Blackened (1): The Thing That Should Not Be

by jtm1848

The Enterprise learns of the disaster on Earth, and departs for the Delphic Expanse.

– THE THING THAT SHOULD NOT BE –

Light-years away, the starship Enterprise glided through interstellar space, making its way on a meandering course toward an unexplored protoplasmic disk occupying the faint reaches between three, far-distant star systems. It promised to be a mission of great scientific value, adding to Earth's understanding of the forces that eventually came together to form a solar system; Captain Archer anticipated spending several days by the disk, studying it with the ship's sensors and, if fortunate, inserting a shuttlepod right into the nearly-still heart of the future star.

In Archer's mind, although, the real value was that this was new. The scientific value—understanding star formation, and the creation of solar systems—was good and beneficial; but after two years in space, Archer had gained a keen understanding that no amount of sensor readings or scientific analyzes could ever hope to rival the sheer beauty of seeing such a phenomenon with his own eyes, of being the first human to ever lay sight on such a thing. This was what brought him out here—the magical beauty of the heavens, on full display in their magisterial greatness. To be a citizen of the stars—

…

"I'm saying, you double-faulted on your last serve, Malcolm!" Charles "Trip" Tucker spoke with joking irritation as the two officers entered the Enterprise's briefing room. "The first ball tipped the net, and on the second ball, your foot crossed the line!"

"First of all," Malcolm Reed replied with equally-joking bristle, "I gave you the first one, because you needed the help. And as for the second—what do you expect, trying to play tennis in the rec deck? The room's not even big enough for half a court!"

"Lieutenant—" Trip put a stress on Malcolm's inferior rank. "If you have a problem with the rules of the game—"

"Of course not, Commander!" Malcolm replied, unable to completely suppress a smile. "Of course, I'm not the one manipulating them!"

Trip turned slightly to stare the shorter man in the eyes. "What are you trying to say, Malcolm? Are you accusing me of playing unfairly?"

Malcolm blanched momentarily before catching the twinkle in Trip's eyes. "Maybe I'm accusing myself of allowing you to play unfairly, sir!"

Trip lacked a retort, but was saved by the fortuitous entrance of Dr. Phlox and Ensign Hoshi Sato, the Enterprise's communications officer, linguistic specialist, and ad hoc xenoanthropological officer.

"Does anyone know what's going on?" Phlox, their Denobulan physician, asked with unconcealed curiosity as he took a seat. "I can't remember the last time the captain asked me to join the senior staff for a briefing."

"He's been pretty tight-lipped about it," Hoshi admitted as she sat down as well, facing the doctor's alien face across the table. "He's speaking to Admiral Forrest on subspace right now—it's the third time in the last hour. The only other time like this was—"

"The disaster at Paraagan II," Malcolm finished quietly, his words casting a quiet pall in the room. Almost exactly a year earlier, the Enterprisecrew had been accused—falsely, as it later turned out—of being responsible for the catastrophic shockwave that had wiped out the entire colony. "But we've been in deep space for several weeks now. I can't believe we've been involved in anything."

"Why must you assume that any lengthy communications from Starfleet Headquarters inevitably involve wrong-doing on the part of the Enterprise?" T'Pol's carefully-modulated tones carried just a hint of reprobation as she came through the doorway. "Such an assumption is only logical if you are habitually engaged in malfeasance."

Commander Tucker, with his back towards the Vulcan, rolled his eyes. "Of course not, T'Pol. Maybe they're talking about you. What have you been up to lately?"

T'Pol raised an eyebrow—apparently, the only facial gesture allowed for the dispassionate Vulcan race. "Such speculation is illogical, Commander. May I point out that the captain will tell us everything we need to know?"

"Well, yeah." Trip cracked a broad grin. "But where's the fun in that?"

The five officers fell silent as the final two additions—Captain Jonathan Archer and the ship's helmsman, Ensign Travis Mayweather—strode into the room. Archer's face was drawn unusually tight; tighter than Trip could remember ever seeing, and the grim mien ended the light-hearted banter.

Chastened by the stone-faced grimness, Trip and Malcolm took their seats as well, followed by Travis, T'Pol, and finally, the captain, who pulled up a chair at the head of the table.

Archer sucked in his breath before he spoke. "I don't really know how to tell you this," he said, breathing heavily. "There's been an attack. On Earth."

Trip's face creased in puzzlement. "What do you mean, attack?" It could cover a lot of things, most of which would be newsworthy, but none of which would account for the captain's grimaced expression.

"An alien attack," Archer replied. "Some sort of alien probe showed up in orbit—Starfleet doesn't know where it came from. It fired a particle beam that evaporated a chunk of earth four thousand kilometers long, from Florida down to Venezuela. Early estimates suggest well over a million casualties."

The senior staff sat in stunned silence at the words. An alien attack? On Earth? A single probe causing that much damage?

"A million casualties?" Malcolm said softly, cutting into the cold stillness.

"And going up." Archer chewed his lip for a moment. "They're expecting a final death toll between five and ten million."

"And they have no idea who did it?" Travis asked, leaning forward. The young man had been born and raised in space, but his connection to the human homeworld was no less profound.

Archer shook his head slowly. "The probe self-detonated. Starfleet is still working to recover the wreckage."

It was T'Pol who, in her usual fashion, came to the most salient question. "Does Starfleet have new orders for us, Captain?"

Yes." No one pressed him to speak faster. "We've been recalled. Back to Earth."

"What do they expect us to do there, sir?" Hoshi asked hesitantly.

"We're to take up a picket position to protect the solar system. Starfleet's put it on lockdown. Our mission—our exploration—is over for the foreseeable future."

The captain's words cut just as deep as the original announcement. For the terrible calamity of the attack, pulling the Enterpriseback to Earth—and ending their mission of exploration to the stars—seemed to compound the sense of disaster. It was one thing to be attacked, after all; it was another to give in to the fear and paranoia.

"Bridge to Captain Archer." The summons came over the intercom. "Admiral Forrest is on subspace for you."

"I'll be there in a moment," Archer called out before shutting the channel. "I want you all to keep this quiet for a moment; I'll make a ship wide announcement when I get to the bridge. Travis, set a course for Earth, warp five."

"Aye, sir," Mayweather acknowledged softly.

"That's it for the moment, people," Archer announced. He put his hands on the table and stood up. "Let's—well, let's do our job." Led by the captain, the senior crew slowly filed out of the briefing room, overcast by an unnatural silence.

…

Minutes before, Captain Archer had finished yet another talk via subspace with Admiral Forrest; it was his fourth—or fifth?—of the day, and the day was still young. The initial news had struck Jonathan hard, but he stayed steadied and unstaggered; so far away from Earth, he felt no guilt over his inability to take action. But Admiral Forrest—his face had aged a decade. The admiral was scarcely ten years older than Archer, but today, Forrest could have been his grandfather. The disaster was etched in every line of the Chief-of-Staff's face.

Archer was staring at the stream-lit stars through the viewport of his ready room, taking temporary solace in the solitude of space, when the door chimes rang behind him. "Come in," he said, turning around. He had a feeling of who it would be.

"Excuse me, Captain," Trip said, poking his head through the doorway. "Is this a good time?"

Archer steeled himself. From the first moment, when Forrest had first said 'Florida,' the captain knew that this had been coming. He had been trying to find the right way to tell his chief engineer—and his closest friend on the Enterprise. The two men had known each other for years. Better he hear it from a friend, Archer told himself, than from a bland, Starfleet communiqué.

"No, come in, Trip," Archer said softly, waving the officer in.

Trip stepped forward and coughed awkwardly. Concern—fear—was written across the engineer's face. "When you spoke to Admiral Forrest, did he, ah, did he say what part of Florida was hit?"

"No, Trip," Archer replied gently. "I'm sorry. I don't know if it hit her part of Florida or not."

"She may have been away," Trip said, choking lightly. "Architects take a lot of trips."

"Florida is a big state, Trip," Archer added. "There's a good chance that her home wasn't even in the attack zone."

Trip smiled faintly. "You ever get those feelings, Cap'n?" he asked, letting his drawl get the best of his words. "I've always needed to be there to protect her, you know? Hell, when we were in school I made sure all the boys in class got a good luck at me—after that, none of them ever messed with her."

"Maybe she was away," Archer answered. "You can't just assume that she's gone, Trip." The captain knew that he didn't understand the depth of Tucker's pain, but he could respect it. Trip and his baby sister had grown up close, relying on each other to deal with the adversity of their childhoods. A father who died too young, a mother who drank too heavily…Trip and Elizabeth had pulled each other through.

"Did the admiral have anything new to say?" Trip asked. No hope existed in his voice.

"Just that the number of casualties has been revised," the captain replied, hating himself for piling on the bad news. "It's up to three million."

The door chimed again, and Trip waved to it, grateful for the interruption.

"Come in," Archer announced, and the door slid open to reveal his Vulcan first officer, T'Pol.

"Is this a bad time?" she asked, catching the glint of tears in Trip's face. It was a measure of how far T'Pol had come since her first days on board the Enterprise that she recognized the emotions and knew how to respond.

"It's fine, come on in," Archer repeated, and the door hissed shut behind her.

T'Pol nodded and put the emotional concern aside. "I just finished speaking with Ambassador Soval," she reported, referring to Vulcan's chief ambassador to Earth. Due to the…unusual relationship between the two planets, Soval was often involved at the highest levels of the United Earth government.

"And?" Archer prodded.

"Search teams located the debris of the probe in central Asia. They retrieved it and brought it back to Starfleet Headquarters."

"Have they found out anything?" Archer asked.

"Very little." T'Pol's face was impassive. "There was a pilot. He was killed during descent, but his body remained protected within a control pod."

Trip boiled over in frustration. "Well, who the hell was he?" the commander demanded, growing vehement. "What species?"

"They don't know," T'Pol replied calmly. "There is no match in the Vulcan database either. He would appear to be of a completely unknown species."

"How is that possible?" Archer replied, slightly surprised. "I thought Vulcan had catalogued the neighborhood species."

"Space is a large place, Captain, which you are no doubt aware of," T'Pol replied. "And it is entirely possible that he came from a distance."

"But why?" Trip demanded irately. "Why would some species that we've never even heard of send one ship that far to attack Earth?"

Now T'Pol raised the eyebrow. "Speculation would be—"

"Illogical, we know," Archer cut her off before Trip could. He realized he had to fill her in. "Trip's sister lives in Florida. We—don't know if she was in the affected area or not."

T'Pol's silence indicated her understanding.

"Captain," Lieutenant Reed's voice entered on the comm system. "We've got Suliban ships, on a high-warp intercept course. I'm reading eight of them."

"Shit on a stick," Archer groaned softly. "Just what we need."

…

The Suliban were little more than an itinerant race of alien mercenaries, but through the two years since the Enterprise left space dock, one band of the Suliban in particular had proven to be a constant thorn in the side of Archer and his crew, and as the captain emerged on the bridge, he took a guess—a fairly safe guess—that he knew the identity of their pursuers.

"Hail them," Archer ordered, knowing that it would likely be futile. On the viewscreen, he saw the image of the eight 'cell' ships approaching from behind. Each one no larger than an escape pod, the cell ships were designed to work in concert within a broader warp field. The technology required was completely unfamiliar to Earth, and even to its Vulcan benefactors; according to the Suliban themselves, the technology was a gift…from the future.

"They're not responding," Hoshi notified the captain from the comm. Archer frowned slightly, but he was not surprised; open communication was not part of the Suliban modus operandi. Of far more interest was the eighth cell ship, bringing up the rear of this little fleet.

"Zoom in on the last ship, Malcolm," Archer ordered, and his chief tactical officer adjusted the viewscreen to focus on the unusual ship. Peering closely, Archer realized that he had seen the configuration before: it was actually several cell ships joined together. The captain had seen it before, but never in flight. "Try them again, Hoshi," he said, wondering about the new development.

"Captain, the lead ship is emitting some sort of polaron beam," T'Pol reported, her flat voice belying any sense of urgency, and before Archer could reply, the lights winked out, plunging the bridge into darkness.

It was a momentary effect; seconds later, the lights came back on, revealing the bridge crew still at their posts: Malcolm, T'Pol, Hoshi, Travis, and…

"The captain's been abducted," T'Pol reported—to no one, really, as she was now in command.

"We have really got to find a way to stop them from doing that," Malcolm added, groaning inwardly.

…

Captain Archer blinked furiously as his eyes sought to adjust to the bright lights overhead, and ultimately raised a hand to shield his face from the brilliant, artificial whiteness.

"Captain Archer." A dry voice intruded, allowing the captain to identify his abductor by sound. It was Silik—the leader of a mercenary pack calling itself the 'Suliban Cabal,' who had dogged the Enterprise's footsteps throughout their mission of exploration.

"Silik!" Archer snarled as his vision gradually cleared. The alien appeared, fuzzy at first, then solidifying into cognizable features: relatively humanoid, the Suliban had a gravelly, greenish-tan skin, a hairless skull, and pale yellow eyes. According to Silik's previous claims, his eyes—along with other portions of his physiology—had been genetically enhanced as payment for his services. "I knew you would have something to do with this?"

"Do with what?" Silik snorted derisively. "Once again, you make no sense, Captain. Is this a failing of your entire species, or is it yours alone?"

"Millions of people!" Archer scowled, but his heart didn't seem to be in it. "You killed millions of my people!" Try as he might, the captain couldn't make the accusation fit: Silik would not hesitate to kill someone when the guns were drawn, but to slaughter millions of innocents…

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about," Silik replied scornfully.

Archer found himself believing the alien; but if Silik had nothing to do with the probe that had attacked Earth, then he needed some answers, fast. "What the hell am I doing here, then?" he barked, angrily. "I have important business to attend to!"

"No doubt relating to these millions of deaths that you try to blame me for," Silik answered dryly. "Today, I'm merely playing the role of a go-between." The Suliban commander seemed faintly amused by the idea. "I've brought along someone who needs to speak with you."

"I don't see anyone else here, Silik." Archer's patience—already thin—was quickly disappearing. "This isn't some fancy way of referring to yourself, is it?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Captain, it only makes you look pathetic." Silik tilted his head back and stared down the length of his nose. "My—benefactor—from the future—needs to speak with you. He says he has information you should find helpful. If you're lucky, it might even have something to do with all these deaths."

Archer furrowed his brow, more puzzled than surprised. Even with his own experiences in time travel—courtesy of the undercover temporal agent going by the nom de guerre of 'Daniels'—he was still skeptical about the entire thing; traveling faster than light was still a concept that took some getting accustomed to. Traveling through time? That was another field completely.

Nonetheless, the captain could not deny what he had experienced; there were clearly temporal agents at work, and they told a remarkably uniform story. Sometime in the future, there was a Temporal Cold War taking place—a war fought not with weaponry and lives, but by manipulating past historical events to change the playing field in favor of one faction or the next.

The truly puzzling thing was that Silik's benefactor—who represented one of these factions—was interested in helping humans. To Archer's knowledge (which, he recognized, was nearly nonexistent), humans were a different faction in the Temporal Cold War.

"Did he tell you anything more?" Archer asked guardedly, and as the mercenary commander turned to leave the cell, the human captain followed.

"Just that it has to do with your species," Silik answered. "It's in great danger."

They stepped through the threshold into the next cell ship.

In a bank of machinery—Archer thought it looked faintly like the transporter bay on the Enterprise—was a cone of bright light flowing downward and outward from an overhead emitter. Unlike normal light, however, the rays were not straight; they were wavy, as if undergoing a severe distortion effect, and they danced as they shimmered, clouding the view within.

Within the cone stood a black form. It appeared humanoid—the captain could make out a standard torso, head, two arms, and two legs—but beyond that, Archer could make out no detail. It was completely black, as if it was a hole cut into the fabric of space; nothing emerged to give the being form or identity, and even the basic body was shaky behind the curtain of shimmering light.

"He can see you more clearly if you move closer," Silik hissed from behind Archer's ear, and trusting in his enemy, the captain slowly stepped forward.

"Who is he?" Archer replied, equally sotto voce. He doubted Silik would answer, but it was worth a stab.

"That's between you and him," Silik hissed. "As I said, I am nothing more than a go-between…this time. But if I were you, I wouldn't be so worried about who he is—I'd be more concerned about what he has to say."

Archer nodded slightly and raised his voice. "What do you want?" he asked, his tone clear and firm.

The future being rumbled, his voice red-shifted into an unsteady baritone. "Your planet was attacked," the being stated.

"I'm aware of that," Archer answered. "If that's all you came to tell me—"

"What you're not aware of is why," the future being continued, ignoring Archer's words. The captain immediately went silent, waiting for the continuation, and the being did not disappoint. "The probe was sent by a species named the 'Xindi'."

"The Xindi." Archer turned the word over in his head. Hoshi, no doubt, would find some linguistically significant indicator in the name; the captain merely realized that it sounded…well, alien. "I'm not familiar with them," Archer replied finally, trying to pump the future being for more information.

"And there is no reason why you should be," the being rumbled. "Their home is a long distance away from yours."

"So why would they come all that way to attack Earth?"

"Why does any creature attack another, Captain? It is for the same reason why you will strike back. They attacked Earth to ensure their own survival."

The being's claims made little sense to Archer; an entire portion of the explanation seemed to be missing. "How could humans threaten the survival of these—Xindi?" Archer asked, voicing his lack of clarity. "If they're so far away that we've never even heard of them, how can we possibly be a threat?"

The baritone voice rumbled again. "They learned that their world will be destroyed by humans…in four hundred years."

"So they attack now…" Archer scarcely realized that his words were audible.

"Because in four hundred years, your race will greatly overpower them," the future being confirmed.

"But how can they know what's going to happen in four hundred years?" Archer pressed. One large piece of the puzzle was in place, but another one was lingering out there, uncertain.

"They were told by others, of course," the being answered. "A minor race, to be sure: one that inhabits your time frame, but can see through time."

"So…" As Archer arranged the pieces in his head, the missing link struck him. "Wait, why do you care? You're the one that the Suliban work for, right?"

"The Suliban work for me, yes," the rumbling voice replied.

"So why do you suddenly care about preserving Earth? You haven't exactly been our friend before now." In fact, the Suliban Cabal—under the orders of this future being—had been working to destabilize the local neighborhood of the galaxy. In the last two years alone, Archer had thwarted their efforts to start a civil war within the bellicose Klingon Empire, stopped Silik from stealing a temporal observatory, and caught Silik trying to frame the Enterprisefor the destruction of the Paraagan II colony. "I was under the impression that you've been scheming against humanity."

"The Temporal Cold War is far more complicated than a simple us-versus-them matter, Captain," the being growled. "What you know of it…is insignificantly small. In this matter, my interests are best served by preserving the original timeline, the one where the Xindi did not learn of their future."

"I have no interest in being a pawn in your future machinations!" Archer shot back. "If you want me to believe you, you have to tell me why I should!"

The being snorted—a low, rumbling snort. "You have no choice. The Xindi are preparing another weapon, far more powerful than the first. When it is completed, they will use it to destroy Earth. Only I can tell you how to find it."

Archer's fist was already cocked before he recognized the futility of the gesture. "Just tell me what the hell is going on!" he growled in seething irritation.

"Didn't the probe seem a little…odd to you, Captain?" The future being remained serene. "That someone would go to such lengths to send in a single weapon? One that barely scratched the surface of your race?"

Archer bristled at the comment, but held his fury back. "It did," he admitted slowly.

"That probe was only the test weapon," the being continued. "Now that the Xindi know the technology works, they'll be sending the full version at Earth. And that one, Captain, will be powerful enough to destroy your planet."

Archer glared at the black figure. "If this is true—and you still haven't given me any kind of proof—what can we do about it?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Archer thought he could feel the being's eyes upon him. "You must destroy the Xindi first."

…

"Captain," T'Pol said finally, searching for the best words, "nothing this—so-called time traveler told you stands up to logical scrutiny. I would advise against taking him seriously."

Following Archer's conversation with Silik's benefactor, the Suliban commander had willingly transported the captain back to the Enterprise, and taken off in haste—apparently believing that his own duty had been fulfilled. Archer's first instinct was to find Trip and discuss the encounter with his old friend; but realizing that Trip's mind was not entirely together at the moment, the captain had instead summoned T'Pol to his ready room.

Now, despite the Vulcan's rigid refusal to go out on a limb, Archer was glad that he had chosen the logical science officer. Her calmness and reason provided a much-needed foil for Archer's own alarm; and truth be known, he had come to rely on T'Pol's counsel over the years.

Archer tried to order his thoughts. "I know Vulcans don't believe in time travel," he said slowly. "But humans have a saying about suspending disbelief."

"It is not a matter of belief," T'Pol corrected him with a note of perturbation. "It is a matter of scientific possibility. The Vulcan Science Directorate has conclusively proven that time travel—"

"Is scientifically impossible. Yes, yes, I know, T'Pol, but let's assume for a second that he's actually telling the truth."

"That is extremely unlikely, but if that is your preferred hypothesis, then his story is still logically invalid." T'Pol took the captain's silence as a cue to continue. "For instance," she went on, "if he is trying to protect humanity, why didn't he tell you before millions of humans were killed?"

"He didn't think we'd believe him," Archer answered. "He's probably right. Besides, I don't think those deaths mattered much to him—it's only our survival as a race that he cares about."

"I'm sure Starfleet and the Vulcan High Command will find a far more logical explanation," T'Pol countered. "One that does not depend on 'suspending disbelief'."

Archer smiled for the first time that day. "In other words, you can't come up with one yourself."

"No," T'Pol acknowledged. "Not without engaging in…speculation."

Archer nodded and leaned forward. "I know skepticism is part of the Vulcan philosophy, T'Pol, but when we reach Earth, I'm going to pitch this to Admiral Forrest. I could use your support."

"Is this your…final decision, Captain?" T'Pol asked hesitantly.

Archer nodded again. "Given the stakes, I just can't take the chance of ignoring this."

"Very well," T'Pol replied. "I will do my best."

…

Captain's Log, April 24, 2153. For the first time since our launch twenty months ago, the Enterpriseis returning to Earth. I am finding no joy in seeing our homeworld again, not under these circumstances. The journey home has been very difficult for the crew, and the news only gets worse. We've now learned that over seven million people were lost—and the count keeps climbing.

…

"Captain, we're approaching the perimeter of the Kuiper Belt," Travis reported from the helm of the Enterprise.

"Acknowledged, Ensign," Archer replied, feeling an unavoidable sense of foreboding. "Bring us out of warp, and engage at full impulse." The shift in speed was both practical and procedural: as the starship crossed into the heart of the solar system—loosely defined by the outer edge of the rocky belt—the sun's gravity well would begin to interfere with the warp field, making faster-than-light travel both uncertain and dangerous.

And by common convention, the asteroid field formed the "political" boundary of Earth's solar system. Tasked with managing intrasolar travel, from this point on, Starfleet regulations prohibiting warp travel within the system took affect.

And there was a third reason, Archer knew. Scattered in the rocks that comprised the field, Starfleet had an array of picket sensors in place. Given the recent attack on Earth…Admiral Forrest had warned the captain that the system was temporarily closed to all interstellar travel. The sensor ring was sure to detect the Enterprise, and any vessel not complying with Starfleet's regulations was sure to be treated as a potentially-hostile craft. Even with a Starfleet ID transponder.

"A vessel's dropping out of warp," Lieutenant Reed reported moments later, and he pulled the image up on the viewscreen. It was an Intrepid-class sentry vessel, a small class of Starfleet ships designed to manage affairs within the star system. Roughly one-fifth the size of the Enterprise, the sentry vessels had—two decks, Archer recalled, and a standard crew complement of less than thirty. The vessels did have low-grade warp engines, for quicker response times around the system's perimeter, but relied primarily on their impulse drives.

"We're being hailed, sir," Hoshi reported, pressing on her communications earpiece. "It's Captain Ramirez, sir, on the Intrepid."

"Put it on screen," Archer ordered, curious as to what would draw the pride of the class out to meet them.

A dark-haired man, several years older than Archer, appeared on the viewscreen. "Welcome home, Captain," Ramirez said. "I wish it was under better circumstances."

"We don't always get to choose our homecomings, do we?" Archer replied. "Still, it's good to be home—I just wish we brought some good news with us. What brings you out here?"

"We're here to escort you back to Earth," Ramirez answered.

Archer couldn't help but chuckle. "Are we considered a security threat, Captain?"

Ramirez cracked his own smile. "No, Captain, I think you misunderstood: we're an honor escort. You've become quite famous, after all—Jonathan Archer and the U.S.S. Enterprise." He lowered his voice slightly. "Frankly, Captain, Earth could use a reason to celebrate, and your return fit the bill."

"I wish there was going to be time to celebrate," Archer replied. "But I expect we'll be too busy attending to business."

"On that note, Captain—" Ramirez gestured off-screen, and his expression became grim. "I'm transmitting the access codes for the sensor grid. They'll give you telemetry readings from Earth."

"Understood," Archer said, and he nodded to Malcolm. The view of the Intrepid's bridge was replaced with a view of Earth.

Archer heard the audible gasps around him.

The view came from high-earth orbit, and even from that height, the great scar was visible, slicing and cutting its way across the planet's surface. Starting in the middle of the Florida peninsula, the blackened line cut its way south, skirting Lake Okeechobee and down into the blue waters of the Gulf, disappearing momentarily before slicing through Cuba.

From there, the scar disappeared again—but Archer suspected that closer imagery would reveal the dark rip, even beneath the waters of the Caribbean. Crossing over a thousand kilometers of water, it reappeared on the northern shores of South America, where it carved its way through the thickened rainforests before tapering away.

The bridge crew, seeing the destruction for the first time, looked on in appalled silence.

…

San Francisco in April is remarkably like San Francisco in any other month of the year—chilled and blustery, with overcast skies hovering above the city like a permanent cloak. The fog rolled in every afternoon, and the ocean spray seemed to permeate the city with the delicate aroma of saltwater and fish, from the heights of Nob Hill down to the Embarcadero.

Ironically, Captain Archer knew, if you left the city in any direction—across the Bay to Alameda; across the Golden Gate to Sausalito; or south, to the appropriately-named city of Sunnyvale, the weather would be clear, bright, and warm.

Due to some extraordinary fluke of fate, San Francisco had been one of the few major cities on Earth to survive the Final World War largely intact. During the generation-long series of conflicts that had merged into the War, great weapons—both conventional and unconventional—had leveled entire metropolises around the globe; but San Francisco hung on, unmolested.

Thus, in the twilight of the War, the remaining powers of Earth had chosen San Francisco as their summit site, and in the years and decades that followed, the City by the Bay had become the traditional focal point of Earth government. It was with a definite sense of both pride and caution: San Francisco was also the birthplace of the United Nations, the planet-wide assembly that had played a crucial role in keeping the peace for nearly a century—but ultimately failed.

And somehow, Archer mused, the founders of Starfleet—originally named the United Earth Space Probe Agency—had convinced the city of San Francisco to let them use the old Spanish military base, the Presidio, as their headquarters.

And the moral of the story? The view outside Admiral Forrest's office was cloaked with fog. Much like the debate taking place inside.

"I told Command everything you said!" Forrest repeated, irately. "They're having a hard time buying it, Jon." The admiral's thinning hair seemed to have lost half its thickness in the previous ten days.

"Do they have a better idea of who did this?" Archer retorted. "What about the Vulcans?" He gestured to Ambassador Soval, who had joined the two men (and T'Pol). "Have they offered an explanation? In case you haven't noticed, Admiral, no one else has offered anything better!"

"The impossible is, by definition, no better than nothing," Soval replied dryly. Middle-aged—by Vulcan standards—his hair was silvery-white, his body had grown stout, and the ambassador was cloaked in the voluminous robes common of his people. "The Vulcan Science Directorate has determined—"

"That time travel is impossible, yes, I know." Archer groaned inwardly as he finished the sentence. "Never mind that I've seen it with my own eyes—or do you think I hallucinated it?"

Forrest moved quickly to preempt Soval's reply. "I'm not sure you want an answer to that, Jon."

"May I point out," T'Pol said, cutting in smoothly, "that nothing in the immediate story implicates time travel at all? Our—contact—only referenced communication through time, not travel."

"Your—contact's—story must be judged according to his overall credibility," Soval countered. "And that credibility is almost laughable."

Strong words coming from a Vulcan, Archer thought. "This isn't a question of credibility, it's a question of risk!" He looked directly at Forrest. "Are you willing to risk a second attack? Of course not! What if there is only one chance in a million that this future guy is right? Doesn't the risk—doesn't the potential danger—justify it? Especially when the Vulcans can offer no other explanation?"

Soval raised the universal Vulcan eyebrow. "You would be betting the future of humanity on the word of an enemy," he observed. "An enemy who cannot logically be telling the truth."

Archer felt as though he had the advantage, and pushed it. "Betting the future of humanity, ambassador?" he asked rhetorically. "Not in the way you mean—all I'm asking is to take the Enterpriseafter these Xindi. Taking a single starship away from Earth—that's not going to doom our race."

"I need every vessel we have for sentry duty, Captain," Forrest replied quietly. "Especially yours. The Enterprise's presence here may not thwart a second attack—but it has better odds of success than looking for an unknown weapon belonging to an unknown race in an unknown part of a very large galaxy."

And just like that, the advantage turned again. "Do you even know where these coordinates are?" Soval asked brusquely, referring to the location given to Archer by the future guy.

"Of course," the captain hedged. "At warp five, it's about a three-month trip."

"That's not my concern," Soval replied. "For a survey vessel, that's not even a long trip. But these coordinates are located inside the Delphic Expanse."

Archer couldn't help but sigh. Just like the Vulcans to hold something back—and now he's dangling it in front of us, eager to make me ask, so he can show off his superior knowledge. "Okay," the captain said finally, resigned to asking. "What's the Delphic Expanse?"

Although Archer imagined glee in the Vulcan, Soval showed no emotion. "It is a region of space nearly two thousand light-years across. It is well-known for unexplained spatial anomalies. It is not safe for travel."

"Not safe, Ambassador?" Archer shot back. "Is it less safe than letting these Xindi attack Earth again?"

Soval's chest rose and fell in the Vulcan equivalent of a sigh. "Once again, you fail to understand, Captain. If you send the Enterpriseinto the Delphic Expanse, you won't stop the Xindi—you'll simply destroy the Enterprise. Very few ships that have entered it have ever returned."

"So it's an interstellar Bermuda triangle."

"No, Captain—the Bermuda triangle is a myth, born of humans' superstitious beliefs and narrow minds. The Delphic Expanse is something else entirely." Soval crossed his arms and began to pace. "There have been reports of fierce and dangerous species. Gravimetric anomalies that defy explanation—in some regions, the laws of physics do not even seem to apply. You should take as a lesson the fate of one ship that did return from the Expanse. Twenty years ago, a Klingon vessel emerged. Every crewman on board had been anatomically inverted, their bodies splayed open, and they were still alive."

"I'm willing to take the risk, Ambassador," Archer said firmly, standing in Soval's wandering path.

"This is typical of your impulsiveness," Soval answered. "You'd be putting your crew's lives at stake when you have no evidence that anything you were told was true."

"I have my instincts," Archer replied, grimacing in anticipation of the response.

"Reason and logic are the foundation of an enlightened mind, Captain, not instinct and emotion."

Archer turned his attention to Forrest. "I'm not denying the risk, Admiral," he said softly. "But risk is part of life. Risk is our business."

The admiral's eyes moved doubtfully between Soval and Archer as he pondered his response. "We've lost a lot of people already, Jon," he said finally. "Starfleet Command would need some kind of proof before they let you go."

Only T'Pol, a fellow Vulcan, was able to read the surprise in Soval's inscrutable face. "You're not seriously considering this, are you, Admiral?" Soval kept his voice carefully even. "Even if you ignore the impossibilities, the Enterprisestands a better chance of intersecting a second weapon within the Terran system than it has of finding the weapon in the Delphic Expanse."

Forrest turned to Soval with ill-disguised exasperation. "This is my call to make, Ambassador. I included you in this conversation as a courtesy. You have made your opinion plain, and you can call it illogical if you want, but I will not bet the future of humanity on mathematical odds! If there's even the remote possibility that this—this 'future guy' was telling the truth, then I will have the Enterpriseinvestigate!"

Thirty years of service on Earth had accustomed Soval to such emotional outbursts. "If you will not listen to reason, then my counsel is of little value," the ambassador replied mildly.

"I beg to differ," T'Pol said suddenly, earning her a masked glare from Soval, her putative superior. "The humans are arguing quite rationally—if you accept a slightly different set of starting parameters. If you stipulate, for the purpose of debate, that the 'future guy' may be telling the truth—"

"But we know he's not," Soval interrupted. "The Vulcan Science Directorate has determined—"

"That time travel is impossible," T'Pol finished smoothly. "But defaulting to that position ignores the very purpose of a stipulation in debate."

Forrest leaned over to Archer and said, sotto voce, "Did you follow that?"

"I think so," Archer whispered back. "I was pre-law for a semester in college." The captain raised his voice. "Besides, the future guy gave me something to show you."

…

Starfleet—like any service that specialized in flying machines—had no shortage of hangars, and even within the relatively small parameters of the Presidio, Starfleet's construction engineers had managed to install a state-of-the-art hangar and storage facility. Built partially into the weaving caverns that dotted the peninsula, it was used primarily for diplomatic traffic and transports; suborbital craft were stored at another facility, many kilometers to the south.

But Headquarters' hangar had two major advantages. First, from the standpoint of the investigators, the location was far more convenient; it was literally under their feet. Second, the "open" feel of the Presidio was intentionally misleading; it was one of the most secured places on Earth.

Trip would like this, Archer thought as the foursome descended below in a lift. The design seemed to be inspired by the old spy serials that his chief engineer enjoyed: going into the underground lair, through multiple layers of security, each one more advanced than the last…actually, Trip would hate it, Archer realized. The security would prevent his engineer from destroying the remnants of the weapon.

Reaching their destination, the foursome proceeded through a checkpoint before entering a spacious hangar, devoid of any shuttlecraft. Instead, only a few square meters of the cavernous room were filled.

Archer noticed the faint, chilled breeze of the air circulators as they crossed the room to the wreckage. The two Vulcans, born of a hot, desert world, had to concentrate to qualm their shivers; Soval pulled his thick robes tighter, and silently, Admiral Forrest handed T'Pol his duty jacket.

The debris resembled nothing. It simply looked like debris: tattered and twisted remnants of alloys, fragments of shattered crystals, often blackened and charred; battered lumps of brittle charcoal, girders and beams that no longer supported anything. It was Archer's first time seeing the wreckage, and beneath the junk, he was surprised to see what looked amazingly like a self-sealing stem bolt. I guess some tools really are universal, he thought.

Archer refused to stare in awe at the fragmentary remains. Under the watchful eyes of two security officers, the captain withdraw a modified handheld scanner from his jacket and started pacing slowly around the wreck, taking scanner readings as he walked.

"Jon?" Forrest asked with muted curiosity.

"I'm quantum-dating the debris," Archer explained. Quantum particles decayed at discernable rates; by checking the decay rate, the molecules in question could be dated. It was not a standard test, however; far simpler means existed to conduct molecular dating, which was equally accurate.

Except for one, hypothetical case…

"Take a look at these readings," Archer said, holding the scanner out for the admiral to see. "The principal alloy in this piece here was synthesized about four years ago." He pointed to another shattered girder. "This one, about five years ago."

"We know that, Jon," Forrest replied. The debris had already been subjected to molecular dating, and the results had been insignificant.

"Is there a point to this?" Soval asked.

"Just follow me," Archer replied with his best reassurance. He pointed the scanner at a third piece. "Twelve years for that one."

"Your point, Jonathan," Forrest stated.

"I'm getting there, Admiral. Watch what happens to the quantum decay readings when I scan—this piece here."

Puzzled, Forrest stepped forward and looked over Archer's shoulder. "Your scanner's not working properly," he said, frowning. "You're not getting a clear reading."

"Why do you assume that the problem's with my scanner?" Archer replied, laying out the trail of breadcrumbs.

Soval supplied the answer. "Quantum dating always provides a clear answer, presuming that the sensor is sufficiently-well calibrated."

"Of course." Archer pulled out a second scanner and tested the debris again. "How about these readings?"

"This can't be right," Forrest stared in frustration at the equipment. "Are both scanners broken?"

"There is another possibility," Archer stated, drawing the attention of both Soval and Forrest. "T'Pol, you're a scientist. What do these readings indicate to you?"

"We can dismiss the possibility of equipment error," T'Pol began. "Both scanners were drawn directly from Headquarters' supplies, and I verified that the maintenance logs were up to date."

"But these readings should be impossible then," Forrest replied, mystified. He was an administrator, not a scientist.

"That is not precisely correct," T'Pol replied. "In theory, exposure to chroniton flux would cause quantum decay to destabilize."

"Enough of these word games, Jonathan," Forrest stated fiercely. "What exactly does this mean?"

Archer deferred to T'Pol. "It means that this matter fragment traveled through time. There is no other possible explanation."

"A lack of another explanation doesn't make your assumption correct," Soval cut in, noticeably displeased.

"You could say the same thing about the Vulcan Science Directorate," Archer answered. "Just because they can't explain time travel doesn't mean it's not possible."

"Nicely done, Jonathan," Forrest said dryly. "But you made your case. You have your mission."

To his credit, Ambassador Soval accepted the decision without resentment. "I'll have my staff transmit all of our data on the Delphic Expanse to the Enterprise," he said. "I would recommend that you review it thoroughly."

"I'd appreciate everything you can tell us," Archer replied, unable to hide his smile. "Admiral, while we're down here—there's more thing."

Forrest sighed. "You want to see the body, don't you?"

"I'd like to take a look, yes."

"Follow me." It was a short walk down a subterranean corridor to the morgue. With a gesture to the security guards, the admiral ordered open the only occupied cryo-unit in the room.

The bed slid out, revealing a blackened lump of charcoal.

"So you think this is a Xindi?" Forrest asked.

"I'm ready to find out," Archer answered.

…

Only blocks away from the Presidio, tucked in the lower level of one of San Francisco's finest skyscrapers, lay a small bar named the 602 Club. The "Club" name mislead more than one late-night partygoer, who believed they had discovered the city's best-kept secret, but they stuck around after discovering just what made the 602 so unique.

It was the favorite watering hole of Starfleet's finest, and no matter what century, heroic men and women in uniform as an irresistible draw.

When Malcolm entered the lower-level door, he noticed that the 602 was surprisingly empty, even for a Monday night. It didn't bother the lieutenant in the least; it had been a grueling day, and the prospect of encountering curious fans bore little attraction.

Weaving his way through the assembled tables, Malcolm took a seat in front of the brass-lined bar with a wearied sigh.

"Malcolm," the barkeep greeted him, putting down a twice-polished glass.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, Sam," Malcolm replied, his smile wan. He made a point of glancing around. "It's slow tonight."

"People are staying home," Sam answered. "Ever since…" He didn't need to complete the phrase.

Malcolm nodded in understanding. "It hasn't felt the same anywhere," he observed. "Everyone's so tense. They keep looking up to the sky." In a way, Malcolm's comments were intentional understatements. The entire planet was living on the edge of fear, paranoid of every shadow that moved in the night.

"Are—ah—any of them here?" Malcolm asked carefully. Early in the Enterprise's mission, during a shuttle adventure gone wrong, Trip and Malcolm had gotten to know each other—and Trip discovered that, to his surprise, it was Malcolm of all people who had a girl in every port. Prim, proper, rigid Malcolm.

"Naw, you're free tonight," Sam answered. "Becky was in earlier, asking about you, but I told her you were too busy to come by." He poured a jigger of gin and a dash of tonic into a gleaming shaker.

"Thanks, Sam," Malcolm said on a moment's reflection. "I guess I'm not the mood, either." He accepted the drink and, with a dash of melancholic esprit, dropped the slice of lime directly in.

As Malcolm sipped the drink, Sam continued conversationally. "So, I hear they're sending the Enterpriseafter the people who did this."

Malcolm almost spit out the gin. "How did you learn that?" His face puckered as he swallowed the pungent alcohol. "I just learned an hour ago!"

Sam smiled mysteriously. "I have my sources," he replied. "Just like you." In fact, it had only been a rumor, which Malcolm had inadvertently confirmed. "How long do you have until you ship out?"

"The captain's pushing for Saturday," Malcolm answered. "Quartermaster's scrambling to outfit us. It's like a bad math problem—just how many cryo-stasis units can you cram into a single cargo bay, given set dimensions, power drains, ease of convertibility, and ensuring the food stored within properly balances the nutritional needs of an entire crew?" He took another sip. "Fortunately, it's not my problem. I just have to remind them to keep the stasis units out of my weapons bays."

"I don't know," Sam replied thoughtfully. "If you fired a frozen fruitcake at someone—"

Malcolm chuckled. It was a weak joke, but it felt good to laugh. "I'll use my great-aunt's recipe," he answered. "They'll never know what hit them."

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

"Come in," Hoshi called out as her doorchimes rang. She looked up from her half-packed bag. "Doctor! This is a nice surprise!"

Phlox replied with a trademarked, Denobulan-face-splitting smile. "It's my pleasure, of course!" He looked at her expectantly. "How did things go with your parents?"

"I think I might need to brush up on my Japanese," Hoshi replied with a smile of her own. "I accidentally merged in a couple words of Vulcan."

"Well, never fear," Phlox answered light-heartedly. "We've upgraded the universal translator. No one will even notice the difference!"

"I don't know about that, Doctor. I mean, it would be easier to replace a physician with a hologram than replace a linguist with a practiced ear!"

"Touché, Ensign, touché." Phlox picked up a book from Hoshi's bed and read the spine. "Languages of the Sub-Sahara. I'm surprised you're leaving that one here."

"I haven't read it yet," Hoshi replied.

"So why not take it with you?" Phlox asked, confused.

"What?" Hoshi puzzled for a moment before it clicked into place. "Oh, I'm not leaving, Doctor! I'm sending some stuff home to my mother, to clear out some space in my quarters!" She creased her brow. "Why would you think that I'm leaving?"

Phlox wasn't often caught flat-footed. "You were never—er—you weren't the most voluntary of crewmembers, as I recall," he said finally, stumbling through the words. "Since the captain made this a purely-volunteer mission, I figured—"

"I know I had a rough start on the Enterprise, Doctor," Hoshi replied, opting to save Phlox from his embarrassment. Rough start didn't begin to describe it: Hoshi had only joined Starfleet because the service had offered to support her doctoral research, and she had been surprised—and petrified—to find herself assigned to active duty. Between the bouts of spacesickness, homesickness, and overall timidity, Hoshi had spent much of her first several weeks on board in Phlox's sickbay. "But I've grown since then—I think I've proven that I can handle it. And Starfleet doesn't have a better linguist than me."

"Ah," Phlox replied brightly. "In that case…I guess I'll return to sickbay. I'm expecting a shipment of snow beetles."

…

Captain's Log, May 2, 2153. After days of preparation, Starfleet has finally given us clearance to depart. We launch tomorrow at ship's dawn.

…

In Starfleet tradition, on the eve of a ship's launch, the Chief-of-Staff himself would escort the captain to his command, and thus it was that Admiral Forrest found himself piloting a worker bee through the McKinley space docks to the berth holding the retrofitted Enterprise, with Captain Archer enjoying the ride.

Forrest was in no rush—he had no idea when, or if, he would ever see Jonathan again—and the two men took a meandering joyride through the support beams of the station on a long approach to Archer's ship.

"The NX-02," Forrest noted, as he brought the small pod in for a closer look. Before them, enveloped in the station's gantries, was the glistening, skeletal frame of the Enterprise's sister ship. "She'll be ready to launch in fourteen months."

"That's a long time," Archer added quietly. When the NX program had come off the drawing board, such long waits were not a huge deal; while Starfleet wanted to get to the stars, there were no outside timetables driving construction deadlines. When your goal is to study astrophysical phenomena, a few years—a few centuries, even—makes little difference. But for the first time since contact with the Vulcans, Earth no longer had the luxury of setting its own timetables for launch, and fourteen months suddenly seemed like a painfully long time.

"What kind of armaments will she have?" Archer asked. The question itself was a sign of how much things had changed. Two years ago, the captain had without qualm taken Enterpriseout of space dock with no phase cannons and only misaligned torpedo tubes for defense.

"The same updates that you've been given," Forrest answered. "She still won't win a drawn-out fight with a Vulcan cruiser, but weapons design has become the hot area over at R & D. I have to tell you, Jonathan…" Forrest's face grew long. "I never thought I'd see the day when Starfleet was converted to a paramilitary organization. I can't say I care much for it, either."

"You and me both, Admiral," Archer replied. "But maybe there's still some hope. Things might never return to the way they were, but we might still be able to find a balance."

"Is that what you really think, Jonathan?"

"Yeah…after we smash the Xindi." Archer's eyes flashed angrily at the thought of their tormentors.

"Have you finalized your crew roster yet?" Forrest asked, changing the subject as the worker bee skirted the rear end of the Columbia.

"This morning," Archer answered. "I had six opt out, but the rest volunteered to stay on. I've already gotten the six replacements."

Forrest nodded. "I'm a little surprised that Commander Tucker wanted to stay on," he noted. "The two others who lost a family member are both staying behind."

"Those two have other family," Archer replied curtly. "Trip doesn't." The Columbiafaded behind them as the pod proceeded to the next gantry wing of McKinley.

"I talked to General Casey a few hours ago," Forrest added, filling the pregnant stillness. "His team should be arriving at eighteen hundred hours."

Archer nodded, saying nothing, and Forrest pressed ahead to his point. "I was surprised that you asked for them. You think you'll be comfortable with the military on board?" The MACOs—Military Assault Command Operations—were more analogous to a paramilitary force than true military, but the terminology had become customary.

"I'm not fond of the idea, if that's what you mean," Archer reflected. "But I'm going to need a crack military team when we cross into the Expanse, and the MACOs are better than anything Starfleet has to offer—no offense, Admiral."

"None taken, Jonathan," Forrest replied. "Starfleet isn't designed to handle military operations." The Enterpriseslowly grew before them. "You weren't told where in this Expanse you're supposed to look, were you?"

"Not even a hint."

"And he didn't tell you how long we have until this second weapon is ready?"

"Not even a hint."

"And he didn't even tell you how to recognize these 'Xindi,' did he?"

"Not even a hint." This time, Archer couldn't quite suppress the wry smile. "This could be interesting."

…

"Sub-Commander!" Phlox welcomed T'Pol to sickbay with a wide smile. "Is there something I can do for you?"

T'Pol looked around in considered hesitancy. Vulcans were rarely uncomfortable in medical facilities—but Phlox had a tendency to keep a menagerie of various critters in sickbay, and the Vulcans' sense of smell was rather sensitive. "I came to inform you that a shipment is waiting for you in the launch bay. A shuttle just arrived with two hundred Aldebaran snow beetles."

"Now, now, T'Pol," Phlox said, setting down a mediscanner. "You could have told me that over the intercom. What else can I do for you?" Phlox looked at her hopefully.

T'Pol glanced around to ensure that no one else was within distance; she did have something on her mind, and the doctor was the only person on board that she could discuss it with. It wasn't that the other crewmembers were bad, in any sense of the word, but it was a personal issue, and she knew that Phlox's confidentiality ethics extended to such informal counseling.

"Are you confident with your decision, Doctor?" T'Pol asked abruptly.

"Which decision are you asking about?" Phlox replied, prodding his colleague along.

"Your decision to remain on the Enterprise."

Phlox's Denobulan facial ridges prevented him from raising an eyebrow. "And what makes you think I've decided to stay aboard?"

"Two hundred snow beetles," T'Pol responded flatly. "There isn't a doctor in Starfleet who would have the slightest idea of what to do with them."

"Ah." Phlox answered with an inculpatory grin. "But I suspect that Chef would find a way to use them…but unless I miss my guess, you're uncertain about your decision to stay behind, aren't you?"

"It is not my decision to make," T'Pol replied curtly. "Vulcan High Command has ordered me to return to Vulcan. That is their prerogative."

"Yes, but how did Commander Tucker put it? 'Orders from Command are really more like guidelines.'" Phlox smiled, but as usual, the humor fell flat with T'Pol. "Starfleet does value the independent judgment of its officers, T'Pol."

"The…relative strength of Starfleet's command structure aside, Doctor, your point is irrelevant. I am within the Vulcan chain of command, not Starfleet's."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that," Phlox replied. He hoisted himself into a sitting position on top a biobed. "You're just as much a part of this Starfleet crew as anyone else. You have chosen to follow the captain's orders, and I repeat, you did that by choice." Phlox gave his best reassuring look. "I'm much more interested in hearing what you want, T'Pol."

"It's not my place to disobey the High Command," T'Pol answered. Her nerves stood rigid, perturbed by the direction the conversation was taking.

Phlox's response was simple and swift. "Nonsense." When T'Pol didn't reply, he went on. "You've disobeyed them before."

"But this is different," T'Pol stated. "This is—"

"More important?" Phlox slid in smoothly. "It is an interesting conundrum for you and I, isn't it? The only aliens on board this vessel, having to decide whether to go or to stay. It's not our planets in danger, after all. And the odds of returning from the Expanse are, well, astronomically bad. Are we going to sacrifice our lives in the slim hope that it saves Earth?"

T'Pol eyed the physician. "And yet you've chosen to stay on board."

Phlox nodded. "For me, it was a simple question of loyalty towards the captain—and the sad realization that he'll need me more than ever on such a crucial mission. We Denobulans don't have the same concept—but when I arrived here, I knew that I wanted to be a part of it, even if it does lead to my death." He paused thoughtfully. "These humans are quite amazing, really; for all of their enlightened concepts, they still function on the same bonds of loyalty that kept them together when they were little more than wandering tribes on the frozen steppes."

Phlox shook off the momentary image of a campfire. "But it is a more difficult decision for you," he admitted. "The Denobulan authorities let me choose. Disobeying orders in favor of personal loyalty? Is that logical?"

"Doctor!" Both Phlox and T'Pol turned their heads as the sickbay doors hissed open, revealing a crewmember pushing a low-built crate on a dolly. "This just arrived, Doctor."

"Excellent!" Phlox's face brightened. Accepting the bill of lading from the crewmember, he reviewed the crate's inventory. "Looks like it's all here! Thank you for bringing it down, Crewman."

T'Pol used the opportunity to depart. "Thank you for your time, Doctor," she said politely, and slid out the entrance behind the crewmember.

Phlox's attention had already shifted to the new delivery, and as his colleagues left, he bent over the crate. Glancing through the thin-membraned air holes, he started chirruping loudly, and was joined instantly in the mysterious song of the snow beetles.

…

There were some parts of bureaucracy that Malcolm Reed knew to simply accept: decisions and actions that made little sense, but which no amount of fighting could ever change. One of these—the most bizarre, to his senses—was waiting until the night before launch to load the weapons bay.

Oh, well, Malcolm reminded himself. As long as I GET the weapons, we're good to go.

"These are the new 'photonic torpedoes,'" he told Commander Tucker, as the two officers threaded their way through the primary starboard torpedo magazine. The old torpedo racks—fitted to hold the older spatial torpedoes—had been completely removed and replaced with a new racking system.

"They sure look new," Trip said in admiration. The old-fashioned spatial torpedoes had bore a traditional rocket-shaped casing. The new photonic torpedoes, however, were encased in a two-meter-long housing that was almost perfectly rectangular. The corners were rounded off, giving the weapons a futuristic look.

Trip squinted his eyes. "Hey, what's this writing on the side?" he asked in curiosity. "I can barely read it."

"That's the safety warning," Malcolm answered. The photonic torpedoes contained an antimatter warhead, which necessitated the constant use of a magnetic isolation field. Thus, the torpedo's internal power system could only be shut off when the unit was connected to the ship's power grid; and certain magnetic devices 'should not be utilized within close proximity to this unit.'

"These'll give us a helluva lot more firepower," Trip added with appreciation. Starfleet had finally added a weapon to its arsenal that could rival those of its neighbors: with a range fifty times greater than the spatial units, the torpedoes also contained a variable-yield regulator. A single torpedo could knock the comm array off a shuttlepod without scratching the paint, or put a three-kilometer crater into an asteroid. "How long is it going to take to reconfigure the tubes?"

"We have three teams working on it," Malcolm answered. The photonic torpedoes were fresh off the drawing board, and it had taken him some time to track down the schematics to retrofit the launch tubes. "They should be done within a couple days. We'll have to recalibrate the targeting controls, although."

"With these puppies, it won't matter much if we're off by a meter or two," Trip noted, still in awe. He had seen the design schematics, but seeing the torpedoes firsthand—especially given how different they looked—was an experience. "I can't wait to plant a half dozen of these in the Xindi's collective ass," he added, his voice growing coarse.

Malcolm was as ready as the next person to hit back at the Xindi, but Trip's comment still made him uncomfortable; the engineer had good reason to be mad, but…this just didn't sound like the Charles Tucker he had come to know. "Let's make sure those targeting controls are working first," he replied cautiously. "We don't want to hit the wrong Xindi."

"Why not?" Trip fired back. "The only way to protect Earth is to beat the Xindi down to the ground!"

"Why don't you walk with me, Commander?" Malcolm murmured, noticing the surreptitious looks around them. A couple were vaguely discomforted by Tucker's comments, but rest—the strong majority, seemed to nod, as if saying, the only good Xindi is a dead Xindi.

With Malcolm discretely leading the way, the two officers stepped out into the starboard corridor of F-deck. "Is there going to be some kind of service?" he asked gingerly.

"For Lizzie, you mean?" Trip received a nod in ascent. "If you're talking about a funeral, it's kinda pointless when there's no body."

"I guess I was talking about a memorial," Malcolm replied, treading softly in the uncertain terrain.

"My sister wasn't big on memorials," Trip replied harshly. His face seemed to contort with barely-restrained storm clouds. "Besides, most everyone who'd attend is dead as well."

"I read that there was a day of remembrance for all the victims, before we got back," Malcolm noted, keeping their pace at a slow stroll. "I'm sorry you missed it."

Angrily, Trip stopped in mid-corridor and pirouetted towards Malcolm. "Why are you so obsessed with memorials?" He grabbed Reed by the shoulder and spun the shorter man around to face him. "What possible difference does it make to you? It's not like you lost anyone!"

"I'm not obsessed!" Malcolm stood his ground before the sudden wave of vehemence. "And I'm concerned about you, Trip!"

"Well, guess what, Malcolm! She's dead! So are seven million others, and you're concerned about me? You should be concerned about hitting those damned aliens that killed her!"

"She was important to you, Trip, and there's nothing wrong in admitting it!" Malcolm fired back. "Hitting the Xindi isn't going to bring her back!"

"Maybe not, but it'll make me feel a helluva lot better!" Trip snarled, his face centimeters away from Malcolm. "And you know what? I'm going to keep hitting them, until I feel good about it, because it's all those bastards deserve!"

"This is not a healthy way of dealing with loss!" Malcolm barked. His body grew rigid with military bearing.

"I'm getting really tired of people telling me how I should and shouldn't respond to her death!" Trip's face grew black with fury. "And while we're at it, I don't need you to remind me that Elizabeth was killed! I know far better than you that she's dead, so just leave it alone!"

With a grating snarl, Trip turned and stormed down the corridor, leaving a shaken Malcolm Reed in his wake.

…

The Vulcan Embassy in San Francisco was, in unsurprising fashion, not located in the city's downtown core, where the heart of the United Earth Parliament stood. Instead, the Vulcans—uncomfortable in crowds and uncomfortable in packed districts—had chosen to build their ambassadorial compound in the rebuilt, residential district of Central Richmond (not to be confused with the city of Richmond), just a short distance away from the Presidio and Starfleet Headquarters.

Here, away from the towering skyscrapers and amidst a sprawling selection of townhomes and low-level apartment buildings, the Vulcans had obtained an entire city block with which to recreate a little piece of their home planet. Inside the walls of the compound, surrounded by the administrative and residential buildings that housed the hustle and bustle of ambassadorial duty, the embassy's gardeners had recreated a desert garden. Isolated from the noise and activity of the outside world, it was a favored retreat for the embassy's staff, a place where they could return to the serenity and solitude at the center of the Vulcan soul.

With only hours remaining before the Enterprise's launch, Ambassador Soval had summoned T'Pol down to the embassy, and underneath the twilight skies—light pollution was, unfortunately, a problem that was not yet entirely solved—the two Vulcans strolled through the garden, talking softly.

"If all goes well, you should be able to return to your duties on Earth within a year," Soval commented, neither expecting nor seeking a response; it was a statement of fact, and nothing more.

"I fail to understand why I can't stay in San Francisco," T'Pol replied.

Soval eyed her curiously, weighing his words carefully. "You've spent far too much time with humans as it is," he answered at last. He had assumed the answer to be self-evident. "Returning to Vulcan will allow you to recover from the mental strain of dealing with an emotional species." The Vulcan Diplomatic Corps, under which T'Pol officially served, had no notion of 'hazardous' postings—all diplomatic postings, being with emotional species, were naturally hazardous to the precise mental disciplines of the Vulcan people. Even the best diplomats needed to return home from time to time to re-center their focus, and none of them had served exclusively with humans for almost two years straight.

"You thought it was crucial to place a Vulcan on the Enterpriseduring its first mission," T'Pol pointed out in response. "And you agreed to the logic of indefinitely posting me there. Why would it not be logical to leave me there now?"

"Even a Vulcan cannot help them inside the Delphic Expanse," Soval replied. He paused to smell the aroma of a mekla flower. Growing only rarely in the arid atmosphere of Vulcan, it thrived in the wetness of San Francisco. "Besides, we would dispatch another officer instead. It is time for you to return to Vulcan, T'Pol, to recover from your time spent among the humans."

"I have not 'gone native,' if that is what you are implying." T'Pol's voice was nearly flat, but Soval's trained ears detected a faint hint of petulance.

"I imply nothing, Sub-Commander. I merely state that attending to your neuropsychological health is the logical course of action."

"I am not sure how well the Enterprisewill fare without me," T'Pol replied. Her resistance puzzled even herself.

"The Enterprise's odds of success are so minuscule as to be non-existent," Soval answered. "With or without you. It is illogical to join them on a fool's mission." He smelled the cloying aroma thoughtfully. "Perhaps you should take a leave of absence—spend some time with the adepts on Mt. Selaya."

"And why is that, Ambassador?"

"Because it is illogical to discuss a non-existent choice. The High Command has ordered you back to Vulcan."

"I believe it should be my decision," T'Pol answered firmly.

Soval sighed gently. "Have you lost your logic, Sub-Commander?" He placed an emphasis on the rank. "Part of joining the service is obeying the orders of Command. Only they see—"

"See the entire picture, and thus can determine how best to deploy the resources of Vulcan." T'Pol knew the mantra, and had never before had reason to challenge it.

"You do have a choice, T'Pol," Soval said carefully. "You can follow your orders…or resign your commission."

…

"She's a good ship, Jonathan," Admiral Forrest commented as the two men approached the port airlock. Forrest was the last person scheduled to depart; after he left, the support umbilicals would be disconnected, and the Enterprisewould be on her way. "What's the old saying? 'Treat her like a lady, and she'll always bring you home'?"

It had been a record-fast layover at McKinley. Starfleet's Quartermaster had sent a personal best in juggling supplies and outfitting the ship, and the engineering teams had little retrofitting to do; the biggest change was gutting a science lab to install a new 'command center' deep in the protected heart of the vessel. What little was left—some minor engineering refits, some additional tinkering to the torpedo launch tubes—would be done during the first week or two of the Enterprise's lengthy transit to the Expanse.

"I'm hoping she'll bring us home anyway," Archer reflected. "If we manage to find the Xindi, the Enterprisewill have to go through her paces…Oh, one more thing, Admiral. Ambassador Soval agreed to let us take T'Pol back to Vulcan if it's alright with you."

"That's fine," Forrest readily agreed. The Epsilon Eridani system was roughly on Enterprise's course, and stopping by the Vulcan homeworld would take maybe a half day. Compared to the seven weeks' flight time just to reach the Expanse, it would only be a minor inconvenience. "T'Pol's grown on you, hasn't she?"

The corners of Archer's mouth tilted up ironically. "She's a Vulcan, Admiral: once they arrive, you just can't seem to get rid of them." T'Pol's time on the Enterprisehad truly been a journey in and of itself; after initially having her jammed down his throat by Starfleet Command, Archer now struggled to imagine running the ship without her.

They came to a stop in the airlock's anteroom. "I could tell you that there are a lot of people counting on you," Forrest observed. "But I don't need to do that, do I?"

"No, sir," Archer answered. "I just wish the circumstances were different."

"How so?"

The captain formed a broad grin. "Charging off into the great unknown? Nothing but the ship under our feet and the crew to our back? Daring tempest and gale in the pursuit of adventure?" The smile fell away. "It would be exciting, if it weren't so damned serious."

"Who knows what you'll find out there, Captain," Forrest answered. "If even half of what Soval claims is true, you'll have no shortage of excitement." The airlock hatchway slid open, waiting for the admiral. "Good luck, Jon," Forrest said as he reached out a hand. Archer clasped it firmly. "Good luck and godspeed."

…

One by one, the umbilical tubes connecting the great starship to the gantries of McKinley were disconnected from the Enterprise and reeled back into the storage rooms of spacedock. Power, water, sanitation, computer hookups, air refreshers—each one was removed in turn, and as the conduits snaked their way from the hull, the interior systems of the starship took over, shouldering the burden of running Earth's greatest scientific and engineering achievement. With a little jolt, the airlock tubes disconnected from either side of the saucer, and the last connection—the thin, snakelike conduit that provided a hardline data connection—was severed, the end of the conduit whipping around in space as it withdrew.

From here on out, the Enterprise would receive no support, gain no quarter, and obtain no break; the systems would be maintained and repaired as they ran, and replacement parts would be scrounged from the supplies spilling out of every cargo bay and closet on the ship.

Travis Mayweather, sitting at the helm, ran a final systems check as the starship shifted slightly in space. His board showed that everything was in order, and with that affirmation, he raised his voice for the captain to hear. "Ready on your order, sir."

Travis sensed the captain's presence behind him. Archer was standing in the middle of the bridge, between his command chair and Travis, as though willing the Enterpriseforward. "Take us out, Travis," Archer said calmly. "Maneuvering thrusters at one-half. Keep our pitch at station-keeping."

"Thrusters at one-half, pitch at station-keeping, aye, sir," Travis acknowledged as he input the commands. Departing from spacedock was a remarkably precise procedure; a shift of even a single degree of pitch would ram the starship into the support gantries. Travis frowned as he noted the Enterprisedrift starboard by several hundredths of a degree. It was within safety tolerances, and it was easy to adjust the thrusters to compensate, but Travis knew that he would take the time later to track down the glitch.

As Travis kept a steady hand on the helm, the Enterpriseeased forward from the protective cradle of spacedock, as first the tip of the saucer, then its widened bulk, and finally, the stardrive section emerged. Last, the trailing tips of the warp nacelles came forward, until at last they were clear.

"Keep thrusters at one-half and bring us about," Archer ordered.

"Aye, sir, coming about," Travis responded, and maintaining their maneuvering speed, he brought the Enterprisearound to its course vector. "Ready on your command."

"Engage at full impulse."

With a touch of the controls, Travis opened the throttle on the impulse drive, and the starship rocketed forward to one-third the speed of light. It was the fastest they could safely travel in-system; due to relativity concerns, the impulse engines were not designed to go any faster, and traveling at warp speed would not leave the navigator enough time to skirt any hazards.

Once they reached the outer boundary of the Kuiper Belt, the Enterprisewould kick into warp, and the pursuit would be on.

"ETA to the Belt boundary is twenty and one-half hours," Travis announced. This was normally an exciting moment for the ensign; taking a starship out of spacedock, on a brand-new mission into the unknown…sitting at the helm, feeling the engines react under his guidance, and pointing their nose in the right direction…but this time, it felt bittersweet.

"Twenty and one-half hours, acknowledged," Archer repeated, completing the repetition of procedure. He stepped forward to lean over Travis' shoulder. "Ensign, did I notice that she pulled a little to starboard?"

…

Five days out

…

Captain Archer stared bleary-eyed at the nearly-empty star charts on the screen of his padd. Purporting to be a map of the stars between the Terran system and the closest reaches of the Expanse, it was relatively well-filled-in for the first twenty-five or so light-years; but then the charts dropped off into near nothingness, showing only the occasional star, typically gleaned from long-distance survey probes. The nuts and bolts of interstellar navigation—gravity wakes, subspace disturbances, asteroid fields and ion-charged magnetic seas—were conspicuously absent. I can look at this two ways, Archer told himself. It's either a navigational nightmare, or a scientific motherlode.

Archer was startled from his reverie by the soft hiss of the mess hall doors, and looked up to see Trip Tucker enter. "It's bad enough that one of us is up in the middle of the night," the captain said in greeting. "What's your story?"

Trip crossed to the beverage dispenser and held a mug underneath. "Couldn't sleep," he demurred, pushing the button for hot coffee. "How's Porthos holding up?"

"He's sound asleep," Archer answered. Porthos was his faithful beagle companion, and in the tradition of the great explorers of old, the captain had requested—and received—special permission to bring Porthos on the Enterprise. Plus, the presence of a dog got rid of that pesky new-starship smell. "Of course, he has no idea that anything unusual is going on."

Tucker pulled out a chair and took a seat. "You picked a new science officer yet?"

"No," Archer replied. "Whenever I look at the duty roster, I can't seem to find anyone as good as T'Pol." The duty roster was, in fact, tabbed behind the star charts on his padd.

"You're gonna miss her, aren't you?" Trip asked. He took a sip of the hot, caffeinated water.

Archer let out a faint snort. "You know, when they first assigned her, I felt like strangling Soval." On the Enterprise's first mission out of spacedock, the Vulcan ambassador had insisted on posting one of his staffers on board—and following that mission, Archer had come to the complex realization that he valued T'Pol's presence.

Of course, it took several months before they learned to get along…

"She does kind of grow on you," Trip admitted, staring into his coffee. Of the senior staff, the engineer had struggled the most to get along with their Vulcan first officer/science officer hybrid.

Now, the captain audibly laughed. "I would think that you'd be the first one to show her to the airlock."

"Well, if I did that…" Trip took another sip. "I'd have to find someone else to needle. Maybe even you, Cap'n."

"And we can't have that, now, can we?" The repertoire was weak, but it felt comforting.

Trip raised his mug into the air. "To Henry Archer," he proclaimed. The original designer of the warp-five engine that powered the Enterprise, and the heir to Zefram Cochrane, Henry Archer had the more notable distinction of being the captain's father. "I wonder what he would have thought if he knew he engine was gonna help save the human race."

The captain clinked his mug with Trip's. "I think he always believed it would," Archer replied. "Just not…in this manner." Henry Archer had been a strong proponent of the theory that exploring the stars would, conversely, bring humanity closer together.

The captain smiled reflectively. "My father always told me that the Enterprisewas about far more than just hopping to and from various stars. He would say that we carried 'the hopes and dreams of the future' on our backs. That we were a symbol of something far greater." Archer's face went downcast. "I don't know how he'd react to his pride and joy being reduced to a ship of war. It just…I gotta tell you, Trip, it just doesn't feel right."

Tucker couldn't help but glare at his friend. "Whether or not it feels right, we have a job to do. Those bastards killed seven million people, and if we don't stop them, they'll kill a helluva lot more."

"Yea, I know, Trip," Archer replied softly. "And when we find them, I'll make sure that we hit them so hard that they can never hit us back. But this isn't what I signed up for." He paused for a moment to analyze his coffee. "When I first got this command—it was all I wanted, everything I had worked for. I was so eager to get out there, to explore the galaxy. That's all I've ever wanted to do."

The captain continued slowly. "Then, we began running into so many bad guys, and I had to start thinking more about the safety of eighty-three people. I didn't like it, Trip. And now…" He had reached the dregs of his coffee. "I don't know," he said finally. "I just can't find any eagerness anymore."

"Well, Cap'n," Trip replied, leaning in heatedly, "I can't wait to get in there, and find the bastards who did this. I can't wait to hit them, and hit them again, and hit them again, until they can't get up anymore."

"We'll do whatever we have to do, Trip," Archer answered. "Whatever it takes. But that doesn't mean that I'll enjoy it."

…

In the annals of the Earth literary tradition termed 'science fiction,' the planet Mars was the most popular location for extraterrestrial beings. Even after pre-World War scientists reached the red planet, verifying that it did indeed have traces of life—but nothing more complicated than a long-extinct amoeba—the planet was used in fiction as a favored location for encounters of the third kind.

Oddly enough, the second most popular location was not the star system closest to Earth. Alpha Centauri was often rejected as being 'too obvious,' and writers instead focused on another system, the third closest (of the visible stars) to Earth—40 Eridani A, a relatively-average K-class star roughly 16.5 light-years away.

Thus, it was supremely ironic when humans made first contact with an extraterrestrial race—and discovered that they hailed from the Eridani system.

The Vulcan homeworld was tucked within the inner asteroid belt of the system, and the Enterprisehad already slowed for its final approach into the system when Sub-Commander T'Pol stepped into Captain Archer's ready room.

"Come in," Archer said with a welcoming smile. He was grateful for the interruption; he had been staring at a routine diagnostic report of the third-stage warp plasma accelerators, and his mind had not registered any of it. "Can I help you with something?"

"Ensign Mayweather informed me that we're eight hours away from Vulcan." T'Pol's conversational skills had been burnished quite considerably during her time on board, but at times she still defaulted to the business-first approach of her people.

"Why don't you sit down?" Archer suggested. The signs were supremely subtle, but he could see that T'Pol had something on her mind. "Just think, pretty soon you'll be eating real Vulcan food."

T'Pol took the proffered seat. "Chef's done an adequate job of approximating Vulcan cuisine," she demurred.

"Well, you never did care for the way we smelled," Archer tried again. "At least you won't have to put up with that anymore."

"I've gotten used to it," T'Pol replied, her voice devoid of tone.

"How about those emotions we bombard you with every day? You must be looking forward to a respite."

"I've grown accustomed to that as well. Somewhat, at least," T'Pol acknowledged.

Archer leaned forward. "You're not making this easy, T'Pol. Why don't you just tell me what's on your mind?"

"Very well," T'Pol agreed, but she hesitated. "I request permission to stay on board the Enterprise," she finally said with exquisite formality.

The captain tilted his head in surprise. "It's not a question of my allowing you, T'Pol," he answered. "Starfleet's already lobbied the Vulcan High Command, and they wouldn't even consider it."

"But if it was up to you?" T'Pol pressed brusquely.

"Well…" Archer leaned back. "I'd be happy to keep you. But—"

"I've decided to resign my commission with the High Command."

"What? Why? You've worked hard with them, T'Pol. And from what I understand, if you resign now—"

"They won't let me back in. That is an accurate understanding," T'Pol stated. "But the interests of the one must yield to the interests of the many. The Enterpriseneeds me, Captain. My service here is of more importance than my career with the High Command."

Archer suspected that the answer ran deeper—but he knew that T'Pol would never admit to feelings of duty and loyalty, and pressing her on it would serve no value. In a way, it was enough that he knew.

"Very well," Archer acknowledged, and he rose to his feet. T'Pol stood up in front of him. "I hereby grant your request to continue your posting as the first officer and science officer of the U.S.S. Enterprise. In light of your resignation from the Vulcan High Command, as of this date, I'm granting you a temporary field commission with Starfleet, with the rank of Commander, with all the duties and privileges thereof." The captain couldn't quash his smile. "It's good to have you back, Commander."

Archer turned and hit the intercom panel. "Archer to the bridge," he called out.

"Mayweather here." The voice came back an instant later.

"Take us off our approach, Mr. Mayweather. We won't be stopping at Vulcan. Set a course for the Delphic Expanse."

…

Captain's Log, June 12, 2153. Our seven-week journey to the Delphic Expanse is rapidly reaching its conclusion. The flight out has been largely uneventful; along the way, sensors have recorded a number of astrophysical phenomena and tagged them for future study. The crew is anxious to begin our mission.

…

A violent purple haze filled the Enterprise's main viewscreen, a field of coruscating white lightning cast against a background of violet gases and shimmering lights that glowed with the furious intensity of fractured space. Burning with an incandescent fire, the scintillating auras of phosphorescence bleeding into the background bespoke a halo of blazing flame, the ignition of countless jets of ambient gas, and the crackling spires of free plasma flashing through the fuchsia-hued clouds.

Travis checked his navigational readings a second time. They were still nearly a million kilometers away, and the thick boundary more than filled the viewscreen, spilling outwards on every side, and he momentarily shivered; there were undoubtedly specks of plasma within the boundary that were larger than the Enterprise.

Travis felt the captain's presence behind him; Archer was not a man who led sitting down. "The Vulcans said that the Expanse is surrounded by think layers of thermobaric clouds," Archer said, musingly. "Looks like they're right. Any sign of how deep the clouds are?"

"Nothing on long-range sensors," T'Pol replied from the science console. "I am detecting slight variations in the density, but nothing remotely close to clear space."

"The last Vulcan ship reported that it took them almost six hours to get through the clouds," Malcolm commented from his station. "Looks like they might have been lucky."

"Well," Archer said finally, taking an audible breath, "we didn't come out here to be stopped by a little gas. Travis, ease us in, point-two impulse, course at your discretion."

"Point-two impulse, aye, sir," Travis acknowledged, and he tapped the impulse controls. The Enterpriseslid forward slowly, at a rate slightly below twenty-thousand kilometers per second, and within a minute, they eased forward into the thermobaric clouds.

Travis frowned as he watched the navigational sensors. 'Course at his discretion' meant exactly that: in a gaseous field such as this, the ship had to navigate around any number of hazards, rather than following a straight line. The helmsman, with the necessary information at his fingertips, was given permission to make those course changes. But twenty-thousand kilometers per second was as fast as it sounds. "Permission to drop to point-one impulse, Captain," Travis called out over his shoulder.

"Of course, Ensign," Archer agreed. "We won't gain anything by barreling through here. Anything on long-range sensors yet, T'Pol?"

"Nothing, sir," T'Pol reported back. "We have no readings beyond the inner perimeter."

Travis gritted his teeth as he brought the starship in a shallow arc around a plasma eddy. His focus was on the near region of the thermobaric clouds; if it was more than a couple million kilometers ahead, then it did not even register for him. At point-one impulse, he had time to adjust; and it took all of his focus to pilot around the immediate hazards.

Travis believed himself to be the best pilot in Starfleet; and much of Starfleet agreed. But this was going to push his skills to their limits.

…

"Anything yet, T'Pol?" Archer asked with the weariness of repetition.

"Nothing beyond the perimeter." T'Pol's response revealed no similar weariness. Whether it was due to the Vulcan's greater tolerance for routine, or she was simply covering it better, the captain didn't know; but the consistency of her responses helped ease the anxiety on the bridge.

"Didn't you say that the Vulcan ship took six hours?" Hoshi asked. "Shouldn't we be seeing something by now?"

"It is possible that the inner perimeter is blocking our sensors," T'Pol replied.

"In which case, we won't know we're there until we stumble across the doorstep," Malcolm added.

"Tucker to the bridge!" The intercom hail came up from engineering. "How much longer, sir?"

"We don't know yet, Trip," Archer answered. "Try to be patient."

"You and me can be patient all we want, Cap'n," Trip's disembodied voice replied. "But the Enterpriseisn't going to. The impulse manifolds are clogging up. If we don't get out of here soon, we'll have to come to a dead stop to clean them!"

"Do what you can, Trip," Archer replied. "But I don't want to stop until we're out of here."

Travis watched the navigational sensors intently as he brought the ship around in an array of dips, swirls, and barrel rolls between lightning bursts, gas eddies, and plasma flames. The tenseness in his body had long since disappeared: as hour stretched into hour, he had fallen into a comfortable rhythm, and found himself to be enjoying the challenge. Of course, he realized, I'm probably the ONLY person who is enjoying this.

The helm's sensors, focused on the immediate area in front of them, hadn't yet detected any change when Travis heard T'Pol's voice behind him. "The thermobaric clouds are dissipating rapidly," she reported to the sound of relieved sighs. "I'm detecting clear space ahead."

"With our current course and speed, we should cross over in less than five minutes," Malcolm added. Unlike T'Pol's flat tones, his report had a noticeable note of satisfaction.

Travis leaned back in his chair as the helm sensors began to clear. "It should be smooth sailing the rest of the way," he reported, and his cheeks burned in embarrassment as the bridge broke into applause.

"Nice going, Travis," Archer congratulated his pilot. "Engineering! Can the manifolds hold out for another five minutes?"

"Sure can, sir!" Trip's voice came back ecstatic. "I take it we're almost done?"

"Just a couple more minutes, Trip." Archer closed the intercom.

"Sir, the view should be clearing up," Hoshi reported, and at the captain's nod, she adjusted the image on the viewscreen. "The Expanse is within visible range."

Archer rested his hands on the back of Travis' chair. "Straight and steady, Mr. Mayweather. Let's see what's in there."