A/N: Sorry for the delay, everyone! I finished with finals today-I'm done with my sophomore year and summer has officially begun! That being said, I'm going to catch up on all the writing that I should have done over the past two weeks. For you, that means more RDWO and Dead Stop, both updated every few days until mid-June, when my marching band and I are off to open and close Disney World for a solid week. Let's see if we can get this sucker done before then. For once, I actually followed through on my promises on the content of the next chapter. Let me know if everything here makes sense, especially the bit with Section 31. Mal is being a bit overdramatic, as usual. (You gotta love him.) I apologize for my horrible excuse for RTP angst at the end. But it really is important for the story line, so keep it in mind.
And now, for my obligatory request for feedback. Are everyone's motives clear? Does anything need to be clarified? Is everything feasible? Please let me know. Keep in mind, it's going pretty AU from here.
Also, I believe that I may have borrowed Hoshi's line about the interpretation of the meaning behind Trip's sudden "Look" at T'Pol from a fic that I read once long ago, but for the life of me I cannot recall the name or the author. If you recognize it, drop me a line to tell me so that I might give credit where credit is due.
Next time: The first half of Hatchery.
Right Direction, Wrong Occasion
Chapter Nine
Ensign Hoshi Sato had determined that awakening after a four-day torpor was certainly an interesting sensation. She had been adrift in dream land, alternating between pleasant memories of visiting Mount Fuji with her mother as a young girl and walking along the beach on Risa as if it were the year prior, listening to the soothing sounds of people babbling in their native languages around her. Suddenly, the vivid colors that saturated her surroundings seemed to start to shimmer and then evaporate. She was sliding slowly into consciousness, and the first thing she saw was the broad grin of Doctor Phlox, who held an empty hypospray in his hands.
"Ah, good morning, Hoshi! Although, I should instead good afternoon, it's only 1500 hours, you know," he chirped, stepping aside as the young woman slid her legs off of the side of her bunk, groaning mutedly in the process.
"You should feel a bit of discomfort in your joints and extremities for a few hours due to the length of time that you were inactive. If the pain continues, don't hesitate to come and see me."
"Thank you, Doctor," her voice sounded foreign, a low growl in her throat. Using his extended forearm as leverage, she hoisted herself up to a standing position. "So, what was it like having the ship all to yourself?" she queried, holding her left arm over her head and using her opposite hand to stretch it behind her head.
Phlox's expression inexplicably changed, a sudden burst of distress leaping across his features, before it was gone once again. "Oh, the experience was unique to say in the least. As they say, man is not meant to be alone."
Hoshi felt a spark of compassion for this outgoing medic; being so boisterous and fun-loving, it must have been hard for him to act as his own company over the past few days. Tilting her head to the side, she questioned, "Would you like to meet me for dinner, Doctor? Just give me an hour or so to shower and get changed."
The smile was back, this time seeming to make his person fairly vibrate with delight. He nodded succinctly. "Yes, of course, Hoshi. I need some time to finish my rounds. There are some crewmen that I have yet to awaken."
"Does 1630 hours sound good to you, then?" She reached behind herself to grab her ankle and pull it up to her buttocks, tottering uneasily on one leg.
"In fact it does, Ensign. I shall meet you then," with the dismissive wave of his hand, a gesture that he had picked up from his human colleagues, the Denobulan physician took his leave.
With a huff and a groan, Hoshi fell backwards onto her bunk in a motion reminiscent of the night previous. Waving her arms and legs in fanlike motions about her torso, she arched her back and relished the glorious release of rigidity. Closing her eyes once more and reasoning with herself that she had a while yet before she needed to prepare for her meal, she allowed her mind to drift.
It was unusual for Phlox to display even the slightest indication of uncertainty or anxiety—for as long as she could remember, the doctor had been the physical manifestation of optimism and sanguinity, bringing a needed morale boost to the seemingly perpetually somber crew of the Enterprise. Perhaps it was the circumstances, or the constant reminders of the dire urgency of their mission that hung in the air like an unpleasant odor. Hoshi knew that she, herself, was guilty of allowing the current state of affairs to influence her mood—just how many times had she snapped at an acquaintance if they had dared to interrupt her while she was hard at work at translating a particularly challenging Xindi Insectoid text? Too many, she was sure. When the stress and pressure got to her, these impulses were difficult to control.
Thank god that they had made it through the spatial disturbance unscathed—she had been among the crewmen to express doubts about the unconventional method of survival that the senior officers had chosen. What if the anesthesia wore off too quickly? What if the doctor had difficulty reviving them later? There were just too many questions left unanswered, but, nevertheless, when Phlox had come to her quarters the morning after her extremely odd encounter with Commander Tucker, she had submitted willingly to his treatment. After all, what other choice did she have? Not a single one.
Speaking of Commander Tucker, Hoshi wondered if his mood had improved since he…no, she was fairly sure that there were many words to describe the chief's engineer's countenance upon departing her quarters last night, and sullen or dejected were not two of them. The more accurate question would be if his temperament had stayed as jovial as it had been. She hoped dearly that it had.
Hoshi knew that Trip had many female admirers—hell, she too took some sort of voyeuristic pleasure at observing him when he ventured nearby—but to the chief engineer, there was only ever one woman worth fighting for.
Hoshi had been tipped off to the possibility of the Commander harboring some sort of romantic feelings for the Vulcan science officer about a year prior. She had been sitting in on a meeting of the senior officers when the twosome had begun to banter, tossing pointed remarks back and forth as if engaged in a verbal sparring match. As she looked on, Captain Archer had leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, signaling that he had given up on the possibility of intervention. Malcolm had zoned out, his fingers working busily across the screen of his duty PADD. To Hoshi, it seemed that no one had been paying attention when Commander Tucker had suddenly looked up from the table and given the Sub Commander a Look.
Now, this Look wasn't any typical sideways peek or regarding gaze. This fleeting glance could have meant anything from "I'm going to shove you out the nearest airlock" to "Let's make babies."
Hoshi had been campaigning for the latter.
Since that day, the sharp-eyed Asian woman, keenly observant as she often was, had been on the lookout for any distinguishing signs that the Enterprise's second and third command might be engaging in a relationship that might be described as anything other than professional. And she had found it time and time again.
She had gossiped about this promising association just as much as any of her colleagues, relating to them some of the more demure evidence that she had discovered. However, in mild recognition of Commander T'Pol's secretive nature, she had kept most of her findings a secret.
That is, until nearly a week ago when she had come across Commander Tucker, sullen and brooding at an empty table in the mess hall, immaculate save for the handful of ceramic shards that littered the floor before him. Ensign Sato knew that people enduring relationship issues often require the assistance of a trusted confidante, and she had quickly resolved to be that individual. No matter how long it took, the young woman was determined to support Trip in any way that she could—having suffered through numerous breakups herself, she was positive that she had some sort of understanding of how he was feeling.
After all, it was the least she could do for him—after nearly three years of casual friendship, she believed that she was fairly sure what made the self-assured Southerner tick. She had never claimed to be a therapeutic miracle worker, but there was certainly something to be said for possessing the willingness to help a companion.
Besides, both she and Commander Tucker deserved better than the current situation. Of that Hoshi Sato was sure. Never mind her aspirations and motives for the future of her association with Trip—this was now. This was what she was to focus on. Among the endless stressors that their mission in the Expanse had to offer, maintaining a good mental state was of the essence.
If only she could succeed in sustaining hers.
D Deck was deathly quiet in the early hours of the afternoon. Phlox, having begun his sweep of the crewman's quarters, had gotten off of the turbolift and proceeded in an orderly fashion from the unit wedged into the corner on. By happenstance, the first officer to be awakened was none other than Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. Stretching his arms about his head and clenching his fists to rid his body of the tingling sensations that lay like coiled springs within his taut muscles, he had given the doctor a curt nod.
"See, that wasn't entirely terrible, was it, Lieutenant?" Phlox had inquired, slinging his medical kit back over his shoulder.
"Pardon me?" Blinking rapidly to free the sleep from his eyes, Malcolm had not been sure that he had understood the question.
"Oh, you were among the majority that insisted that they did not need to be put to sleep for the duration of the time we were inside the disturbance, were you not? I do hope that some of your fears have been stayed. As you can see, the ship and your person appear to be perfectly intact." Phlox nodded succinctly and turned to leave.
"Wait a moment, Doctor—" Malcolm gasped as he took a step towards him, his weak ankles nearly giving way under the unexpected burden of motion. As the portly Denobulan turned once again to face him, he leaned against the wall plating. Shifting his weight, he inquired, "Did you have any difficulties operating the life support or helm controls?"
The corners of Phlox's mouth turned upwards in a distinct display of amusement. "If I had, I would have to recall to let Commander T'Pol or Ensign Mayweather know. I can assure you that during your period of inactivity there were no occurrences out of the ordinary." His demeanor changed for a brief moment as a fleeting mien of doubt dashed across his features. Inhaling deeply, he continued, "Lieutenant Reed, I know that you are prone to bouts of paranoia, but—"
Malcolm held up a single palm in reproach. No amount of explanation could convey the depth of the inexplicable, all-consuming sense of anxiety that befell him at that moment. He wasn't sure what it might be, but something somewhere must be out of order, out of place, out of protocol—
"It's quite alright," he frowned, realizing at once how perceptive his physician truly was. "What time is it?" Switching the topic of conversation and veering it towards a wanted closure was sure to alleviate this enigmatically brooding mood of his.
"Shortly after 1330 hours, Lieutenant. May I recommend heading to the mess hall and scavenging for what little food may have been left out? Your colleagues will surely be enthusiastic to, ah, do the same."
Malcolm nodded. "In which case, it may be beneficial for you to awaken Chef next." He regarded him with a weak smile, hopeful that his lame attempt at humor was enough to quell the doctor's fears for his mental condition.
Phlox suddenly grinned in the same manner as he often did, his face giving the impression that it would split under the sheer force and duration of his unrestrained satisfaction. Content, he took his leave of absence, ducking under the doorway as he went.
The Brit took a step towards the center of his room and surveyed his surroundings with hands positioned on his hips. Everything was in its proper place, right down to the proper level of lighting and the lingering scent of Vulcan spice. What reason had he to be nervous? Taking great care to swallow the lump that was quickly rising in his throat, he pivoted on his left heel to face the window.
Stars drifted lazily before his eyes, offering as good an indication as any that the Enterprise was still operating on impulse. To the distant left behind him, he could glimpse the edge of the voluminous cloud of ginger and rubicund. As his neck pivoted to rest his cheek against his shoulder, he caught sight of his computer console. A blinking light on the monitor signaled a newly arrived correspondence. Rotating his torso to face this newest development, he realized with sufficient dread that the message could not have been from any of his fellow crewmen. Nor from his mother or father—neither were known for their prompt replies. Placing one foot before the other, he approached the flash as if it were a live mine. As one hand left his side to reach for the button that would illuminate the screen, a sharp, reminding klaxon erupted from the console, causing the armory officer to jump backwards about a meter.
Regaining his composure, he shook his shoulders and pressed the button he had been aiming for. The display indicated that he had two unread messages. One appeared to be only several seconds long, while the other was nearly a full minute. The return address bar was empty save for a few nonsensical symbols that Malcolm could have recognized blindfolded. Checking the time stamps on each of them, the short audio clip appeared to have been transmitted several nights before. The newest one, only moments before.
Inhaling slowly, he compelled himself to face the irrefutable truth: there was only one man who would send a series of communications such as those.
"Time to face the music," he murmured grimly, sliding into his reclining office chair. He pressed the button that would begin to recite the message swiftly and before he could experience any second judgments.
"Lieutenant—" the voice on the other end began to speak, and Malcolm was instantly swept away on a wave of nostalgia and memories. That same voice…approaching him during his first year at the Academy…asking things of him that he never believed that he would be willing to do…breaking down lifetime convictions with a single command…
"I know that some time has passed since our last correspondence, but I'm sure that you are aware that your commitment to this organization is a lifetime obligation." Malcolm nodded as his fingers ventured upwards to his temples. Resting his elbows on the surface of his desk, he exhaled noiselessly.
"I do have an assignment for you, which you must complete both inconspicuously and expediently. It may put you in the line of fire, but as the security officer on Earth's first warp five starship, I'm sure that you are used to that."
Reed grimaced, his forehead slipping into his palm. That was a substantial understatement.
"I understand that you are familiar to some extent with the Romulans. According to Star Fleet records, you encountered one of their mines—"
Malcolm did remember. His frenzied attempts to disengage the weapon had ultimately concluded with his leg becoming pinned to the hull. He and Captain Archer had barely survived the ordeal, and a significant portion of the impulse manifold had been exposed to the cold, unyielding naught of open space until they were able to make repairs. Although his commanding officer had insisted that it had not been his fault, he had naturally blamed the unfortunate series of events on his own unpreparedness and shoddy workmanship. Malcolm Reed was truly nothing if not self-depreciating.
"—and I'm sure that you were mystified as to why when you abandoned the system their ship chose not to pursue." Harris finished his thought, his lips pursed and held in a thin line. That much was true—after a string of angry demands and warning shots fired, the Romulans had not so much as attempted to follow them as they departed.
"It turns out that upon approaching your vessel, a thorough evaluative scan was completed of your computer network, including official Captain's and ship's logs. It appears that the Romulans know of your previous negotiations with the Andorians and how quickly the technology of our world had advanced. They are a hostile and distrustful race—quick to contemplate war. That being said, there are only a few ways in which we may postpone this eventual conflict. This is where you come in."
Malcolm swallowed heavily, lifting his head from his hands. The knots resting in his stomach were rapidly becoming more tangled and intense. He was willing to listen, as whatever action he would be asked to take might be beneficial to the entirety of humanity—the Romulans with their cloaking devices and potent weapons and efficient tactical maneuvers—it didn't take a brilliant military strategist to deduce that they would threaten the security of Earth and the quickly-forming coalition of worlds in the vicinity.
"The Romulans are distinctly aware of your Captain's association with the Andorians. They know of his prowess in battle and negotiation. Without him and his connection to one Commander Shran, many of their fears and paranoid assumptions might be stayed." Harris sat back in his chair, his eyebrow raised appraisingly. "It appears that the only feasible method of postponing this inevitable clash of powers falls into your mildly capable hands, Lieutenant. In three weeks' time, Captain Jonathan Archer must be killed and his significant influence disposed of—"
Harris continued speaking, but Malcolm was a world away, lost in his own thoughts. It seemed to him that his entire person had frozen, that he had broken out in a frigid chill and his heart had ceased to beat. Is he really asking me to—
"I trust that you will have dealt with this assignment in as discreet of a method as possible. No one must know of the action we are committing to ensure the welfare of humanity and all other worlds within the universe. Without Archer, a less experienced officer will assume command and Enterprise will resume its effort to disable and destroy the Xindi weapon. More lives will be spared in the long run." Contemplatively crossing his arms over his chest as he debated his next verbal swing, Harris sustained, "I understand that the Reed family has been notoriously devoted and loyal to their superior's requests over the centuries. I sincerely hope that you will not be an exception to the rule."
That was a low blow. Malcolm's ears reddened, and he began to feel as if he was on fire. How dare this man attempt to persuade him to commit murder by playing to his family's history of servitude—!
"Section 31 is not above making threats to ensure that our operatives carry out their assignments, Lieutenant, but under the circumstances I don't believe that I will have to take that precaution with you." The man on the view screen suddenly leaned forward, his creased forehead mere inches from the camera's lens. "I believe that your own innate desire to do good for humanity will outweigh your hesitance."
Oh, this should be good. Malcolm snorted as his indignance grew.
"There is a higher chance of your family's lives being endangered sooner if you do not complete this mission." A small smirk crept onto Harris' features, as Malcolm's expression fell. "Billions of lives will be threatened or even terminated if you do not follow through. I'm sure that you would not enjoy self-inflicting the blame of such a tragedy on yourself. For all intents and purposes, any retaliating activities by the Romulans against the forming coalition will be your fault and your cross to bear. That is, unless you acknowledge the responsibility that you have been dealt. I will be awaiting your response within the next three Earth Standard days, along with a tentative plan of action. And do not be convinced that I have been fooled by these games of non-response, Lieutenant; any respectable operative of Section 31 would have the decency to respond to their communiques." With the pointed jab of a forefinger, the recorded dispatch ended and he fell backwards into his chair, his head coming to rest in view of the ceiling.
On the computer's screen, the second message began to play automatically. Harris was harking back to his mandatory allegiance to the organization in a clipped set of remarks nearing ten seconds. Malcolm, however, was not listening as he waged a war with his own demons within his person.
It had not surprised him to learn that these Romulans were just as violent as he and much of the crew had already surmised. He was certain that they did indeed have the capability of harming the citizens of Earth or Andoria if they desired—after all, what would have been the purpose of building such devastatingly accurate weapons if they did not intend to use them? Harris' thought process had been distinctly plausible in a way that Malcolm could tell that his informants and advisors had thoroughly educated him on the matter. He could understand how eliminating the root of the Romulan's distrust for humanity might aid in the postponement of an inter-galactic war. In his mind's eye, he saw his parents and his sister Madeline, proud and lifted up by their knowledge of their son's success in the Expanse—and, best of all, blissfully unaware of how their lives might have been affected by his errors. Harris, impressed by his promptness in his compliance, would let him alone, allowing him to recount for his emotional losses and hits to his mental stability. It was the most suitable option. It was what he must do.
But this is my Captain! His mind screamed suddenly. Moaning, he pressed his palms to either cheek and trailed them down his jowls. My friend, my commanding officer, the man to which I have entrusted my life! Whatever happened to moral necessity, to doing what was ethically proper? When did I become the kind of man who would contemplate homicide in cold blood? At what time? How? Why?
If I am caught, my career will be over. I'll be sentenced to prison time for sure! He pitched forward as he imagined T'Pol viewing him from the witness stand of a Starfleet standard court room, tears rolling down her tanned cheeks as she recounted the gain and loss of the man she loved to the allure of corruption. She's not one to cry, he mentally chastised himself, feeling his heart pounding dully within his chest. But she is one to have nightmares and delusions of obligation…it's only a small step up until…
He gasped suddenly, head bobbing to an upward position. With shaky hands, he slid his personal information PADD from the cubbyhole above his desk. After a few short moments of perusal, he found what he had been looking for. Leaning towards his console, he began to compose his conduction to Harris.
A few days later, Commander T'Pol perched erect in her desk chair, rolling a vial filled with darkly colored liquid between her fingers. Ever since she had awakened from her medically-induced coma, she had been experiencing her cravings for Trellium-D in increasingly frequent and more demanding intervals. By all accounts, this recent development should not have been occurring—although she and Malcolm had spent the previous night together, she still felt the curious mixture of paranoia and nervous energy gripping her very essence with no indication that it would lessen any time soon.
It had become a nightly ritual. Returning to her room after a duty shift full of inconsequential preparations and tweaks to her database of Xindi star charts, he would be waiting for her. Regarding her with a sympathetic gaze, he would envelope her in a crushing embrace that would have injured any human woman. Finding solace in his affection for her, she would lean into him, placing her head upon his chest and allowing her worries and doubts to go by the wayside, if only for a moment. This manner in which he greeted her, so distinctly full of both compassion and concern, was her undoing.
He knows, he knows. This faint rumination echoed about in her skull until she believed that she would collapse inwardly from the overwhelming feelings of suspicion washing over her in waves, bathing her psyche in an unusually mistrustful mien. However, Malcolm continued to say nothing about the matter, even as they lay in bed together a few short moments later. While his strong arms were wrapped around her trim waist, she had placed either palm across his muscular torso. Foreheads pressed together, they stared into each other's eyes, each dearly desiring to find out whether their partner knew of their respective covert endeavors. However, per the norm, the inexorable, albeit comfortable silence spoke for neither of them.
Relishing in the warmth and security that accompanied this propinquity, she buried her head into the crook of his neck and soon fell into a deep, restless sleep. Sometime during the night T'Pol had become aware that she was alone in her bunk; lifting her head a few inches from a firm pillow, she allowed her swollen eyes to travel about the room. Several paces away, her t'hy'la leaned motionless against the porthole, an unseeing scrutiny fixated on a stellar object in the distance. His facial expression could only be described as pained in the pale glow of a dimming meditation candle, and he seemed to be rooted in deep contemplation.
Lowering her head once more, T'Pol could not help but conjecture as to what would distress Malcolm so. Languishing in her typical post-injection unease, she could not stop herself from inferring that she was the origin of the problem.
Having a Vulcan mate was not planned for…the emotional turmoil…he finds me a burden, an encumbrance, an unfortunate liability. He would be more content with a human woman, or one that he would not have to compete with another man for her affections…
These susurrations of doubt had persisted for a great deal of the night and following morning. Now, reflecting in the short moments before she would have to attend to her duty shift, she deliberated if it would be ill-advised to partake in her ill vice so soon to her previous dose. Only eighteen hours…the shortest interval between administrations yet! She knew that she had to remain attentive for the duration of her shift today, as the ensign manning her station during gamma shift had indicated that they were now in orbit over the certain desolate, uninhabited Minshara Class planet that she had apparently requested that they avert their route to. T'Pol had been puzzled. Had she given that order? If affirmative, she did not remember such. Could it be that she simply did not recall that particular event? She was still growing accustomed to the effects of Trellium on her system, its main afflictions and unintended side effects. Although inherently unaware of the possibility of the ultimate condition that it might cause her, T'Pol had learned to be cautious with her sampling and subsequent, new-found addiction to the drug. However vigilant she was, she often surrendered herself to her weakness, the indelible cravings causing her to act contrary to her logical frame of mind. Pressing the hypospray to a throbbing vein within her neck, she inhaled deeply and relished the sweet sensations of a dependence suppressed, even if only for the moment.
As her eyes fell on her computer console, she read the date: January 8th, 2154. The present, however dim or vague impression that it might make on her in the moment, was now; if she was going to survive Enterprise's mission into the Expanse with sanity intact, she was going to have to start thinking on her feet.
to be continued
