Salanacon

A/N: From a challenge from Logical Choice. A story from Goodnight Enterprise where T'Pol befalls some serious bad stuff. Many kudos to Telaka ... and for heaven's sake -- read her story!

The sky was afire – hues of reds and oranges streaked across the heavens like an Impressionist painting T'Pol had seen once in a San Francisco art museum. Four suns hung oppressively overhead, bearing down on her. She could feel the rays singing her bronzed skin and causing her nictitating membranes to film over her eyes.

It is like Vulcan. Like home.

Looking down at the scanner that she methodically waved into the air, she read the display: 49 degrees Celsius in the cool of the morning.

Stepping through the golden sand, feeling it shift beneath her feet, she blinked. Although there were few sparks of life – an abandoned leaf of grass, insects and snake-like creatures burrowing into holes, and no people to speak of ... at least not yet – she licked her lips at the thought of collecting data.

Salanacon.

"Damn, it's hot as hell," Trip said. Wiping his forearm against his sweaty hairline, he sighed.

She didn't disagree.

"Why ain't this place in the database?" Trip asked.

She replied evenly. "Our people's history together, though not considered significant in Vulcan timelines, is not a harmonious one."

His eyebrows shoved together.

Without further explanation, she continued her trek toward town. Holding her scanner in front of her, she adjusted her bearing walking over golden sands that eventually lessened and turned into a plot of land – a town. She stared at a sandy colored wall that wrapped around the city. Almost like adobe, it was packed snugly with dirt, sand and water, and felt as hard as stone to T'Pol's delicate fingers.

"Probably to keep the critters out," Trip said.

She peaked her eyebrow at the notion of critters.

He beamed. "Animals."

"The Salans have many … critters … in their cities. They use them for transportation."

The Southerner's mouth gaped open. "You tellin' me these people can construct warp technology that, no offense, makes the Vulcans look like children, but they use livestock for transportation?"

"That is exactly what I said."

He guffawed and then laughed. "Whaddaya know."

"There are many things about the Salans that are quite … fascinating. They were nearly destroyed by another race. Their advanced in technology were largely thanks to a war."

The two continued to walk closer to town. "Thanks to a war? I doubt people are happy about strife."

She agreed. "Nevertheless, it is usually war that enables great leaps in technology. For example, during world war two, your people discovered nuclear power. And in world war three, they created warp technology."

Trip's face fell as he became silent.

Standing on the edge of civilization she looked back behind her at the never-ending landscape; the desert spanned the horizon. And the shuttlepod waited, a speck, on top of a sand dune in the far distance. With a curious eye, she turned back to the town.

"It is safe for you bringing those ears in?" he asked.

She nodded. "Quite. It's taken decades, but the feud has been settled. And apart from perhaps a few disgruntled Salans, I should be recognized as … harmless."

"Should?" he asked.

Straightening a little, she corrected her statement. "Will."

Digging into the front pocket her light khaki jacket, she reached for her communicator and flipped it open.

"T'Pol to Enterprise."

"Archer here. Go ahead."

"Captain, we've reached the edge of the town." Her eyes caught a few purple-hued Salans milling about just beyond the small opening in the wall. They were crowded around beehive buildings – mostly likely shops – all in earthy colors; the ones closest to them shined in the sunlight beaming gold in all directions as if the edifices were wrapped in copper.

The aliens stopped their activities, looked over at she and Tucker, and then glanced away to continue on with their daily lives.

"Good. I'm sure Trip'll be in hog heaven. Ambassador Kreenal said they're building a warp 8.1 prototype."

"8.1!" Trip exclaimed. His smile broadened.

Archer chuckled, obviously hearing the sentiment. "I thought he'd be pleased. I only wish I could be down there with you. But, I guess someone has to mind the store."

Trip's hand forced T'Pol's communicator closer to his mouth and leaned down to speak into the device. "Thanks, sir!"

Withdrawing it from Trip's gleeful lips, she provided additional information. "I would like to have an opportunity to study the insects in the desert …."

Before she could get the words out, the captain interrupted. "Sorry, T'Pol, maybe another time. I don't want to wear out our welcome, even though the ambassador seems … hospitable."

"Commander Tucker can visit the factory while I …."

"I'd like you two to stick together."

An unasked question hung in the air.

"Just seems like it's for the best, T'Pol."

So, with that she'd head to a darkened factory and listen to engineering specs, something that wasn't necessarily her specialty. It also wasn't an interest.

"Yes, sir."

"Trip, I expect a full report when you get back"

"Not a problem," the man behind her cooed.

"Archer out."

T'Pol snapped the device shut. The factory was around the next block and as the two headed toward it, Trip managed to get ahead of her walking through the stone-like entrance into the city.

The factory was a conglomeration of beehive looking buildings, where separate components were manufactured. Unlike the shops, these gleamed in a clay-like color: red. The same copper banding wrapped around the structures dancing the sun's rays in all directions.

T'Pol hypothesized the smelting plant, where the minerals were created, was kilometers away from this city, perhaps even in another town all together.

Walking from building to building, they spent two hours touring the facilities that housed the fastest ships in the galaxy as the Salan's occasionally stopped what they were doing to gape at the strangers. Trip didn't seem to notice; his eyes were glued to the engines, relays, couplings and converters.

She could also see the disappointment hanging there – no blueprints. And even when Trip attempted to inspect the parts that taunted him, just as he picked them up their guide, Greeg, rushed them to another facility. It was clear they wouldn't cover the trade agreements the engineer had hoped for, or see the blueprints and hear the theories behind the speedy travel.

As T'Pol's brown eyes blinked, taking in the last of the details, even she felt much more needed to be gleaned.

Trip leaned in to confirm. "We've only been here two hours and we haven't even seen the good stuff. I gotta see the blueprints before we go back to Enterprise."

Their short purple man guide stood behind them with a peculiar smile on his face. His olive eyes glowed – the Salans were known to have almost hypnotic eyes, possibly because they didn't blink.

Greeg said, "Another hour should be more than enough time to allow you to finish. I would like for you to see the blueprints as well."

Trip's face lit up and his blue eyes widened. He threw the first officer a pathetic gaze, as if he was a boy asking for permission to go play or a dog begging for a treat.

The first officer flattened her lips as he batted his eyes once more.

"Very well. We will rendezvous in two hours, Commander."

Greeg's smile grew, but Trip furrowed his brow. "Wait, I thought he were supposed to stay together?"

The captain wasn't on the planet. And rather than bother him with the details, she decided to make a command decision; after all, she was the senior officer on this away mission.

"It will do us no harm to take separate paths for a couple of hours."

Grinning, he nodded. "Two hours?"

"Two hours. We meet here."

"Thanks!" he said.

Within moments he wandered off as she began to head out the facility and toward the desert to take scans of the limited life there. It was also an invitation to spend two more hours in the sunshine, walking around the sand and collecting data. It'd been too long since she'd visited her home planet, and this was as close as she'd come in many years.

Passing the buildings that housed engines, couplings and parts she'd seen before, she noticed instead of bustling with teams of people, the shipyard appeared empty.

Perhaps they are on break?

The moment her foot passed through the portal of the expansive factory, she felt a pistol in her back.

"Don't move." The voice was deep and threatening.

She fidgeted slightly to her right, when the instruction was given again with the pistol pressed more firmly into her back – to the point of pain.

"I said, 'don't move!'"

Without any remorse, the man shot at her. The low-level grade of the weapons did little more than sear her flesh, causing a burn to form on her back. Suddenly, she was surrounded by Salans – factory workers – shooting at her. Although she was able to dodge and thwart some of the attacks, she was met with overwhelming firepower and eventually found her flesh burning.

One last jolt threw her against a brick wall, the one that surrounded the entire factory, and she crumpled to the ground.

A small-built, bald man with a scar running along his check and violet eyes, sniffed the air, as if hungry, and curled his lip. Strolling closer to her, he leaned into her face.

"Your kind makes me sick."

His breath was sour and his eyes seemed beadier than the others of his race.

Her eyes widened. "I'm on a peaceful mission …."

A right cross stopped her mouth from moving, and he shook his fist at the wallop he'd delivered.

"Quiet!" he yelled.

She could feel a trickle of blood run down her lips and onto her chin.

A vehicle resembling a hovercraft led by wooly, golden creatures with large molars that hung out of their already slack mouths arrived. One of the animals brayed as the owner of the contraption jumped down to escort the Vulcan onboard.

A hand wrapped around her collar and dragged her to her feet. Protesting, she felt another shoved into her back so that she stumbled forward.

"Get in!" she heard from no one in particular.

"Wait," she said. It was a helpless plea … on the verge of a bargain. But, instead of reeling off the series of questions she had, she felt a blow to the head and slunk into darkness.

"I'm going to enjoy this," was the last thing she heard.

Trip meandered around the complex. Greeg showed him the blueprints and greedily the Southerners hands ran over the device that digitally displayed it. Like a 3-D model, the image twisted and turned as they looked at the floating hologram from all sides.

"8.1. Fine piece of equipment," Trip said with a whistle.

"I thought you might like this," Greeg said.

"Damn, you said you've only been building ships like this for about 60 years?"

Greeg agreed.

"Your technology advanced pretty quickly."

The purple man hesitated and then admitted. "We had help. But, the cost was great."

"Help?"

"The Vulcans."

Trip's face fell, the grin leaving his visage. "Really?"

Greeg looked down toward his feet. "We were in the midst of a war with the Rodarans. Their race was intent on wiping ours out: extinction. The only way to fight them was – technology from the Vulcans."

"But, you got it?"

"They don't provide technology readily."

Trip mumbled. "So I've noticed."

"Worse, they traded with our enemies – the Rodarans."

Trip frowned. "Vulcans are peaceful people for the most part. They don't like to get involved."

"Finally, they had to agree with us. But some of the supplies traded to the Rodarans cost millions of lives. Our numbers had dwindled to merely thousands." Greeg stared down at his shoes. "I think even those unemotional pointy-eared aliens showed regret. It's why they eventually helped us."

"Your people seem to be just fine."

Greeg continued to stare downward.

"That was almost seventy years ago. Our population has increased thanks to breeding programs … it replenish our numbers."

A frown smacked across Trip's face. "But, still the Vulcans saved your people."

Greeg's red eyes narrowed. "This village was nearly destroyed. Everyone here lost someone. Everyone."

For a moment, the engineer panicked. T'Pol, very Vulcan – with pointy ears, a placid voice and green skin – would stick out like a sore thumb on the planet. If these people had a grudge, and judging by Greeg's opinions he was guessing they did, she'd be an easy target.

Flipping open his communicator, noting the two hours had almost passed, he called to the first officer.

"Trip to T'Pol."

Nothing.

Changing the settings to another frequency, he tried again. "Commander Tucker to Sub-commander T'Pol."

Damnit, I hope her communicator isn't working.

Leaving Greeg's presence, without any explanation, he rushed back to the place the two had parted ways. He waited twenty minutes longer than he was asked to, including heading back to the shuttle to see if perhaps she was there. He even began to make concentric circles when he admitted to himself it was over. With a fallen chin, he decided to make the most difficult call he'd ever made.

"Tucker to Enterprise."

"Archer here. Trip you're late. Everything okay?"

"No, sir. T'Pol … I … I think her lost her sir."

"Come again?"

"Sir, I think I lost T'Pol."

"You lost her?"

"She didn't answer her communicator and she's not at the rendezvous. I've been searching for her about an hour. I … I thought I should let you know."

Trip could feel the tension on the other end of the communicator. Right now, he imagined the captain to be pacing, his face covered with wrinkles and worry.

Archer said, "Hoshi, start sweeping the planet for Vulcan bio-signs, and get me Ambassador Kreenal."

"Yes, sir," Trip could hear from the communications officer in the distance.

"Trip, stay there."

"Aye, Cap'n."

"Archer out."

When he closed the metal box, he sighed deeply. Glancing around, he spotted a green mark on the ground, right next to his left shoe. There was no doubt in his mind what it was: Vulcan blood. Running a scanner on it, he proved his suspicions were correct and increased his concern.

Archer found himself pacing the length of his office as ambassador Kreenal sputtered on about information that should've been given to him before the mission began. The diplomat's visage was regal and there was an air to her that seemed indifferent to the loss of his first officer. Her red robes hung on her old, frail body and her hair was white and wild.

Kreenal said, "The Salans and the Vulcans aren't necessarily on good terms. There's hatred for your first officer's people."

She blandly delivered the information and her complacent red eyes appeared bored. The captain felt his face flush and his heart start to pound wildly in his chest. His fist involuntarily slammed onto his desk.

"Why didn't you tell me before!"

The ambassador's features were placid. "I didn't think your people would be there long enough. Accept my apologies."

Archer's head fell to his chest, a growl nearly escaping the back of his throat.

"I don't wish to alarm you –" Kreenal said.

He ventured to glance back at the ambassador, but made sure the woman could see him frown.

"The village she was in is notorious for their hatred of the Vulcans. During a war, that area suffered the greatest number of casualties … and many of them blame the Vulcans."

As Archer's mouth hung open and his brain tried to process his next steps, he vaguely heard the ambassador's next words.

"For years we have tried to right this wrong with them, but still … most of our people would hold no great guilt if they were to kill a Vulcan."

The captain stalked over to the terminal, said a few choice words and smashed his finger against the button, cutting the ambassador off in mid-apology … before any pleasantries or un-pleasantries could be exchanged. Barging onto the Bridge about to hurl a few commands, he was cut off.

Hoshi said, "Sir, I've scanned the area – no trace of Vulcan bio-signs."

"Keep scanning." He nodded toward Reed. "Malcolm."

"Yes, sir," he said, already out of his chair.

"You're with me."

Archer stalked over to the turbolift as he heard his tactical officer tag along behind him. When the doors shut, Archer debriefed Lt. Reed on what he needed – MACOs assigned to search the area, 20 in total that would arrive in groups of five. Although he didn't need to reiterate the importance, he found himself saying a few words Malcolm already knew.

"Have them meet us down there." We have to get there right away. "Time is of the essence, Lieutenant."

"Understood." Reed cocked back the setting of his phase pistol to stun as Archer did the same.

Marching down the hall, Archer opened up his communicator. "Trip, Malcolm and I should be there in two minutes. Keep your position."

"Yes, sir."

Facing the crewman who manned the transporter controls, Archer delivered his order. "Energize."

T'Pol's eyes stung as she creaked them open for the first time in what she would hypothesize was a few hours. She was bound – her hands secured behind her back and her feet wrapped together with a substance that was impossible to wiggle free of.

"Glad you're awake," said a voice. "My name is Ral."

Struggling to make out the figure, she took in her surroundings. It was a dark, dank place – like a cave or a cellar. The odor smelled musty as if water was plentiful there. It also had the odor of rotting flesh … as if the location had been used to torture prisoners in the past or bury their dead.

"Know this place, Vulcan?"

It was the same man, the owner, who'd struck her at the factory. Even by Salan standards he wasn't comely. Perhaps it was the sneer he wore on his face, as if he'd been twisted by grief.

"No," she remarked.

"It's where my family took refuge against the Rodarans. Well, what was left of my family anyway."

T'Pol turned her head. More guards were in the distance, watching her – smiling snidely.

"That was more than sixty years ago. I believed our people had come to an understanding," she said.

"Understanding? What's to understand? We begged the Vulcans for help, and rather than give us any, they allowed the Rodarans to kill and maim our people. Worse, your race pestered mine for improvements on technology that we made."

She shook her head about to answer him. Instead, he continued, crouching down to breathe into her face.

"Did you know that I saw my father being incinerated in front of me?"

She licked her lips, tasting her own blood, and gave the smallest frown. The history between the Salans and Vulcans was tenuous. The Rodarans were every bit as evil as the man before her had indicated, but the Vulcans didn't know that then. At the time, they'd decided they wouldn't play peacemaker or soldier; instead they'd wait until the conflict came to an eventual end.

It wasn't until the lethal attacks had begun that the Vulcan government stepped in, ignoring their own laws. And by that time, it had been too late.

"We were unaware," T'Pol said.

"We told you how dangerous the Rodarans were," Ral said. A grimace wormed its way on his face, something that resembled both a smile and a frown.

"Just like the Vulcans did, my men are going to stand around and do nothing as I slowly and methodically torture you for everything you've done."

"I've done nothing; I was a child at the time …."

He sneered.

"If you are looking for currency for my release, my captain should …."

A kick to her stomach ended that line of negotiation.

"The first thing I'm going to do, Vulcan, is break your delicate ankles to make sure you can't run away."

Selecting something that was a cross-between a lead pipe and a sledgehammer, he flung it against his hand as if ensuring she could hear the weight behind it. It smacked against his skin and he grinned at the sound.

A guard sat on her to make sure she couldn't wrangle out her punishment.

The bald men bent down and waved his wrist in the air.

"Please--" she heard her voice say. It wasn't a plea; it was a request.

And before anything more could be said, the metal smashed against her left ankle. A bone-shattering crunch resounded and she felt fire – white, hot pain crawl up her leg and travel back down to her feet. Biting her lip in an effort not to scream, she breathed through the hurt as the Vulcan priests had taught her when she was a child. She closed her eyes in an effort to concentrate and hide the agony.

He smiled. "Your kind doesn't like to show emotions. I think by the end of this, you'll be screaming … you'll be begging me to stop."

And then he delivered the same blow to her right ankle, and it snapped like a twig underneath the weight of the instrument. Electrifying, it shot through her begging her to yell out. Instead, she whispered a mild grunt, and he smiled – pleased he'd received some response. Again she focused on slowing her own heartbeat as if entering a light-healing trance.

She felt his hot breath on her neck. "I want to hear you beg me to stop."

The men behind her laughed, and her torturer beamed under the attention.

I never will. Forcing the bile back down her throat, she kept a stoic face, ignoring the burning of her skin and the ache of her bones. She was barely aware of the sound of more bones snapping – her left and then right wrist.

A quiet moan left her lips, almost numb to the ache.

My wrists are broken.

"We don't want you to use your nerve pinch."

Finally the man who'd pinned her to the ground got up. As he did, she noted that her rib was broken, possibly puncturing her lung or heart. At the very least it was tender, but didn't match the exquisite distress of her wrists and ankles. The only consequence is that it was difficult to breathe and it forced some of her breakfast into her throat.

"I don't want you even able to crawl away, Vulcan."

"My name is T'Pol," she whispered.

"I don't care what your name is," he said.

Untying her, he carried her over to an old, wooden table and strapped her down. Despite the fact her wrists and ankles were useless, he bound them tightly to the table. When finished, he backed away and smiled at her strewn out before him.

Suddenly, his hands and fingers stroked her – touching the tips of her ears, brushing briefly along her mouth before she could bite at them and then tracing along the curves of her body.

"The Rodarans violated my mother. Did you know that?"

She tried to wiggle from his touch.

Menacingly, he stared into her eyes. "You're very beautiful."

She turned her head away from him as she heard laughter throughout the cave; the other men found her defiance amusing.

"After I've finished with you, perhaps I'll let one of my men have you."

Her lips flattened and she remained silent, trying not to shiver under the pain or the threats. Logic. Reason.

"Maybe I should let one them have you now, before we mar your beauty. Which one though?"

Furrowing her brows slightly, her gaze was cold and stern as if filled with her own intimidation. Logic is the beginning. It is the foundation. It is the creation of everything Vulcan.

"I would love to see your Vulcan austerity crumble. Maybe it would crumble if I let more than one of my men have you."

A few men closed in on the table, but she held her eyes on him. Where there is chaos, there is destruction.

"Maybe I'll take you first," he said. He unfastened the belt of his coveralls.

Where there is emotion, there is chaos.

TBC