Wayne Shelby had allowed his eyes to drift shut, thinking he would steal a few minutes to himself for a power-nap. Fifteen, twenty minutes would be more than enough to relieve some of the fatigue, help him to cope with the frustration a bit better. It had been oh dark twenty when he closed his eyes and even now as he tried to complete the waking process at the gentle prodding of First Lieutenant Gayle the digital chronometer on the wall was registering 0417. He couldn't remember what he had dreamed about, but he knew that he had, it was maddening in its own right, it was like he couldn't adequately command his own brain.
"Sir, we had movement outside the wire at zero three fifty eight, they answered the pass challenge."
"Reichauer's squad?" Shelby asked hopefully still wiping the errant rheum from his eyes.
"No sir, they're waiting for you in the briefing room. Do you need anything sir? Coffee?"
"I'm fine, L T, just didn't mean to sleep that long."
Shelby rose, wincing as the shrapnel wounds pulled, the tender flesh sealed in field expedient matter with a quick pass of a dermal regenerator and some medical adhesive. He yawned, giving his eyes one more quick wipe then straightened his MCUUs and proceeded to the briefing room. He was guessing it was probably Vulcan Commandos, though how they had managed to answer the pass challenge set him to wondering. These Romulan bastards, well some of them at least, looked pretty close to Vulcans. He pulled his side-arm from his thigh holster, checking to ensure a round was chambered and replaced it, he wasn't going to take any chances that whoever they were might be infiltrators.
Entering the room, he was immediately struck by what he saw. Two males, each clad in traditional Vulcan garb of long robes over combat utility trousers, boots, body armor with LBE, and an extensive weapon load-out. One was human, the other Vulcan, each sporting pronounced five o'clock shadow and the demeanor of special operations gun jockeys. The dust evident on their clothes and goggles perched on the flat dark earth ball caps they wore made it immediately evident they had been in the field for days prior to the invasion.
"Oh shit..." Shelby swore, "So I take it you're Mister Cardholder and you're Mister Doe? First name John?"
"Jane, actually." The Vulcan replied with a quickness that marked him as having spent extensive time with humans, he had developed a sense of humor.
"Colonel, sir, I'm mister Gaddson, this is mister Suvak, Special Intelligence Directorate section thirty one."
Shelby would have to question what a Vulcan was doing in section 31 later, for the time being he was relatively certain they hadn't stopped by for the hospitality.
"If you gentlemen need supplies, we've got a more than adequate reserve." The Colonel stated, flatly, not sure how comfortable he was being around the spooks.
"Thank you for the offer, sir, but we're here with intel on the situation." The human replied.
"Six days ago we decided to follow up on a lead High Command seemed to overlook. We were tracking unusual communication signals in the highlands surrounding Shi'kahr." The Vulcan pulled out a folded plastic laminate map, opening and pointing to a series of points marked with a red pen. "At all but one of the sites we inspected we found nothing but signal boosters and pattern buffers. We disabled seven sites and remained in wait to see if anyone would arrive to repair the equipment."
"The equipment did not conform to what we would expect from Vulcan technology and it certainly wasn't MCS issue." Gaddson clarified.
"At the seventh site, a trio of indigenous personnel arrived to repair the equipment at which point we attempted capture." Suvak continued.
Shelby cocked a brow, "Attempted?"
"The indigenous persons produced weapons and attempted force of arms, two were reduced immediately, the third expired shortly there-after." The Vulcan explained with a strange perfection of Surakian detachment compounded by what had to be intensive special forces training. "What we did find, which puts current matters in better perspective is that all three were, indeed, Vulcans. In light of the Romulan invasion this would seem to indicate that this is not merely a matter of infiltration, there are collaborators here on Vulcan."
Shelby frowned, "Any background?"
"One of them was confirmed to be a student at the Vulcan Science Academy." Gaddson once again added.
The Colonel rubbed his chin, this was a lot to consider, collaborators on Vulcan meant that it was suddenly harder to emphatically trust the populace, and if his Marines were able to break out of Camp Kelly to begin operations against the Romulan forces, there would be concerns over pacifying the area. "When did this occur, gentleman?"
"Three days ago, we remained in the field in an attempt to apprehend any other possible individuals who might respond to the damage we had caused." The Vulcan seemed to be giving the brief, making Shelby wonder what the human's purpose was.
"Thank you, gentlemen. Any chance you would be able to follow the Science Academy lead?"
Gaddson spoke up this time, "With all respect, Colonel, shouldn't our first priority be securing the High Command?"
"Already done, we secured twenty two members of the High Command, including all the ministers and Enterprise beamed them out eighteen hours ago."
The human let out a sigh of relief, "How did they bypass the jamming?"
"Para-inserted an engineer with a marsoc section, they created a window in the dampening field." Shelby replied, more than a little amused that for once he had more up-to-date intel than the spooks.
"Any word on the engineer and his team?" The Vulcan cocked a severe brow.
"We've had zero contact with them, I believe it might be safe to assume they were overrun and are likely KIA." Shelby offered with a dour expression, hating to think the brave son of a bitch had died. The bit of his communication with Enterprise they had picked up seemed to indicate he was mated to a Vulcan woman and she was pregnant with his child. It was a shame, for Marines it came with the territory, but he hated to see a Fleet officer or enlisted man get schwacked trying to help the marines do their job.
"I don't suppose you tried to contact them, did you Colonel?" Gaddson spoke in a way that didn't imply recrimination.
"No, I've got about twenty broke-dicks right now, and we've been getting the grease for thirty eight hours straight now, we didn't even bother trying to get them on the net. Besides, they might be so far in the suck that contacting them at this point might just be the good intention that finishes them off."
"Point taken, sir."
"Any chance you hooked up with any local forces units on the way in?" The Colonel inquired, hoping that perhaps there were some commandos with which MAC-V could coordinate.
"To be perfectly frank, colonel, most of them are combat ineffective on a good day." Suvak replied with uncharacteristic candor regarding his countrymen.
Shelby couldn't take it anymore, "Alright, I've got to ask, mister Suvak, what are you doing with section thirty one?"
The Vulcan operator looked over at his human counterpart, arching a brow prompting the human to give a quick nod. The Vulcan turned back to Shelby, hands still resting on the stock of the MCS issue assault rifle. "Five years ago I was tasked by a joint High Command, MCS strategy development team to assist in advanced MAC-V training programs. Since majority of the training and acclimation occurs on Earth I was assigned to a training cadre at twenty nine stumps."
Shelby immediately picked up the slang term for the Twenty Nine Palms Air Ground Combat Training Center, this was getting interesting.
"I found MCS training to be logical and effective, I petitioned to receive access to additional training programs and was presented with the opportunity to attend the Mountain Warfare Training Center. Later I was offered the chance to attend MARSOC training and the Leadership course. I suppose it would be safe to assert that I had a greater appreciation for the discipline, skill, and effectiveness of your armed forces than that of my people. Mister Gaddson approached me on behalf of Special Activities Division four months after I completed the Leadership program and I found the concept of working with MCS Special Intelligence, agreeable."
Shelby let his mouth hang just a little, not sure what would be appropriate to say before finally deciding that every modicum of protocol had been turned thoroughly sideways, "You're crazy."
The Vulcan allowed the thinnest hint of amusement onto his face, "As I am told almost daily, Colonel."
Trip had taken first watch while he had worked on T'Les' stasis unit. It was, indeed, on the fritz once again, and he decided he would track down the problem once and for all. He had to admit that her calm about the situation on Vulcan was admirable, in the same situation he would have likely been a basket case. He knew she was a syrranite and that having armed Marines in her house had likely been uncomfortable for her given their pacifistic nature. Of course, logic would dictate that when attacked by a hostile force it made sense to defend one's life and beliefs. In this case, MCS was taking up arms in proxy thus allowing her to maintain her personal aversion to violence.
He completed the task two hours before his watch ended. A bad chip in the unit's control board was causing an unrestricted power flow that kept shorting out the unit. The fix had been appreciably simple and there was little chance it would happen again. He spent the remainder of his watch checking his equipment and cleaning his weapons, the due diligence of a combat zone. Quietly, mostly to himself he began softly hum, trying not to think about how hopeless he secretly felt. At the moment he was relatively certain he would sell his soul to any applicable entity if he could just be back in that big soft bed in Florida with T'Pol curled up against him, sleeping softly. Maybe it was exhaustion, but right now the entire world was numb to him. He couldn't smell anything, couldn't taste anything, even sound seemed strangely off to him. Maybe he could close his eyes and wake up to find that it was all a dream, they were still asleep, her heat radiating into him making him think he was in the hot desert of Vulcan. To wake up again looking into that face, feeling her mind gently brushing his, the small narrow hand resting on his chest, her leg thrown over his, cheek nestled against pectoral, hair gently tickling shoulder. To have that again...that kind of bliss, that kind of unadulterated happiness, that kind of perfect and unsullied joy.
I'll kill every Romulan on this planet if I have to.
He didn't have any illusions on what he was, a practical application academic who could double as machine-operator when you put weapon in hand. He wasn't a warrior like these Marines who had spent all of their adult lives to this point honing their craft, turning them into precise and effective instruments of warfare. This was the path MCS had wanted for him, he was damn good at it. He had received the Bronze Star for actions on Horst, the first award star was on Taugus, and again with Valor device on Qualor. His actions at Khitomer had earned him a Silver Star as well. They were pinning the award devices and ribbons on faster than he could update his uniform at one point there, and it never really seemed certain whether they were trying to turn him into some sort of Starfleet tactical war-god or grooming him for placement with the Degüello or what, but he eschewed it all, just so he could work on engines on the Enterprise.
He never would have met T'Pol if he had followed the path MCS tried to make for him. He never would have known what he would have missed out on. They could keep all the awards, the extra pip, the increase in pay grade, they could have all of that as long as he could keep his beautiful little Vulcan who was going to have his, his, baby.
The stark realization that he was becoming obsessed struck him like a freight train...loaded with trucks...that were full of bricks. When did she become the most important thing in his life? When had he placed his friends and colleagues of so many years on a back burner, when had the ship stopped being his "best girl"? The better question was whether his current melancholy was brought about by exhaustion, stress, or his persistent hypoglycemia. With the exception of stress, there were easy solutions for these problems. As to the question about T'Pol, maybe it was just that love was like that, a kind of endless hunger that could never been satisfied, an itch you just couldn't scratch. Persistent, immutable, and un-ending; of course that would also mean that he was never really in love before which was more than a little sobering.
He opened a food replacement bar after finally realizing he was developing a case of the shakes. Mild light headedness and a subtle burning feeling through his torso that radiated down into shaking, clumsy fingers...the tell tale signs of hypoglycemic shock. He took a bite and rolled his eyes in displeasure, the chalky texture gave way to a tacky chewiness as he felt the densely packed nutrient and calorie paste rubbing against his teeth like he was gargling dry mortar. The taste was only a slight improvement over the texture, somewhere between salty and sweet with nothing that began to approximate a natural flavor except for the sulfur taste of egg yolk. The thing really needed a disclaimer that stated that the "flavor" indicated on the packaging was meant solely as an approximation or point of reference whereby an individual could imagine what they were eating. For his money, he had never tasted "cookie dough" that tasted anything like this and wondered if, perhaps, the original point of comparison had been made from the taste of dog biscuits.
Over the years he had developed a technique to deal with the taste, he would force the food away from the tongue, chewing with the back molars and then swallowing quickly so the slurry could never become sapid. Of course this made eating a chore, he enjoyed flavors and when combined properly there was no specific taste he did not enjoy, however there was nothing about these bars that was combined properly except from a nutritional stand point. The sugar alcohols did their job, giving the elevated insulin levels something to play with but they had left him feeling just ever so slightly queasy.
Setting the subjectively fetid supplement down he lifted his rifle, pushing a freshly filled magazine into the now clean well and slapping the slide release, chambering the first of twenty of the heavier-than-standard special application rounds. Special application was, of course, a euphemism for "kill it faster", at 8.6mm they had roughly twice the muzzle energy and a catastrophically larger wound track than the standard 6.8mm projectiles standard for Marine combat rifles. He turned his head at the sound of rustling from the hall and saw T'Les looking into the kitchen/sitting room area, apparently disturbed by the metallic snap of the bolt carrier chambering the first round. The Marines hadn't budged an inch, the sound wasn't unusual to them and their sleeping brains processed the noise accordingly. A twig snapping could bring them all to full wakeful alertness, but the comparatively loud sound of a bolt in the upper receiver of an assault rifle didn't bother them a bit.
Sorry. He mouthed to T'Les sheepishly, who crossed to where he sat, a robe wrapped around her pajamas, eyes darting to the partially finished food replacement bar still sitting in the split open foil-cellophane wrapper.
"If you were hungry, Charles, I would have prepared you something. " She said quietly as not to disturb the seven Marines sleeping in a neatly ordered row on the floor.
"It's fine, T'Les, I have hypoglycemia so I just needed a little something to equal out my blood sugar level. I didn't mean to wake you."
"I was not asleep." she offered as a platitude.
"Well, my watch isn't over for another forty five minutes if you wanna talk." He sat down the rifle, deciding that working on the martial implement in front of his pacifist mother-in-law might be discourteous.
"That would be agreeable."
T'Pol retired to her quarters thoroughly exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally. The Ministers had requested the presence of her, Captain Archer, and Commander Hernandez after she had completed her shift. She had not been fortunate to find the time to center herself before facing this latest round of inquisitors and she found herself coming before them already irritated and overly emotional. Instinctively, as she had for months now, she tried to fall back into the calm he provided her through the bond to find nothing there. The sorrow of it had caused her to break during the questioning, becoming instinctively territorial and defensive in regards to her mate. It had been unseemly, prompting two of the seven ministers to insist that human emotionality was to blame, effecting her through the mate bond.
Another had questioned if it was possible for the mate bond to even form between a human and a Vulcan, which prompted T'Pol to insist it was. Then had come the question she dreaded, could she sense her mate now? She had evaded the question skillfully, her mind immediately snapping at the question like a steel trap. The fact they had not been accorded the month of acclimation that was common for Vulcans, the intervening distance had made it impossible for her to sense her mate. It wasn't a complete lie, but neither was it the total truth; how could she describe and make them understand the horrors that lay in the human mind? That instinctive darkness that shredded through her logic and left her fully exposed to the terrifying beauty of that strangely primal intelligence. She had suddenly found herself wondering why the episode had been triggered? She had felt just as much anger from him before, during one of the boarding actions by the Reptilian Xindi, but the dark symblance of Trip, her Trip had never been there. She was on the brink of asking to be excused so that she could surreptitiously slip back to her quarters and test a theory when Minister T'Pau finally spoke up. She had feared this, T'Pau was one of the foremost of the Syrranite movement, and she would doubtlessly be harsh in judgment by dint of MCS's status as a military organization.
Just about everyone assembled had been shocked at T'Pau's logical argument in favor of the coupling, citing Commander Tucker as one of the "rough men ready to commit violence on our behalf." Her constructive, spoken quietly without rhetorical flourish except for the poetics regarding MCS as "rough men", brooked no rebuttal or cross examination from the assembled ministers. Kuvak spoke up noting that Vulcan law never specified that a husband and wife had to be of the same species and that a mate was required only to fulfill the responsibilities dictated by tradition. Minister Solon then noted that, regrettably, Tucker, as a human, would never be able to fulfill the requirements of the Pon Farr, which forced T'Pol into the uncomfortable admission of what had occurred the previous week leading up to her pseudo-Plak Tow and the revelation that she was pregnant by the Commander. The ministers looked to one another with what she could see was agreeability with the new dynamic this presented. Excusing themselves for a moment they stood and converged in a small knot, talking amongst themselves for what seemed a painfully long three minutes before returning to their seats and announcing that under Vulcan Law and custom the marriage was legitimate.
Archer breathed a sigh of relief and Hernandez grinned unabashedly. She had immediately began her retreat to her quarters when she remembered that they were currently being occupied by minister T'Pau. In concession to her perceived status with Trip, the Captain had reassigned T'Pol to Commander Tucker's quarters and she quickly made her way to the section in which they lay. She all but snuck past a few crewmen passing through the corridor before she slipped into the room and prepared herself to meditate. She couldn't peel off her boots fast enough and upon sitting on his immaculately made bunk she allowed her thoughts to slip inward. She focused on a sensation deep in her unconscious mind, an area that seemed to be located, physically, in her womb. There was a haze, thick and disorienting, seemingly lit by tinges of fluorescence. There was a consciousness at play here, not self-aware but aware none-the-less; the sub-instinctual mind of a separate yet integral organism. It was not wholly different from a parasite or symbiot, a being that required her to live and to it the world was the warm protection of her uterus.
Through the fog of a diffuse and unfocused existence she saw a bright point of light and moved towards it, breaking into a clearing of the fog and freezing in mental horror. The small light, shining with defiant luminosity sat still, nestled in the roiling oily darkness of her mate's sub-conscious. The Trip-shaped thing sat still, the smoky wisps that formed its shape danced slow and lazily as it remained passively warding the refulgent ball of cells.
Trip!
The thing turned its head, the slow roll of the oily smoke suddenly became quick and agitated and it loosed its almost mechanical sounding blaring roar. She fought through the fear and wonder, forcing her mental projection of herself forward, towards the thing that cradled her offspring-to-be. It moved not further but released the blast of sound again, louder and more threatening.
It is our child.
The thing wavered, the wisps of smoke once again slowing. She approached closer which invited a louder more angry bray, this time it seemed to move as if to attack, but refused to abandon its charge.
It is MY child! She bellowed back.
It lowered its head, mollified by her outburst and made no additional attempt to move the coils of oily smoke twitching and dancing in arrhythmic discontent. She forced her telepathic avatar to sit across from the thing, reaching her hands in slowly to assist the thing in cradling their only vaguely conscious proto-being offspring. Upon making contact the world exploded into blackness, everything ceasing to exist but a vaguely grey outline of a being, hunched with hanging head, arms braced across knees, clutching an instrument of war, one leg extended, the other drawn up at the knee.
Trip?
T'Pol!
It was a shout across vast emptiness. The sound echoing as from across a windless chasm accompanied by tinkling sonance as if a sea of glass was set gently a-sway with each breath. She forced herself forward, trying to run to him, wanting to touch him, to hold him, to feel him close to her. She felt herself moving but the distance did not change, no matter how she tried to reach her mate some force holding her at bay.
Trip! I cannot reach you!
Baby, baby...I can hear you, I can feel you.
It must be the distance, I understand what happened now.
The shape still didn't move and she suddenly realized it was a representation of his sleeping form as it existed in the world beyond the telepathic bond, she could feel the subtle exhaustion radiating from the form.
T'Pol...
Trip, please listen; your sub-conscious it is what has been interfering with the bond. I assimilated it after the contact with it, and since that point it is instinctively trying to protect the child.
She heard a chuckle, Okay T'Pol, I'm startin' to think this is all in your head and I'm just a projection in your psyche. How can you be sure I'm me?
She pondered this for a moment, arriving at a suitable test. How do you know I am not just a projection in YOUR mind? You are sleeping, after all.
Because if this was my dream you'd be bare-naked on a beach towel with nothin' but a bottle of Puerto Rican rum on a Blue-June night.
T'Pol couldn't tell if her flush was physical or just some mental apparatus that associate the sensation with moments of the delicious heat caused by the combined sexual excitement and embarrassment that only he could effectively elicit from her.
Perhaps we should put that on the itinerary for our next shared liberty.
She heard the chuckle again, Okay, I'm convinced, you're T'Pol alright.
And I have a similar amount of certitude that you are, indeed, Trip.
The bond isn't back though. The certainty in his voice stunned her. How did he know? How could he understand? She suddenly understood how intensely strong their bond had been, despite the crude nature of it, not tempered by the proper isolation and meditation of a traditional mate pair. She had never attempted a mind meld with him, which would have certainly strengthened it further or, at the very least, allowed for a heightened level of connection.
It would seem that is the case. The connection is bridged by the child, as it develops further it will likely allow the proxy bond to grow stronger until we are eventually able to re-establish the bond on our own.
He was silent a moment, as if taking it all in. So I guess no frisky business in front of the baby, huh?
She smiled, I doubt he or she would remember. Does not human models of reincarnation believe the final act one witnesses before the soul transitions is one's own conception?
Somethin' like that, but it just so happens I'm not a Hindu, darlin'.
She felt the bond fluctuate, her surroundings, his quarters seeming to flash before he still open eyes for a moment.
Trip!
It's alright baby, I'm bein' woken up, somethin' is goin' on here.
Trip!
It's okay darlin', I love you. And your mom is just fine, I'll explain late-
She found herself back in the conscious world, trembling softly, lines from errant tears creating a pair of smooth moist lines on her cheeks. She felt a multitude of emotions, each in measured amounts; joy, sorrow, longing, worry, calm. Together they blended into a wondrous and delightful mixture of perfectly balanced emotionality. Logic was not necessary to suppress the feelings because they balanced one another, still the soft serenity of the smile on her face and tear stained cheeks would not sit well with the High Command whom were doubtlessly going to inundate her with questions of both a professional and deeply personal nature over the next few days, and, of course, she mustn't alarm the crew. Rising from his bunk she found herself very, almost uncomfortably, hungry and craving something she couldn't quite pinpoint...wait...craving? Vulcans did not crave, yet she felt a pronounced need to consume something, something alien, the likes of which she had never consumed before. Quickly and impatiently slipping on her boots she exited the quarters, inured to the stares of passing crew as she made for the sickbay, Phlox would undoubtedly have answers for this.
Indeed he had, she stood in muted shock at his assertion; the idea was simply barbarous. His suggestion had been a consistent bone of contention between their peoples for decades now, neither side willing to budge on the persepctive.
"Out of the question." T'Pol made it abundantly clear that his diagnosis was summarily rejected.
"Humans are obligate omnivores, sub-commander. While 'cravings' in this stage of a pregnancy are highly unusual it is entirely possible that, given the mixed species heritage of the offspring, your body is beginning to compensate in the early stages." Phlox was antithetically adamant in his assessment and the rightness of his hypothesis.
"It is illogical to assume the consumption of flesh is necessary for the health of the embryo, all of the nutritional properties can be acquired through other sources." She replied with a hint of condescension.
"But most certainly not in a suitably natural form designed for ease of digestion, absorption, and synthesis into the system." Phlox countered archly, all but reminding T'Pol that she was treading into his waters.
"Vulcans do not consume flesh, doctor." She replied, flustered by the fact that he was correct.
"Choose, not to consume flesh, there is no morphological or biochemical mandate that prevents you from doing so."
"If I were to be seen by the High Command it would be, problematic." She deprecated.
"T'Pol...you are entering into a strange new world. You are the first recorded instance of a Vulcan carrying a half human child, perhaps the first Vulcan to carry anything BUT a pure blooded Vulcan. There are concessions that will have to be made in the interest of the part of the offspring that is human. If the High Command cannot accept a premise like that, then they are not worthy of your concern." Phlox applied the gentleness of his genuine care to his voice, speaking in a way that hypnotized those made privy to it. It allowed for no argument, no counter, because it was the voice of unconditional caring that only a being as big-hearted and loving as Phlox could be.
She had to remind herself that the bundle of cells that was ordering and dividing inside her was not just hers, it was Trip's too. He had not just provided the catalyst for its creation, he had provided half of everything it would ever be, this included a mixture of human needs. The child would require more affection, more understanding, perhaps even more discipline, it also required some of the elements that would help it grow and that included things distasteful to her. Part of her wondered if the child would be born with a taste for meat and how it would be handled in Vulcan culture...would the child even be raised in Vulcan culture? If their offspring manifested a majority of human traits then it was entirely possible that it would never be fully capable of assimilating its mother's culture, similarly it might never be able to fit into the human world either. What fate would lie in store for the product of synthesis?
"What do you suggest, doctor?"
"Baby steps, so to speak, sub-commander!" The Doctor smiled, "You should start with a very small amount of a red meat, sirloin beef for example, no more than fifty grams or so."
"Would not ichthyoid be preferable?"
"Not as easily digested. I can prepare a menu course for the mess to produce in a manner that can be covertly slipped into your usual fare." Phlox picked up a PADD and began typing away. "There, this should suffice for starters. The ship's Chef should be able to produce this fairly simply." He commented as he sent the medical dietary directive.
"Thank you, doctor." She replied with more than a little chagrin born of her own behavior which now seemed horribly unsightly.
"T'Pol, I understand how new and even a little frightening this must be for you. I remember when my first wife was pregnant with our first child. I fussed over every detail, worried about everything I did, and I wasn't even the one that was pregnant." Phlox reminisced blithely. "It is completely normal to feel apprehension, even as a Vulcan."
"I will attempt to follow your advice with less necessity for...cajoling, doctor. I simply request that you not consider excessively histrionic movies and swearing part of my pre-natal duties." She replied with arched brows.
Phlox chuckled softly, "I'm sure Commander Tucker will manage enough of that for the both of you."
"Commander"
It's alright baby, I'm bein' woken up, somethin' is goin' on here.
"Commander, wake up sir."
Trip!
It's okay darlin', I love you. And your mom is just fine, I'll explain late-
"-er..."
"Sir," It was corporal Rolston, voice barely above a whisper, "we have unknowns at the front door."
Trip bolted upright as the modified MAOA kicked into high-gear. "How many."
"Seems to be four, sir."
"Follow me." Trip crossed out of the room whose corner he had co-opted to sleep in. It was T'Pol's old room, before him the bed on which they had consummated their marriage in the Vulcan tradition. Passing through the door he took and abrupt right and came to a small foyer that lead to a door exiting the back of the house into the rear courtyard. Opening the door slowly he slipped outside, snapping the safety off his rifle. Cool desert air whipped around him, pulled him even further into wakefulness as he made it to the two and a half meter high wall. Jumping up he caught hold of the wall and hoisted himself up and over, he landed in a crouch and brought the weapon up to his shoulder. Rolston landed behind him a moment later as he began down the side of the wall, slip stepping back and away from the wall to corner effectively. Rolston followed the MOUT drill cornering behind Tucker, sweeping the flank with his weapon. The Commander was moving quickly, more so than was judicious, the corporal was trying to reckon as to why he was moving with such speed until his nose detected the sour smell of aggression. Rolston felt the adrenaline, serotonin, and 5-DHEA hit his bloodstream as his own modified MAOA gene activated. He was barely aware of his actions, the movement, the scanning of the terrain, the act of closing with the possible-enemy foot mobiles.
"T'Les T'Kehr, shar-tor fam du-kelek." One of the four foot-mobiles said to a wide-eyed Mrs. T'Les at the door.
"Nekhau." The Commander growled to Rolston's right.
Within a flash Tanner had bodily lifted the Vulcan woman aside carrying here clear of the fire-lane as Cummings, Weller, and Manansala brought suppressor augmented side-arms to bear on the intruders at the door.
"Nekhua!" Tucker growled again.
Rolston saw the Vulcan directly in front of the Commander turn and lunge, strangely the Marine found himself amused at the concept. The lirpa was only able to raise part way before it was caught between the magazine well and picatinny mounted forward angle grip along the barrel shroud. The commander side-stepped and brought the heal of his right hand sharply across the Vulcan's throat followed by a hammer-fist blow to the solar plexus. The remaining three started as their comrade fell to his knees, choking and coughing grasping at his throat facing flushing a dusty green color as he tried to regain breathing control. The threatening barrels of the human weapons stopped them in place as they logically concluded that if their deaths had been intended, none of them would still be breathing.
"Charles, they're not a threat." T'Les protested.
"T'Les, why would armed commandos come to your house and tell you it wasn't safe?"
The stopped in mid-step; he was right, it didn't make any sense, they had also addressed her by title. Her home was probably the one place she was safe, the Romulans didn't seem to be too interested in the outlying residents, in fact the only patrol that had entered the area had been pursuing Charles and his Marine section. She watched as her daughter's mate bodily lifted the stricken commando.
"Teraya-eingelsu ken-tor?" He asked with almost Vulcan flatness.
"We understand your language." One of the Vulcans stated flatly.
"Alright, inside, all of you. Sorry, T'Les, I just keep bringing folks in uninvited." Trip forced a meek smile despite the fact that the MAOA was still in command, assuming that doing so would help reassure his mother-in-law as it was a typical human gesture.
"I am eager to hear the reasoning behind them being here as well, Charles."
Rolston did a final sweep before backing into the courtyard and closing the gate. Weller and Tanner had divested the Vulcans of their Lirpas and pistols and they sat down on the floor of the main room. Salouis ran his medical scanner over them, comparing their signatures, before nodding calmly.
"They're Vulcan."
"What else would we be?" One of the commandos asked blandly.
Trip furrowed his brow, "You haven't seen any Romulans yet have you..." It was a statement more than a question.
"No, we have not."
"So you have no idea what a Romulan looks like?" The Commander cut eyes over to Salouis.
The Hospital Corpsman Second Class shrugged.
"Salouis, show 'em." The medic complied, showing them images of the Vulcanoid Romulans they had killed in action a few hours before, the shock was evident in spite of the Vulcan discipline.
"Now, my question is..." Trip paced the room slowly, rifle still in hand, "What the hell brought you out this far for T'Les?"
"We received news that MCS had engaged Romulan forces in this area near the professor's domicile." The commando Trip had taken down said, still rubbing his throat.
"Who did you hear that from?"
"The chancellor of the Science Academy informed us of the news and tasked us with retrieving Professor, T'Les." The same Vulcan replied, clearly the leader.
"V'Las ordered you to come see to my evacuation from the area?" T'Les inquired for clarification.
"That is correct. He received notification from military assistance command, Vulcan that a unit of marines had eradicated a Romulan patrol in the area."
T'Les seemed to visibly relax, "We have nothing to be suspicious of, Charles."
"Just one problem T'Les...we haven't been in contact with macvee since we hit the planet, the only beings who knew about those Romulans are either in this room, chewin' on them now, or part of the Romulan occupation command that's wonderin' where the hell their squad got off to." At this all of the Vulcans in the room lost their composure.