Convicted

by Transwarp

The Romulan War enters its fourth year. T'Pol is tried in an Andorian court while Trip assumes command of Chosin. Fourth in a series: order of stories 'Commissioning', 'Liaison', 'Command', then 'Convicted' .

10. Chapter 10

Convicted

Author: Transwarp

Rating: PG-13 (some strong language)

Genre: Action/Drama

Disclaimer: Paramount owns Star Trek names, and related intellectual property.

Summary: The Romulan War enters its fourth year. T'Pol faces charges in an Andorian court while Trip assumes command of Chosin. Fourth in a series (order of stories: 'Commissioning', 'Liaison', 'Command', then 'Convicted').

Note: I took the liberty of borrowing 'Kirak' as the name of T'Pol's father from Panyasan's works (T'Pol of Vulcan, World of Ice, and True Love travels on a Gravel Road). All are worth reading and can be found on TriaxianSilk . com or fanfiction . net

TEN

Imperial Sixth District Prison for Women, 8 April 2159

The Andorian shuttle came to rest with a slight bump, rousing T'Pol from her meditation. She opened her eyes, but the shuttle's windowless interior revealed nothing of its current location.

"Are we there..?" It was said in a whisper, but T'Pol heard it clearly. The speaker was a young Andorian female, one of three convicts (including T'Pol) bound for the Sixth District prison. She was speaking to the other prisoner, an older female who was no stranger to Andorian justice, judging by her studied indifference.

The older female laughed. "No sweetie-boots, we're stopping at the candy store first. Didn't they tell you?" Her voice dripped with scorn.

The young Andorian had spent the entire trip huddled within her seat, and she shrank inward even more. She was clearly terrified.

The rear door opened with a hiss and T'Pol blinked at bright daylight streaming in. A uniformed guard stood in the opening, surveying the interior of the shuttle. His gaze settled on T'Pol and his face broke into a grin.

A second guard, this one female, joined the first in the shuttle's doorway. "The Vulcan is here," she observed. A pointless statement, in T'Pol's estimation.

The first guard's grin broadened. "Yes, Vaneth. Yes she is. And I thought today would be another boring day!" He handed his PADD to Vaneth and gestured at the two Andorian prisoners. "Take them to receiving. I'll be down shortly with the Vulcan."

Vaneth turned to the female prisoners and began unbuckling their chair restraints while the first guard—still grinning—seated himself next to T'Pol. He casually draped an arm across her shoulders. "Welcome to District Six Prison for Women," he said.

T'Pol glanced at the offending arm and raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.

"I am Faran, head overseer for this prison. Do you know what that means?"

"I presume it means your name is Faran and you are the head overseer."

Faran's grin faded but did not entirely vanish. "You might want to drop that Vulcan arrogance; it will not serve you well here," he said, then answered his own question. "It means that I report directly to the warden, and the other overseers report to me. Warden Sheleth makes a point of meeting all the new prisoners and orienting them on how the prison is run. Just what you would expect from a good warden, is it not?"

T'Pol did not answer, supposing his question to be rhetorical. Her assumption was confirmed when Faran continued without pause, "What the warden fails to realize is how much control the overseers have, particularly the head overseer. Nothing happens in this prison without my knowledge or approval, and no prisoner—not one—sees the warden or his staff without my knowledge or permission." His grin had returned to its former brilliance, "Now do you see?"

"I believe so. While the warden is the legally constituted officer in charge of this prison, you claim to have usurped his authority for yourself."

This time Faran's grin faded completely and his arm slipped from her shoulders. "Didn't I warn you about that Vulcan arrogance?" he asked. He slapped her.

She saw the blow coming but could do nothing to stop it, as her wrists were restrained to a strap around her waist.

"The warden sits in his formal office and reads his formal reports and calls us to his formal meetings and thinks he's in charge because we all come. The truth is he has no idea what it takes to run a prison. I run this prison. I enforce the rules. I'm the one they call in the early hours of the morning when a prisoner has assaulted an overseer or another inmate." Faran slapped her again. "The sooner you learn that lesson, the easier it will go for you."

He gave her a hard stare then slapped her one more time for emphasis. Her head rocked from the force of his blows, but after each slap her eyes returned to his in a calm gaze.

He raised his hand again, but lowered it when she didn't flinch. He smiled. "I commend you on your emotional control. I understand how important that is to a Vulcan and how hard you work to maintain it. You must be very proud."

T'Pol refrained from pointing out that pride was an emotion, which negated his prior statement.

"You're not the first of your kind we've held here," Faran continued. "I know the effort required to maintain that control. Tell me Vulcan, how much emotional control will you have after going ten or twelve days straight without meditation?"

Evidently, this was not a rhetorical question, for Faran gave her another stinging slap across her face. "I asked you a question. Answer me."

"My control will be sufficient," she replied.

"We both know that isn't true." He reached out and caressed the side of her face, laughing softly when her head turned away from his touch. "You're rather pretty, for a Vulcan. I look forward to seeing what you're willing to do in exchange for some meditation. I think you will be surprised."

"And I think you will be disappointed."

"You're certainly more self-assured than our last Vulcan guest," Faran observed. "She put on a brave face but I could tell she was scared spitless. Not like you. You seem to truly believe what you say. Even so, it's only a matter of time before that precious Vulcan control of yours shatters. Time is the one thing we have no shortage of here." He stroked her shoulder as he spoke. "And now it's time to go." He released the hip and chest straps that held her in place and pulled her to her feet by one arm.

He pointed toward the exit and let T'Pol precede him from the shuttle. They crossed a short expanse of pavement to a squat, windowless building. The temperature was cold, but not freezing—Trip might have called it brisk—and a range of snow capped peaks to the north told her she was not far from the Andorian equator. Andor, the ringed gas giant that the Andorian home world orbited, dominated the eastern sky. It was a spectacular view and under better circumstances she would have taken a moment to absorb it all.

Faran touched a plate and the door to the building swung open. T'Pol moved to enter, but he stopped her with a slight tug. Taking her by the shoulders, he turned her and indicated their surroundings with a sweep of his hand. "Take a good look, Vulcan. This is the last time you will ever see the sky."

She waited in silence while he gloated. "What, nothing to say?" Turning her again, he prodded her through the door.

It closed behind them with a resounding clang.

#####

Chosin, Rho Virginis, 8 April 2159

Trip stared at the Starfleet emblem displayed on the console at his desk, and worked at calming his nerves while he waited. A small timer in the lower right corner of the screen showed he'd already been waiting twelve minutes, but he was not surprised. A mere ship's captain didn't make subspace calls to Joint Coalition Headquarters and expect immediate access to Fleet Admiral Gardner. In fact, most captains would probably rate a curt 'send us a memo', followed by a quick disconnect. That his call had not been summarily terminated was proof of his clout, which honesty required he admit was mostly due to his marriage to T'Pol. Still, a little soothing hold music would be nice...

The screen flashed, and the Starfleet emblem was replaced by the image of Admiral Gardner. "Captain Tucker, sorry to keep you waiting."

"Not a problem, Admiral, I know how busy you are," Trip replied, swallowing his nervousness.

"You think you know. Multiply that by ten and it's probably closer to the truth." Gardner chuckled, but there was a tired quality to it. "My handlers tell me I can spare you five minutes. So how can I help you?"

"I suppose you've been briefed on the outcome of T'Pol's trial?"

Gardner scowled, "Yes, Ambassador Kyle called me within minutes of the verdict. As if I knew anything. Just what the hell happened out there, anyway?"

"It's kind of complicated, sir. I intend to tell you, but before I do there's something I need to ask you."

"Go ahead."

Trip looked uncomfortable. "I, ah, I'd like you to review the after action reports from Enterprise at Azati Prime. And I'd like you to run the situation through a simulator and give me your opinion."

Gardner's eyebrows shot up. "Azati Prime? The battle between Enterprise and the Xindi reptilians in the Delphic Expanse? What does that have to do with T'Pol's conviction?"

"It has everything to do with it, but that's all I can tell you right now. Admiral, please just run the simulation. After that, I'll explain everything."

"Captain Tucker, do you have any idea how busy I am? When do you suggest I do this? While I should be sleeping? I'm not getting enough sleep as it is. Just tell me what I need to know."

"Sorry sir. I can't tell you before you've run the simulation."

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Won't."

Something in Trip's tone convinced Gardner of the futility of attempting to extract any more information from him. That, and intrigue at what he might find when he ran the combat simulations tipped the scales in Trip's favor. "Very well," Gardner said, "I'll look into it. And after I have, I will expect a full explanation from you. No more evasions."

"Yes sir. Just to be clear, Admiral, I'm not being evasive. I'm just refusing to answer."

"Right." Gardner shook his head, "You know, I'll bet Vulcan, Andorian and Tellarite Admirals don't have to put up with this kind of insubordination."

Trip had to smile. "No sir, probably not."

#####

Imperial Sixth District Prison for Women, 8 April 2159

Head Overseer Faran led T'Pol into a small room with a bank of four turbolifts, then onto the first lift responding to his call. The door slid closed and Faran rested a hand on her shoulder. She endured his touch, gazing straight ahead.

"You probably don't know that this prison was built entirely within the tunnels of an abandoned copper mine. These lifts are the only way in or out, and they only respond to commands from the prison overseers."

She remained silent.

"Still nothing to say? I suppose I can understand that. You are about to be confined with a group of Andorian criminals who also happen to hate Vulcans. I doubt I'd be very talkative under those circumstances!"

Faran didn't speak for the remainder of their descent, which judging by the amount of time it took meant they were either in a very slow turbolift or a considerable distance underground.

The door slid open and Faran started her moving into a room with several workstations positioned along the walls. A sign on one wall told her she was in the inmate reception office.

Faran released the manacles that held her wrists to the belt around her waist, but did not remove the belt. He led her to the nearest workstation, where a clerk took several biometric scans then directed her to extend her left arm. T'Pol complied and the clerk began swabbing a spot on her forearm with a clear liquid.

"What is that?" T'Pol asked.

"Anesthetic," the clerk replied without looking up, "to numb your arm."

T'Pol sniffed. Judging by the smell, it was not an anesthetic she was familiar with. "I believe this is intended for Andorian physiology. It will not be effective on Vulcans."

The clerk stopped swabbing and looked up. "All prisoners receive one milliliter of anesthetic fluid on their forearm before a tracking implant is inserted. There are no exceptions. Do not expect special treatment because you are Vulcan."

T'Pol did not reply, electing not to point out the illogic of the clerk's statement.

The clerk placed a device resembling a hypospray against T'Pol's arm and pressed a button. There was a popping noise, and T'Pol flinched as a sharp pain stabbed through her arm.

The clerk staunched the flow of blood from the injection site with a fresh swab, then turned to her workstation and entered some commands. "The subdermal tracking device is active and responding to diagnostics," she told Faran. "Device is keyed to prisoner 5484."

Faran smiled, "Well 5484, we are done here. Are you ready to meet the other inmates?"

"Yes," T'Pol replied, gently massaging the entry wound on her forearm. Faran reshackled her wrists, and she took a quick, inward-looking moment to suppress the pain throbbing from her wound.

They left the reception area and went through a set of doors controlled by an overseer inside an enclosed booth. Faran waved casually as they passed. The doors opened onto a long, straight tunnel bored through solid rock. It was sparsely illuminated by light globes every twenty meters and just wide enough for three to comfortably walk abreast. The tunnel sloped downward and its rough stone walls glistened with condensation in the dim light.

They descended in a silence broken only by the ring of Faran's boots and the swiff of T'Pol's slippers. The air temperature dropped and mottled patches of white frost appeared on the walls as they progressed farther down the tunnel. After they had walked for four minutes, the tunnel leveled and opened into a large cavern. Faran stopped her just inside the cavern, which had multiple tunnels exiting in various directions.

"The sleeping chambers are down that tunnel; work chambers down those two; medical facilities; supply rooms; showers." Faran said, pointing them out as he named them. "Oh yes, that tunnel over there leads to the disciplinary rooms. With your attitude I'm sure you'll have many opportunities to visit them. So this is your new home. Do you like it?"

Given that it was just about the most unappealing place a Vulcan could imagine, T'Pol decided the question did not warrant an answer.

Once again she was wrong. Faran slapped her across the face, leaving a faint, hand-shaped imprint on her cheek. "Didn't I warn you about not answering questions?"

"Yes."

"Then you're deliberately disobeying me?"

"No."

He gave her a long, hard look, which T'Pol returned, unblinking. Then he smiled. "Such spirit! It will almost be a shame to break you, but break you I will. Tell me," he asked, "who are you?"

"I am T'Pol."

Placing an arm across her shoulder, he pulled her to his side and laughed as he felt her body stiffen. "T'Pol is not who you are, it's who you were. Now, you are just prisoner 5484." He indicated the cavern and its connecting tunnels. "See all this? This is your new world, and in this world I am in charge. I am the supreme authority. I have the final say on any matter affecting your existence. I can punish or reward you at a whim. My whim. Now let's try that again. Who are you?"

She shrugged from his embrace and turned to face him squarely. "I am T'Pol, daughter of T'Les and Kirak, wife of Charles Tucker the Third," she replied in measured tones. "I am of clan Sh'hiran'lin'iijyliunh'rei'iy'iukn'hy'wen'lhia'ehrm'n by birth, clan Tucker by marriage, and clan Gharal by adoption. I have advanced degrees in subspace physics, astrophysics, mathematics, and geology from the Vulcan Science Academy. I have served with distinction in the Vulcan Science Directorate, the Ministry of Security, and the Foreign Service, rising to the rank of sub-commander. I have visited ninety-eight stars and walked on fifty-two worlds."

Faran frowned at her effrontery, but T'Pol was not done. "I hold the rank of commander in Starfleet, where I have served as first officer on the starship Enterprise and captain of the frigate Chosin. Under my command, Chosin destroyed forty-three Romulan warships in combat actions at Pearl Haven, Lanus, Calder, Vadalla, Chi Eridani, 61 Virginis, Beta Hydri, 6 Virginis, and Teneebia. My ship and crew have been awarded the Starfleet unit citation five times for conspicuous valor in the face of the enemy. It is the highest honor a Starfleet vessel can receive, and no other ship has received as many. That is who I am, Overseer, and nothing you can say or do will ever change one iota of it."

T'Pol stood there in her misshapen green poncho and ill-fitting slippers, her wrists shackled to her sides and a slap-mark fading from her cheek. She stood there as hundreds of prisoners before her had done; some meekly, some defiantly, and some in abject terror. But in all his years, none of them had looked at Faran the way she was looking at him now. There was no bluff or bluster about her—he had seen more than his share of that and could detect it as easily as breathing. No, her every word rang true, every accomplishment and achievement proclaimed beyond doubt. Despite her prison garb, she radiated such composure and authority that his lofty position as head overseer suddenly seemed paltry and unimportant. He felt... insignificant.

And that he could not abide.

He had felt that way many times before. He had felt it from his platoon sergeant right before he was washed out of Imperial Guard training. He felt it from the Warden and his staff, preening and flaunting their authority. He loathed the feeling and he loathed them for making him feel that way, but from them he had to take it. He had to bend his knee and grovel to their smug superiority. He did NOT have to take it from her. Not from a Vulcan. Not from a prisoner!

Faran grabbed her by the shoulders and slammed her against the cavern wall. "Do not speak to me that way!" he snarled. "I would take you to the disciplinary rooms right now if the warden wasn't waiting to see you. But I swear on Larashkail's tits if I ever hear the name T'Pol from you again, you will regret it for the rest of your life!" He slapped her again, as hard as he could.

Sparks bloomed in her vision from the force of the blow, and she blinked several times to clear her head before replying. "If you do not wish to hear my name, then do not ask me who I am."

He snarled again in frustration and started her moving with a savage jerk.

He pulled her stumbling across the cavern to another tunnel—a sign above it said 'Administration Offices'—which led to a smaller cavern with several chairs placed in what was clearly a waiting area. A set of double-width glass doors led to the office proper, which unlike the surrounding tunnels was brightly lit. Visible through the office door were a couple of clerks working at their desks, but Faran dragged her past the office to another door. This one was solid with a sign declaring it to be 'Conference Room 3'.

Inside was a female overseer—T'Pol recognized her as Vaneth from the shuttle—and the two prisoners that had arrived with her. They were seated at the conference table with Vaneth standing behind them.

Faran dragged T'Pol to the table and shoved her into a chair.

"Watch them," he said to Vaneth, "I'll let the warden know they're all here." He strode briskly from the room.

The older female prisoner looked at the green bruise on T'Pol's cheek and smirked. "Looks like you got a bit roughed-up, Vulcan."

"Quiet," Vaneth said. She moved around the table so she could look all three prisoners in the eye. "The warden's on his way. When he gets here, he'll make an issue of the fact you're all still shackled and order me to remove them. He does that all the time. He makes it look like his idea, like it never occurred to us. Probably thinks it makes him look braver or some-such. The truth is we used to take them off in the reception area until he told us not to."

"Dung-crawler," the older prisoner spat.

Vaneth reached over and grasped her by one antenna, gently twisting, "Careful what you say, Frossa. Monitoring devices are everywhere down here. I can't risk being seen letting a disrespectful remark like that go unchallenged."

Frossa grimaced in pain. "There's no monitoring in here," she said through clenched teeth, "or you never would have said what you did about the warden."

"True enough, but I want to make sure you don't get into the habit. Are we understood?"

"Yes," Frossa hissed, her face contorted into a snarl.

Vaneth released her antenna and continued addressing the prisoners as if the incident had never happened. "There are four things you need to know to get along in here: First, after today you will never see the warden again. Everything he says can be discounted, since he has no idea how this prison really runs. Second, as far as you are concerned Head Overseer Faran is in charge. Third, Head Overseer Faran is a cruel and sadistic brute..." Vaneth paused to give T'Pol's bruised cheek a noteworthy glance, "but he will not hurt you unless you break the rules. I strongly advise that you avoid his attention. And fourth? If you breathe one word of what I've just told you to Faran or the warden, I will deny it and Faran will take great delight in punishing you for lying. Are we understood?"

She looked at the prisoners, getting affirmation from each in turn. Satisfied, she sat down to wait for the warden.

It wasn't long before he arrived, striding through the door with an assistant in tow and Head Overseer Faran bringing up the rear.

"Prisoners stand!" Vaneth snapped. They rose to their feet while a smiling Warden Sheleth looked them over.

True to prediction his first words were to Vaneth. "Overseer, there is no need for restraints on these prisoners. You may remove them immediately."

"Right away, Warden," Vaneth replied, her face carefully neutral. Frossa sniggered and Vaneth shot her a warning look.

"Now isn't that more comfortable?" he asked, once they'd been freed. He didn't wait for an answer before continuing, "I am Sheleth, warden of the Imperial Sixth District Prison for Women. You are here as punishment for the crimes you've committed against the people of Andoria. I will explain how we do things here in my prison after you've introduced yourselves."

He looked at T'Pol first. "We don't get many Vulcans here, so we'll start with you. Tell me your name and your crime."

T'Pol clasped her hands behind her back. "You wish to know my name?" she asked. Faran's antennae twitched in agitation and he scowled at her from behind the warden's back.

"Yes, of course." the warden confirmed. "I asked you, didn't I?"

"I am Commander T'Pol of Starfleet. I was convicted for the crime of murder."

"And you?" The warden turned to the older prisoner.

"Frossa. Smuggling."

"And you." Sheleth asked the third prisoner.

"G-Ghalev, sir." She would not meet his gaze, but hugged herself and stared at her feet.

"Your crime, Ghalev?"

"Emb... embezzling."

"Really? A sweet young girl like you? Such a shame," Sheleth said, "and now you must pay the price for your wrong-doing. Life can be so very harsh."

He was about to say something further, but his aide interjected, "Excuse me Warden, but there's a matter requiring your immediate attention..." He handed the warden a small com device.

Warden Sheleth smiled a weary smile. "The burdens of my job never end. Come, Theel, I'll take this out in the waiting area." They left as quickly as they arrived.

Faran waited for the door to close then strode over to where T'Pol stood. "I told you not to speak that name in my presence," he snapped. His open hand swung toward her cheek in a blurred arc, but T'Pol was not shackled this time and she caught his wrist in one hand, inches from her face.

Rarely did a prisoner have the ability—or the effrontery—to block one of his slaps, and Faran was momentarily bewildered by her act of resistance. The moment passed quickly, and he jerked his hand from her grasp. "Hold her arms down!" he ordered Vaneth.

She frowned, but moved to obey, grasping T'Pol in a bear hug. "I warned you about Faran," she murmured in T'Pol's ear.

He stepped toward T'Pol, hand rising for another swing, but the door to the conference room opened again. Faran hastily dropped his hand and Vaneth released her hold on T'Pol.

"It appears you have visitors, T'Pol," Sheleth proclaimed, as he and his aide swept back into the room.

Whatever reply T'Pol might have had was preempted by an outburst from Faran. "Warden, visitors are only allowed on tenth-day," Faran said, frustration clearly evident in his tone. "That's policy. Today is fourth-day. Prisoner 5484 can't have visitors today."

Warden Sheleth smiled benignly. "The government has just been presented with T'Pol's credentials as the newly-assigned military attaché to the United Earth embassy. The Foreign Office has directed that we must provide the Human embassy staff with daily access to T'Pol. There is nothing I can do."

"You can refuse! The Foreign Office has no say in how we run this prison."

"Apparently Andoria's treaty with the Coalition has something to say about it, and international treaties take precedence over prison rules."

"This is- this is outrageous!" Unable to bring himself to say her name, Faran pointed at T'Pol, "She can't perform those duties, not from prison. This is a transparent ploy. They spit on us and they spit on Andorian justice. What are you going to do about this, Warden?"

Warden Sheleth's eyes narrowed in displeasure. "I am going to allow her visitors as directed. And you, Faran, are going to remember who you are talking to if you want to remain head overseer. Do I make myself clear?"

Frossa snorted, and Faran fixed her with a murderous glare.

"Do I make myself clear, Overseer?" Warden Sheleth repeated, making no attempt to disguise his annoyance.

"Yes, Warden." Faran answered in a strangled voice.

"Good. Then you and Vaneth will escort T'Pol to the visitation room while I continue my talk with these two."

"Yes, Warden."

#####

Sergeant Bonnie Doyle led her MACO squad into the prison's visitation room and arrayed them against the back wall, out of the way of the rest of the contingent from the United Earth embassy. She gave them a quick visual inspection then made her way to Captain Radcliff, the embassy's military attaché.

"MACOs are ready, sir."

Captain Radcliff glanced at the eight MACOs lining the wall, resplendent in the grey and black of their full dress uniforms. "I see that. Thank you, Sergeant."

Captain Radcliff and Bonnie also wore dress uniforms, his Starfleet blue contrasting with her MACO grey and black. The other occupants of the room—Ambassador Brenda Kyle, Deputy Chief of Mission Joseph Pickett, and Legal Attaché Daniel McFadden—all wore formal civilian attire that appeared only marginally more comfortable than her dress greys.

Radcliff glanced down at the bag Bonnie clutched in one hand. "Do you have everything?" he asked.

"Yessir." The 'everything' he referred to was a dress uniform and accessories for Commander T'Pol. She was about to receive orders appointing her as the embassy's new military attaché, and Ambassador Kyle refused to make such an appointment while Commander T'Pol was in prison garb. Bonnie emphatically agreed.

Captain Radcliff's attention turned to a discussion between the ambassador and her deputy chief, so Bonnie drifted back to a position in front of her squad.

"Pssst, Sarge. How long we gotta wait here?"

Bonnie didn't bother turning her head. "Shut up, Sandoval."

Private Sandoval was not so easily silenced. "Instead of standing around in these monkey suits, we should be in combat gear and getting Commander T'Pol the hell out of here," he muttered. There were grunts of assent from his squad mates.

This time Bonnie did turn around. Sandoval's muted anger at Commander T'Pol's sudden and unexpected conviction mirrored her own. "I promise all of you will be part of that mission if I ever get the order."

Their feral grins told her they were satisfied for the moment, and she returned to waiting.

It was not long before the door opened unannounced—the door leading to the prison proper, not the door they had come through—and Commander T'Pol entered the room escorted by two Andorian guards, one male and one female. The first thing Bonnie noticed was a prominent bruise on T'Pol's cheek. She knew from the subdued murmur arising behind her that her MACOs had seen it too, but discipline held them in place.

Ambassador Kyle and Captain Radcliff stepped forward to meet T'Pol. Bonnie, at a subtle hand-motion from Captain Radcliff, moved to join them.

"Commander T'Pol, I'm Brenda Kyle, United Earth Ambassador to Andoria. I'm sorry our first meeting couldn't be under happier circumstances."

"I understand, Ambassador."

"I believe you've already met Captain Radcliff and Sergeant Doyle?"

"I have," T'Pol said, nodding at Captain Radcliff and Bonnie in turn. Bonnie nodded back.

"Good." Ambassador Kyle took a moment to study the bruise on T'Pol's face, while Bonnie studied the two guards. The female guard glanced around the room with lively interest, her gaze lingering on the MACOs lining the wall. She had an air of competence about her, and when their eyes briefly met, Bonnie sensed no challenge or threat from her. The male guard, on the other hand... the male guard wore a sullen expression, scowling everywhere he looked which was mostly at Commander T'Pol. Even without meeting his gaze, she sensed he was a threat. He radiated an arrogance and conceit that raised her hackles.

He's the one. Bonnie knew—intuitively—that he was the source of the hand-print on T'Pol's face.

When Ambassador Kyle spoke again, there was a note of concern in her voice. "Commander, are you alright?"

"I am fine."

"Are you certain? Are they mistreating you? Your cheek..."

"Do not be concerned, Ambassador. It is of no consequence."

"It's of consequence to me," Bonnie growled, her gaze locked directly on the male Andorian as she spoke. I know you did this.

He returned her gaze and grinned.

Bonnie's eyes narrowed and it took every bit of will-power she possessed to refrain from launching a crippling strike at the smirking guard. Side kick knee-break, throat strike, foot sweep rear take-down into arm-bar break and thumb-gouge eyes—

T'Pol placed a hand on her shoulder. "Sergeant Doyle... Bonnie... I am fine. Truly."

T'Pol spoke with a calm certainty that Bonnie had no choice but to believe. Still... "That does not excuse what he did," Bonnie said, eyes still riveted on the guard. His grin wilted under the ferocity of her glare and his sullen expression returned.

Sensing a pending international incident, Ambassador Kyle stepped in to defuse the situation. She addressed the two Andorians—neither wearing translators—in their native language. "Thank you for bringing Commander T'Pol here, but in compliance with section nine of the charter of justice, I am invoking right of confidentiality to conduct official business. I'm sure you understand, but I must ask both of you to leave at this time."

Bonnie's Andorian was barely sufficient to buy a flask of Ale or find a public restroom. She only had a vague idea of the Ambassador's meaning but there was no mistaking her no-nonsense tone or implicit expectation of obedience.

The two guards glanced at each other but left without protest, leaving Bonnie highly impressed with—and slightly envious of—the Ambassador's commanding presence.

Ambassador Kyle watched them out the door then turned to T'Pol. "I've learned more about the Andorian legal code in the last month than I ever really wanted to know," she said.

"As have I," T'Pol remarked. Ambassador Kyle chuckled. Even Bonnie had to smile.

"Yes, I'm sure," the Ambassador said, before turning serious. "Commander, no one on your legal team could explain what happened at your trial... why you didn't fight the charges. Given the facts, they were confident of victory."

"All I can say Ambassador is that additional facts came to light which I am not yet ready to divulge."

"I don't understand."

"I cannot explain further at this time. I am sorry."

Ambassador Kyle seemed about to press the issue but changed her mind. "Water under the bridge, I suppose. Anyway, the reason I'm here is because you have a new job. You are replacing Captain Radcliff as my military attaché, effective today. Captain Radcliff will act as your deputy. Best of all, since you are now a senior embassy official, the Andorians cannot deny us daily access. It's in the Coalition treaty." She smiled as she continued, "I was quite pleased with myself, until Captain Radcliff pointed out a minor flaw in my scheme."

Captain Radcliff took up the narrative. "I just told her that as a Captain, I shouldn't be reporting to a Commander. Fortunately, that problem is easily remedied."

"Yes. All we had to do was get you promoted," Ambassador Kyle said, smiling. "So that's the first order of business today. Captain Radcliff, do you have her uniform?"

"Yes ma'am." He glanced at the bag in Bonnie's hand before looking around the visitation room, "But there's nowhere for her to change."

"Leave that to me, sir," Bonnie said, amused by how he was just now realizing that. What would officers do without NCOs?

"One moment, Commander," she said to T'Pol, handing her the bag of uniform items. Then she had her eight MACOs form a tight ring around T'Pol, facing outward. A human privacy curtain.

In short order, T'Pol had donned her uniform and given the bag, now containing her prison garb, back to Bonnie. The MACOs returned to their positions along the wall.

"Commander T'Pol, are you ready?" Captain Radcliff asked, a PADD with promotion orders in his hand.

"I am."

"Then let's get started."

"Excuse me, Captain," Bonnie interrupted. He looked up from his PADD with raised eyebrows.

"I'd really like the Andorians to see Commander T'Pol being promoted," Bonnie said. "If there's any official business, could we do that first? Then bring the guards back in for the actual promotion?"

Radcliff looked thoughtful, but Ambassador Kyle spoke first. "A splendid idea! I like it. Kevin, I want the guards to get the full benefit of the ceremony. Can you read the promotion orders in Andorian?"

Captain Radcliff nodded. "Yes ma'am. Piece of cake."

"Good. As for me, I have nothing official to discuss. How about you, Joe?"

Deputy Chief Pickett shook his head. "Nothing."

She looked at her legal attaché, next. "Dan?"

"Nope."

She looked back at T'Pol. "Commander?"

T'Pol clasped her hands behind her back. "Just this: I am uncertain what is expected of me or how I will discharge my embassy duties while I am incarcerated here."

Ambassador Kyle smiled darkly. "As your deputy, Captain Radcliff will continue to perform his current responsibilities. Your sole duty is to keep well and stay safe until we can get you out of here. To help you toward that goal, you can expect to receive daily visits from someone at the embassy. Given our schedules it probably won't be any of us, but someone will be here."

"I understand. Thank you, Ambassador."

"I only wish there was more I could do."

"I do have another request," T'Pol said.

"Yes?"

"I ask that Sergeant Doyle be permitted to put... place... the rank on my uniform during my promotion." T'Pol had been promoted only once (directly to the rank of Commander upon her commissioning), but she'd witnessed dozens of ceremonies and was aware of the great significance Humans placed on the choice of that person. In T'Pol's estimation, the thoughtfulness Sergeant Doyle had shown her during the trial was deserving of such recognition.

"Oh." The request seemed to take Ambassador Kyle by surprise; it certainly took Bonnie by surprise. The Ambassador recovered quickly, shooting Bonnie an inquisitive look. "Sergeant Doyle?"

"I'd be honored to pin your rank on, ma'am," Bonnie replied, directing her answer at T'Pol.

"Pin. Yes, that is the word I was looking for," T'Pol said. "Thank you, Sergeant."

"Anything else?" Ambassador Kyle asked the room at large. Receiving no answer, she continued, "Okay then, let's have us a promotion. Somebody get the guards back in here."

"Sandoval," Bonnie said, motioning in the door's direction with her head. He nodded, striding toward the door to stab the call button.

"Make sure they feel welcome," Bonnie added.

Sandoval cracked his knuckles and grinned. "Count on it, Sarge."

#####

After being asked to leave the visitation room, Vaneth accompanied Head Overseer Faran to the prison's main control room, a place she knew intimately from the many long shifts she'd spent monitoring surveillance cameras and prisoner movements. The room was a convenient place to wait, being just down the corridor from the visitation rooms and adjacent to the turbo-lifts, but the overseers on duty were not thrilled by Faran's presence. They made this abundantly clear by the exasperated looks they shared with Vaneth—when Faran wasn't looking, of course.

Faran approached one of the many monitors in the room. "Satha," he snapped at the nearest overseer, "Show me the video feed from the visitation room."

Satha looked uncomfortable. "The warden—"

Faran cut her off. "The warden is not here. Bring it up now."

"I can't"

Faran was at her station in two strides, leaning across the console to enter the appropriate commands. Nothing happened.

"The warden placed a surveillance block on that room," Satha explained, eager to deflect some of Faran's glowering displeasure to a different target. "He said something about the coalition treaty. Unless you have his passcodes, we can't see them..."

Faran did not have the warden's codes—a point of contention and constant irritation—and his already foul mood worsened. He launched into a scathing tirade directed at the warden's weakness and ineptitude, which Vaneth did her best to ignore. Yes, Warden Sheleth was weak, but wasn't that weakness the source of Faran's power? After all, a strong warden would never tolerate the many liberties Faran took with the prison's rules and regulations.

Faran subsided after several moments of colorful invective and the room lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Faran seemed oblivious to the dampening effect of his presence. The silence was so strained that the signal recalling them to the visitation room came as a relief to Vaneth.

"That was quick," Faran said, "much too quick for them to have discussed any official business. I told you her appointment was a sham. Only a complete idiot could think otherwise!" No one in the room had any doubt who Faran thought to be a 'complete idiot'.

Vaneth moved toward the door, but stopped at a gesture from Faran.

"This Vulcan prisoner, prisoner 5484, has been unruly and insubordinate," Faran announced to every overseer in the room, "and I won't tolerate that. Not in this prison. Not in my prison. Each of you has seen how disruptive behavior can quickly spread among the prisoners if it is not dealt with immediately. I want this Vulcan put in her place. I want her subservient. I want her broken." There were growls of assent from everyone.

Everyone but Vaneth. "Faran, are you sure?" she asked. "This Vulcan seems to have the support of the Foreign Office. The warden is permitting daily visits from the Human embassy and they will report what they see. If the warden is reprimanded for something we've done, it will not go well for us."

Faran actually grinned. "We won't do anything. The other prisoners, now... who can say what they might do? I'm disappointed with you, Vaneth. You've been here long enough to know this." He was still grinning as he left the room, a grin that was reflected by the knowing smirks on the faces of the other overseers.

Vaneth followed him out. She did know what he spoke of. And there had been occasions when it was... expedient... to let the prisoners handle difficult disciplinary problems among themselves. Still, she had always been a little uneasy about the practice, and in this case she didn't share Faran's certainty that the warden would not take his displeasure out on the overseers.

They came to the visitation room, and Faran stood to one side while Vaneth keyed the door open. They would have entered, but a Human soldier blocked the door. A very large Human soldier with a very nasty smile.

He said something in his incomprehensible dialect, but made no attempt to step aside.

"Get him out of the way," Faran said to Vaneth. She shot Faran a dirty glance, but was saved from having to act by another Human, this one wearing a Starfleet uniform.

He appeared alongside the massive Human soldier and addressed them in Andorian. "Thank you for coming," he said. "Commander T'Pol is about to be promoted to the rank of Captain, and you will honor her by representing Andoria at this ceremony. Private Sandoval will show you where to stand." He indicated the soldier—presumably Private Sandoval—who moved to one side and pointed them toward a spot in the room.

Vaneth tried not to chuckle as she imagined Faran's outrage at the mere suggestion he be involved in an activity with the purpose of honoring the Vulcan prisoner. Then she caught sight of T'Pol, standing in a relaxed pose at the center of the room and wearing a Starfleet dress uniform. She braced for the explosion that was sure to follow.

True to prediction, Faran's expression darkened. "Why is she not in proper attire?" he snapped, pointing at T'Pol. "Who authorized this?"

"I did." The speaker was the Human woman who had previously invoked right of confidentiality. "I'm Ambassador Kyle, head of United Earth's diplomatic mission to Andoria. Commander T'Pol is a Starfleet officer and a member of my senior staff. In this room she reports to me."

"She is a convicted criminal. A prisoner. She must comply with the rules of this prison. All of them!" Faran moved to grab T'Pol by the arm, but the large Human—Private Sandoval—grabbed him first and pulled him effortlessly back to where Vaneth stood.

Faran snarled and yanked his arm free of the Human's grasp, but made no further attempt to approach T'Pol.

"Both of you stand there, please," Ambassador Kyle said. Despite the pleasantness in her voice it was a clear command, and Vaneth had no intention of moving. At least not while Private Sandoval loomed over them.

"Captain Radcliff, please proceed."

"Yes, Ambassador." The male Starfleet officer looked down at a PADD in his hand. "Attention to orders!" he announced. He spoke Andorian—solely for the benefit of Faran and herself, Vaneth surmised. With an audible 'snap', the Human soldiers in the roomed assumed a rigid posture, while the civilians all stood straighter, heads held high.

Captain Radcliff continued reading from his PADD in Andorian. "The Prime Minister of United Earth has reposed special trust and confidence in the courage, fidelity and professional excellence of Commander T'Pol. In view of these qualities, and her demonstrated potential for leadership, she is therefore appointed to the rank of Captain, such appointment to take effect immediately. By order of the Minister of Space on this, the eighth day of April, 2159."

While he spoke, a Human female approached T'Pol. She was dressed in the same grey and black uniform worn by the other soldiers, and she removed T'Pol's old rank insignia and replaced it with the new.

Afterwards, the humans began repeatedly slapping their open hands together, apparently a form of approval or demonstration of support.

Smiling pleasantly, Ambassador Kyle approached the two Andorians. Her smile did not fool Vaneth, who sensed the steel beneath the Ambassador's amiable exterior.

"You understand why I wanted you both to see this, right?" she asked them.

Vaneth knew exactly why. They were being sent a clear message that despite Captain T'Pol's conviction, she was still highly regarded by the Humans and they would not be pleased if she were harmed. She didn't answer, deferring to Faran's rank. Whether he had received that message while choking back his outrage she couldn't say, but she suspected he had not.

"Yes," Faran answered, practically snarling, "you wanted to show your contempt for Andorian justice. You wanted to spit on our system. You think your treaty gives you the right to circumvent our rules. But you are wrong!"

Ambassador Kyle sighed. "There are Andorian agencies above yours, and those agencies also have rules. In many cases their rules take precedence over yours. Your ignorance of this simple fact is lamentable. Fortunately your warden understands, even if you don't. We will conduct our daily visits with Captain T'Pol, as is our right under international treaty. If we have the slightest suspicion she is being mistreated, we will report that suspicion to the proper authorities for immediate investigation. Of that you can be certain!" Faran's complexion turned a darker shade of blue, and Vaneth wondered if he was about to explode.

Amazingly, he controlled himself. "Do what you must. I will enforce the rules of this prison for all prisoners impartially. There will be no exceptions for anyone, even Vulcans."

Ambassador Kyle favored Faran with a frosty smile. "Then we understand each other," she said. "We're going now, but we'll be back tomorrow."

The Humans left, making no effort to hurry. Most stopped by T'Pol to exchange a few words and perform another Human ritual that involved clasping hands. After the last of them had departed, T'Pol turned toward the two Andorians and waited calmly.

"Where is your prisoner's uniform?" Faran demanded.

"I do not know," T'Pol replied. "I believe Sergeant Doyle may have taken it with her."

Vaneth looked around the room, but the Humans had left nothing behind. "I can go get another one from supply," she suggested. The supply room was in the prison proper, a two-minute ride down the turbolift, then five-minutes through connecting tunnels. A good fifteen minute round trip.

Faran shifted his angry glare from T'Pol to Vaneth. "I can't wait that long; I need to speak with Warden Sheleth immediately. Take prisoner 5484 back down and finish her in-processing." With that, he stormed from the room.

Glad I get to miss the conversation with the warden, Vaneth thought. She suspected it would not go as well for Faran as he would like. She turned her attention back to T'Pol—better start calling her 5484 if I want to keep Faran off my ass—who regarded her with an even gaze.

"The Humans didn't do you any favors when they antagonized Faran like that," Vaneth said. "He'll retaliate against you. He intends to see you broken."

"He will not succeed." T'Pol said. She stood resplendent in her Starfleet uniform, with such composure and confidence that Vaneth could almost believe her. Almost.

#####

Chosin, Rho Virginis, 8 April 2159

Trip disconnected the ship-to-ship video with the other ships of Task Force 2.1 and leaned back in Chosin's command chair. His gaze remain fixed on the main view screen, which moments before had contained images of the fourteen other captains of the task force. It was now blank.

"So..." Commander Graham began, once it became clear that Trip wasn't going to speak first, "Sounds like Verdun has, um, some reservations about your plan..."

Trip pulled his eyes away from the screen and gave Graham a tired smile. "The only problem Wexler has with the plan is it's not his plan. You let me worry about Wexler; I want you to pay a visit to Fleet logistics and expedite the resupply of our Vulcan cruisers. Remind them that Admiral Chu gave TF 2.1 priority, right behind the picket screen. Make sure they know we're breaking orbit tonight, and don't take no for an answer."

"I'm on it," Graham said, exiting the bridge.

Chief Verley watched as he left. "There was a time you would have sent me on that mission," Verley said, "or gone yourself."

"Yeah," Trip agreed, chuckling. "Graham's come a long way since the war's beginning. Not that I'm complaining."

"No. No complaints here, Captain. But since you've found someone else to harangue and threaten the logistic staff, can you spare a moment?"

"Sure, Chief. What's on your mind?"

"In your office?"

Trip nodded. He led the way from the bridge and down one level to the CO's office. Verley entered behind him and closed the door.

"You seem distraught, sir," Verley said in response to Trip's quizzical look. "Distracted. Is something wrong?"

"You mean other than my wife serving a ten year sentence in an Andorian prison?"

Verley gave him a measured look. "Yes sir. Other than that."

Trip sagged into the chair behind his desk. "No," he said. "No, that's pretty much it."

"How is she doing?" Verley asked. "The truth." He took the other seat, but his concerned gaze never left his captain.

"She's okay... I think. If she wasn't I'm not sure she'd let me know."

"Can she hide that? From you?"

"In the short term, yes. I'm pretty sure she's not telling me everything that's been going on there. Trying to protect me. Me. She's the one in prison, and she's protecting me?"

"Begging your pardon Captain, but you do seem a little fragile right now."

"Gee, imagine that," Trip said, scowling. Then his expression softened, "Sorry, Chief. I shouldn't take it out on you."

"I get it, sir. Really. She's protecting you because she can. Because she's strong."

Trip nodded and gazed vacantly at a stack of PADDs on his desk. "Yeah, she's strong. She can handle just about anything with my support, but... but hell, Chief, I'm having a real hard time supporting this. I thought I was okay with it, but something's happened and now I'm having second thoughts. I'm wondering if we—if I've—made a mistake..."

"Second thoughts? About what?"

"I can't talk about it," Trip said. Not about the trellium addiction, or about how damned difficult it is to keep from getting angry at T'Pol over it, or my guilt for feeling anger in the first place. And all this at a time when she needs my support more than she ever has...

"Just as well," Verley said. "It's probably none of my business. In the meantime you have a ship to run. Hell, you have a task force to run. You can't be moping around, at least not out where the crew can see. If you're having a hard time supporting Khart-lan, then... then you need to get over it. Suck it up. She deserves your support, Captain. Please don't make this any harder on her than it already is."

Trip looked up to find Verley staring at him intently, waiting to see the impact of his words. "Damn, Chief. Did I just get my ass chewed?"

Verley smiled. "Yes, and there's more where that came from. If you need it."

"I'll pass. I think you've made your point." And shamed me into realizing what a jerk I've been.

"Then let Khart-lan know I'm thinking of her. And if there's anything I can do. Anything at all..."

"Thanks, Chief, I'll tell her."

Verley appeared ready to say something else but was preempted by the comm panel: "Bridge to Captain Tucker."

"Tucker here."

"Captain, you have a subspace call from JCC."

JCC. Joint Coalition Command. That would be Admiral Gardner, Trip thought.

"Gotta take this, Chief," Trip said. He waited until the door had closed behind Verley then thumbed the comm panel. "Send it to my office."

"Aye, sir."

Moments later, the image of Fleet Admiral Gardner flashed onto his terminal. "Captain Tucker. How are you holding up?"

"I'll be okay, Admiral."

"Right." Gardner seemed unconvinced. "I'm happy to report that T'Pol was promoted to the rank of Captain, but I suppose you already know that."

Trip nodded. "Yessir, I do."

"Then you also know she's the new military attaché to the embassy staff. It was Ambassador Kyle's idea. Apparently this gives us the right to have daily visits, instead of once every ten days."

"Yessir, I know that too. Please thank the Ambassador for me."

"I already have," Gardner said, "but that's not why I called."

Trip perked up. "Were you able to run the Azati Prime simulation?"

"Yes. Several times. Four, to be exact."

"And..?" Trip prompted.

"Enterprise was destroyed the first three times I ran it. The last time I managed to hang on until the Xindi Aquatic ship arrived to stop the fight."

"Did you find any issues with T'Pol's performance?"

"None. I can confirm the findings of the after-action reports. T'Pol made no incorrect decisions or errors in judgment. I don't see how anyone could have done any better under those circumstances. It was a no-win situation."

Trip released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Thank you, sir."

"It was... interesting. But now you owe me some answers. Why did you want me to run that simulation? And what does it have to do with Captain T'Pol's conviction?"

Trip took a couple of steadying breaths. Here goes... "At the time of the battle, T'Pol was ingesting a compound called trellium-D which affects Vulcan brain chemistry."

"She was taking a drug? A mind-altering drug?"

"Yessir."

Gardner was silent for a long moment before his next question: "Deliberately?"

"Yessir."

Gardner's expression hardened. "Why? Why would she do that?"

"I think she became addicted on her first exposure, when she boarded the Vulcan ship Seleya in the Expanse. Before then nobody knew the effect trellium had on Vulcans."

"Seleya. That's the ship with the Vulcan crew that went berserk. Presumably from trellium exposure?"

"Yessir."

"But T'Pol wasn't berserk. Or was she..?"

Trip shook his head. "No Admiral. We carried some trellium ore sealed in the cargo hold. T'Pol was taking very small doses, just enough to lower her emotional barriers. It had no effect on her judgment or mental acuity."

"So you say. I'm not sure you're qualified to make that determination."

"Given the nature of my relationship with T'Pol, I'm probably the most qualified," Trip said pointedly, "but don't believe me. You've personally reviewed T'Pol's actions at Azati Prime. She was under the influence of trellium at the time and you said yourself she made no errors in judgment."

"So that's why you wanted me to run those simulations? To show her judgment wasn't impaired by trellium?"

"Mostly, sir."

"Mostly..." Gardner rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand. "Something tells me there's more and that I'm not going to like it."

"Yessir, there's more," Trip confirmed. "Somehow Chancellor Shalin's legal team found out about T'Pol's addiction. They threatened to expose her if she contested the murder charge. She didn't contest the charges, and now she's in prison."

Gardner's expression, already grim, hardened even further. "How did they find out? Is she... is she still using trellium?"

"No sir. She stopped right after Azati Prime. We don't know how they got the information but they did. The reason I'm telling you this is because I think it needs to be made public. Well, not public exactly, but the chain of command needs to know—Earth, Vulcan and Andorian. As long as this is secret, it can be used against her again. I thought you might appreciate hearing it from me first."

"I suppose I do," Gardner said. "But why now? Why not at the trial. Why succumb to blackmail?"

Trip looked bleak. "T'Pol thought—we both thought—it would only make things worse. T'Pol had just been adopted into an Andorian clan. To Andorians, the honor of their clan means more than life itself. If her new clan had found out, they would have thrown her to the wolves and not looked back. Same with the Vulcans after they learned T'Pol had done something so incredibly illogical. I'm not even sure we could've counted on Starfleet's support. After all, taking unprescribed drugs is a clear violation of regulations even if they didn't degrade her judgment. As it is, T'Pol got ten years. If we'd fought the charges and Shalin went public with the information... well, I think she'd be serving a life sentence right now."

"I'm sorry, Captain," Gardner said. The hardness was gone from his face; now he just looked tired. As tired as Trip felt. "Don't worry about any repercussions or disciplinary action from Starfleet. That would be pointless. No, more than pointless, it would be wrong. Send me a statement containing what you just told me, and I'll see it's distributed to the select few who need to know."

"Thank you, Admiral. I'll get you that statement, but first I need to tell T'Pol. Please keep this to yourself until I do."

Gardner's face registered surprise. "She doesn't know? Shouldn't you have cleared this with her before talking to me?"

"I'm not asking permission, I'm just letting her know." She may not like it, but I don't care. There will be no more blackmail if I can help it.

"I'll wait to hear from you, then. I hope you know what you're doing."

"So do I, Admiral. So do I."

#####

Imperial Sixth District Prison for Women, 8 April 2159

"This is where you will sleep," Vaneth said, gesturing toward a wide door at the end of the tunnel. She touched a plate set into the wall and the door swung open with a faint swish.

T'Pol walked through into a large cavern. It was damp, cold, and poorly lit; exactly like all the other caverns she had seen that day. To her right, a swift stream of water flowed down a small trench that ran the length of the cavern. Judging by the smell, the trench served as a toilet. To her left, four flat terraces were carved into the rock of the cavern. They formed a set of broad, knee-high steps running parallel with the trench, giving the cavern the look of an underground amphitheater, where the terraces were seats and the trench flowed through the stage.

The room was empty except for Frossa and Ghalev, the two prisoners who had arrived on the shuttle with T'Pol. Frossa reclined on the upper tier, her body language suggesting complete indifference to her surroundings. The youngster Ghalev huddled on the lowest terrace. Her furtive glances reminded T'Pol of a cornered animal.

"The other prisoners are still in the work chambers," Vaneth commented. "Tomorrow, you'll go with them." With that, she turned and left. The door swished shut behind her.

"Well sweety-boots, this is a lucky break for you," Frossa said, grinning at Ghalev. "With the Vulcan here, all the attention will be on her. You might not have to fight for your food tonight."

Ghalev cringed, but said nothing.

Frossa continued, "As for you, Vulcan, you'll have to fight for everything. You've made an enemy of the head overseer. Where is the logic in that?" Frossa's words dripped with scorn and contempt.

T'Pol sat on the lowest terrace, ignoring the chill of the hard stone beneath her. "The head overseer was determined to be my enemy," she replied. "There is nothing I could have done to prevent it."

"Yes," Frossa chortled, "that's probably true and for that I'm glad. With all their attention on you, the overseers will leave the rest of us alone."

"You are undoubtedly correct," T'Pol said. She closed her eyes and settled into a meditative state.

#####

"Ah, here they come!" Frossa's announcement was followed by a soft gasp of fear from Ghalev.

T'Pol's eyes flicked open, and she heard the murmur of Andorian voices growing louder as they approached through the tunnel. Moments later, the door slid open and the prisoners entered in a line three abreast. Their talk grew more animated as they saw the new prisoners, and louder still when they realized one was a Vulcan.

Two overseers followed the prisoners—about two hundred strong—into the cavern. One tapped a device on his wrist and the cavern's lights blinked off then back on. Silence fell as all conversation ceased.

"Line up for evening meal," the overseer who had blinked the lights called out.

Conversation resumed as the prisoners began forming another line, starting at the door and winding through the cavern. Even while lining up, they continued shooting curious glances at T'Pol. She could not make out entire conversations, but caught snatches containing the words 'Vulcan' and 'green-blood'.

While she watched, a group of five prisoners strolled to the head of the line and pushed in front of the prisoners already there. The displaced prisoners grumbled mightily, but made no attempts to regain their spots. This was probably because one of the five line-jumpers was the largest Andorian female that T'Pol had ever seen. She made Moose look small.

"If you don't get in line, you won't eat."

T'Pol glanced up at a prisoner who had approached her. "I will go last."

"Your choice," the prisoner said. She looked intently at T'Pol, not with the combination of ill-will and curiosity displayed by the others, but as if she were trying to verify something. "One of the overseers claimed they saw a Vulcan prisoner wearing a military uniform today." she said. "Was that you?"

"Yes."

"What's your name?"

"I am T'Pol."

There was a spark of recognition in the Andorian's eyes. "Captain T'Pol of the Starfleet vessel Cho Zhin?"

"Chosin. Yes."

"I'm Thera. I was an officer on the Imperial Guard cruiser Drasali when the war started... before I killed my section lieutenant. Can you tell me how the war is going? Is Andoria threatened? I have heard nothing since my conviction." She spoke quietly, but there was a pleading quality to her voice.

"I am not familiar with the rules and routines of this prison," T'Pol said. "Perhaps we can trade information."

"We can, but first we should get in line. If you're not standing in line when they flash the lights a second time, you won't be fed." She started toward the line and T'Pol followed.

"It might be some time before the food arrives," Thera continued. "The overseers like to make us wait. Ask me why."

"Very well. Why?"

"Because they can. They bring meals in on a cart and give one to everyone in line. After that, they leave and the redistribution begins."

T'Pol quirked a brow. "Redistribution?"

"Yes. Anasha and her cronies take what they want from the weaker prisoners. That's Anasha, at the head of the line."

T'Pol looked in the indicated direction and saw a small, overweight Andorian female, one of the five line-jumpers. She happened to be looking back at T'Pol, wearing a decidedly unpleasant grin.

Thera continued speaking, "Be prepared. If you want to keep your meal tonight, you'll have to fight for it."

"Is fighting not an infraction of the rules?"

"It is, but the overseers decide when and where the rules are enforced. Sometimes they ignore them. Ask me why."

"Why?"

"Because they can," Thera said. "Don't start a fight in the work chambers; they'll come down on you hard for that. But fights for food or sleeping spots are rarely punished."

T'Pol considered that. "I can understand fights for food. I do not understand fights for sleeping spots."

Thera smiled tightly. "You will. All the good spots are on the upper tier. Against the wall and farthest from the waste trench. That's my spot up there." She pointed toward a section of the highest terrace, midway down the chamber.

T'Pol looked in the indicated direction, but saw nothing more than a stretch of bare rock. She firmly squelched a feeling of dismay. "We are to sleep directly on the stone?"

"After the meal, the overseers will line us up again," Thera explained. "They'll hand out sleeping pads and blankets, which are very thin. They're so thin that an extra pad or blanket can make for a much more comfortable night. That's why pads and blankets are also subject to redistribution."

"Who engages in this... redistribution?"

"Mostly just Anasha and her bunch. The rest of us are content to live and let live."

"Anasha does not appear very formidable," T'Pol observed. "Why do the rest of you tolerate this?"

"Because of Losha," Thera answered, indicating the large Andorian T'Pol had previously noticed.

Losha. The Andorian word for 'avalanche'. "That is her name?"

"That's what they call her. I don't know her real name."

An apt nickname. "She appears quite formidable," T'Pol said, giving her a closer look. In addition to being large and well-muscled—her prison poncho looked small on her—Losha wore a dull expression on her coarse-featured face.

Thera smirked. "She's strong but not very smart. In fact, she's stupid as a block of ice."

At that moment, the chamber door slid open and a group of overseers entered, along with a wheeled cart which was stacked high with transparent containers of food.

The line began moving as a bored overseer handed meals to the prisoners. T'Pol was last in line but it didn't take long to reach the front, where a food container that was thrust at her. After she was served, the overseers left with the cart and the cavern door closed behind them.

T'Pol examined the meal she'd been given. Inside the small container was a piece of hard, flat bread, a bulb of water, and a portion of lukewarm porridge with chunks of meat and vegetable. The quality of the food, while not great, was better than she had anticipated.

A change in background noise caused T'Pol to look up. She saw the overweight Andorian—Anasha—striding toward her with Losha close behind. Losha sported a vaguely menacing expression.

They paused in front of her and Anasha spoke. "Losha will take that meal, Vulcan."

Without comment, T'Pol extended the container to Losha, who handed it to Anasha.

"No stomach for a fight? Are you a coward or just being logical?" The way Anasha sneered the word made it sound far worse than mere cowardice.

"I am not hungry," T'Pol replied.

Anasha sniggered. "Just being logical, then. We'll have to see what happens when you do get hungry. How well will your Vulcan logic serve you then?"

T'Pol walked away from the gloating Andorian and found a place to sit, selecting a spot on the lowest tier, which Thera had pronounced 'less desirable'. She reasoned she would not be challenged for the spot if better ones were available.

She experienced firsthand what made it less desirable when several prisoners straddled the nearby trench to urinate and defecate. The utility of the prison poncho also became obvious, as the wearer could relieve herself without having to lift or removing the garment.

The prisoner named Thera sat nearby. "You will have to fight them eventually if you want to eat," she said.

"Only as a last resort." T'Pol turned her attention to Anasha, who was exhorting Losha to collect a meal from the quivering Ghalev. Next, Frossa was targeted by the plump prisoner, but Frossa fared better than either T'Pol or Ghalev. She had formed an alliance with another group of prisoners, who were apparently acquaintances from earlier prison stays. They closed ranks around her, and Anasha called Losha off to seek easier prey.

"It appears Anasha's group is not the only one among the prisoners," T'Pol remarked.

"It's not. The prisoners tend to form groups for safety and support. Anasha's group is the dominant one because of Losha."

"Are you part of a group?"

"I was," Thera answered, a haunted look on her face. "I was Imperial Guard. A defender of the Mother World. I lost all that in a moment of passion. A moment of stupidity..."

T'Pol had no response for that, so she remained silent.

"In here I keep to myself. I've only had to use my fighting skills once. Four people went to the infirmary that day, but I was not among them. The others have left me alone since then." Thera gave T'Pol an appraising look. "You will have to do the same, you know. You are Vulcan. You are alone. No group here will have you."

I am not alone, T'Pol told herself, I have Trip. But did she? Ever since her conviction, she had sensed a great deal of emotional turmoil within Trip. There was the expected grief at losing her, of course, and much fear and anxiety for her safety. There was also a great deal of anger and bitterness. T'Pol was certain most of that anger was directed at her. To be sure, Trip did his best to hide those feelings. He tried to suppress them, to control what he allowed her to feel across the bond, but he lacked the necessary experience. She caught disquieting snatches of his feelings. It did not help that she felt deserving of his anger. Nor did it help that she was also controlling what went over their bond. She was also hiding her true situation; her true feelings.

She had a perfectly logical reason for doing so. The more Trip knew of conditions in the prison, the angrier he would become with her. The more he would blame her for her lack of control, for her weakness. To feel the anger and disappointment of her mate was the one thing she had no defense against. The one thing she could not tolerate.

She was in a quandary of her own making. I need Trip's support in order to survive, but Trip cannot support me without knowing the truth. Yet the truth will anger Trip and I cannot survive Trip's anger.

She could see no recourse, and she recalled Anasha's words, derisive and mocking: How well will your Vulcan logic serve you then?

#####

Imperial Sixth District Prison for Women, 8 April 2159

T'Pol couldn't sleep.

She lay on a bare rock shelf, her stomach empty and chill air seeping around the thin material of her poncho. She'd been issued a sleeping pad and blanket by a group of overseers (the same group that had brought the evening meal), but they were taken by Losha immediately after the overseers left and 'redistributed' to a grinning Anasha. T'Pol had little appetite for the fight that keeping her blanket would have entailed.

In any event, it wasn't the cold or the hunger or the unyielding rock that kept her awake. It was the way she was deceiving her mate. She had not lied to him; not directly. Rather, she had neglected to mention certain things that she knew would trouble or anger him. His blinding rage in the aftermath of Shalin's blackmail was still fresh in her mind. Some of that rage had been directed at her, and it had pierced her like a white-hot knife. I cannot go through that again.

But she could also not continue deceiving him. The strain on her mental control was just too great. Already she could sense Trip's suspicions, and she knew he would consider her deceptions to be outright lies—lies of omission, perhaps, but lies nonetheless. And he would be right.

So.

So, she had to tell him. Despite her fear, she had to tell him everything: Anasha and her gang, the 'redistribution' of food and bedding, the head overseer's vendetta. Everything. She could only imagine the extent of his anger. Or worse, his disgust.

Yet... yet deep within her lay a kernel of hope. She had a history of miscalculating Trip's intentions, sometimes badly. Perhaps this was one of those times.

There was only one way to find out. T'Pol suppressed her misgivings and reached across her bond to Trip...

#####

Chosin, with Task Force 2.1 in pursuit of retreating Romulan fleet, 8 April 2159

Trip entered his quarters and plopped on the bed. He sat for a long moment, staring at the terminal on his desk. There must be some ship's business that needs my attention, he thought. But there wasn't.

Guess I can't put off talking to T'Pol any longer.

He had managed to avoid this moment all day by involving himself in the details of getting Task Force 2.1 ready to break orbit, but that was now done and the fourteen ships of the task force were proceeding at high warp on a course to intercept the retreating Romulan fleet. He had personally presided over every test of the various tactical systems, paying special attention to the interfaces and data links between the Human and Vulcan warships. Early in the war there had been more than one disaster caused by protocol translation errors or interface failures between coalition partners. Most of those early bugs had been found and corrected, but he was not taking any unnecessary risks. Now he was out of excuses; it was time to put his reluctance behind him and do what needed to be done.

As soon as he figured out what that was, exactly...

The problem was he didn't quite know where to start. Should he confront T'Pol with his suspicions that she was hiding something from him? Should he lead off with his disclosure to Admiral Gardner of her trellium addiction, a disclosure made without her knowledge or consent?

Maybe he should start with an apology for the anger and scorn he'd heaped on her when his hopes for a reunion were dashed by the unexpected consequences of her past addiction. For that, he was deeply and thoroughly ashamed. Ashamed of the way he'd hurt her at the moment she most needed his support. Ashamed of the way he'd reinforced her negative belief that her addiction was caused by weakness, and that she was not deserving of forgiveness.

I definitely need to start with an apology, if only so I can look at myself in the mirror.

Having resolved to contact her, he was surprised when she beat him to it: *Trip..?* He took a moment to settle himself before responding.

*I'm here.*

*There is something I must tell you,* T'Pol sent, *Do you have time?*

*Sure, darling, but first I need to tell you something.*

*This cannot wait,* T'Pol replied, *I have not been forthright with you and… and it is time I told you the truth.*

At T'Pol's words, a spasm of fear shot through Trip. He'd suspected (and now he knew) that she'd been concealing something from him. Given all the traumatic events that had transpired since her arrival on Andoria just one week ago, he could only assume the worst.

T'Pol sensed his fear, but there was no turning back. Collecting the tattered remnants of her control, she forged ahead and told him everything. Everything.

Trip's mood darkened as he listened, his gut tightening with anger, but the anger was not aimed at T'Pol. He'd made that mistake once and would not be making it again. He made sure—damn sure!—that she knew she wasn't to blame for these latest misfortunes. And he made sure she knew that this time, she could count on his support. T'Pol could feel Trip's anger—it burn across their bond like a plasma torch—but he wasn't angry at her, and that made all the difference.

Once she had finished, Trip took a long moment to ponder her words. While he pondered, his anger subsided; the blazing fire became a glowing ember.

*You know you're going to have to fight them.* he sent. *You can't just keep giving them your food and blankets.*

*I am aware of that, Trip, but circumstances could change before it comes to that.*

*No, T'Pol, nothing will change,* Trip sent, snarling as he did so. *Not until you rip Losha's arms from her body and use them to beat the bloody hell out of Anasha!*

T'Pol cringed at his violent imagery. *I... I cannot.*

*Why not? T'Pol, they're stealing your food.*

*Losha is not to blame. She does what Anasha directs.*

*Following orders is no defense. You know that. Losha is taking what doesn't belong to her. She is robbing you of the sustenance you need to live. She deserves to have her kneecap shattered by a well-placed kick. So does Anasha.* Trip's anger and disgust was palpable.

*Anasha is deserving of retribution, but not Losha. She was born with a mental deficiency. She has the intellect of a young child.*

*Yeah, in the body of a gorilla!* Trip protested. *It's about time someone stood up to her, and you have the strength and skill to do it.*

*But not the desire. Trip, I have seen how she is treated by Anasha and the other prisoners. How she is derided and ridiculed. There is something I saw tonight... One of the prisoners who arrived with me today is a young girl named Ghalev. She is timid and very frightened. When Anasha directed Losha to take Ghalev's bedding, Losha seemed troubled by the command. She seemed reluctant. It was only for a moment, but it was there.*

Trip had suspected that more was involved in T'Pol's unwillingness to defend herself than just an aversion to fighting, and this confirmed it. He also suspected T'Pol might be reading more into this than was really there. *T'Pol, are you sure? Reading emotions is not exactly a skill Vulcans are known for.*

*You have taught me well, Trip. I am certain of this.*

Trip loosed an exasperated sigh. *So you're going to let these... these animals... continue to push everyone around, continue to take your food and blankets... because you think their chief goon and enforcer is a decent person at heart? Really, T'Pol? Really?*

*You are forgetting something, Trip.*

*Oh?*

*If I am in a fight with anyone, no matter the reason, who do you suppose the overseers will blame for starting it? Who do you suppose will be punished for it?*

Oh. Trip scowled his displeasure, but could not argue the truth of her words. Shit. *So you're just going to starve?*

*I am going to watch, and learn, and determine what to do after I have collected more information. I will not starve.*

*I hope you know what you're doing,* Trip grumbled.

*With your support I can do anything.*

Her statement was simple, direct, and straight from her heart. It was also true. Trip knew firsthand how his anger, doubt, or mistrust could affect her. He didn't like her situation—not at all—but his disapproval would only make things worse. Much worse. Once more, he found himself in the position of having to accept the unacceptable. Tolerate the intolerable. Because the alternative meant hurting T'Pol, and that he would not do. Could not do.

So rather than quibble, he resolved to trust her, because she was right: By herself, alone, T'Pol was formidable. With his support? She was unstoppable!

#####

Office of the Grand Marshal, Romulus, 8 April 2159

Vokalus looked up from the report he was reading to see the insistent blinking of his message indicator. He put the report aside, accepted the incoming message, and scanned through it quickly. Then he scrolled back to the beginning and read it again, more thoroughly.

He activated the intercom and spoke. "Mezdal, please ask Admiral Parnius to come to my office."

"Yes, Grand Marshal."

Vokalus leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, deep in thought. It wasn't long before Mezdal announced his arrival: "Admiral Parnius, sir."

Parnius hurried through the door to stand by Vokalus' desk. "You asked to see me, Grand Marshal?"

"Yes, Admiral," Vokalus said, "please sit." He gestured toward one of the chairs reserved for visitors.

After he was seated, Vokalus asked, "Have you read the message that just came in from our scouts at Rho Virginis?"

"Yes, Grand Marshal."

"What do you make of it?"

Parnius hesitated. Rendering opinions to senior officers in the Romulan Star Navy did not always have a desirable outcome. On the other hand, Vokalus insisted on honesty from his subordinates and as far as Parnius knew, no one had yet been punished for speaking openly. "It appears that a small force of fourteen Coalition warships has been dispatched to intercept our damaged ships retreating from Rho Virginis. The force consists of eight Vulcan fast attack cruisers, four Starfleet frigates, and two Starfleet corvettes. One of the frigates is Chosin."

"Yes. Intriguing, isn't it? Tell me, Parnius, why do you think they attack our damaged ships with such a small force? Their sixteen ships are no match for our sixty-eight, even without the two squadrons of cruisers acting as escorts."

"The ships in this Coalition force are all very fast," Parnius replied. "I believe they will head to a point in front of our damaged vessels. I expect a much larger force will depart Rho Virginis in a day or two, and an attempt will be made to bracket our ships between their two forces. It's a favorite Coalition tactic."

"I believe you are correct," Vokalus said and Parnius relaxed somewhat. "I see no way our ships can be saved. Do you?"

"No, Grand Marshal."

"Then we will expend no effort in trying to save them."

Parnius looked concerned. "That's sixty-eight ships, Grand Marshal. Damaged or not, we shouldn't let the Coalition have them without a fight!"

"Normally I would agree with you. This time, I have another prize in mind. Assemble your staff, Parnius. We're going after that Starfleet frigate that has been such an irritant to us. We're going to plan the destruction of Chosin."

Parnius smiled. "The Praetor will be pleased."

CONTINUED IN CHAPTER ELEVEN