cherryblossomjen, the banter will be present, although different in subtle ways. I can't really enjoy a story unless there's good banter.
Captain X, keep in mind that the appearance of rustication may be just that--appearance. And it may have a purpose.
2Distracted, thank you.
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San Francisco Spaceport
12:10 UTC
T'Pol observed the human farewell rituals with the wariness of a field biologist. Curious at the extravagant displays but mindful to keep her distance, she seated herself at the far end of the sparsely filled departure lounge. Were these humans in competition against one another, she wondered. One mother would cry on her offspring's shoulder; another would cry louder. The first would respond by crying louder still. Then there were the mated pairs saying their good-byes. T'Pol could respect the emotions behind the displays, though they made her slightly queasy, but could not understand why a simple touch of the fingers would not do. She supposed touch held less significance for humans as, unlike Vulcans, comparatively few of them were telepathic to any great extent, but still...some of those movements of mouth and hand... A Vulcan couple might show that depth of affection, but only behind securely locked doors.
Not all humans seemed so free with public displays. Lieutenant Commander Matthews's mate demonstrated great restraint. She had not so much as touched him in the fifteen minutes since her arrival, and though her two small children wept, her face remained impassive. Matthews had introduced himself to T'Pol earlier, rightly surmising her identity, and briefly engaged her in conversation because, as he put it, they were the only two with no one to see them off. He seemed agitated when he said this and surprised when he spotted his mate entering the lounge.
Neither Ambassador Soval nor any of his staff had come with T'Pol to "see her off." There had been no reason. Final instructions had been given to her at the compound, and transport for her luggage had already been arranged.
From beneath her robe, she drew her palm computer and established a secure connection with the Vulcan network. Waiting for her were messages from her cousin and a science student seeking an introduction to T'Les. But she'd received no word from her father. If he did not answer her repeated inquiries by week's end, she'd press for face-to-face contact via subspace. If he remained silent after that, he'd force her hand. She'd have to involve her mother.
When the boarding call was announced, T'Pol responded leisurely. She wished to limit her time in the packed shuttle as much as possible. Her nasal inhibitor injection was working adequately in the airy environs of the lounge, but the healers hadn't sufficient time to fine-tune her dosage before she left. And she refused to take a supplemental dose in front of the humans. Should she be called upon to explain, the truth would alienate them. And a lie, although less rude, would damage her credibility when discovered. With a Denobulan as ship's physician, T'Pol had no doubt the truth would be discovered. Nasal inhibitors were as routinely prescribed to females in the Vulcan diplomatic corps as cold medication was to humans. So, even if she requested her injections be kept confidential, he'd most likely forget and let the truth slip out. Denobulans were known as an overly talkative race.
She wondered why the captain had chosen a Denobulan as ship's physician. Certainly, a human physician would have a more accurate understanding of his species' physiology. On the other hand, an alien would have a better knowledge of non-Terran diseases--a good asset for a ship going where no human ship had gone before. A logical choice, then. Good. Given the Denobulan penchant for gregariousness and the human tendency to base decisions on "gut feeling," she had thought it possible that the captain simply "liked" the man. That there was logic in the decision allayed her concerns.
There were only two seats open when T'Pol boarded the shuttle--one by Matthews and another by a woman whose rank and name tags identified her as "Corporal A. Cole." Emotions rolled off Matthews in torrents, and the dark look on his face revealed his mood well enough that even the non-telepaths avoided him. T'Pol chose the seat by the Corporal.
"Amanda," she said, offering a hand.
T'Pol steadied herself and accepted the hand. As whenever she made skin contact with an unordered mind, emotion assaulted her. Like two flames joining into a flame bigger than both, her emotions and Amanda Cole's coupled and intensified. Since Amanda barely registered on the telepathic scale, the excess emotion flooded into T'Pol. She felt unadulterated lust, not directed at her exactly and not purely sexual either, but a general lust for life, a desire for new experience. And for the moment it felt right. T'Pol desired--demanded all life offered. All the sex. All the violence. To hold a gun in her hands and feel it jerk when she squeezed the trigger. The savage thrill of the kill saturating, but not sating her. To choose a bed partner purely for his beauty and virility, gripping him tightly between her...Then her training took over. She excised the emotion from her mind--an excruciatingly painful procedure--and concentrated it at her hand, willing it to remain there, denying it access to her mind. Three seconds after the handshake began, it ended.
"T'Pol," she said simply.
"Pleasure to meet you," Amanda said.
"Indeed."
"So," Amanda said, "you're the reason we're headed out early."
T'Pol raised an eyebrow.
"The Vulcans, I mean. Not you personally, T'Pel."
"T'Pol."
"Let me ask you, why didn't you guys send out a rescue ship?"
A male voice came from a few rows back. "Knock it off, Cole."
"It could have been any one of us out there, Tudyk. We deserve an explanation from our ambassador."
Tudyk growled "You're just being a bit--"
"Everyone, drop it." The command came from Matthews, the senior officer on board, and was instantly obeyed despite a bit of grumbling. Matthews cast T'Pol a look she assumed was meant to be sympathetic: a half smile and a shrug. She nodded.
A few minutes after takeoff the low buzz of conversation had returned to fill the cabin, and T'Pol believed she could safely hold a conversation without attracting attention. "I am not an ambassador."
"What?"
"You called me an ambassador. I do not possess that title. I am a diplomatic liaison."
"Whoopee for you."
T'Pol almost inquired about that peculiar expression but thought better of it. "I do not have an answer for you," she whispered. This would, if she knew human behavior as well as she thought she did, encourage Amanda to whisper as well. She was right.
"What do you mean?
"Corporal, you asked me why my people did not send a rescue ship. The truth is, I do not know. But I have made several inquiries."
"Fat lot of good that does us," Amanda sneered. "That's the classic political non-answer. We'll get back to you later."
"It is the only answer I have to give. I am sorry."
Amanda's eyes opened wide, and T'Pol wondered if she were taken ill.
"Did you just apologize?" Amanda said, then, "You did. I didn't know you people did that."
T'Pol blinked. She hadn't been aware her people did that either. Apology served no useful purpose in Vulcan society. If both sides of a disagreement knew who was at fault, admitting it was unnecessary. But then T'Pol wasn't interacting with a Vulcan. Humans apologized to one another quite often, even when no offense had been committed. It was, one might argue, a vital component of human interpersonal communication, and as such a useful diplomatic tool. She would remember that fact.
The rest of the eighteen minute flight passed in silence between the two women, though with noticeably less tension. Towards the end, T'Pol's nasal inhibitor lost some of its potency, but she shifted focus to her other senses and endured. Before departing through the docking ring, Amanda smiled and punched T'Pol in the arm. Only her accompanying words saved her a violent reprisal. "See you around, T'Pal."
Enterprise's air cycling systems were a welcome improvement over the shuttle's, and brought swift relief to T'Pol's nasal problems. An unpleasant scent mingled with the ship's recycled air, and she had a tough time not frowning. She directed her senses toward the lieutenant who stood at rigid attention before her. Elevated heart rate, increased--ugh--sweat production, repeated swallowing. For reasons she had been unable to pinpoint sixty-two point five percent of human males she met displayed these symptoms upon first meeting her. Was this perhaps an undocumented allergic reaction to something in Vulcan body chemistry? Should she alert the doctor? No, none of the males thus affected had suffered any noticeable harm. The irritant, if it existed in her, most soon acclimated to. Those that could not, did not allow it to become a distraction.
"Greetings, Subcommander. Lieutenant Malcolm Reed at your service. Chief Tactical Officer and Fourth in command of this vessel. I'm to show you to your quarters." He raised his arm to a position perpendicular to his chest and bent at the elbow. "This way if you please."
T'Pol matched his curious arm position, held the salute for a few moments, and then hefted her bag to her shoulder. "I no longer hold military rank, Lieutenant. You may refer to be by name or as simply Consul. The term is accurate enough. "
Reed's expression fell, and he lowered his arm. "Right, well, this way then,"
Her quarters were two decks down and farther from the docking ring than she would have preferred. With Reed's assistance, she registered her palm print with the door lock. He offered to help her set up the environmental controls since the engineers had yet to install the Vulcan interface. She declined the offer both because she had already familiarized herself with Enterprise's computer system and because Reed's odor grew more pungent the closer he stepped to her quarters.
"It was my understanding that Captain Archer was to meet me at the docking ring," T'Pol said.
"That was the plan. Unfortunately, ship's business demanded his attention. He and Commander Tucker will meet you in the ready room at 13:40. In the meanwhile, the captain suggests you acclimate yourself to your new quarters and perhaps get a bite in the dining hall." Reed smiled and his chest expanded. His odor spiked. "I could show you the way if you'd like."
She ground her teeth. "That will not be necessary, Mr. Reed. I will find my own way."
"Of course," he said. "If that's all..."
T'Pol fled inside and shut the door. This took the edge off the smell, but her stomach would not settle until she felt the hypospray at her neck. Moments later, her sense of smell all but disappeared. The spray had the opposite effect on her appetite, though, and she thought it best to take the captain's advice. The computer terminal at the desk--her desk--gave her the location of the dining hall, and after checking the Vulcan network for messages and once again finding nothing from her father, she made her way there.
Each crewman she passed made her aware of just how alone she would be on this mission. Given another six months she or Ambassador Soval would likely have been able to negotiate passage for a Vulcan assistant. It was fruitless and illogical to dwell on lost opportunities, so she did not.
She ate lightly and quickly, finishing only half of the fried rice on her plate, but drinking two glasses of green tea. The meal, her first exposure to human cuisine in more than a decade, was quite palatable. She decided to thank the chef who had suggested the dish--if apologizing was a useful diplomatic tool, it followed that giving thanks would also be--but discovered he was busy. His assistant, then. Ah, but Trip was nowhere to be found. She would need to conduct her experiment with gratitude later.
Returning to her quarters, T'Pol slipped into a light meditative trance to prepare for her meeting with the captain. A chirp brought to her senses before she had completed all but the initial exercises. It had come from a panel on the wall near her door. She stood to investigate, and the panel chirped again, followed by a voice: "Consul T'Pol, the captain has an opening in his schedule. You may report to his ready room now."
T'Pol depressed the answer button on the comm panel. "Acknowledged. I will be there shortly." She checked the digital readout on the panel. It was a convenient location for a clock, she thought.
Her eyebrow twitched.
13:07. More than half an hour early.
She massaged her temples. No doubt life on this ship would regularly disrupt her meditation. It mattered not. She was of Vulcan stock. She would adapt. That was her purpose for being on this ship in the first place. So far, no Vulcan had managed to handle longer than a three-month posting aboard a human ship. If she could last six months, nine, a full year, then she could prove to the Diplomatic Corps that she could survive anywhere. Adjusting her meditation schedule was a small price to pay for that.
TBC
