that the deuterium was successfully venting.

Another coolant conduit blew out behind Trip's feet, nearly tossing him into the coolant manifold. Flames washed over him, struggling to gain purchase on his fire-resistant coveralls. Amid the cacophony, Tucker reached down, grabbing the rim of the circuitry junction.

Reaching in, he yanked out the emergency shut-down valve. Without it in place, the injector manifold slammed shut, sealing the flow of matter and anti-matter before it reached the intermix chamber. Within seconds, the reactor would run out of fuel and the Enterprisewould drop from warp.

As Trip flung his legs over the side of the reactor, a massive explosion ripped down the length of a power conduit, sending the engineer flying back across the top of the reactor. Propelled helplessly by the force, he slammed into the platform railing on the far side before falling to the deck, far below.

He landed on his back, his head bouncing twice on the deck plating before coming to a rest.

The Enterprisescreamed to a stop as it fell from high warp into normal space.

"Fires reported on B and C deck!" Malcolm reported, his short tones snapping across the bridge. "Emergency crews in route!"

"We're at full stop, Captain!" Travis added from navigation. "Helm control is completely offline!"

"Captain!" Even T'Pol's voice rose slightly. "We're in the middle of a polarized, nucleonic field. It's approximately eleven thousand kilometers in diameter!"

"Is that what stopped us?" Archer demanded, turning back to T'Pol.

"Perhaps," she answered promptly. "I'll need more time to complete a detailed scan."

Hoshi, sitting at the comm, was monitoring internal communications. "Numerous injuries being reported, sir, throughout the ship! Mostly minor, except from engineering. Multiple serious injuries there!"

"Emergency crews report that all personnel have been evacuated from main engineering!" Malcolm added momentarily. "The compartment's been sealed, and is being vented!"

"Captain!" Archer's head whipped around, back to T'Pol. "The nucleonic particles are being drawn to the hull!"

"Polarize the hull plating!" Archer ordered.

"No effect, sir!" Malcolm reported a second later.

"What's the immediate danger, T'Pol?" Archer demanded.

"Recommend we purge the spatial intake manifolds and shut all exhaust ports, Captain!"

"Do it!" Moments later, the shuddering finally came to a stop.

Archer took a breath. "Status?"

"We appear to be safe for the moment, Captain," T'Pol replied. "It will take some time to assess the damage. As well, we must conduct a full sensor scan of the particle field."

"Phlox to Captain Archer."

The bridge fell silent. In the middle of a shipwide emergency, the doctor's attention was ordinarily on his patients. If he was hailing the bridge—

"Archer here," the captain answered. Trepidation ran cold in his veins. "Go ahead."

"Would you come down to sickbay, sir?" Phlox's disembodied voice replied. "We have a problem."

As the hours passed, the crew of the Enterprisewent about their business; damage control parties tended to fires, repair teams rebuilt bulkheads and conduits, and the medical staff tended to the injured, fighting to save every casualty that came through their doors.

For Archer, it was a rare good feeling amid the left turn they had just taken. His crew was responding alertly and precisely, tending to their duties with a minimum of fuss and direction from above. It eased his mind, at least in one regard; but it also left him free to dwell on other problems, for which he was not grateful.

"Commander." Archer tilted his head in the Vulcan tradition as he greeted T'Pol. It had taken two hours to vent the engineering compartment, then another to re-pressurize it; but now his first officer was inside, personally overseeing the repair efforts. He found her at a shattered bulkhead, directing a laser welder. "Report."

T'Pol straightened up from her hunched posture. "When we entered the field, nucleonic particles flooded the reactor manifold. The resulting disruption caused a flare in the anti-matter injectors." She handed the captain a data padd containing a detailed damage report. "We narrowly avoided an anti-matter containment breach."

Archer accepted the report with aplomb. "How much time before we can get the engines back online?"

"Unknown," T'Pol admitted. "We're still running diagnostics. The damage is significant."

"You'll be supervising the repairs, T'Pol," Archer said softly. "I've just come from sickbay. Trip's in a coma."

From his ready room window, Archer could contemplate the particle field that enveloped his ship; an earthy mixture of orange and brown hues, seemingly whispery and vaporous, it looked like the clouds of Hades. I need to get a grip on myself, Archer realized, but it was hard. His closest friend was lying in sickbay, and the prognosis uncertain.

The door chimes sounded, and the captain gratefully admitted the new arrival to his office. "Come in!"

Travis Mayweather entered the room. "Captain," he acknowledged. "The EV team has returned with a sample of the substance accumulating on the hull." He handed Archer a padd-sized section of tritanium sheeting; the outer surface appeared highly corroded, with a mottled, dark brown substance covering it to two centimeters' depth. "The entire hull looks like this, sir. There's some variation in density, but not a significant amount."

Archer turned the hunk over to inspect it more closely. "Any theories on how to get it off?"

"It took multiple hits with a phase rifle to dislodge localized amounts, Captain," Travis answered. "At that rate, we wouldn't be able to clean the entire hull before it grew back."

Archer squinted closely at the mottling. "Has Science determined what it is?" he asked.

"It's composed of highly charged particles, sir," Travis answered. He shifted slightly; he was not accustomed to giving science reports, but with Commander Tucker in sickbay, the entire command crew was shifting to different duties. "Mostly ferric ions, but there are several exotic elements that we can't identify."

As Archer set the sample on his desk, his coffee mug leapt across and fastened on with a metallic twing. "It's also highly magnetic," Travis added.

"Thank you, Ensign." Archer couldn't help but chuckle slightly; it was a relief to laugh, if only a little. "What's the danger to the ship?"

"So far, the danger is negligible," Travis answered. "Once we leave the field, we would need a couple days to clean the hull…but the longer we remain in the field, the more these particles will build up. Eventually, they'll eat through the hull plating. Once they reach the internal systems…"

"It'll wreck havoc," Archer replied, understanding. "Travis, let's hand this investigation over to Malcolm, and have you report to engineering. We need to get those engines online before it's too late."

Captain's Log, November 6, 2153. The engines are still down and the nucleonic particles continue to build up on the hull. It's been two days since Commander Tucker was taken to sickbay, and Doctor Phlox reports no medical progress.

"Commander?" Travis spoke hesitantly as he ducked under a girder. T'Pol had been…well, Travis thought, if she were human, I'd say she was distracted. But that Vulcan discipline should be too potent…right?

T'Pol took a second before she turned to face the ensign. "What is your report?" she asked formally.

Travis handed her a data padd. "I have the wave guides for the primary port bypass. I think I've made some progress, but I need you to check it over."

She accepted the padd and glanced over the numbers. "This looks promising," she noted. But her voice was quieter than usual, and Travis had surreptitiously slipped a computational error into the figures.

T'Pol didn't catch it.

"Commander T'Pol?" Travis looked at her, trying to catch her eyes. "Hey, Chef is showing 'A Night at the Opera' tonight. It's a classic Marx Brothers. Maybe you should take the night off and watch it."

She didn't look up. "I'll be reviewing the field coil equations. They need to be finished in time for tomorrow's reactor test."

"Ah." Travis fidgeted, but he didn't leave. "What about dinner? I could use the company."

T'Pol didn't budge. "I appreciate the offer," she replied vacantly. Her attention was still fixed on her repair project. "But I'm afraid I have to work late into the evening. Ensign Masaro is running a diagnostic on the plasma assembly; I'd like you to assist her."

"Of course, Commander," Travis replied. He hesitated again before continuing. "Commander Tucker will be okay, sir. I have faith in Doctor Phlox."

T'Pol finally looked up from her work. "As do I, Ensign. But it is also illogical to believe that the doctor can fix every medical problem. Commander Tucker's injuries may be too severe."

"Commander…" Travis glanced around and lowered his voice. "You have friends here, Commander. We're concerned about you, that's all. We're human," he added with a smile.

T'Pol stifled a nascent facial expression. "I simply believe that our attention should be focused on the ship's engines, at least until the current situation is resolved. However…" she glanced around as well, ensuring herself of secrecy. "Your concern is appreciated, Ensign."

"It's been seven days," Captain Archer said wearily as he pushed his desk chair back. "Can you give me some good news, T'Pol?"

T'Pol shifted her petite frame demurely. "Warp drive should be functional in two weeks," she offered.

"That doesn't fit the bill, Commander," Archer replied dryly. He cupped his hands behind his head and stretched; his spine cracked up and down the length of his back. "Two weeks won't be nearly soon enough."

"Captain…I was under the impression that we still had at least two weeks before corrosion breaches the hull," T'Pol answered, perplexed.

"Four days, Commander." Archer rocked forward, any trace of humor falling from his face. "I just spoke with Malcolm. The accumulation on the hull is generating a diamagnetic field. I don't need to tell you what that does to systems, T'Pol, and the effect is building. The more those particles accumulate, the more powerful the field becomes."

"I understand, Captain," T'Pol replied neutrally.

"We have four days, Commander." Archer softened his visage. "If we don't get out of here by then, every system on the ship will be offline. We'll be stranded here."

"Rutabaga pie," Travis said gratefully as he sliced off the tip with his fork. He set the tip—the 'delta'—aside to eat last, and sliced off another bite. "It's always been my favorite desert."

"I'd think it would be hard to preserve fresh rutabaga on a DY-100 cargo ship," Malcolm replied, referring to the ensign's childhood in space. For dinner, Lieutenant Reed had gone a different route; the night's desert line also included pineapple tarts, a childhood favorite of his own.

Travis' face puckered as he took the first bite. "I guess it's hard to preserve fresh rutabaga on an NX-class starship too."

"The cryo-stasis units aren't designed to work indefinitely," Malcolm observed. "I don't think any starship has put them through what we have." Tasting his tart, Malcolm gave an exaggerated smack of his lips. "Tastes like Tahiti."

"Thanks, Lieutenant," Travis replied wryly. He steeled himself and tried another bite.

"You wanted to ask me about something?" Malcolm queried. This was not just sharing a friendly desert; stranded in the nucleonic particle field, the crew kept working, even on their breaks.

"Yeah, I did." Travis put his fork down and pushed the pie aside. "Do you think it's possible to redirect the phase cannons so they can fire back along the hull?"

Malcolm pulled the schematics up in his head. "I suppose so," he answered, picturing the necessary firing angles. "It'll depend a little on exactly where you want to fire. But the problem is that they can't keep up with the rate of accumulation."

"I'm not interested in cleaning the entire hull, Lieutenant." Travis leaned in eagerly. "I just want to blast off enough of the particle buildup so we can open the launch bay doors."

Malcolm held a bite in his mouth to savor the flavor of the pineapple. "Is someone planning on going somewhere?" he asked, a little confused. The shuttlepods would fare no better in the particle field.

"All we need to do is build up enough momentum to get the ship out of here, right?" Travis explained excitedly.

"Well, sure," Reed admitted. "But what does that have to do with the shuttlepods?" There was a piece of reasoning that he couldn't quite identify.

"We've got two perfectly good engines sitting in the launch bay right now, Lieutenant." Travis' eyes shone bright. "If we string a couple of grappler lines between the shuttles and the ship, we can tow ourselves clear."

Malcolm frowned. The grappler lines were strong enough to do the job; that wasn't the problem. "The shuttlepods don't generate that kind of thrust, Ensign," he said gently. The idea had already been considered and rejected for that very reason. "We'd never build up enough momentum to get clear of the field in time."

Travis' expression didn't dim. "Leave that to me, Lieutenant," he replied, handing Malcolm a padd filled with equations.

Reed's eyes lit up as he perused the padd.

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?"

"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.

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 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.

"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.

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.

"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.

"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.

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.

"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.

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.

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."

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."

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've realigned the targeting scanners," Lieutenant Reed announced. It was, perhaps, unnecessary confirmation, but this procedure had never been attempted before; Malcolm was going to follow the protocols precisely. "They're set for close proximity. Target is locked."

"Charge up the cannons, Malcolm," Archer ordered. Unable to sit still, he was pacing the bridge. If this didn't work…they only had six hours left, and no other ideas.

"Phase cannons are charged and ready, sir."

"At your discretion, Lieutenant."

The ventral phase cannons were located on the port and starboard sides of the saucer, roughly two-thirds of the distance aft. EV crews had gone out earlier to clean the particle buildup from the cannons themselves; and now, the twin weapons spit out beams of energy, skirting the hull before the launch bay doors.

External viewers were offline; covered by the particle crud, they were useless, so the only measure of progress came from the launch bay itself. There, an engineering crew was manning the control booth, trying to trigger the doors open. The crew could only guess at what was occurring outside, as the phased energy beams charged the particles and blew them apart, separating them from the hull atom by atom.

"First volley is…finished," Malcolm announced as the cannons shut down to recharge.

"The doors are still frozen," T'Pol confirmed, reading the computer telemetry from the launch bay.

"Again, Malcolm," Archer ordered. "On your mark."

"Aye, sir," Malcolm acknowledged. The cannons had recharged, and he fired them again, unleashing another stream of energy against the particle crud covering the bay doors.

The second volley broke through. The particles were blasted from the doors, quickly enough that Malcolm had to cut the volley short; he knew he had undoubtedly left some black streaks on the bay doors, but they were free. "We should be clear, Captain," he announced.

"Launch bay doors are opening," T'Pol confirmed.

Archer nodded. "Bridge to shuttlepods One and Two," he called out after opening a comm channel. "You are clear to launch."

"Shuttlepod One, acknowledged," Travis answered, his voice slightly muffled.

"Shuttlepod Two, acknowledged," Ensign Hutchinson, the Enterprise's second-shift helmsman, added.

"Pods are away," T'Pol announced.

Archer looked back towards Malcolm. "It's your show, Lieutenant."

"Aye, sir," Malcolm replied. The next stage was to attach the grappler lines to the shuttlepods; even in clear space, it usually took two or three tries. The one advantage, which Malcolm was banking on, was that they'd been able to place high-powered transponders on both shuttles.

Reed shifted his console displays to the grapplers, and piped the first transponder signature into the targeting array. As per plan, Travis had gone approximately five hundred meters out, and was holding station at pre-arranged coordinates; the signal came through loud and strong, allowing Malcolm to latch on with precision.

"Grappler one is away," he announced, then, "I'm reading a firm lock."

"Firm on this end as well," Travis replied over the intercom. Travis shut down the transponder, so as not to confuse the targeting sensors.

Malcolm shifted his display to Shuttlepod Two, which was now holding position as well. The transponder signal was jumping slightly; likely due to some turbulence. That's not good, Malcolm knew. His target was only a couple meters wide, and spatial turbulence often buffeted shuttles across a larger degree of space than that.

"Reed to Hutchinson," he called out. "Can you stabilize?"

"Will try, Lieutenant," Hutchinson answered. "Can't give you more than a few seconds, although."

"Give me what you can," Malcolm replied, and he kept his eyes fastened on the signal. There. It stabilized. Without thought, his finger moved to fire the grappler.

"I have a firm lock," Hutchinson announced.

Malcolm sat back in his chair, feeling the relief. "Firm on this end as well, Captain," he reported.

"Good work, Lieutenant," Archer answered. "Travis, Hutch, whenever you're ready."

Travis had been born in space. Even in the mid-twenty-second century, it was rare; most humans still called terra firma their home, even if they spent considerable time in space.

But Travis was part of a new generation, a vanguard of the future: born and raised almost entirely in space, just as comfortable in the harsh interstellar medium as in the life-giving bosom of a planet. For him, there was only a slight degree of trepidation in this maneuver; he was in control.

He opened the direct link to Shuttlepod Two. "Set the overrun ratio," he commanded. "We'll start at zero-point-one-seven-five." It was, nonetheless, a tricky maneuver; the shuttlepod engines ran on miniature fusion reactors. To generate sufficient thrust, they had to be sent into controlled overload. The excess energy had to be channeled out as quickly as it was released; a couple stray particles could, well, instantly annihilate the shuttles.

And the Enterprise's salvation.

"Acknowledged, set at zero-point-one-seven-five," Hutchinson replied. "On your mark."

"Mark!" Travis ordered, and he hit the commands to release the intake valves on his engines. He could hear the unholy scream behind him as the power plant raced to overload; the engine gauges leaped into the red as temperature and pressure shot up in deadly fashion.

"Stand by to initiate thrust!" Travis raised his voice over the screaming shuttle. "Open at one thousand kilodynes!"

"One thousand kilodynes, on your mark!" Hutchinson shouted back.

"Initiate!" Travis shouted, and he hit the thrust controls. Behind him, vast amounts of power raced through the shuttle's engines, charging the little craft with the energy of a small star. "Thrust vector holding steady!" he reported.

The small shuttles thrust at the bit, but the great starship did not move.

"Increase to two thousand kilodynes!" Travis shouted. The shuttle was starting to vibrate around him with the strain, but he focused it out. "Engine temperature's rising!"

"I have zero forward momentum!" Hutchinson shouted back. Over the comm channel, Travis could hear the building racket behind his fellow pilot.

"Go to two thousand, five hundred!" Travis ordered as he entered the command on his own console. "Come on," he whispered. His engine temperature was nearing critical.

The captain's voice broke in. "We're still not moving, Travis!"

The shaking increased violently. Travis could feel the strain of the engines in his cells; the racket spoke to him quicker than the controls, which had shot off the chart.

But he had a feeling. "Hutch, increase the overburn ratio another thirty percent!" he ordered sharply.

"Ensign?" Hutchinson's questioning voice came back.

"Thirty percent, Hutch! Just do it!" Travis shouted. Together, the shuttlepods raced into fusion overload as they struggled to achieve a centimeter of forward thrust.

"Travis, stand by to abort!" Archer's voice was beyond concerned. "We have warning lights across the board!"

"I'm reading five hundred degrees above critical!" Hutchinson added, screaming.

Shuttlepod One was now rocketing laterally, shaking nearly beyond its constraints. Inside, conduits and circuitry were beginning to give under the pressure; Travis could feel the heat and smoke behind him, but the seat straps held him firmly even as the control board shook before his eyes.

"Hold on!" Travis shouted. "We need a few more seconds!" The shuttle quaked even more violently, and now things were banging around him, as the craft started to fall apart.

Travis kept his eyes glued on one reading. Forward thrust is…zero…he watched. Zero-point-two-six… "We have it!" he exclaimed. "I have forward velocity!"

"So do I!" Hutchinson responded momentarily. "I'm at twelve kilometers per hour and accelerating!"

"That's all we need, Travis!" Archer shouted. "Cut your engines!"

Very gratefully, Travis ejected the imploding fusion core. It powered itself a safe distance away before lighting up the particle cloud, and Travis brought the thrusters online to take him back home.

Captain's Log, supplemental. We have exited the nucleonic cloud. The particles on the hull are slowly disintegrating; T'Pol estimates that we will be completely free in nineteen hours.

Doctor Phlox reports that Commander Tucker has woken up from his coma.

Two days later

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."

"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?"

"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.

"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?"

"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.

"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.

"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."

"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, 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."

"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.

Trip felt like he was a million miles away; not with exultation, but with the entire surreal quality of it all. It was almost as if he was on stage, under the spotlights, a million miles away from anything he knew. His body was drained; he had given away every ounce of energy, and dried sweat clung to his body from the fervent love that they had made.

Later in the evening, Trip returned to his quarters, but could not sleep. He lie awake in his bed, his mind a mess of thought and confusion. Echoes of feeling rang in his head, some his, others not; even now, he could not separate where one ended and the other began. He closed his eyes, seeking solace in the day's last words; he remembered what she said.

Turn the page.