Payment
By Blacknblue (aka Bluenblack)
Disclaimer: I don't own Star Trek. I wrote this for fun. Anyone is free to download and/or redistribute this story as long as you keep it complete and intact, and as long as you don't make any money from it.
Note: Vulcan terms used in this story were taken from the online Vulcan Language Dictionary, the Vulcan Language Institute, or I made them up myself.
A/N: It has been a dismally long time between updates. I'm sorry.
Payment Chapter 20:
"The fetus is an X factor. There is no record of such a child."
"Which proves nothing. There is no record describing the color of the carpet in the main access corridor between sickbay and the gym, either. Or the number of chairs in the Deck 3 refectory."
"A non sequiter. Neither of those details are historically significant. The probability of this child NOT having an impact on the time stream at some point in their lifespan is negligible."
"And again, it proves nothing. Maybe she died young. Or, maybe her parents trained her to keep her head down and operate in the shadows. We still don't know the full effect that Stalin's butler had on history. Or who Napoleon talked to in the evenings during his exile. There are countless details that we don't know about. You can't kill a baby over what we don't know."
"I have no intention of terminating the child without valid cause. I agree that our information is incomplete at best. I merely point out that the presence of the fetus will influence the behavior of Tucker in unpredictable ways."
"So far, he's sticking strictly to his predicted pattern. If things continue this way, he will make his move within two years. It all looks promising. Preventing Sato from killing that pair was the best move we have made since the relocation."
"It is disappointing that he refused his underling's offer to make him emperor. It would simplify matters enormously with Tucker on the throne. I have no desire to spend any more lifespan in this century than necessary."
"You talk about me making dangerous gambles? That kind of massive upheaval in the time stream would have incalculable consequences. The same factors that make him ideal for instigating a renaissance, also make him a loose cannon. It might turn out to be equivalent to introducing Spock a century early."
"But it would certainly achieve the larger goal. As emperor, Tucker would never permit the corruption and inefficiency to continue."
"I think that falls under the heading of burning the barn to kill the rats. Here hun, drink some tea."
ANDORIAN CAMPAIGN, FLEET LAUNCH MINUS 7 DAYS, 1.25 HOURS
Tucker materialized on the pad wearing a granite expression and his dress uniform. An escort consisting of five security officers and five engineering guards stood rigidly at attention on each side of the door. Amanda Cole smiled slowly and waited.
"Commodore Tucker reporting as ordered by her majesty," he recited, fixing his eyes on the far wall. "Request permission to come aboard."
The transporter tech on duty flickered his eyes with the speed of a snake's tongue. They snapped up to meet Tucker's, and then back down to his controls. Not a single expression in the room wavered, but every muscle quivered with adrenaline.
Cole started nibbling on the nail of her remaining forefinger. She propped an elbow on the console and considered his request carefully. Finally, "I suppose... since the empress wants to see you I can't really prevent it... Get down here Tucker, and quit wasting her majesty's time!"
He stepped off the dais calmly and headed for the door, ignoring her wild-eyed glare. She smirked and sauntered into position behind him, fondling the haft of her blade and looking longingly at the back of his neck. The entourage headed through the door, and the transporter tech pushed a single button on his control board. A light blinked once and went off.
#
T'Pol prowled their new quarters aboard the station like a Le'Matya scouting her territory. Their child was safely nestled in her new home, fed and resting. But T'Pol had no intention of relaxing her guard again. Not while she lived. Hess had come too close, too easily. The most damning part of the situation, the part that maddened her, was the fact that it was T'Pol's own fault. If she had simply disposed of the nutrient pack instead of scanning it, her rival's plan would have failed completely.
Her own arrogance had caused her to be captured, and had come within a razor's edge of costing their child her life. Or perhaps worse. Again, she had underestimated an enemy. T'Pol closed her eyes, and once more recited the Disciplines. It was imperative that she avoid distracting her mate. Whatever the purpose of the meeting to which he had been summoned, it would surely require his full attention.
Her hand unconsciously touched the Type I phaser at her belt again. Trip had agreed to give her the weapon after hearing of the 'assassination attempt', to her astonished delight. However, he had modified it. The miniature device was capable of delivering a moderate stun, no more. He had informed her bluntly that if she killed anyone at all, for any reason, he would set both collar controls to maximum and leave them that way for two days.
She was still incredulous that he permitted her to have it. Her mate's faith in Defiant's database must be absolute. Or perhaps it was her real fear, leaking through the bond, that convinced him. She had never been so terrified in her life as when she heard Hess gleefully threaten her baby.
For the thousandth time T'Pol paused beside the bed and put her hand on the wall. Her daughter was warm and content. The painful tightness of her muscles eased a fraction. She smiled.
"Soon, my beloved. Soon we will touch."
She pulled away reluctantly and resumed the movements of a hunting predator.
#
Darkness. Cold. Silence.
Krasen's awareness emerged from the fringes of oblivion. Points of light formed in his viewport. He was approaching Jupiter Station at a speed that would ensure his death on impact if he did not begin deceleration soon. He raised his concentration to the first level of meditation, aware of the outer world but still insulated from it. Sufficient oxygen and energy remained in the suit to keep him alive until he got inside. Barely. The suit thrusters were dead, as expected.
His improvised reaction pistol was awkwardly shaped and inefficient. But the optical sighting mechanism gave him a means of dead reckoning that sufficed to slow his trajectory to a survivable impact velocity. A few feather light taps served for course correction. He took aim for the lower levels of the station, which his research had indicated were reserved for cargo delivery.
The outer latticework of the station's docking structure drifted past, black silhouettes against the gas giant below. Only a few lights, and the occasional backlit port from some docked ship, gave evidence that the station was not an ancient relic. With no power left to energize his comm unit, Krasen drifted through the silent black alone with his thoughts.
The bulk of the station proper drifted closer with dreamlike patience. His suit's oxygen was effectively depleted, but he was less then two minutes from contact. Krasen turned his awareness inward, siphoning resources from his cellular reserves to provide the energy he needed to complete his objective. By the time he was fully alert again, the hull of the station was less than ten meters below him.
Krasen detached a magnetic grapnel and sent it tenderly spinning downward. It struck the hull and adhered instantly, with barely an impact. One light tug on the tether pulled him toward the anchor point, feet first. Like the grapnel, the magnets embedded in his boots auto-activated on contact. He now had 3.5 minutes to find, enter, and cycle an airlock before hypoxia overcame him.
He made it with thirteen seconds to spare.
#
Tucker walked into the conference room and snapped to attention. His right fist smacked into his left shoulder, then he stood rigid. General Kuchera looked him over with a glint of interest. Travis eyed him in bland acknowledgment of his presence. Hoshi merely looked amused. "At ease, Commodore," the empress told him. "Have a seat. I'm sure you remember General Kuchera."
"Yes, ma'am." Tucker seated himself at the foot of the table, as per protocol, leaving the three big dogs clustered together at the other end. He maintained a stiffly upright posture and waited for instructions.
"That will be all, Lieutenant Commander," Travis told Cole. She, also standing icicle straight, did not bat an eye - merely performed a flawless about face and marched back out. The escort had not followed them into the room. Since the walls were already lined with bodyguards, their presence would have been redundant to say the least.
"The general requested a meeting with you, Tucker," Hoshi told him. "He also wants to inspect the station." She eyed him. "You have no objection I trust?"
"Certainly not, your majesty." Tucker continued to hold himself rigid. "I am honored to host such a distinguished visitor." She blinked and looked at him more closely. Travis scratched his nose and his lips twitched.
"Tucker? Are you feeling ill?" At his head shake she demanded, "Then what's going on here? The last time I saw you sitting like that was at the hearing where Archer wanted to airlock your second. I don't know what rumors you may have heard, but no one intends to space any of your people at the moment."
Tucker kept a stiff upper lip. "With respect, your majesty. Since the admiral and yourself have seen fit to entrust me with the command of such a crucial facility, I consider it imperative that I adjust my manners and habits of speech to more appropriate standards." She stared at him briefly, before snorting and shaking her head. The poker face that Travis wore would have done credit to a statue.
Kuchera, however, nodded approvingly. "Good. The higher the command level, the more strictly one should observe protocol."
Tucker inclined his head. "Thank you, sir. Your approval means a great deal to me." Even Travis looked at him curiously after that one. "I am prepared to begin the inspection at your convenience."
"Not quite yet," Hoshi said lazily. "Talk to me about the upgrades. How are things progressing?"
"With the additional personnel," Tucker told her, "we have been able to average two ships per day. At the current rate, I anticipate completing the required retrofits approximately half a day ahead of schedule."
Mayweather nodded approvingly. "How are the new designs coming along?"
Tucker took a deep breath. "There is one possibility that I wanted to explore, but time and resources have prevented it. It's an experimental idea of my own, not a duplication from Defiant's database."
"Really?" Hoshi leaned forward and started twirling a lock of hair. "You intrigue me, Mr. Tucker. Keep talking."
"As you know, your majesty," he said, "I'm working on improving our torpedo yields." She and Travis nodded, while Kuchera leaned forward, looking fascinated. "At present I lack the time to upgrade our manufacturing base. But I ran some calculations. I believe that we could use Defiant's own replication capacity to produce an excess stockpile of torpedoes for the task force. They would be incompatible with the existing launchers of course. But Defiant's torpedoes are self-propelled and self-guided."
"I love it!" Her imperial majesty squealed in delight. "How many can we add to the fleet?" She was practically bouncing in her chair.
"Not as many as I'd like," he told her ruefully. "But I'm confident that we could produce at least two Defiant-class torpedoes for each Terran warship in the task force prior to launch."
"Wonderful!" She paused at his raised hand. "What?"
"Piggybacking the new torpedoes with an improvised mounting system will reduce their effectiveness," he told her reluctantly. "The explosive yield will be the same, but the range will be about 56% of what a proper launch mechanism could achieve."
"What about accuracy?" Travis wanted to know.
"That shouldn't be an issue," Tucker told him. "The internal guidance system has a remarkably sophisticated AI program. All the NX class ships will need to do is release them and tell them where to go. The torpedoes will steer themselves."
"Well, General?" Travis asked mildly. "Do you begin to see why her majesty decided to promote the commodore to his new position?"
"Indeed." Kuchera looked at Trip. "I came up through the ranks myself, young man. I have long believed that if you give your people room, innate talent will eventually win out." His lips twitched. "Not all of us think the right family name confers infallibility."
"I quite agree," Travis said with a dangerous smile. Tucker's face was impervious to expression. "What do you need to make this happen, Commodore?"
"Twenty more engineers," he replied promptly. "Experienced people with practice working in zero gee. Priority access to processed materials to feed Defiant's replicators. Ten of the two-person sleds, along with supplemental life support gear for every man."
"You will have it before the end of beta shift," Hoshi promised. She looked at Kuchera. "That won't be a difficulty, will it General?"
"No," he said emphatically. "None at all. I will send out the orders as soon as this meeting is concluded."
"In that case..." Hoshi stood up. "The meeting is concluded. Get busy gentlemen. We have a war to win."
#
Krasen reached up and yanked hard on the tips of his ears. The artificial points tore loose, exposing his surgical alterations. He peeled off the synthetic Vulcan eyebrows he wore and re-aligned them to conform to Human norms. The reek wafting up from the collar of his suit informed him that the drug cocktail had taken effect, his body odor was already very close to Human standard. If the other drug worked, his blood should now be red, and remain that color for the next three days. Krasen considered it unlikely that he would survive long enough for deficiencies in his disguise to become an issue. With the favor of the ancient Vulcan gods, he would be dead within an hour. At most, less than a day.
The airlock port offered a limited view of the storage area. It was dimly lit, implying that the Humans used it intermittently. He finished removing his suit and extracted a listening probe from his tool kit. The micro-thin wire bore its way through the airlock seal and started scanning the room beyond for anything in the frequency range of a Human voice. Nothing. He moved out on silent feet.
#
Tucker headed for engineering, using the excuse that he needed to get things underway for the new torpedo production. Actually, he had discussed the matter with Hess and Rostov more than once and both knew exactly what had to be done. But Tucker had never seen the point in confusing a superior officer with information they didn't need.
Both Anna and Michael were waiting for him, as requested. He greeted both of them with publicly restrained courtesy and asked for a quick inspection with Michael before meeting them in the chief's office. Anna nodded, not quite meeting his eyes, and headed for the nearest console. Tucker raked a look across Rostov and jerked his head sideways.
It was the swiftest 'casual' inspection in military history, and it ended with the pair of them on a catwalk above and behind the warp core. Even Defiant's shielding was hard put to contain the hellish radiation, and the temperature was well above comfort. But it was the only place on the ship where no one, not even an engineer, could eavesdrop on them.
Tucker braced himself against the corner railing and crossed his arms. Rostov looked innocent and hooked his thumbs in his belt. "What do you think, Commodore? Have we kept her mopped and dusted?" He grinned.
Tucker did not return the smile. "Did you really think that I wouldn't have my own quarters monitored? With the Vulcan and everything else that's in there?"
Rostov let his face settle into a resigned expression. "I was keeping my fingers crossed that you wouldn't check the records until we go them separated."
Tucker tapped his temple with a finger. "Vulcans are the best liars in the galaxy. But their weak point is this telepathy. They can't lie to their own family. Just won't work, the bond turns them in every time. It frustrates the shit out of her, but she can't do it. I can always tell when she's trying to pull one."
Michael nodded. "Makes sense." He looked at Tucker. "I didn't know what else to do, Boss. It was the only way I could think of to keep 'em away from each other until you got... the important stuff clear and onto the station."
They regarded each other in silence for a time. Tucker finally said, "I'm not arguing with success. It worked, and that's what counts. But now what do I do about Anna?"
"I dunno, Boss," Rostov said soberly. "What do you wanna do?"
Tucker rubbed his chin. "You'd be the best thing that ever happened to her, if she had sense enough to realize it." He chewed his tongue a minute in contemplation.
"Not happening, Boss. You know that." Despite his best efforts, a faint taste of bitterness rode on the backs of his words. "You're the one she wants. That's all of it."
"Not happening," Tucker echoed him. "I can't get loose from the Vulcan. If I did, it would just kill me slow. I wouldn't do that to Anna anyway. She deserves better. She deserves a man who's ready to tough it out to the end."
Rostov pressed his lips together and looked away. Finally he said, "I thought maybe..." His mouth closed.
"Yeah." Tucker nodded. "Maybe with me out of the way, she might pull her head out of her ass. I'll do my best to encourage it."
Michael looked at him with an unreadable expression. "It won't cause any trouble with the plan, either way."
"I know that," Tucker said, disgusted. "Now let's go. I got some top brass waiting for me to babysit him through an inspection on the station, and no time to eat, sleep, or crap."
#
Krasen kept his head down and mopped industriously. It was a prevailing characteristic of Humans - very seldom did they interact with maintenance personnel. In fact, most of them never bothered to look at him beyond a swift glance. The cleaning work he was performing, according to Krasen's information, was usually reserved for punishment duty. No one was interested in socializing with an simple crewman who was either at the bottom of the seniority list, or had earned the ire of a superior.
His Vulcan hearing was once again proving its value. Already Krasen had learned that Tucker had been called to the flagship for a briefing. Further, snips of casual gossip told him that the fleet preparations were on schedule and the attack would commence in seven days. But it seemed that the lower rankings had no more idea of their target than he did.
He considered his options. It might be possible to crack the security on the station's computer system and discover the fleet's objective. But it would leave him highly vulnerable to discovery. He rejected the idea. If he could learn the objective with minimal risk before killing Tucker, so much the better. If not, the rebels had other operatives capable of gaining the information. His primary task took priority over all else.
Krasen stiffened, along with everyone else, when the loudspeaker activated. He stood trembling with barely contained rage as the Human announced proudly that General Kuchera, most senior member of the High Command, was personally arriving with the Commodore to conduct a hands-on inspection.
Kuchera. The Butcher. There was not a single member of the Vulcan species who would not gladly give their lives, and all they owned, if it would buy Kuchera's death. And he was here, along with Tucker. They would no doubt be in close proximity to each other during the tour. His last doubts about the existence of the old gods was swept away forever. Only divine favor could have brought him the gift of this opportunity. Krasen intended to make certain that it was not wasted.
He started carefully working his way toward the shuttle bay.
#
TBC