Disclaimer: No infringement intended. I just love Star Trek. My eternal gratitude to the writers of Star Trek: Enterprise.
Genre: Adventure and wholesome family drama. LOL! (Remember the Connors? . . . No, not that Connor).
Author's note: Thanks to my betas, Black'n blue and Elessar. Jump on the ride. I'll remind you of the key plot points as we go. Alot happens in this one, so I've marked a Part A and B in case you need two sittings to finish.
PART A
"I expected better things from you, young man! You record was clean until today. "
Lorian scowled back unhappily. There was nothing he could say. Every defense just seemed to make things worse. And why did the Captain have to reprimand him right here on the bridge in front of the Mayweathers? Paris's mom and dad were pretending not to listen, but Lorian knew better.
It made him furious. He had as much right to a private life as any of them, but no approved place to conduct it. Lorian felt his face and ears burning. Damned light complexion . . . sucks for hiding emotions.
"Yes, sir," Lorian muttered, with as much disdain as he felt he could get away with.
Jon waited. If the captain was expecting an extended apology, he wasn't going to get one. Five excruciating seconds later Jon's angry visage melted into something more like disappointment. And Lorian knew he had won the staredown.
"Dismissed," Jon said quietly, and Lorian broke off towards the lift.
How did a perfect evening turn so awful? An hour ago, in the supposed privacy of access tube 2, Lorian had been with his . . . . he hardly knew what to call her . . . his partner? His lover? The relationship had taken him by surprise. Yet it was so affirming, so intense, he could hardly remember or imagine his life without his Triannon counterpart. They'd been melding, wrapped in a blanket of complete and utter mutual acceptance. He'd awoken to find security officer Hernandez starring at him with a curious expression that quickly turned hard and judgmental.
The Captain had been totally in the wrong.
But Lorian's conscience nagged him: I have been pushing the boundaries. He actually stopped in the corridor and threw up his hands, then dropped to a seat on the carpet. The bulkhead was cold, metallic, and unforgiving against his back; it's solidity could wake him out of daydreams.
Why am I so agitated? Why can't I get centered? And how did I find someone so irresistibly exotic—on an intergenerational ship?
It was very possible these mindmelds were damaging his brain. But how could he stop now? She was voracious. She never wanted to stop. So they indulged and hoped for the best. It was reckless. Surak would certainly condemn my recent behavior.
I can't get my bearings. But I don't want to lose her.
There was only one logical resolution: He'd take the leap and give her that gift. It was a physical acknowledgement of their spiritual connection. He'd commit to her—now. Then, maybe, this agitation would subside . . .
Trip awoke, wondering vaguely what ship's security had found when they went waving their flashlights into access tube 2. He kept his wondering very vague. Tiva, the alluring Triannon missionary, was now his son's concern. He hoped that situation all worked out.
He was relieved to see that T'Pol was dressing again in the open. The plumpness of pregnancy had receded. T'Pol was 80 years old, the physical equivalent of 40 for a human. Women on Enterprise complained that T'Pol never aged. But Trip knew better. There were subtle signs of wear and tear. There were lines around her eyes. Not laugh lines. (Trip harrumphed at his joke). There was a softness to her belly. Her hands looked forty—or more. Their veins reminded him of vines growing up a strong old swamp tree.
He found all this endearing. He recalled the easy, eager intimacy between them the night before, how they plunged into that whirlwind of a mindmeld—. She was still playful after all these years. Yes, they were youthful enough for one more baby . . . if they started tomorrow! He sighed for no good reason, feeling lucky, and profoundly settled.
Even if they were nomads . . .
Nomads on a rest stop. The stars weren't flying by. The engines were off. He could tell by the unsettling lack of vibration. T'Pol was gazing out the window – intently.
Which reminded him: why had Jon been looking for Lorian last night? Was there some engineering emergency? And what sort of emergency would have required Jon's favorite Recruit instead of his Chief Engineer?
The chief engineer is still Rostov, Trip recalled dully.
"Trip!" T'Pol called out. She was still staring out their window.
Trip jumped up to see what had left her speechless. Through the invisible aluminum, 500 kilometers ahead of the bow of Enterprise, a collection of artifacts floated in space, scattering the glow from the ship's own spot lights.
Lorian pulled up at Tiva's quarters. She was rooming with Paris, who answered the door. Before Lorian even had a chance to ask her to, Paris called to Tiva, who stepped out in the hall.
"Lorian, are you in trouble? What happened? What did they say?"
Lorian shrugged. "Nothing important," he bluffed.
"Do you want to go someplace and . . . share . . .?" She asked, cautiously.
Lorian, felt himself blush. "No," he told her. "I want to give you something: A symbol of my commitment to you." He handed her a small box.
She opened the box. It was a piece of metal, very small. "Is this traditional?" She asked, looking worried.
"No, I made it myself. With some help from Asatoshi."
"So, what is it?"
"It's a two-way communicator, with short-range and subspace capabilities. You wear it in your ear. It piggybacks off our ship's communications systems—and power source. You can control it from a PADD."
She looked too stunned for words.
"I know it must seem ridiculous. The subspace part was just me gett'n carried away. It's mostly symbolic."
"And what does it symbolize?"
"That I'll be there anytime you call. I promise, unconditionally."
Tiva hesitated. "Lorian, that's so sweet. I appreciate the gesture."
Something about this response was off. She sounded like Miss Hoshi praising a kindergartener's crayon picture. Tiva should be asking him how to work the controls. Instead she just seemed anxious.
Paris stepped out in the hall. "What's that?" she asked the couple.
"You don't know?" Tiva asked.
"Lorian doesn't give me presents." Paris smiled supportively at her old boyfriend.
Paris's professed ignorance seemed to reassure Tiva. Maybe after last night's fiasco, Tiva was suddenly shy about Lorian, worried what people might think.
"Look, I have one too," Lorian persisted. He opened his palm. ". . . Just keep this in your pocket if you're not sure."
Tiva closed her hand around the gift.
"I gotta get some sleep." Lorian announced.
"Us too," Paris answered, and they parted.
Lorian's presentation hadn't gone as well as he had hoped. Walking to his quarters, he imagined the two women were already huddling for a conference about his "gesture." There was nothing more he could do.
Lorian flashed back to the basketball tournaments that he and his friends used to play in the gym. No regrets. He'd given it his best shot. And his teammate Paris had his back.
He threw his own com unit in his ear and was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. He would have to be up in just two hours. In his dreams, he heard her voice: Lorian, come quickly. I need you.
She'd repeated it three times, before he realized it wasn't a dream.
Trip headed to the conference room. The mess hall had been buzzing at breakfast, with everyone speculating about the debris field. Was it the remains of the central sphere? He would know soon enough. Jon had called an early morning meeting, and Trip was glad to be in the middle of the excitement.
As he approached the doorway, Lorian ran up from behind to intercept him. For a moment Trip was puzzled: Lorian was too private to confront him directly about this girlfriend situation.
But Lorian had more immediate concerns: "Dad, I wasn't invited to this meeting!" he said with alarm.
"It's an officers' meeting." Trip stated, still confused. He drew Lorian off to one side.
"Yes, but Uncle Jon let me come to the last one," Lorian reminded. "It was MY idea to come out here and look for wreckage. I can help on this. Capt'n promised he would keep me posted on all findings related to our search for the central sphere."
"So what happened? Is he mad at you for something?"
"Like you don't know." Lorian sulked.
"Well, I don't . . ." Trip admitted. "Not really. What happened last night?"
Lorian paused before spilling his story: "Uncle Jon had security come and find me last night. In my old hiding place? Tells security I have to leave. Quotes one of his instant bullshit rules: 'No congregating in the access tubes.' Like what the heck? We used to have campouts in there."
"So you were congregating?"
"I had a friend with me."
"I think Cap'n was trying to be kind," Trip suggested. "He could have said 'No disabling the sensor grid and lying to us about it.'"
Lorian didn't bother to deny it. "So what am I supposed to do?" he implored. "Where I am I supposed to go for a little privacy? I can't even pick my nose without the whole world knowing about it and disapproving."
Trip smiled at the vivid metaphor. The kid had a point. And remembering his own "explorations" of the previous night, he felt a twinge of guilt. As a dad, he would need to set the record straight on one point:
"Ah . . . that reminds me . . ." Trip scanned the empty corridor over Lorian's shoulder. "What I told you about mindmelding? . . .That it's forbidden? See, your mom corrected me. Seems melding is another one of those things that everyone does, but no one really talks about." Only now did Trip dare glance back at his son. He found him scowling furiously.
"All of you have been spying on me!"
"No, I've been respecting your privacy," Trip stated firmly. "And keeping out of your business—to the point that Uncle Jon probably thinks I'm nuts. Last night he asked me where you were—and I took a guess. I had to tell him something."
"Did you have to tell him the truth?" Lorian asked, distressed.
"Of course I had to tell the truth!" Trip replied emphatically. "He's my commanding officer!"
As if hearing his name, Jon poked his head out the door. He noted Lorian with a nod and a disappointed look.
"Captain," Lorian muttered, looking sullen.
"Recruit," Jon answered with a stern, if somewhat wounded expression. "Trip, we're starting in two minutes."
Trip acknowledged this.
Now it was Lorian's turn to look hurt. "See, he won't let me in."
"What did you do to piss him off?"
Now Lorian's gaze skittered across the walls and finally rested on his shoes. "He doesn't like Tiva."
"Yeah, I've noticed . . . but that's not an answer."
Lorian just shrugged.
"We'll get to the bottom of this later," Trip warned, checking his chronometer. The meeting was about to start.
"Dad," Lorian called as Trip started for the door, "I know something about the shipwreck."
Trip turned back. The boy could be stalling; but his, his observations were so often dead on. "So, it's definitely a ship?" Trip asked.
"Yes, it's a Triannon ship."
That had been one of the probable scenarios.
"Tiva and Paris noticed the debris outside the window," Lorian explained. "Tiva thought it looked familiar and was upset. She called me and we pulled up some of the ship's sensor data from Paris's computer."
Trip grasped his son's shoulder, flashing back to his days of captivity aboard a Triannon missionary ship, to a crowd of young faces filing into the worship arena to flirt with deadly anomalies. He'd tried to warn them away . . .
"You mean the wreck is our ship," Trip asked in a hoarse whisper.
"That's unlikely," Lorian assured him.
Trip relaxed slightly. "How unlikely?"
"How many Triannon ships are there altogether?" Lorian inquired.
"I don't know. Maybe fifty?"
"Then the odds are 2%."
Trip smiled wanly. Lorian was a prodigy, not an oracle. Why did they all expect so much from him?
"Go and tell that to Tiva," Trip said, clapping his son on the shoulder. "She needs you right now."
Lorian seemed surprised.
Trip ducked through the door to the conference room, his heart still pounding.
"I've invited Fiona to this meeting," Jon began. "She can summarize the knowledge to date."
Fionna had been manning the viewer all night. "It is a large ship, Triannon in design. We've found an inscription and translated it. The name of the ship is Sacred Mysteries."
It's not my old ship, Trip realized. He closed his eyes and took a breath. Only now did he realize he'd been holding it.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" Fiona said, noticing Trip's relief. "I wasn't thinking . . ."
"It's just that a lot of my fellow passengers were kids . . ." Trip explained.
"Oh," Fiona continued, apologetically. "Yes, these shipwrecks are so tragic. I'm not sure we should have parked so close to the site. . . .So far we haven't visually detected any bodies, though one would expect to find that in the catastrophic decompression."
"Escape pods?" Hoshi asked.
"I'm afraid not. Unsurprisingly, there are no life signs."
"Maybe the ship was relatively empty when it met its fate?" Travis suggested hopefully.
"That would fit our theory that this ship was intent on a suicide attack against the nearby sphere," Jon said.
Trip interjected: "We ought to tell Tiva as soon as possible—that the ship isn't hers. Ease her mind. She knows the ship is Triannon . . . she saw a piece out the window."
"That's too bad." Jon noted unhappily. "I was hoping to keep her out of the loop."
"But we might need her help . . ." Trip objected.
Jon smiled indulgently. "It's only natural, Trip, that you would. . . empathize somewhat with the Triannons; having spent time with them; but we can be confident these feelings will never undermine your commitment to this mission."
"Cap'n, what are you trying to say?"
"I am trying to say that Tiva's primary loyalties are probably to her own people, just like yours are with us." Jon gave an appeasing smile, but cut off any response with a raised hand. "We can talk after the meeting."
Trip knew to be patient. He would have a chance to make his case.
"Fiona? What else did you find?" Jon asked.
"Very little in the way of an explanation. From the deformation, it appears that somehow a great torque was applied to this ship. It's as if some giant grabbed hold of the hull and the bow—and twisted."
"Malcolm?"
"I concur, Captain. I've never seen anything quite like it. An explosion wouldn't quite do the trick. On a smaller scale, I'd suggest an anomaly, but we've never seen one big enough to do this kind of damage."
"We haven't seen an anomoly at all since the thermobaric cloud barrier dissipated," Hoshi added.
"Another good point," Jon moderated. "Well, I'm not satisfied with the 'giant monster' theory. We need to send a crew over to that ship, tap into their computers, and find out what happened in the final moments of their voyage. Ideally, we'd also like a Triannon map of the sphere system. The wreckage is orbiting something. I'd like to know if we've found the central sphere."
Trip spoke up: "Jon, the way that ship is ripped open, I'm almost sure we won't be able to power up the computers. Depending on how the data is stored, the maps may be lost. But if this is a Triannon ship, I'm pretty sure there will be security cameras everywhere, and they seem to be modular . . . If we go get a security camera from their bridge and bring it back, we may be able to access the data and learn what happened right before decompression."
"OK, Trip, Hoshi, get suited up. You two are on the away team. Travis will take you over. Dismissed."
"Is my EV suit back from the quartermaster?" Trip asked the room.
"If not, use mine," Malcolm called, as the officers filed out.
Trip hung back to talk with the Captain.
Hoshi gave Trip a brave ghost of a smile as she headed to the door, and he winked back supportively. Sneaking around on shipwrecks was still one of Hoshi's least favorite assignments, but after twenty years in the Expanse, she was getting to be a pro.
Five minutes later, Trip was still hung up in the conference room, trying to win over the skeptical captain.
"I know we can't suit her up, but Tiva could help me navigate this shipwreck remotely," Trip implored.
"I'll ask you one more time, is she on our side?"
"Yes," Trip said with certainty.
"She would help us attack a sphere?" Jon looked doubtful.
Trip hesitated. "Actually . . . I get the feeling, she'd rather the spheres just disappear by themselves . . . she says she's a 'moderate' on the question of whether to take up arms."
"I'm not encouraged by that report."
"Yeah, but right now, all we want to know is who or what destroyed this ship. Why wouldn't Tiva help us with that?"
"Hoshi can read Triannon."
"She's an expert linguist; but she's no Triannon. Hoshi might miss some subtle aspect of their culture."
Jon gave a dismissive laugh, "Sorry, Trip. When I think of Triannon culture, 'subtle' isn't the first adjective that comes to mind."
The Triannons of 2153 had confronted Enterprise using terrorist tactics. They had sentenced one crewmember to death after discovering the humans had broken some Triannon religious taboo. Jon had volunteered to be the victim.
Trip sighed; but, he was undeterred. "Yes, I understand why you'd say that. But trust me Cap'n: When they're not preaching and threatening unbelievers with destruction . . . they're making some pretty fine distinctions."
Jon wore a doubtful expression.
"For instance: Are the Makers multi-temporal or a-temporal? Will all the timelines have a Paradise?"
"And why does any of this matter?"
"I sure as hell don't know . . . but if that shipwrecked crew was Triannon, you can bet their purpose here was religious. I suspect, in the end, we'll need an insider to sort it all out."
Jon's grimaced in thought.
"Look," Trip pressed, "Myself, I'd just as soon stick my hand in an open plasma conduit as feel the Breath of the Makers . . ."
Jon raised his eyebrows, sympathetically.
"But Tiva gets this stuff."
John smiled, reluctantly. He'd caved: "Once Hoshi hits a wall, we'll call her in."
"Great!" Trip exalted. "You won't be sorry, Cap'n!"
"One more thing," Jon called before Trip was able to bolt for the door. "What's up with Lorian?"
"Oh the access tube?. . ." Trip was determined to stick to the public aspects of this matter. "Well, he's always used that access tube, and he needed a place for meditation . . . ."
"I'm not worried about the meditation, Trip." Jon wore a look of fatherly concern. "I don't know if you are aware, but we have reason to suspect that your son and Tiva are involved, romantically."
Trip maintained a neutral expression.
Unfortunately, Jon took this as an invitation to continue. He began to pace. "We suspect your son and this Triannon woman may be engaging in an ancient Vulcan practice, an invasive form of telepathy called meld . . ."
Trip interrupted at last: "I know what it's called."
"And you're not concerned?" Jon asked, surprised.
"I don't know," Trip whined, throwing up his hands. "Go ask T'Pol. I'll be concerned if she gets concerned."
Jon smiled at this.
"Jon, I appreciate your looking out for my son. But he's half Vulcan. Only he can tell us what that means."
Jon finally nodded his agreement..
"He's ich'n to come back to the meetings . . ." Trip added, hopefully.
It was worth a try. But, Jon shook his head "no." "We'll talk when you get and Hoshi get back."
On her way to the bridge, T'Pol stopped by the nursery where Amanda had begun her shift.
"Amanda, I thought you might want to assure Destiny, that the shipwreck we have found, although Triannon, is not the ship on which Trip and Destiny were held captive."
Amanda smiled. "I'll tell her right away. It was thoughtful of you to stop by."
"Trip was also very thoughtful: he thought to tell Tiva."
Amanda clucked her tongue in disapproval. "Is he still mooning over that young woman?"
"No," T'Pol admitted. "But as Jon observed, it is natural he would empathize with her plight." T'Pol raised an eyebrow as she said this.
Amanda laughed at the eyebrow, then became stern: "I don't care if I am an honorary Denobulan, T'Pol. I still say someone outta slap your guy upside the head: remind him he's fifty-some years old and married to the prettiest old lady on Enterprise."
"Your solidarity is appreciated, however, no such intervention will be necessary. Yesterday, I believe he arrived at the same conclusion on his own. "
"Oh, this sounds interesting . . ." Amanda prompted.
"It would take some time to explain."
"Well then, cut to the chase. Does this story have a happy ending?"
"Yes, it does." T'Pol confided. "Trip and I have agreed to work towards a stronger marriage—through the sharing of intimate thoughts and the pursuit of shared goals."
"Well, that sounds like a plan . . ." Both women got quiet.
"Trip told me last night he wants to have another child," T'Pol revealed.
Amanda seemed moved by this. Her eyes got moist. Finally she spoke: "Please T'Pol don't do it. It's not worth the risk to your health."
"There would be no risk to my health. We would use the biocylinder this time."
"Oh."
Amanda's flat response was atypical. She empathized openly with all of T'Pol's stories, saving her biggest outbursts for announcements of life-changing events such as this.
"I expected you would be pleased," T'Pol, admitted finally.
Amanda smiled weakly. "I would be, but . . . "
T'Pol waited stoically.
"Oh all right. . . ." Amanda pouted. "You'll find out soon enough: the biocylinder is booked solid for the next three years. Believe me when I say, Phlox would never gossip to me about his patients just because we're married. That's not how I know. I know because I want another baby too, and it's impossible . . . ."
"I don't understand. Who else but us would use the biocylander for reproduction? There are only two other mixed-species couples on this ship."
"Remember: Human couples also have fertility problems, particularly after forty. None of us on this ship are getting any younger."
T'Pol, frowned, grasping the implications: Even in a best-case scenario, her spouse would be elderly before their next child could reach maturity. And this same calculation applied for every other married person on the ship.
T'Pol was dazed; her eyes danced absently as she searched for a solution. "Trip is a skilled engineer," she announced at last. "He can help all of us. He can build a second biocylinder."
Amanda looked doubtful. T'Pol guessed at her thoughts: Optimism doesn't change the laws of physics, or biology.
Trip had made rash promises during the last pregnancy: he'd save his child through a feat of engineering. And nothing had come of it.
A mother's womb was difficult to replicate, T'Pol knew. And the artificial womb in question had replacement parts available only on Denobula.
Trip jumped in the Shuttle with Travis, joining Hoshi. All three were wearing the orange and bronze environmental suits. Helmets were off.
"You were there last night," Trip started. "What happened between Lorian and Jon? And I don't need the gory details . . ."
Travis, laughed uncomfortably. "Ooo. Your boy has a temper."
"He does not!" Trip replied.
"Maybe you're just used to it, so it's not apparent," Hoshi suggested helpfully. "I'm his teacher; believe me, he's got a sharp tongue."
"So . . ." Trip prompted Travis.
"So . . ." Travis, started on his tale: "Jon wants Fiona to find Lorian, to show him the wreckage. You kid doesn't immediately show up on sensors. Fiona panics. Thinks he's been 'abducted.' Security finds him and drags him in."
"They didn't 'drag him in'," Trip objected.
"He had his arm twisted behind his back," Travis clarified. "He wasn't being cooperative."
"Holy shit. Who brought him in?"
"Hernandez."
"She'll get an apology."
"Good luck with that," Travis said. "You might want to extract one for the Captain while you're at it."
"What'd he do?"
"Jon says, 'This will go on your record.' Says, 'I can't show favoritism just because your mom is First Officer and your dad was Chief Engineer.'"
Trip nodded his agreement.
"Says, 'How would that look to your peers?' Lorian answers, 'Like how people say you got your job because your father worked with Zephram Cochrane?'"
Trip sucked in his breath.
"That's exactly what Fiona said!" Travis laughed. "Sorry, it's not funny. Still . . . it was a pretty impressive display."
Trip shook his head in dismay.
"Oh!" Travis continued. "Then he said he didn't mean it; he was 'just making an analogy.'"
That did sound like Lorian. When Lorian took a jab he usually disguised it as an innocent observation.
Trip was angry now. "Man, oh man. Next he'll take a phase pistol and shoot his own foot."
"Don't think about it," Hoshi scolded. "Were almost to the hull. We need to focus for the EVA." They all put on their helmets.
PART B
The ship was so mangled there was no place to dock. So they opened the hatch and Trip and Hoshi floated free into space, heading towards a crack in the hull.
"Careful of these jagged edges," Trip warned his teammate as they sailed into a dark crevasse in the ripped metal. Their flashlights hit on a far wall and soon they landed on that same wall: Trip's metallic boots grabbed the wall and he stood up, perpendicular to the floor.
"Hey what are you doing?" Hoshi asked.
"The security cameras I need to get to are on the wall. I might as well walk on it." Trip told her.
"But I need to be on the floor so the signage will appear right side up," Hoshi protested.
"Be my guest," Trip answered.
Hoshi climbed to the floor and stood up perpendicular to Trip. In this 90 degree configuration, they proceeded towards the bow of the ship.
"I don't like this," Hoshi complained to the back of Trip's head. "It's disorienting."
Trip tramped down the wall and joined her on the floor. "Actually, being 'down here' does help me get my bearings." He shot a beam of light down the pitch black hallway. "It's spooky, 'cause the layout's the same as the ship I was on. Did I tell you we slept in dorm rooms?" Trip shone his light into a room with rows of bunks four levels high.
"AHH!" Hoshi screamed.
Trip's heart skipped a beat as it registered what he was looking at. Rows of dead people lay still in their beds. Fifteen in all.
"They are strapped in their bunks!" Hoshi, shouted in horror.
"It's as if these people knew the ship would loose artificial gravity," Trip mused, suppressing a shiver. Their clothing told him the deceased were adults males. He wondered if he should approach to investigate further. They were probably all strangers, Trip decided. And on the off chance he had met one of them before, identification would be difficult now. Decompression turned a body into an ugly, swollen mess.
"Do you suppose it's a ritual suicide?" Hoshi asked.
Trip shrugged, feigning indifference. It helped him focus on the job at hand.
Hoshi pointed her flashlight down the hall to a sign, "T'shok Viklo," She announced. "Central Planning."
"It's the bridge," Trip translated. They steeped forward, bodies weightless.
Trip placed his magnetized tool box on the wall, pulled out a crow bar, and went to work on the door. It was scary working with these heavy tools in the vacumn. A tool designed to manipulate solid titatium could easily slip and rip the flexible skin of an environmental suit. But soon the door was sliding open, nice and easy. "OK, brace yerself," Trip warned, with one last grunt. "This might not be pretty."
Trip and Hoshi stepped boldly onto the alien bridge, waving flashlights defensively into dark corners. But the place was completely deserted. No bloated bodies bumping against the furniture, Trip noted with relief. This was convenient, but also something of a mystery.
Trip's flashlight landed on something familiar. "Here's a security camera," He announced. Let me see if I can access its data." Trip reached up and fiddled. Soon he had extracted a small doo-dad. "I think this is a data clip," Trip said happily, pinching the object carefully between his gloved fingers . . . "Hoshi, maybe can you help me find a monitor with a portal this size?"
"It would be easier if you could get the power on so I could see . . ."
"I can't power up this whole room. Maybe one monitor . . . ."
Just then the whole room did light up, just for an instant, like a flash of lightning.
What??!!!
Hoshi's eyes were wide. "We're being shot at!"
Malcolm's voice sounded in their helmets: "It's another Triannon ship. Defending the wreckage!"
Trip shouted back: "I've got the data chip. Beam us outta here!"
"NO!" Hoshi shouted in a panic.
"The transporter's working fine," Trip assured her. "We did maintenance on it just last week."
"It's not that. It's just that . . . we aren't supposed to HAVE a transporter."
Trip squinted skeptically. "What are you talking about?"
Before Hoshi could, answer the Triannon bridge dissolved and Trip and Hoshi were rematerializing on Enterprise. Travis was right there to greet them. The tingly sensation subsided, and Trip jumped from the transportor alcove, one step behind Hoshi, who had resumed her protest:
"Trinnnons need to stay ignorant of transporter technology so that a hundred years from now the younger Captain Archer, can escape from his death sentence, when a Triannon rebel group hijacks Enterprise. Remember, he will choose the transporter as his preferred method of 'execution'?"
"Heh. Yeah, I do remember that," Trip chuckled. The captain had played his death scene to perfection, stepping onto the transporter with 'last words' so moving, Trip and T'Pol didn't even have to fake their choked goodbyes. "Don't worry. The Triannons probably don't even know we left," Trip told them. "Their ships are pathetically low-tech, they're designed to get passengers from point A to point B, and that's about it. I don't think Triannons even scan for biosigns."
Travis seemed pleased. "We'd best remind the Captain."
The bridge crew calmly watched the Triannons fire additional rounds at a lifeless shipwreck.
"This is Prenom Yarkik," A Triannon shouted from his command post. "Leave the vicinity immediately!"
"I'd rather not." Archer answered, unperturbed. "We are conducting forensic work to learn how this ship met it's fate."
"This ship is Triannon." More flashes lit up the wreck. "It's no concern of yours!"
"Why are they still firing?" Jon asked his crew in a low voice.
"Captain," T'Pol answered softly, "It's a message from Travis. He wants you to ask the Triannons to stop firing on our away team." She pronounced this last part slowly and carefully.
It made no sense to Jon. "Trip and Hoshi aren't back?!!!" he shouted.
T'Pol took charge. "Captain," she said in a loud, steady voice, sure to be overheard by the Triannons. "We don't have the technology to make them instantly disappear over there and reappear over here. They are stuck there until we can get a shuttlepod to them." She raised an eyebrow.
Jon jumped into action. "Prenom Yarkik," he called to his counterpart, "Cease firing immediately! We need to evacuate our crew. "Trip! Hoshi!" he called to the air. "Hang in there. We'll send a shuttlepod once things cool off."
Jon turned his back to the viewscreen, his expression dissolving into relief. He raised his brows at T'Pol: Yet another close call!
The Triannons had agreed to stop shooting so the away team could return. On the bridge, a pod crawled slowly across the huge viewscreen towards the wreckage. Travis was maneuvering the shuttle towards a large crevasse in the hull that was hopefully out of the Triannons field of view.
Jon confidently addressed his counterpart, a religious "Prenom," on the opposite ship: "I assure you we would never desecrate the final resting place of a Triannon crew. We found them tied to their bunks.
"Because our crew placed them there," the Prenom shouted. "Out of RESPECT."
"We will gladly honor any Triannon customs with regard to the dead. Just tell us what they are. We didn't disturb the bodies or remove any personal effects. All we want is information to help explain this disaster."
"How do we know it wasn't you that attacked the Sacred Mysteries?" the Prenom accused.
"The Sacred Mysteries has been twisted almost beyond recognition. I've never witnessed anything like it in all my twenty years in space. How could our weapons or anyone's weapons cause this type of damage?"
The Triannon tilted his head, as if conceding the point. "So what is your interest with the wreck?"
"We are trellium traders." Jon offered a disarmingly goofy smile. "For the past several weeks we have seen no anomalies. The spheres no longer seem to be working. If there are no more anomalies, we should get out of the trellium business."
"The Makers are faithful. The 'anomalies,' as you call them, will return."
"Not if the spheres have been destroyed," Jon countered. "We suspect this ship was damaged while attacking the sphere."
"Your theory is preposterous!" the Prenom scoffed.
"Do you have a better one?"
The alien gave no answer.
"Do you understand why the Makers have dropped their Arms?" Jon asked.
"It is a mystery."
"Perhaps we could solve these mysteries scientifically?"
Jon extended a hand in invitation. The Prenom scowled. "Scientific investigation . . . ."
". . . has led many astray." Jon finished the sentence with a weary smile.
"You are familiar with our gospel," the Prenom noted with interest.
"I've received some . . . instruction," Jon admitted.
"And yet you continue to trade in Trellium, helping men to hide from the Breath of the Makers . . ."
"The Breath of the Makers can maim people. It can destroy an unprotected ship."
"Your faith is weak . . ." the Prenom lectured, "But it can be strengthened. The Makers are merciful. They grant forgiveness to all who prostrate themselves before the power of the spheres."
"I'll keep that in mind," Jon said, refusing to argue. "And I do want to offer my sincerest apologies if we have intruded on a funeral"
The Prenom's scowl vanished.
"Our condolences on your loss," Jon added.
The Prenom bowed his head, graciously. "It is kind of you to be concerned, but personally, we are fine. These people were not close friends; in fact their religious views were quite different from ours."
"Well, that's a surprise . . . " Jon stated flatly. "Were they heretics?"
The Prenom gave Jon a puzzled look. "No, they were Antiquarians."
"Antiquarians?"
"Antiquarians seek to preserve ancient ways of thinking. They insist the spheres were built in 9 days, though modern prophets tell us they were built in 10 days."
"And you are . . ."
"Modernists."
"And yet you honor the Antiquarians in death."
"Modernists and Antiquarians both venerate the same Spheres. We discovered the wreck and felt a duty to ensure its crew would be properly interred."
"I respect that. I promise that once we determine what happened at this sphere, we will be on our way. Perhaps you would be willing to facilitate us in our investigation?"
"I have not been authorized to investigate these people . . ." the Prenom began hesitantly.
"But you're curious, nonetheless," Archer's eyes twinkled. "How many people were on the ship?"
"Just fifteen."
"And why were they here?"
"This is the Sphere of Penance. These people came to confess their sins."
"What sins?"
"Doubt, lack of courage . . . it is impossible to know."
"It is not impossible," Archer announced. "We have in our possession a recording of the ship's final moments. Presumably, you have a device that could play this recording?"
When the Triannons expressed a reluctance to cooperate with "unbelievers," Tiva was called to the bridge. She arrived in a tan dress, of heavy material, that she hadn't worn since her arrival. The aliens, displayed larger-than-life across the Humans' viewscreen, jumped to attention when she appeared.
"I know who you are!" the Prenom sputtered in fury. "You are that wayward Docent who ran off with a Seeker! Why have you allied yourself with those of lesser knowledge?"
"These Human possess a great deal of knowledge," Tiva answered boldly. "Like the Makers, they are trans-temporal beings. They have traveled here from the future. They have told me secrets previously hidden from Triannons. They warn of a coming civil war among our peoples that will destroy our world if we do not repent and change our ways."
If only the captain had had a giant hook, he might have pulled her off the stage. As it was he could only scold her after the fact: "You weren't authorized to broadcast our secrets."
"I am trying to save my world," Tiva answered stubbornly. "I would do anything to save it, just as you would do anything to save yours. AND you need my help."
The captain glared down his nose, "I appreciate your position . . ."
"Do you, Captain?" She glared right back. "I gave up everything to bring Trip and Destiny back to you."
"We can never repay that debt . . ."
"On the contrary, I believe you can. When I take the Triannons the data chip you want them to have, I would also like to bring them proof of my claims to secret knowledge."
"Specifically?"
"Video of our future world as you visited it."
Jon looked unhappy. "We are trying as best we can to preserve our timeline . . ." he explained quietly. It sounded lame.
Rostov spoke up: "Captain, a record of those events may not even exist. Remember how the Triannons erased our database after they hijacked the ship? Files added throughout the rest of their stay would probably have been lost in the reboot."
"Well that settles that," Jon said preemptively.
Tiva gave a frustrated sigh. "Very well, I'll just have to manage without your help." She looked around the bridge with pleading eyes. No one came to her aid.
Just then Trip, Tiva, and Hoshi stepped off the lift and onto the bridge. Tiva's eyes raked Trip's with an urgent look he couldn't decipher. The away team parted to let her onto the lift.
T'Pol waited until Tiva was out of earshot. "Jon," she said quietly. "There IS a chance those files still exist."
"I've made up mind!" Jon barked back. "Does anyone else today want to question my qualifications for command?"
A stunned silence filled the room.
"Rostov, you have the bridge," Jon finished, and he turned to leave.
In making this delegation, the captain had bypassed his second-in-command and possibly Trip, whose current rank relative to Rostov had never been clarified.
"Captain?" Rostov called, sounding startled.
"I'll be in my office," Jon answered gruffly. "Political appointee . . ." he muttered inexplicably as he brushed past the group at the lift.
T'Pol shot Trip a questioning look as the lift descended with the captain.
Trip raised a hand. "I'll get this one," he volunteered and turned to follow Jon.
Trip caught up to Jon in his office.
"I apologize for Lorian. Travis told me what he said."
"You've got nothing to apologize for, Trip. Lorian is responsible for his own words." The captain gave his friend a tight smile. "Though I admit, I never thought I'd hear that smear from anyone close . . . Even A.G. steered clear . . ."
Trip took a seat across from the captain and leaned forward to assure him. "I doubt this outburst is even about you. It's probably just the hormones raging."
Jon nodded unhappily.
"He would have gone off on me if I had been the one to find him with a girl," Trip continued. "He's never, ever admitted to having a love life. That's why I stayed in bed."
"Trip, I wonder if it's more than that," Trip waited attentively as the Captain got up to pace the room. He still seemed agitated.
"I'm anxious about Lorian," Jon continued. "I fear this Vulcan 'melding' may be linked to aggressive behavior."
Trip's feigned confusion: "What? Based on this one incident!"
"I was thinking of the Vakhlas . . ." Jon persisted. He shot Trip a worried look.
Trip tried not to get angry. Jon had thrown one of those unconventional Vulcans in the brig for assaulting T'Pol. Of course Trip had been oblivious to the trouble at the time. Trip flat-out rejected the comparison Jon seemed to be making. My son isn't like that. He was certain about this. "What I learned from the Vakhlas," Trip stated evenly, "Was that Vulcans come in all shapes and sizes."
Jon seemed to get the point, nodding reluctantly.
Trip tried again to calm the captain: "Look, Lorian's comment was way out of line. But he said it to make you mad, not because he believes it. Let me ask him if he's fit'n in regular mediation. Seems like he needs to get rebalanced. With a girlfriend eat'n up his time, he's probably been cut'n some corners . . ."
"So where is that data clip?" Jon asked abruptly.
"Right here." Trip pulled it from a pocket and handed it over.
"The Triannons have agreed to play this recording for us. Tiva convinced them."
Trip grinned appreciatively. "See? I told you she was somethin'."
Jon, Fiona, Travis, Malcolm, Hoshi, Trip, T'Pol, and Rostov were gathered on the bridge, all wearing solemn expressions.
"Can they hear us?" Hoshi asked, referring to the Triannons on the other ship.
"No," Jon answered. "But I'll ask you all to save your comments til the end of the viewing. We'll be watching the security camera recording simultaneously with the Triannon crew, picking audio and visuals off a monitor on their ship. We want to be respectful. Needless to say, it will be unpleasant to watch this tragedy unfold. Prepare yourselves for anything."
"I'm plenty prepared to see the Sacred Mysteries do a nosedive straight into the central sphere," Rostov said.
"You and me both," the Captain agreed. "But if that happens, save your cheers for the second viewing."
Trip took a step closer to T'Pol. Fiona reached for Travis's hand. And Rostov crossed his fingers. In learning about the fate of this Triannon ship they would be learning about their own fate as well. If the Sacred Mysteries had been wrecked in an intentional or unintentional collision with the sphere, collapsing the sphere system, putting an end to the treacherous anomalies and the confining theromobaric cloud barrier . . . well, it would save future generations worlds of trouble.
The recording began to play across the viewscreen. The Triannons looked fat and blurry, Travis let go of his wife and quickly resized the picture.
On screen, the Triannons swayed and chanted. Their song had an eerie beauty. Hoshi began to translate:
"Makers we have offended you.
We seek your healing.
We throw ourselves
Upon your infinite mercy.
We trust in your infinite goodness
Only instruct us."
"That's Targon!" Trip exclaimed, recognizing his former nemesis. "And our old Prenom!" he added, his excitement overriding attention to protocol.
The recorded Triannons stopped singing and began to murmur and point towards their viewer, which stretched away from the camera at a steep angle.
The display on the angled viewer made no sense. A huge amorphous blob seemed to wobble on the Triannons' screen. Travis fiddled with the focus.
"Leave it!" Fiona demanded. "The people are still in focus."
Hoshi was translating: "They say, 'It won't hurt us . . . we are blessed! We are blessed!'"
Waviness quickly engulfed the whole scene. The Triannons began to rejoice; they appeared unharmed despite having been swallowed by the proverbial whale.
"I feel the Breath . . . I feel the sweet Breath of the Makers . . . I am forgiven," Hoshi interpreted.
Nothing happened for a long while, while the Triannons wandered around amazed, arms outstretched to sense their new environment.
"I don't get it," Jon said finally. "Why don't they feel the effects of this anomaly?"
T'Pol answered. "The larger the anomaly, the less likely it is to do small-scale damage. The laws of physics vary more gradually within the volume of a larger anomaly, and the difference between its edge and normal space is less abrupt."
Suddenly a loud, slow, low-pitched groan filled the room, followed by a short screech. The Triannons froze at the unmistakable sound of overstressed metal. Everyone, onscreen and off, seemed to realize at once the inevitability of large-scale damage to the ship's hull.
A Triannon spoke in confusion. "Why would the Makers betray us?" Hoshi translated.
Rostov shouted back at the confused Triannon, "You're all going to die! Your Makers don't care. Ram the damn sphere!" He banged his console in frustration. "Go on. Get even!"
Chaos erupted for the hapless alien crew. A whooshing filled the room, their robes fluttered around their legs and arms, and suddenly they were blown out of camera view.
There were two sickening thuds, in quick succession. Then silence descended on the doomed ship.
Jon spoke cautiously: "Is it over that quickly?"
"Yes," T'Pol answered. "There is no more air to transmit sound."
The humans watched a recording of a desolate Triannon bridge for another half a minute before Jon nodded sadly to Travis, who turned off the display.
"Prenom Yarkik is hailing us," Hoshi announced.
Jon wiped a hand down his face, pulling at his jaw. And then he was ready.
"Onscreen!" he ordered.
Incredibly, the Triannons were angry at the humans. Now a living Prenom shouted at them from the viewscreen, "This recording makes no sense. Explain this!"
Jon answered plainly: "It is what it is."
"It is a forgery," Yarkik insisted, "You try to shake our faith. The Sphere Builders forgive all who throw themselves upon their mercy."
"Keep the data chip," Jon told him, exasperated. "Test it scientifically if you faith is so strong. It is completely real. We don't know enough about Triannon language or customs to fake such a thing."
Everyone was disappointed. After further systematic analysis of the data, they all gathered in the conference room.
"So the sphere is not destroyed," Malcolm stated bitterly.
Fiona, spoke up. "I don't know if this make you feel any better, but I just found out it probably wouldn't make any difference if it was. This is NOT the Central Sphere—the one where Trip was treated for his trans-dimensional illness. As the aliens told us, this is the Sphere of Penance. I have been conversing with Tiva on the other ship. She assures us that the Sphere of Penance and the Hospital of the Makers are two separate things.
"So we are back to square one," Travis noted bleakly.
"I concur," T'Pol announced. "One might even say we find ourselves at square negative one." She raised both eyebrows for emphasis. "Theoretical models predict that an idled sphere system will create particularly large anomalies as it powers back up."
"The system burbs and sputters as it comes back to life," Rostov mused.
"An apt metaphor," T'Pol told him.
Malcolm shook his head, dissatisfied. "So the Sacred Mysteries just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time?"
Hoshi smiled enigmatically. "We may never know the truth for sure, but I have a linguistic theory of the events leading to the destruction of the Sacred Mysteries."
"Well, you look like the cat that's swallowed the canary," Jon noted with approval. "Please, tell us this theory."
"From analyzing the subspace chatter, and piecing it together with information from our new Triannon allies, I believe that Trip and Tiva's sudden departure caused upheaval on their old ship." She glanced to Trip, "From what I gather, you two were a pretty charismatic couple."
She must have intended it at a complement, but now all eyes were on a nervous Trip. "I was always undermining the lesson plan," he explained once again, "asking inconvenient questions and contradicting specific details. I told them all I knew about these spheres. My teacher, Tiva, let me run my mouth—which was strange. Until it dawned on me: she's actually on my side."
Hoshi continued, "So two popular shipmates defect. The Prenom and his second-in-command are demoted over this. Triannons believe that bad things happen to bad people. So the disgraced crewmembers join a pilgrimage to the Sphere of Penance to be forgiven for their failure. The Sphere burps back to life and everyone is killed."
Malcolm objected again. "It can't be a coincidence that a gigantic, never-before-seen mega-anomaly appears just as the Sacred Mysteries approaches this sphere."
"It can be, but the odds are . . ." Hoshi scanned the room expectantly. "Where is our little odds-maker when we need him?" Her reference to Lorian elicited fond smiles, even from the captain. "Lets just say the odds are long," Hoshi concluded.
"We are waiting for your linguistic theory," Jon reminded.
Hoshi began her story: "Imagine that the Sphere Builders shut down their sphere system—just for routine maintenance. Around the same time, rumors are spreading of a ship where heretical students run wild, where adults drink milk, where seekers attack the spheres. Someone makes this very accusation. Pretty soon it's common knowledge that Triannons have literally attacked the spheres."
"And even the Sphere Builders believe it . . ." Travis said in wonder.
"And defend themselves from the next Triannon ship that approaches . . ." Malcolm finished. "Of course!"
The note of admiration in his voice drew some strange looks.
"It's what I would do," he explained, "Assuming I was trying to take over the galaxy."
Tiva had stayed behind to "talk shop" with her compatriots. The Triannons were having a hard time reconciling the shocking deaths of the Penitents with received wisdom. Tiva, for her part, had long suspected that the myth of the spheres was but a wavy version of some more substantial truth—like an object viewed through an anomaly. It had been a long time since Tiva had engaged in a freewheeling religious debate and she was quite enjoying herself, despite the unhappy circumstances.
"I believe the Makers built ALL THE Spheres of the Chosen Realm, not just the 59," Tiva said expansively.
"So you agree with the modernists: there may be 64 spheres?"
"I suspect there are too many spheres to count. The Makers also created all the stars, planets, and moons!"
"Every heavenly body within the Chosen Realm was created by the Makers?" someone asked incredulously.
Another asked, "But what of the 64? Are you saying they aren't special?"
"We worship those spheres because of their mystery, strength, and beauty. They are powered by black holes. But our galaxy itself is powered by a black hole. And so are the galaxies throughout the universe. It suggest to me that out true Makers have created the cosmos itself . . ."
"How do you know about the Realms Beyond? Have you been practicing astronomy? If the Makers had wanted us to practice astronomy . . .
"They would have unveiled the skies . . ."
A mummer filled the room. The skies had been unveiled for several weeks now . . .
"You claim your Human friends are prophets?"
"Prophets, yes, because they come from the future. But they are also fellow Seekers. They seek the truth through exploration."
Lorian listened in on his . . . girlfriend as she wowed the Triannons. Her facts were wrong, and her logic flawed, but her creativity was breathtaking.
"You're doing great," Lorian cheered from his seat on the floor in a corridor of Enterprise.
Tiva's laughter filled his ear. [You think so?] she asked at last. She must have found a private corner of her own.
"Yeah," Lorian said, amazed. "Hey, I wish I could help."
["You can. Convince your captain he needs to release video evidence of the future destruction of my planet. He says it doesn't exist, but . . ."]
" . . .That's a load of shit," Lorian finished.
Lorian heard familiar footsteps padding down the hallway. With an awful certainty he knew it would be his dad. His father had promised "We'll get to the bottom of this later." Trip rounded the corner and stopped a few feet from his son's spot on the floor. Whether Lorian was sitting or standing, his dad would always tower over him. Lorian sighed, reached in his pocket, and remotely turned off his earpiece.
Trip was trying to lecture Lorian, but somehow all this got turned around. Now Trip was defending himself to his kid. Or maybe he wasn't a kid? He was increasingly refusing to act like one.
"It's ridiculous," Lorian argued. "I understand why we can't go back to Earth. But you're telling me, we're going to hide our transporter for the next hundred years?"
"Capt'n Archer's younger self needs an escape route when he's captured by Triannons in a hundred years and is sentenced to death. You can't blame him for being a little concerned about this."
"We already used the transporter around Triannons. You used it two years ago during your medical crisis."
"It was an emergency."
"And this isn't? Tiva needs those files. Here whole world is at stake." Lorian could tell his dad agreed. "If we convince the Triannons that it would be a good idea to avoid a holy war that ends in a holocaust, then young Captain Archer won't even be captured by a faction in that war."
"I see what you're saying."
"There must be something left. Some record of these key events."
"Jon said 'no', and it's his call to make. He doesn't want to take the risk. Sometimes the captain just goes with his gut."
"If he had guts, he'd go with the most logical choice, even if it puts himself in a tiny bit of danger—which it doesn't."
Trip folded his arms across his chest. He was listening.
"See, it's too late to preserve the old timeline," Lorian continued. "By living in this Expanse we change it. We can best protect the other Enterprise, by making it certain they are never called out to this wasteland. We can ensure the Weapon is never built by allying ourselves with the species of the Expanse, finding common cause, convincing them that the Sphere Builders are their enemy and we are their friends."
"You make a convincing case," Trip agreed. "Too bad you aren't there to make it at the meetings, where it counts. You pissed off the captain, your mentor and biggest supporter." He spread his arms in frustration. "Apologize already!"
"But sometimes he's just wrong. It's all so arbitrary."
"Well, get used to it. It's called the chain of command. Things don't always go my way, either, and you don't see me mouthing off."
"No, I sure don't that," Lorian muttered. It sounded like an accusation.
"Look me in the eye young man." Trip caught his attention and held it. Lorian's blue eyes danced with youthful fury. "What's gotten into you? You didn't used to act like this."
"Maybe I grew up."
"Doesn't look that way from where I'm standing, boy! How can you be so reckless with people's feelings? How can you be so reckless with your own future?"
Trip eyed him suspiciously. "And how do you know what Tiva wants to do? She left the meeting and went straight to the other ship. Are you two . . . bonded?"
"Yes," Lorian answered levelly. "If that will get people to respect our relationship . . . then, sure: I'm bonded to Tiva."
Trip searched his son's face for a clue. Tiva had promised him they wouldn't have sex.
"Respect has to be earned," Trip stated. "Act responsibly and we'll respect you. You can't be hanging out in the access tubes till all hours just because you have a girlfriend. You admit you aren't meditating. Heck, you aren't even sleeping. "
"Uncle Jon doesn't care about the access tubes being congested. He just wants to harass me."
"Wake up, Lorian! You're his favorite recruit! Until you go and tell him, 'People say you got your job by nepotism,'" Trip shook his head in disbelief. "And by the way, What people?!"
"Carlos," Lorian mumbled.
"Well, you can't tell that to Uncle Jon. So you realize he's always gonna wonder if it was me or your mother who came up with that one."
"I didn't think of that. He just got me mad."
"So you'll think twice next time?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you'll meditate?"
Lorian rolled his eyes, but didn't' argue.
Finally they were getting somewhere. Trip heaved a sigh of relief. "Look, the Capt'n is going to holler at you sometimes. He's the Capt'n. Sometimes he'll be right and sometimes he'll be wrong. Learn a little deference, and you'll climb the ladder quicker . . . Look what happened to me." Trip was proud of his early promotions. "Once you rise through the ranks, you can advise him all you like."
"But I don't want to be Director of Engineering Education," Lorian pouted. "I want to be Chief Engineer."
Trip clenched his fists.
Lorian continued, "I hope they let you direct the next school play."
Trip's face turned red. His hand seemed to tremble. "When did you become so ill-mannered? I NEVER talked to my old man this way!"
Lorian felt horrible. So he shrugged. His dad would sort it out. His dad had infinite patience.
"I'm done try'n," Trip said abruptly. "We'll survive just fine without your help. Go on, and don't come back til you can control that mouth."
Lorian was ready to make up. He approached his dad, but flinched as the back of a hand flew past his face. It didn't land.
"I said, git outta here!"
Lorian couldn't have been more stunned. He felt like he was watching the totally reliable warp core go critical. It didn't seem possible. His dad raised his hand again. An empty threat?
Lorian wasn't sure. He retreated. Tears were burning at his eyes, but he couldn't think where he could hide. He didn't want to go to access tube 2, where this whole mess had started. He had promised Carlos he would steer clear of the boys' quarters. Carlos would be hanging out there with Paris. Lorian headed for the shuttle bay. He had to pull himself together and contact Tiva.
He clicked on his earpiece. "Tiva, call me when you get a chance."
He waited anxiously for ten minutes, and then she answered. [Lorian, you'll never believe this: they want me to stay and teach . . .]
His world came crashing down.
Lorian's Third Foremother T'Mir had once been in this situation. Her safe and boring world had fallen apart when, hovering over Earth in 1958, the impulse manifold on her science vessel had malfunctioned. Landing on an alien planet, she and her coworkers had survived by their wits.
I'm just like Third Foremother, Lorian told himself. I can do this . . .
It was the evening, and Jon was in the shower when they paged him from the bridge.
"Jon," a confused crewman called, "The Triannons just jumped to warp!"
Jon turned off the water.
"I'm not sure we need them any more," Jon answered calmly.
"But they took Tiva with them!"
Jon rolled his eyes. "Where is Lorian?"
"Lorian?" There was a long pause. "Seems he's off the grid, as usual . . . "
"Begin a shipwide search!"
"Captain . . .?"
"Just do it!"
Thirty minutes later, Shuttlepod 2 was discovered missing. Sensors said it was still in the shuttlebay. Random crewmembers had actually seen Pod 2 leave for the Triannon ship. They'd assumed Travis was heading out to pick up Tiva.
In the Tucker quarters, Trip and T'Pol were desperately retracing their steps to find their lost boy. "It could be the pon farr . . ." T'Pol said, "You refused to make arrangements . . ."
"No, it's not that. I was talking to him right before he left. He was making too much sense."
"Then, I fear it is my fault," T'Pol continued. "I should have arranged a Kahs Wahn to mark his passage into adulthood."
"That desert camping ritual? How would that have helped?"
"It would have allowed him to prove his competence and maturity without having to rebel against his parents. I fear I have treated him like a child. I did not allow him to unload the trellium shipment with the other Recurits. I told him he was allergic to trellium. Malcolm wanted to take him planetside and I refused. He wanted to see an ocean . . . "
"Stop, T'Pol. It's not your fault. I know he's mad at me."
"Why?"
"You are going to hate this. It was stupid . . ."
He was about to tell her. She reached for his arms to calm him. "Whatever you did or didn't do, whatever mistakes we have made, we will get through this together."
"I didn't want to hurt him, I just want . . . all I want . . ."
"You just want him to succeed."
He grabbed her and held her close.
It felt like the bond. Like she could read his thoughts and he knew hers.
"You would never leave me," he said.
She grabbed him tighter. His cheek was pressed hard against her hair, so he turned and gratefully kissed her head.
Lorian had been gone a week and Trip was starting to panic. The thought would strike that he might never see his son again. His wife remained surprisingly serene. When Trip demanded to know how this was possible, T'Pol told him she stilled her fears by imagining she could calm the sea. She claimed her own control was fragile and suggested a meld would help them both.
But there was no way he was into that right now.
A grey gloom descended. It felt like that last time . . . right after he'd screwed up and cleared Enterprise for passage through a f*king subspace corridor—sending the whole crew 117 years into the past.
It felt like depression
And then clouds began to gather at the perimeter of the Delphic Expanse.
