—REHKUH—
"Therefore my people go into exile for lack of knowledge."
-The Hidden Kir'Shara of Surak
...
Sunrise came early on Vulcan.
Above the desert, the cloudless sky glowed in hues of orange, segueing into soft pinks as it fell behind the cutout of the distant mountains and into the distant horizon. Many shades of delicate color blurred together, changing every moment, as the sunlit brightness imbued the heavens with softness and warmth.
Hanging several degrees above the rocky peaks was a yellow disk, its shape and form clear in the sky. The constant swirl of desert sand helped imbue the star with a gentle nature uncommon among suns; one could almost gaze directly at it, despite the near proximity of the burning furnace. It was 40 Eridani A; Nevasa, to the native inhabitants.
Nevasa; in ancient mythology, it was the archetype representing the highest state a materially-bound Vulcan could attain. Nevasa was the son—the sun—of the archetype of Light and the Goddess of the Shadows. Nevasa was the greatest teacher of them all, known for imparting patience, persistence, endeavor, and endurance; those who embodied Nevasa could hope for a healthy career, a long life, and to prosper in everything good and right.
The morning sunlight lit up the world.
T'Les sped across the sand on her desert scooter. The sanctuary of the mountains was still many kilometers distant; unlike humans, evolution on the desert planet had trained the Vulcan people to accurately gauge distances, and T'Les knew she still had a ways to go. Of course, it was neither positive nor negative; it simply was, an irreducible statement of the material reality. Neither hope nor fear crept into her mind as she focused on keeping the scooter stable.
Far ahead, the mountain ridges cut sharply into the sky, separating what was above from what was below. Harsh lines and sharp angles, lit in a darker hue of orange, formed the crest; and beneath were the unmistakable lines of slopes and ravines, as the mountains fell downward to the desert floor.
Before it, the desert extended outward to every horizon. Sand as far as the Vulcan eye could see; endless acres, uninterrupted by life or civilization. It was tan, and orange, and yellow, as the dawn light reflected from the countless sand crystals. Here and there, punctuating the flat landscape, were rocky outcroppings and pillars, remnants of ancient hardstone plugs and granite fixtures that had formed, anomalously, in the sandstone.
T'Les expertly altered her gaze, shifting it from the sand beneath her, to the scooter's gauges, to the mountains ahead, and back again. She was no newcomer to the vehicle; it was a common, if rudimentary, means of desert travel, used when one did not have the time to walk the sands. She had practiced regularly, in anticipation of this moment.
She firmly believed that this moment had not been inevitable. T'Les had long known that she was at odds with the High Command; her university teachings were tinged with elements that challenged the orthodoxy, but wasn't that the way of higher education? To teach the students to challenge what they had been taught previously?
No one believed—seriously—that the High Command would act against the university faculty, as long as they didn't press for actual insurrection. The university, after all, had a history of principled dissent that had existed for many generations prior. In great respect to knowledge and education, previous authorities had refused to crack down on it.
But the current regime…under the leadership of V'Las, the High Command had become more rigid and authoritarian, demanding obedience and adherence to the orthodox teachings. After all, those who challenged the teachings challenged Vulcan society itself, and thus made themselves enemies of the people.
And if the High Command itself brought stability and security to Vulcan, then was it not logical to obey its dictates? And thus, anyone who refused must be suffering from the disease of irrationalism. It was a virus, a parasite, which must be stamped out before it could spread.
And so T'Les found herself speeding across the desert, her vehicle aimed at the towering mountains in the distance. There was no turning back; by her actions, she had declared herself to be in a state of rebellion against the High Command. And the greatest punishments of all were reserved for traitors.
But it was an aesthetically-pleasing sunrise.
...
For Stel, there was one great illogical mystery about the High Command that he had never been able to solve. One great puzzle that defied reason and required an un-Vulcan leap of faith…how had V'Las, who was the least able to suppress his emotions, risen to be Chief Administrator? Of the five members of the High Command, the other four were all more Vulcan in their deportment.
But then, Stel acknowledged, the post of the Chief Administrator had not been created to be the ethical symbol of the Vulcan way. That honor was reserved for the great philosophers trained at the Science Academy. The post of the Chief Administrator was a nuts-and-bolts position of government management.
It still required a ray of faith to believe that such an emotional Vulcan could be the most efficient administrator. But it was logical to follow the dictates of the High Command, and obey the Chief Administrator in all things.
"Are you satisfied with the evidence implicating the Syrranite T'Pau?" The question was asked smoothly by another member of the High Command, Administrator Soketh. He was known for being less stringent in the application of authority; some of his more logically-formalistic colleagues wondered if Soketh's logic wasn't improperly tempered by the great fallacy of functionalism.
Despite being half the age of the youngest member of the High Command, Stel felt no trepidation in voicing his reasoned conclusions. "The evidence is thin," he admitted. "The forensic investigation has found other traces of T'Pau's DNA in and around the blast zone, but we have been unable to determine how she gained entry." It was a gaping hole in their investigation, one that must be filled before Stel would close the file.
"But there is no reasonable doubt that T'Pau planted the bombs?" V'Las interrupted. He leaned forward on the crescent-shaped table in an appalling lack of control.
"There is no reasonable doubt that T'Pau planted the second bomb," Stel replied carefully. "The forensics indicate no other logical conclusion. But it is only a presumption to argue that she also planted the first one."
Soketh steepled his fingers carefully. "Can you elucidate, Chief Investigator?"
Stel nodded slightly. "Of course, Administrator. We have found only trace fragments from the first bomb, and none that have been sufficiently preserved to provide DNA traces. As such, we cannot logically conclude that T'Pau ever handled the bomb, and much less that she was responsible for planting it."
"It is of no consequence," V'Las interrupted. "We know that T'Pau planted the second bomb; unless you can provide evidence to the contrary, she is thus the most logical suspect for the first bomb as well."
Stel stayed himself. The reasoning was thin, but it was not his place to question the Chief Administrator of the High Command.
V'Las turned to his colleagues. "The guilt of the Syrranites has been demonstrated to my satisfaction," he stated firmly. "The time has come for us to take action against them!"
"With all due respect, Chief Administrator," Soketh countered, "guilt is a question for a court of law, and not this assembly. And to take action against the Syrranites a priori would be most illogical…it would only undermine the integrity of our justice system."
"If these were ordinary criminals, I might agree with you," V'Las snapped. He eyed his fellow Vulcan with something akin to suspicion. "But these people are insurrectionists, Administrator. They are anarchists and traitors! And if we do not strike back now, then they will believe that they have won. Action is necessary to preserve order!"
Stel said nothing, even though V'Las seemed like a poorly-written character from a speculative novel.
Soketh ignored the baleful look. "You are making assumptions, V'Las, with precious little fact. You accuse the Syrranites of being insurrectionists, and base it on the assertion that one of their number allegedly planted these bombs. That assertion, in turn, is based on the assumption that the Syrranites are insurrectionists. I have seen stronger reasoning from Klingons."
"There seems to be another assumption in play." The soft voice of another administrator, Narvel, entered the fray. "You are assuming that we can afford to wait, Administrator Soketh. But if the Syrranites are in league with the Andorians, then we do not have the luxury of time. The Andorians could already be assembling their fleet."
"If and could, Administrator," Soketh replied.
"It is illogical to wait for conclusive proof," Narvel answered.
Soketh raised both eyebrows. "And what if our assumptions are wrong?"
Narvel kept his own brows lowered. "Is it not always better to err on the side of security?"
As the two quarreled, V'Las seemed to realize that Stel was still in the room. "You're dismissed, Chief Investigator," V'Las commanded.
As Stel turned and left, he put the debate out of his mind. He would follow as the High Command ordered; it was logical to trust their reasoning, and illogical to question it.
...
In the days before replicator technology, starships had to carry enough supplies to outfit extended missions in the far reaches of space. To satisfy this need, great portions of their interior space was taken up with cargo bays; to hold food, clothing, engineering supplies, and the various detritus of human habitation.
Of course, as the Enterprise flitted around the neighborhood, it was never more than a week or so away from Earth and resupply; so the cargo bays remained relatively empty, easily convertible for mission support. But this was not the sort of mission support envisioned by the ship's designers.
The cargo bay doors slid open before Archer, granting him ingress to the space within. An immediate shiver ran along his spine. He did not know the source; the room had been artificially chilled, but the shiver may have also come from its occupants.
Spanning the room, laid out in rows, were thirty-one coffins holding the mortal remains of the human victims of the Embassy bombing. And Archer knew, without having to look, that some of the coffins were fuller than others; some of the victims had left behind precious few remains, and in ancient tradition, the coffins were lined with rubble from the bombing to weight them down. On top of each coffin was draped the insignia of United Earth; an ovoid map of the globe, with olive branches on either side, against a background of deep blue.
The captain had been here once before, when he helped move the coffins and arrange them in respectful pattern. He didn't need to consult the padd in his hand; his memory from that difficult day was sufficient to guide him as he stepped into the field of dead. Midway in, he came to a stop, and rested a hand on a casing.
Maxwell Vaughn Forrest
2095-2154
United Earth Space Probe Agency; Starfleet Command
Chief-of-Staff, 2049-2154
Fortiter et Fideliter.
The bay doors opened again, startling Archer from his temporary reverie, and he turned about as the doors admitted Ambassador Soval to the makeshift morgue. The Vulcan ambassador nodded slightly, respectful of the reverent silence, and entered the forest of coffins to join the captain.
"His death is a loss to both our worlds," Soval offered as he glided to a stop beside Archer. The Vulcan's sharp eyes and memory had identified the coffin from across the room. His heavy robes rustled slightly as they fell into place. "He was a testament to the future between our peoples."
Archer bristled under the weight of the words; Soval had never seemed particularly interested in pursuing an equitable future between Earth and Vulcan. The ambassador had played a major role in holding back Earth's first forays into the stars. "If you're lost, Ambassador, I can direct you to your shuttle," the captain offered pointedly.
Soval did not miss the implication, but chose to ignore the emotional undertone. "He saved my life in the explosion," Soval observed. He raised a hand hesitantly and rested it on the shell of the coffin; it was a common gesture for humans, but a deeply significant one among the physically-reticent Vulcans. "He could have saved himself, but he put the mission first."
"He gave his life because it was the right thing to do," Archer replied tightly. "But then, that's illogical. I wouldn't expect you to understand."
The corners of Soval's mouth stayed steady, but his eyes seemed to flicker once with gentle humor. "The preservation of life provides its own logic, Captain," he answered softly. "That belief is one of the many things that our peoples have in common."
Archer glanced back down at the coffin, feeling slightly chastened. "I'm sorry, Ambassador," he replied gingerly. "It's just—I wonder sometimes if a Vulcan can truly understand the bonds of loyalty."
"There is much about the Vulcan way that you do not understand, Captain," Soval answered. "Just as there is much about the human way that we do not understand."
The two stood in momentary silence as they contemplated the epitaph together.
Soval broke the moment first. "The last time Admiral Forrest and I spoke, he was anticipating the prospect of joint missions between Starfleet and the Vulcan Science Directorate. Humans and Vulcans, working together."
"On equal footing?" Archer asked quietly.
"On equal footing," Soval confirmed. "The more time I have spent around your people…the more convinced I have become that our futures lie as one."
Archer sighed audibly. "The High Command seems determined to prevent that."
"The High Command does not speak for all of our people, Captain," Soval replied. "There are many who question the integrity of the High Command's logic."
Archer's head jumped up in surprise, but Soval's face gave no hint of the ambassador's own leanings. "However," Soval continued, "it makes no sense to think that the Syrranites are responsible for the bombing of your embassy."
"With all due respect, Ambassador, we have the DNA evidence implicating T'Pau," Archer observed.
Soval raised an eyebrow. "Even you should realize, Captain, that DNA can be found in places that the person has never been."
Archer opted to ignore the rebuke. "That doesn't seem like the most likely explanation, Ambassador."
Soval was unruffled. "The Syrranites are staunchly non-violent, Captain. They refuse to injure another being, even in self-defense. This bombing would be a behavioral aberration."
"Things change," Archer countered.
"Indeed." Soval looked steadily at the human. "One possible answer is that one, or several, Syrranites have undergone a shift in their reasoning." It seemed obvious to the captain, but he couldn't help but think of the ambassador's earlier words: there is much about the Vulcan way that you do not understand. "The second possibility," Soval observed, "is that someone is framing the Syrranites."
Archer's brow furrowed. The second possibility seemed far wilder, but Soval would not have mentioned it without reason. "Is there something I need to know, Ambassador?" he asked carefully.
"Conduct your investigation, Captain," Soval replied. "Question what you're told. Re-check everything. Don't let them push you out, and don't let them keep you on the Enterprise. The answers you need are on Vulcan, and don't rest until you have them."
T'Pol focused on the solitary candle. The small flame flickered and danced, twisting in a random pattern as it radiated scarce amounts of heat and light. It glowed with understated strength, sufficient to cast shadows across her quarters, and bring the soft hues even to the corners of the room.
...
T'Pol focused on the solitary candle as she tried to cleanse her mind, flushing out the daily detritus and restoring it to a state of meaningful emptiness. Unspoken thoughts, unclear words, a montage of contrasting images and ideas, they slowly settled out of her mind.
T'Pol focused on the solitary candle as she allowed the sensation of serenity to rise up from somewhere deep inside. It rushed, it flowed, it ebbed and sank as it filled her, expanding outward to saturate her mind and permeate her body. The peaceful awareness relaxed her, eased her senses and comforted her battered nerves.
And then the door chimes rang.
T'Pol released a private sigh before she stood up and leaned forward, snuffing out the candle. A simple order to the computer restored the artificial lighting, and she turned to the door. "Enter," she commanded.
The door hissed open. Koss entered hesitantly. He looked at T'Pol for a long moment before speaking.
"It is agreeable to see you," he said finally, visibly uncertain of his place.
This time, T'Pol's sigh stayed inside as she gestured him forward, and the door quietly hissed shut. She held up her right hand, extending the first two fingers, and Koss did likewise; their fingers brushed momentarily, exchanging the slightest spark.
In accordance with Vulcan custom, T'Pol and Koss had been betrothed in their youth, but the telepathic bond of betrothal never developed beyond that faint speck. The air between them remained frosty and formal.
"What is the purpose of your visit?" T'Pol asked, seeking to move the encounter along to its conclusion. It wasn't that she disliked Koss; but his presence reminded her of the agreement she had made with him…and his parents. Koss' father was a high-ranking member of the Security Directorate, and part of V'Las' inner conclave.
"Does a husband need a purpose to visit his wife?" Koss responded. His tone was less chilly than T'Pol's; despite everything that had passed, he bore a great deal of respect for the slender Vulcan woman.
T'Pol turned away. "Your message was cryptic," she observed.
"My apologies, my wife," Koss replied. "But it was necessary. The High Command has authorized the Security Directorate to conduct roving taps of private communications." It was knowledge above his own security clearance, but it was a poorly-kept secret in the Directorate.
"Why would they do that?" T'Pol asked, perturbed, as she turned back to face her husband. Privacy was part of the Vulcan way; it should not be discarded lightly, she thought. Or at all.
Koss' equanimity was undisturbed. "The High Command has ruled that the Syrranites are a terrorist element," he explained. "Their ruling has brought new security measures into effect."
A major piece of the puzzle was still missing. "And you found it logical to keep the substance of your communication private from the authorities," T'Pol commented. Her mind was still grappling with the unheard-of invasion of privacy. "You have something to tell me that the authorities shouldn't hear?"
"Something to give you," Koss answered. "It is from your mother. She asked me to deliver it personally." From within his robes, Koss withdrew a small box and handed it to T'Pol.
Intrigued, T'Pol accepted the box. She lifted it once, gauging the weight; it was substantive, but not heavy. Her delicate hearing could detect faint metallic chimes. Satisfied, she opened the box.
She took the object out and let it rest in the palm of her hand. A lengthy, slender chain drooped down. The object could be worn as a necklace, even though that wasn't the primary purpose of the pendant. Maybe half the width of her palm, it was roughly circular; the edges of the stone disk had been worn smooth with the passage of time. On the face of the disk were two circles, one large and external, the other small and internal. Between them was a triangle; its apex was at the center of the inner circle, and its base extended outward beyond the rim of the outer circle.
It was an IDIC—an ancient symbol, predating even the time of Surak. It represented the maxim of "Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations."
"The Lady T'Les told me that it's been in your family for generations," Koss explained. He watched closely as T'Pol turned the disk over in her hands, inspecting it from every side. "She wanted to make sure that you received it."
Oddly enough, T'Pol didn't recognize this particular pendant. Her family did possess ancestral IDIC symbols; as a young child, T'Pol had seen them all. And this was not one.
"Why didn't she give this to me herself?" T'Pol asked carefully. And why would she want to circumvent the security monitors?
"It's the new security crackdown," Koss answered. He quashed the need to fidget. "They've forced your mother into hiding to avoid arrest."
My mother? Hiding? Arrest?
"Your mother is a Syrranite, T'Pol," Koss said. His tone was uncommonly kind. "When the Security personnel arrived to arrest her, she had already fled. She's hiding somewhere in the Forge."
...
Some days, the door chime was the last thing the captain wanted to hear. His ready room was a sanctuary; a place to clear his mind, reset his thoughts, and weigh the deep thoughts that plagued starship captains and amateur philosophers. Interruptions were not wanted; solace was.
Other days, Archer would nearly leap from his chair when the chimes rang. His ready room was also his administrative office; it was there that he did his paperwork, and paperwork increased exponentially with the starship's proximity to Earth. And today, he was inundated.
"Come in," Archer called out gratefully as he rose from his chair. The door slid open to reveal T'Pol. "What can I do for you, Commander?" He crossed his fingers and hoped that the response would be, what can I do for you, Captain?
The worn impassivity on T'Pol's face dropped away as the door hissed shut. Even now, months after their return from the Delphic Expanse, T'Pol still struggled with the emotional control that had once been second nature. "I have some information on the Syrranites, Captain," she stated. Her voice wavered slightly. "I have reason to believe that my mother is one."
"Your mother is a Syrranite?" Archer asked, amazed. The renegade Vulcan sect had instantly become something far closer, far more personal, than a group of Vulcans out there somewhere. "And she never told you?"
"My mother and I did not always agree on points of logic." T'Pol forced herself through the discomfort; as a rule, Vulcans did not discuss family disagreements with outsiders. But the captain wasn't really an outsider; and T'Pol wanted the investigation to succeed as much as Archer did. "She may have believed that I would turn her in."
"Would you have?" Archer asked directly. Recent events had reminded him that Vulcans were not, after all, human.
"Possibly," T'Pol acknowledged. "It would have been my duty to do so."
"Of course," Archer said reflexively. "The greatest good, and all that." The Vulcan philosophy burned him like a bad cup of Klingon coffee. "Have you talked to her about it yet?"
"I have recently learned that she is in hiding." T'Pol fidgeted uncomfortably. She trusted the captain; otherwise, she would have been unable to discuss this at all. "The High Command has issued a sealed warrant for her arrest. Rather than comply with the warrant, she fled."
Archer raised an eyebrow, unconsciously imitating the Vulcan gesture. "Someone warned her?"
"That is the logical conclusion," T'Pol affirmed. "However, I believe that my mother wants me to find her."
"And why is that?" Archer asked curiously.
T'Pol held up a stone medallion. "She arranged to have this delivered to me," she explained. The pendant dangled on the chain. "It's called an 'IDIC.'"
Archer took hold of the pendant and looked at it carefully. "Looks old," he observed.
"I have not yet determined its age," T'Pol replied. "But that is not the relevant fact. This particular IDIC has been modified." She took the pendant back and lay in on the captain's desk. Delicately, she pushed and twisted a portion of it around, then stood back.
From the inner circle, a green glow emerged, radiating outward above the pendant. As Archer watched, the glow slowly resolved itself, and within seconds, it resolved itself into the recognizable geolinear contours of a map. It was clearly rugged terrain; a vast, central basin surrounded by a series of mountain ridges and ravines. There was something about it that resonated danger.
"This is a desert called Vulcan's Forge," T'Pol explained. The captain's eyes were fastened on the holographic map. "It is considered to be the most brutal terrain on all of Vulcan. It is where Surak went for enlightenment. Even today, many Vulcans follow the same path."
"Eighteen hundred years ago?" Archer asked. The desert features became clearer to him as he studied the map, partially entranced by its mystic beauty.
"The Syrranites allegedly have a compound somewhere in the Forge," T'Pol said. "It is…an excellent area for hiding. The magnetic anomalies in the Forge make it nearly impossible for any technologies to function."
Archer bent over to look at the Forge more closely. "And you think your mother is somewhere along that path?"
"It is a logical conclusion," T'Pol replied. "It is fair to assume that she fled to a Syrranite base."
"But how do you know that this was intended as a message?" Archer queried. "It could simply be an ancient artifact, or something."
"She told Koss that this medallion was a family heirloom," T'Pol answered. "But I've never seen it before."
Archer nodded. "And she didn't want Koss to know about the map."
"Captain…" T'Pol prodded herself forward. "If we search for my mother, she may lead us to the terrorists who bombed the Embassy."
...
As usual, Doctor Phlox greeted the captain with the face-splitting grin characteristic of Phlox's Denobulan ancestry. It was contagious; the corners of Archer's mouth crept upwards as well as the human entered sickbay.
"Ah, Captain, what can I do for you?" Phlox exclaimed as he navigated his way between biobeds. On an average day, the floor plan was roomy and spacious; besides the primary examination bed in the center, there were only three permanent recovery beds. But in the aftermath of the Embassy bombing, Phlox and his medical staff had broken out the secondary units. Most of the patients had been dismissed, but the beds were still scattered about sickbay.
Archer used his chin to gesture from the doorway to the rear section, where Malcolm Reed and Travis Mayweather lay snoozing. "I was wondering when I'm going to get my officers back, Doc."
Phlox waved the captain along the perimeter to his office, speaking as he walked. "If needed, they could return to duty shortly, but I'd like to keep them for another day or so. Their bodies are still recovering strength," Phlox added.
The two reached Phlox's office almost simultaneously. "Is there any hurry to get them back on duty?" Phlox asked as he led the way in.
"A bit," Archer admitted. "Don't spread it around yet, but I think that T'Pol and I are going to be taking an extended leave on the planet's surface. I'd like to have my senior staff on their feet."
Phlox took a seat at his desk. Queuing up the appropriate charts on his desktop monitor, he checked the physiological indicators. "I should be able to discharge both Lieutenant Commander Reed and Lieutenant Mayweather to active duty by eighteen-hundred tonight," he answered.
"That's more than enough," Archer answered, but he didn't turn to leave. "Doctor," he said hesitantly, "you examined the DNA signatures on the second bomb, right?"
Phlox looked up and gave the captain a questioning glance. "Yes, I did," he answered.
Archer fidgeted slightly; he didn't like questioning Phlox's work, but it was necessary. "How sure are you of the results?"
Phlox took no offense. "The DNA signature was conclusive, Captain." He drew his chin inward in a Denobulan expression of confusion. "Is there something in particular?"
"Soval mentioned something to me earlier that got me wondering," Archer admitted. "Is there any way that the DNA could have been faked?"
Phlox's face puckered as he thought. "It was clearly T'Pau's DNA, Captain," he answered. "Artificial DNA can be created in a laboratory, but its markers are easy to distinguish."
Archer bit his lip. "Can you give me any other possibilities, Doctor?" he asked. "Is there some way that her DNA could have been planted?"
"We're not talking about a hair or blood sample, Captain," Phlox replied. "It would have taken a sterile lab and some fairly advanced equipment to plant these samples."
"Is there any way to tell?" Archer asked quietly.
Phlox contemplated his monitor as he spoke. "There are only two or three such labs in the Vulcan system, Captain."
"Leave that part to me, Doctor," Archer replied. "From the scientific standpoint, could someone have falsified this DNA?"
"I suppose if someone had access to the proper equipment…but they would also need a sample of her original DNA, Captain." Phlox was clearly reluctant, but lengthy experience had taught him to trust the captain's suspicions. "I'll go through the data again, although I'm not entirely sure what to look for."
"Do it, Doctor," Archer ordered. Now, the captain moved to leave, but Phlox's voice stopped him.
"Oh, Captain, please stop by before you leave for the surface. Human physiology is not designed for prolonged stints in the Vulcan deserts, but I can give you some things to help."
...
As a rule, Vulcans disdained excessive comfort, preferring instead to live a life of almost monastic austerity. Ambassador Soval was no different; if anything, his three decades on Earth had reinforced in his mind the benefits of the Vulcan way. It was simple and robust, encouraging a life of meditation and mental focus, supporting the disciplines of the mind.
Thus, prior to the Enterprise's departure from Earth for the 40 Eridani system, Jonathan Archer had arranged with his crew to strip down the guest quarters into an ad hoc "Vulcan" mode. The primary guest quarters, down on G-deck, were far from luxurious; nothing on a starship was truly luxurious. But they removed the usual assortment of added comforts. The bedding was stripped down to a thin pallet; the air ducts were partially clogged, to artificially increase the temperature; and every hint of adornment and decoration was removed.
Naturally, during the days-long journey from Earth, Soval made no comment other than "it is adequate."
As the turbolift arrived on the lowest level of the starship, the captain couldn't help but wonder why Soval had maintained his presence on board the ship. As the ranking Vulcan ambassador to Earth, Soval no doubt had facilities at his disposal in the government district of Shi'Kahr; and from what Archer knew of the Vulcan people, the company of aliens was a trial that must be endured.
And yet, Soval had set up office on board the ship. Vulcans, Archer reflected. They're so illogical.
The door to Soval's cabin slid open, cutting off the captain's thought.
"Captain." The dour Vulcan stepped in from the washroom, still fumbling with his heavy robes. He greeted Archer with a curt, formal nod. "What can I do for you?"
Archer stepped in hesitantly, uncertain of the protocol for visiting a Vulcan dignitary in their personal space. "Ambassador," he acknowledged politely. He couldn't help but notice the starkness of the room; there was no hint of habitation. "I have a—theoretical question for you."
With a final nudge from one hand, Soval got the thick robes to fall into place. With the other, he indicated towards the adjoined conference room; Archer picked up the cue and led the way.
Once inside, Archer stood awkwardly still as the Vulcan turned his back, facing out the viewport. Here, on the lowest reaches of the starship, the window was nearly below their feet; and Soval looked down in contemplative silence. "What is it you ask of me?" he asked finally, encouraging the captain to speak.
Archer took a deep breath. "You and I were talking earlier about pursuing the investigation into the bombing," he said.
"I recall our conversation," Soval replied brusquely. The back of his robes didn't ripple.
"Yes, of course," Archer replied magnanimously. The ambassador's curt tone was not meant to be offensive; it was simply a Vulcan way of stating fact. And it had taken the captain several years to learn how to let it roll off his back. "You also indicated that the answers are down below, on Vulcan."
"Yes, I did." Soval kept his back turned to the captain.
"Well…" Archer licked his lips before continuing. "It leaves me in a quandary. I need to get my investigators down to the surface, but without the High Command's supervision."
"That is a quandary," Soval agreed. "The High Command will assign an observer to any crewmember that you send to the surface."
"I was wondering…hypothetically…if you might have some ideas," Archer pressed.
The Vulcan stayed silent for several long moments as he watched the starscape outside. Roughly a third was blocked by the great bulk of the Vulcan homeworld; across from it, sensitive eyes could detect the inner asteroid belt of the Epsilon Eridani system. "Hypothetically, Captain?" Soval said at last, and now he turned about.
"Yes, Ambassador," Archer replied. He was at a loss for substantive words.
"Hypothetically…" Soval seemed to ponder the question before continuing. "Vulcan is protected by a detection blanket; thus, your transporters can get through, but the Security Directorate would be able to trace them." Soval lifted both eyebrows. "Surely, Captain, you see the logical answer."
"Thwart the detection blanket," Archer answered instantly. "But how? Is there some way to disguise the transporter beam?"
"Captain, you are overlooking a far more obvious solution," Soval observed.
Archer cursed the Vulcan inwardly as he thought through the puzzle. "Of course," he said in realization. "Detection fields are pulsed, not steady. With split-second timing, you can still slip a temporary signal through." But that's not the hard part. "Ambassador, in order to do that, we'd need to have fairly advanced schematics of the field. That's not the sort of information the Enterprise can collect on her own."
Soval dropped one eyebrow. "However, hypothetically, if you had the information, you could transport your investigators to the surface undetected, correct?"
"Well, yes," Archer acknowledged. He was starting to fume; the ambassador didn't seem to be getting the point. "But without the data, it's a dead end."
Soval didn't flinch. "Prepare your mission, Captain," he stated.
...