§ 4 §

"Come," Trip called from Archer's desk chair in the ready room, where he had taken refuge the hope that the silence would help him put some order into his jumbled thoughts.

Hoshi came through the door, which swished closed after she took a couple of steps inside the room.

While leaving the bridge, Trip had seen Reed cast him a glance, one that said 'let me help'. But he had ignored it, counting on the fact that Malcolm was too disciplined to press him. He needed to get his own thoughts straight before hearing the opinion of anyone else. Things had happened way too fast and he wasn't used to dealing with situations of this gravity and – it appeared – complexity. Unfortunately, after ten minutes alone and in silence, he still felt rather confused.

"I found some information on the Doronites, Sir," Hoshi said.

Her small frame stood perfectly still and at attention in front of him, and Trip felt somewhat uncomfortable wearing Archer's shoes. "At ease, Hoshi," he breathed out. He wanted to add 'you don't need to snap to attention before me', but he knew that he'd better curb his innate laid-back nature; discipline and the chain of command, especially under the current circumstances, had to be respected.

That didn't mean he couldn't interpret the part of acting Captain with personal flair, he conceded as he reached over the desk to the comm. link. "Malcolm, come in here, would ya?" Better let their Armoury Officer hear what Hoshi had to say too.

"What have you found?" Trip asked the Communication Officer a moment later, after Reed had joined them.

Hoshi cleared her throat, her posture now natural and relaxed, in stark contrast to the rigid cast that was Reed's tension-filled body. Yin and Yang, Trip briefly thought.

"Doron is the second inhabited planet in the system of which Felesia is part," she began. "Both species are about equally advanced. Although they were never in open conflict, it seems that they haven't been getting along too well either."

Trip exhaled in frustration. "Yeah, I'd gathered as much," he butted in. "Sorry, Hosh, go on," he added with a regretful smirk, as he took in Malcolm's focused expression. He could tell the man was already working out theories at full speed.

"The Vulcan database doesn't have much more," Hoshi continued with a shrug. "It appears that Doronites and Felesians have been keeping an eye on each other for decades, ever since they came into contact, both apparently afraid that the others would have designs on their own planet."

Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest and tilted his head. "If they are suspicious of each other…" His eyes went steely. "When it comes to spying on people, which species would you say comes immediately to mind, Commander?"

"Hm, you mean to say the Vulcans are gettin' involved with these people's squabbles?" Trip bit his lip, a flash of Soval and his mysterious contact crossing his mind.

Malcolm let out a sarcastic huff. His voice dropped an octave. "Who better than the Vulcans can show them a few tricks? P'Jem docet."

"P'Jem what?" Trip asked with a puzzled frown.

"Teaches," Hoshi offered. Her eyes darted sideways to Malcolm, and her mouth twitched into a quick smile. "It's Latin, Sir."

A lopsided smirk reshaped Trip's features into an expression of annoyance. "Stick to English, will ya, Malcolm? It already sounds like a foreign language in your mouth."

"Remember when I told you that something about the man with Soval had struck me as odd?" Malcolm asked pensively, oblivious to Trips' ribbing.

There was a moment of silence.

"I think I know what you're gettin' at, but let's hear it," Trip said.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "Tall, lean, well-structured, light brown hair; from the glimpse I caught of him long, narrow face with high cheek-bones…"

Trip nodded knowingly. "Yeah. Sounds like a description of Capt'n Archer. And that Felesian mentioned the Capt'n was mistaken for a Doronite. So Soval was meetin' a Doronite."

Malcolm brought a hand to his chin. "Could it be that the Vulcans are taking sides in the spying these people do on each other?"

Trip felt his facial muscles harden. "I don't know, but we'll find out soon enough, I promise ya. Time to see if we can raise Soval through Malcolm's communicator." He looked at Hoshi.

"Understood, Sir." Hoshi nodded and turned to leave.

Trip saw Malcolm shoot him a hesitant glance. He looked unsure whether he too had been dismissed and should follow suit. He began to do so, in fact.

"Hang on a moment, Malcolm," Trip stopped him.

Reed turned about and lowered stormy eyes to the deckplating. The man was obviously riding an emotional roller-coaster. More or less ok when his mind was busy analysing the situation and forming tactical plans for their rescue mission; sinking into the quick sands of his conscience the moment he stopped and let his thoughts wander to the part he had played in getting them into this.

Trip heaved a silent sigh, changing his mind and once again postponing a certain conversation he wanted to have with the Armoury Officer. He needed to have more time for it.

"We oughtta be able to pick up their warp trail, don't ya think?" he asked instead, even though he knew the answer.

"Should be possible, yes," Malcolm replied, raising his gaze. It was clearer already; the question had set his mind in motion again. "We'll be at the coordinates where they cloaked shortly. But we should know even before."

"I have Soval, Commander," Hoshi's voice announced. "We are barely within comm. range, though."

"Redirect the communication in here," Trip ordered. "Don't go away," he told Malcolm. "Might as well hear what the man has to say."

"I regret that you were caught in the midst of this, Captain," T'Pol said in an atypically soft voice.

She was sitting in a corner, on the floor, her back against the bulkhead, and Archer turned to her. He had been pacing the small cargo bay. It helped him think, and he had been on that damn cold floor for too long, anyway.

"I still don't understand what this is," he said with a frown.

T'Pol shifted her long legs, and Archer tried not to stare. "Doronites and Felesians are antagonistic species from two planets that belong to the same system," she said. "They are known to the Vulcan High Command."

Archer once again heard something uncharacteristic in T'Pol's voice, and felt like telling her that she shouldn't feel guilty – because that's what he thought she sounded like – but refrained. She would undoubtedly answer that Vulcans are incapable of feeling guilt.

"I am uncertain, however," T'Pol continued, "As to why – if we are to believe what these Felesians told us – a Vulcan diplomat would meet one from Doron, covertly, on Vegor."

Archer couldn't, this time, hold back a mirthless chuckle. This was more like her. "I don't mean to sound prejudiced," he told her cuttingly, "But Vulcans do like to do things behind people's backs." He lifted challenging eyebrows.

T'Pol locked her deep brown eyes with his, and Archer could almost read hurt in them. He felt as if he was drowning. Suddenly he was reminded of one of Phlox's most recent, bizarre theories – that he was subconsciously attracted to his SIC, and averted his gaze.

"I'm sorry. That did sound a bit racist," he mumbled. "My head is killing me," he added in the way of an excuse.

"Then perhaps it would be advisable for you to lie down," T'Pol predictably suggested.

Logic, logic! Archer silently fumed.

"What's your business on Vegor 2, Ambassador?" Trip asked directly, as soon as he had Soval on the line.

"I am afraid it does not concern Starfleet, Commander," was Soval's unperturbed reply.

Trip felt his blood boil. "Well I'm afraid it does now," he said making an effort to keep his voice controlled. "Captain Archer and T'Pol were abducted by some Felesians, who have made it quite clear they mistook them for someone else: Vulcan and Doronite diplomats, to be precise. And don't tell me you know nothin' about it," he warned.

There was a moment of silence. Trip wished he could have visual. Vulcans may well be impassive, but after a couple of years in close quarters with T'Pol he had learnt to recognise the subtle shows of emotion even on their expressionless faces. Soval's silence, in any case, was eloquent enough.

Trip's eyes darted to Malcolm, and Reed pursed his lips in silent support.

"Do you know where they have taken them?" Soval finally replied in his unhurried Vulcan tones.

"Wish I did," Trip barked back. "The ship they're on just cloaked and disappeared from our sensors."

There was another pregnant pause.

"I strongly advise you to come back to Vegor 2 and let the Vulcans handle this, Commander," Soval said after a moment.

Trip's face hardened, as did his resolve. "The hell I will," he said in a sharp voice. "This is my Captain we're talkin' about; and our Second in Command. Starfleet has a right to know what's goin' on here. So…" He bit his lip. He had been about to say 'Cut the crap and spill the beans' – not your typical diplomatic language. And he really didn't want to know what Soval would understand of the slang expressions.

"I demand that you tell us, and now," he barked out.

"… simple… nder…"

"We're getting out of comm. range" Malcolm muttered, crossing his arms over is chest in that tense gesture of his.

"Dammit!" Trip barely refrained from banging his fist on the desk. He exhaled loudly. "Not that I was hopin' to get much out of the man, but we don't know anythin' more than we did before – which is near to nothin'."

"Perhaps we should return within range and see if Soval is willing to tell us more," Malcolm suggested with a concerned frown.

Trip scrunched up his face in thought. "I don't want to risk losin' that warp trail." He reached over Archer's desk and pressed the comm. link to the bridge. "How long till we are at the coordinates?" he asked Mayweather.

"Eight minutes, Sir."

Trip narrowed his eyes. "Let's see if we can already pick it up," he decided, getting up. He put a hand on Reed's shoulder and they left the ready room.

Malcolm walked nimbly to his station and sat down. He got to work right away, eyes darting back and forth from the buttons to the screen in front of him. Trip leaned with one hand on the console and looked over his shoulder, feeling unreasonably reassured by the concentration that exuded from the Armoury Officer; as if the intensity Malcolm was putting in his job could alone give them a perfect warp trail to follow.

A few, tense seconds later the answer was in front of their eyes.

"Got it," Malcolm said almost triumphantly.

"Send the data to Travis," Trip ordered, and Malcolm nodded silently and proceeded to do as instructed. "Travis, set a pursuing course."

"Aye, Sir," Mayweather immediately responded.

"Commander," Malcolm said, eyes still fixed on his screen. "It appears they have picked up considerable speed. From my calculations they must be travelling approximately Warp 4.7 now."

Trip straightened up and went to the Captain's chair, where he paged engineering. After a moment Hess replied.

"We need to push the engine, Lieutenant," Trip said. "Keep an eye on it."

"Understood, Sir."

Trip stepped down to Mayweather and put a hand on his shoulder. "Go to Warp 5, Travis," he said quietly.

Eyes fixed on the screen in front of him, Malcolm tried to ignore the cold knot in his gut and concentrate solely on the task at hand. He didn't dare let his thoughts wander from the here and now. Demons he had thought to be past and buried had sprung to life again and he couldn't afford to let their haunting images distract him. Not again.

"According to my readings the ship ought to be a mere five thousand kilometres away," he said, glancing at the Captain's chair, where Trip was sitting. "That's where the trail ends."

"Ends?" Trip asked with a frown. "Ya mean they stopped?"

Malcolm thought for a moment. "It's the logical explanation," he finally said, seeing in Trip's eyes that his choice of words had sent the same thought across both their minds. Indeed he had sounded just like T'Pol.

"Go to tactical alert," Trip instructed tersely. "Travis, drop out of warp and approach the coordinates at quarter impulse."

Both officers nodded. The bridge was enveloped in the familiar dim blue light.

"Commander," Malcolm said, carefully controlling his tone of voice lest his tension seep into it, "That ship was well armed. Being cloaked, we won't have any forewarning if they should open fire." His body was already on full alert, adrenaline coursing at full speed.

"I know that, Malcolm," Trip answered quietly. He stood up and leaned both hands on the railing in front of the tactical station. "What do you suggest we do?" he asked, looking straight into his eyes.

It wasn't a perfunctory question, Malcolm realised. Trip was asking for advice, his Armoury Officer's advice. There was reliance in his blue gaze and smooth voice; more, in fact: deference to his tactical experience. And Malcolm felt warmed by the man's capacity to put things behind, as well as his willingness to show him that his trust was intact. Trip seemed more inclined to forgive and forget than he himself was. He would not disappoint him again.

"There isn't much we can do," Malcolm replied sincerely. "I suggest we come to a full stop and try the diplomatic channels again. I do not recommend opening fire on a target I cannot see: our people are on board that ship, and without being able to rely on the targeting sensors I risk hitting their warp core and killing them all."

Trip's grip on the railing tightened. He held Malcolm's eyes a moment longer; then turned about.

"Full stop, Travis," he ordered as he crossed the bridge behind the pilot's seat to go to Hoshi. "Let's try again," he told the communication officer. "Hail them, Hoshi."

The Ensign's hands went without hesitation to the controls, and silence filled the bridge.

Hoshi smirked, shaking her head lightly. "No answer."

As Trip turned and took a step towards the Captain's chair, anger seething in his blue eyes, he heard Malcolm cry out, "Hold on!" Not a moment later the ship rocked, sending him crashing against the chair.

"Phase cannon fire, direct hit," Malcolm announced tersely. "Ventral plating down to eighty percent."

"Travis, take us…"

Trip's words were drowned by an explosion that sent Hoshi's console up in flames and the Ensign hard back in her seat and onto the floor.

Malcolm glanced powerlessly across the bridge, where the man at science had grabbed an extinguisher. Trip had crouched near a distressingly still Hoshi, but the ship rocked violently again, jolting them all forward. Malcolm tore his eyes away from the scene to check his readings.

"That one hit our starboard nacelle," he cried out. When he raised his gaze again, Trip was lying unconscious in a heap, blood streaming down his face from a cut on his forehead.

Malcolm pressed the comm. link. "Reed to sickbay," he paged. "We have two people injured," he told Phlox as soon as the Doctor answered. "Travis," he then urged.

Mayweather didn't hesitate: he knew what he had to do. Eyes fixed on his instruments, he started to move Enterprise away. But the ship had no momentum and it was slow going.

"Incoming torpedo," Malcolm shouted. He clenched his jaw, targeted and fired. A moment later an explosion filled the viewscreen. "And another one!" No bloody time to target this second one. Malcolm silently cursed. "Hold on!"

The ship shook under the force of the hit.

As soon as it had stabilised again, Travis sent his hands up in the air in a frustrated gesture. "The helm is not responding," he said, turning wide-eyed to Malcolm. "We're dead in the water."

Malcolm felt his blood run cold. They were at the Felesians' mercy and it was his bloody fault. He forced that thought out of his mind, together with the image of Hoshi and Trip unconscious on the floor.

Mentally slapping himself, he willed his tactical mind to kick in. He knew what he had to do, and his chest clenched. He had a duty to defend the ship. He had a pretty good idea of where the enemy vessel was: he'd have to target it manually, but there was a reasonably high chance he hit it. That, of course, would endanger the lives of the Captain and T'Pol, but on the other side of the scale was Enterprise with her eighty-one remaining people. The bloody needs of the many…

The calculations didn't take him long. He would keep the yield low. He paused, his finger hovering over the button that would fire the port phase cannon.

"Sir," Travis suddenly exclaimed.

"I see it," Reed muttered, eyes fixed on his readings. The enemy ship was de-cloaking, and relief washed over him. He wouldn't have to fire blind any more. He readjusted his aim to target their weapons, but before he could do anything else there was a flash of light and the Felesians were gone.

He closed his eyes tightly. As his heart tried to escape his ribcage he was barely aware of Phlox and the medics coming onto the bridge.

TBC