[! Author's Note !]
Okay, I lied again...well sort of. I sort of realized that chapter 25 was not the transition point for the intermission that I wanted it to be, there were things I had to wrap up to make the passage of time flow more logically. Thus, it will be Chapter 26 that will serve as a breaking point for Book I, and the story will resume with chapter 27 after some more work has been done on my other stories. So...here we go.
Archer glanced tentatively over to his science officer, over the past four months he had tried repeatedly to reconnect with his chief engineer only to be rebuffed again and again. Trip was never rude, he just always made sure he had a convenient excuse to beg off with, even going as far to take extra responsibilities and projects on for the express purpose of being able to avoid an invitation to the captain's mess. At least Archer was becoming increasingly sure that was the case; it was generally believed that if invited to the captain's table you did not refuse unless you had some duty or obligation to the ship that precluded your presence. He knew for a fact that Trip went many a night without a meal for the express purpose of avoiding his company, and he found that rather than make him angry, it just hurt now. Trip was back to his affable self, but there was always a subtle strain when they conversed about anything, like Tucker was trying his hardest to be nice, be polite, try to be "himself" with the captain.
"Sub-commander..."
T'Pol was finally starting to show a little, a tell-tale sign of her condition and there was a growing sense of excitement on the ship over the pregnancy. She and Trip had agreed that they would not reveal the baby's gender until they were prepared to depart Enterprise for whatever the future held in store for them. "Yes, captain?"
"Any chance I could get you and Commander Tucker to join Commander Hernandez and I for dinner this evening?" If he ambushed T'Pol with the request, Trip might end up co-opted into attendance, and one week out from Sol he was rapidly running out of opportunities.
"Commander Tucker will be engaged with his quarterly small arms re-qualification this evening, captain." The Vulcan replied.
"That shouldn't take him too long..." Hernandez declared frankly, not sure if she was helping or hurting.
"He will be performing additional qualification exercises on the Enhanced Battle Rifle and Designated Marksman Rifle this time which will likely increase the time to complete the drills by two hundred thirty eight percent." T'Pol answered evenly.
"How many weapon systems is he qualified on now?" Reed inquired, slipping his way into the conversation.
"After today it will be nine, providing there are no setbacks." T'Pol replied, the faintest hint of pride detectable in her voice.
Reed grunted, a chagrined look on his face, "Who seriously needs to know nine weapon systems?"
Travis Mayweather spoke up, never lifting his eyes from his navigation console, "You're qualified in that many, aren't you lieutenant commander?"
Sato smirked, "Ship systems don't count, even I'm qualified to operate those."
Reed looked embarrassed and more than a little crest-fallen. "Actually, I'm only qualified on three ground combat systems..."
"Ever seen them do their range work?" Sato inquired.
"No, I haven't actually, never did much care for the smell of cordite." Reed replied, frowning slightly.
"I have witnessed commander Tucker performing his quarterly range duty." T'Pol replied.
"How good a shot is he?" Malcolm seemed keenly interested in the way one sought to learn of a potential rival's weaknesses.
"It is a highly subjective measure, I would not attempt to provide an appraisal of his skill level without a sufficient point of reference." T'Pol hadn't managed to start sounding any less Vulcan in the past four months.
"What is his range time?" Mayweather inquired, again keeping his eyes dutifully glued to the flight controls.
"Nineteen thirty hours."
Hernandez had tried to play the role of peacemaker, or rather, family preserver trying to smooth over the strained relationship between Archer and Tucker. The Enterprise as a family had seemed to follow the ubiquitous paradigm of son rebelling against father with Tucker breaking free of the influence and control of Archer to establish himself as his own adult. When Jon had explained that he thought his personal attraction to T'Pol had been part of the source of resentment she had almost been prepared to write him off for good, but she had exercised restraint and upon reflection had realized she had been attracted to other men over the years too. It didn't stop her from razzing him a good deal about it, but she had worked to be understanding.
She was beginning to believe that she and Jon would never have anything that approached a normal relationship, it was like they were already an old married couple that had been accustomed to each other for decades. She didn't find that she particularly wanted a romantic or even sexual relationship with Archer, she just wanted to be with him like she had been for years. She was relatively certain they would both seek physical fulfillment elsewhere, but they'd never be parted from one another. Trip and T'Pol, on the other hand, had the genuine item, a very clear utter and all consuming passion for one another. Seven more days and Enterprise would be back at LaGrange 2 for additional refits and three days after that both Tucker and T'Pol would be leaving the ship for good. In a way it made her sad, but it didn't hurt nearly as bad as watching the subtle and understated agony Archer had been in ever since the couple returned from the three day liberty on Vulcan.
"When's he get off his shift, sub-commander?" She inquired, casually.
"Nineteen hundred is when his shift is completed, but traditionally he remains an additional ten to twenty minutes to ensure that all possible concerns or projects from his shift will be adequately compensated for by the following shift." T'Pol answered succinctly.
"Why exactly, again, is he pulling the twelve hours shifts?" Archer asked of his XO, his eyes betraying his belief that there had been a measure of conspiracy involved.
"He insisted that the additional two hours on his normal ten hour shift gives him more time to ensure Kelby knows all the tricks of the trade." Hernandez countered, arching her brows in a helpless expression that as much said "I didn't like it, but he made a good point".
"We could go spy on him at the range." Hoshi posited, "We'll have time to grab dinner and then head up to the Starboard catwalk to watch the show."
"Would that not constitute and additional stressor for Commander Tucker to have to deal with?" T'Pol presented, "I believe the human terms is, 'no pressure'."
"Nothing wrong with keeping him on his toes." Malcolm stifled the smirk.
Trip left Engineering with fifteen minutes to spare, rushing back to his and T'Pol's quarters to change out of his jump suit and into a pair of sweatpants and a T-Shirt. When he entered their billet he half expected to find his wife waiting for him, instead he found the quarters empty except for the sehlat cub. It had been a cultural concession that allowed the creature on the ship at all, it was generally assumed that Archer's dog was a colossal wink-and-nod concession made by MCS for their vanguard captain. In some ways the sehlat was better behaved than Porthos, he was now, as he did most days, sleeping on their bunk, looking up only to yawn then once again lowered its head.
Trip's mental processes had been so focused on getting ready to head to the range in the powered down nacelle that he hadn't bothered trying to connect to her through the bond. When he reached out to her mind he sensed she was in the company of others and allowed his thoughts to just barely brush hers. He determined she was having dinner, the atmosphere was close and quiet, she was clearly in the captain's mess and based on her mental perceptions she was clearly in the company of Archer and Hernandez. He pulled back, letting his thoughts drift out of the bond as not to disturb her. He was experiencing more than a little irritation and discomfort, he still had not come to terms with Archer, and while T'Pol's relationship with the captain had normalized he still felt a sense of betrayal that she would choose to associate with someone he considered to be a foe, even if Jon was still his superior.
He stripped out of the uniform and quickly washed his face and hands before donning a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt. Lacing up his athletic shoes he checked the time, he still had seven minutes to make it to the catwalk. He hated coming in just under the wire, so upon finishing attending to the shoes and exiting the quarters he began jogging to the Starboard access tube. T'Pol's quarters were on the port side of E-deck, but fortunately closer to the catwalk than his old quarters were, crammed in the bow section port side. He wove between the crew moving through the corridors; alpha shift going to get dinner or heading to the recreation hall, charlie shift doing the same in preparation of replacing bravo shift. Upon reaching the access ladder he began climbing two rungs at a time, finally making it to the catwalk with four minutes to spare. Major Hayes and Gunnery Sergeant Coyle were already there waiting, the seventy one meter long catwalk converted into an impromptu range with weapons, magazines, and boxed ammunition already set up.
"Gentlemen..." Trip intoned with a nod.
"We'd like to start you on the DMR and EBR, commander. It'll probably take longer for you to get accustomed to the feel for them since you're not going to get much in the way of test firing we should just take it slow." Hayes stated evenly, lifting the lengthened and scoped designated marksman rifle, "Typically we'd have you working this on a three hundred yard target, then take it up to four, five, and six hundred yards respectively. Since we don't have that much space the rifle and load was modified to simulate a three hundred yard engagement range."
Tucker accepted the proffered weapon, bringing the stock tight to his shoulder then, carefully, tucking his elbow in to avoid chicken-winging sighted down the weapon. "It's got good balance on it, heavy on the front end, feels like it knows where it wants t'send the bullet."
"Exactly commander, the heavier barrel helps reduced vibration and the weight helps keep muzzle climb to a minimum." Hayes nodded.
"So you've got half pressure loads and about, what, two mils worth'a offset on the scope?" Tucker queried after a moment sighting down the weapon.
"Very good, commander, you figured that out already?"
"Just doin' the basic arithmetic, major." Trip grinned sheepishly. It hadn't taken him much effort to crunch the numbers in his head and he knew a few things about ballistics. His dad had taught him to shoot as a boy and he found something fascinating about the physics associated with the practice. Charge size, bullet weight, diameter, barrel length, wind, humidity, with an understanding of what they did, how they effected a bullets flight path you could accurately predict within a few inches where a bullet would strike just about every time. Of course there was only so much math that could be done in the head in a given moment, and sometimes a situation called for instinct and gut to get metal on target.
"Well then I'll give you the benefit of the doubt on understanding the ballistics, lets see how you deal with engaging our targets. We've got a two inch plate at the end of the catwalk with a one inch diameter circle on it, five rounds on the circle will simulate about one minute of angle, that'll qualify you." Hayes pointed down to the end of the catwalk.
Trip stepped to the firing line, bringing the rifle up and pulling the stock tight into his shoulder, the barrel shroud resting in his extended left hand. "Got it, how many shots do I have to get on paper?"
"You have eight rounds in the mag, and you've got to get five in the ring." Gunney Coyle spoke up.
Trip let out a single chuckling sound, "No pressure, right?"
"You'll do fine, commander." Hayes said in his usual flat tone, but there was still something reassuring about the words, he sounded convinced of what he was saying.
The enhanced battle rifle had been a pleasure to shoot, the cartridge itself was powerful, much more so than the assault rifle he was used to, but the action was crisp and the heavier barrel gave him a palpable feeling of confidence when swinging the weapon in on his targets, the familiarity of the advanced combat optic and the feel of a long rifle allowed him to qualify with ease, a task he had barely managed with the DMR. The Designated Marksman Rifle had been considerably harder to manipulate and control and it had been with the final round of the magazine he had managed to qualify.
Hayes was stifling a smile, "Very good, commander, you sure we can't talk you into changing branches?"
Tucker smiled sheepishly again, he loved to shoot, found something satisfying about going to the range and putting some rounds on target. Something about the smell of burned off propellant when it was just him shooting didn't bring back memories of 47 or the Romulans. Watching the bullets smack into metal targets or punch through paper was as completely disassociated with the killing that had occurred during the two demi-wars to him as playing a game of football was from close quarters combat to him. "They've still kind of gotta use for me with the starfleet, major."
"Well, then, lets go ahead and get the easy part out of the way so we can all go enjoy our evening." Hayes smirked back.
"Want me to start with the mike one two?" Trip pointed to the carbine length assault rifle.
"That would be best, then we can set up the combat pistol targets." Hayes replied.
Trip lifted the familiar weapon, pulling it tight into his shoulder having failed to notice the group of spectators that had formed behind Gunnery Sergeant Coyle. With knees bent slightly he eyes the target area, a set of reciprocating metal disks, five over five. When struck they made a loud clinking sound easily indicating a hit. With a single magazine of thirty rounds he had to place at least twelve on target to requalify, to ensure he maintained his current sharp shooter status he had to hit with twenty four. His focus crept into his eyes and the tip of his finger, nothing existed but the target, his rifle, and the parts of his body where the rifle touched.
"Begin." Hayes declared.
The rifle snapped upwards and Trip moved to acquire the first gong, and squeezed the trigger.
"Watch this." Hoshi mumbled, leaning in close to Reed and Mayweather to be heard.
A series of sounds merged together, the loud popping sound of the propellant igniting and the hot gasses expanding outwards, pushing the bullet forward, the crack of the bullet moving two and a half times the speed of sound, the metallic clink of the rounds striking the metal targets, and the clatter of thermo-plastic casings hitting the deck. The first five fires coming back to back in such quick succession the uninitiated might confuse it for fully automatic fire. The next five were still quick but nothing compared to the first five as Trip shifted from the larger top disk targets to the much smaller lower five to reset the top row. He repeated the cycle two more times, each time the three sounds occurring in perfect harmony; thirty rounds discharged in a little over eight seconds. With a quick press of the release on the side of the magazine well he dropped the empty container to the ground and pulled back on the charging handle, holding the slide release in the open position to lock the bolt carrier to the rear.
"Bloody hell...he's good." Malcolm uttered under his breath.
"Thirty for thirty, good to see you're not getting rusty, commander." Hayes commented, looking down at a PADD in which he was entering data.
"I any closer to closin' in on staff sarg'nt Cummin's' record?" Trip asked as he un-slung the weapon.
"You're going to have to get in line for that one, commander." Hayes chuckled.
"How far off was I?" Trip asked, looking over to the PADD, still oblivious to his audience. "Damn...really? I gotta shave two whole seconds off?"
"Cummings is a beast, sir." Gunney Coyle declared.
"He sure as hell is..." Trip began fastening his thigh holster, "Just the mike fifty two now, right?"
"That's correct commander, going for the record this time or did you burn it all up on the M twelve?" Hayes asked as he queued up the paper pistol targets.
"You betcha...who do I have to beat on this one, again?" Trip grinned as he picked up the side-arm, pulling the slide back a quarter inch to ensure a round was chambered .
"Record belongs to Captain Dan Cooke, commanding, bravo company, second battalion, sixth marines on March seventh, twenty one thirty seven." Gunnery Sergeant Coyle intoned with almost mechanical precision.
"Nobody on the boat?" Trip furrowed his brow.
"Negative, sir, you beat us all your first requal we were stationed here for." Coyle replied.
Hayes tapped a few buttons on the PADD, "Weapons free."
T'Pol clamped her hands behind her back, she had watched him practicing with the side-arm before, his speed was almost incomprehensible, a product of the series five gene augmentations designed to produce super soldiers. His hand went from resting just above the weapon to clamped around the handgun in a rigid weaver-stance which let out a staccato series of loud pops. Bringing the weapon back close to his body the magazine dropped to the deck as he quickly snatched another from a pouch on the thigh holster, sliding it into the grip and hitting the slide release in a smooth motion and bringing the weapon back to bear in the weaver stance. He held sight picture a moment then lowered the weapon, hitting the magazine release and catching it in his left hand before working the slide and catching the unspent round as it was ejected from the weapon, setting the three items down on the ledge on from which he had initially taken it.
"Weapon clear." Trip declared crisply.
"What happened? A misfire?" Travis inquired, looking from Hoshi back to the fire line and back again.
Sato's mouth was wide, she shook her head slowly, not believed what she had just seen, "That was hardly a misfire."
Hayes crossed to the five paper targets, the front row of three each containing a neat pair of holes in the neck of the outline. The rear two targets each contained a single hole right in the center of the head area. Eight lethal wounds total, five targets reduced, the double taps to the necks designed to rapidly incapacitate while the head wounds would have been for all practical purposes instantly lethal.
"Point niner five one seconds, and that's the record Commander, and plenty of witnesses." Hayes nodded and looked past Tucker's shoulder, prompting the commander to turn.
Before he had made eye contact he felt the surge of pride through the bond. Spyin' on me, darlin'?
There was some curiosity regarding your firearm abilities, k'diwa.
Hoshi immediately launched into applause, "Nice shooting, commander."
"The peanut gallery, huh?" Trip grinned then noticed Archer and Hernandez, he nodded, "Cap'n, commander."
"T'Pol said you were re-qualifying this evening, figured we'd do dinner and a show." Archer tried to sound casual but there was a little of awkwardness in his voice.
Trip replied with faux personability, "The real show was me gettin' my butt kicked by the DMR, I pulled that off by the skin'a my teeth."
"If we can get everyone to swear off on the result we can certify this as the record for the five target pistol drill." Hayes commented, stepping to a position where both Tucker and the spectators were plainly visible.
"We might have to put an asterisk on that, Major. I modified the trigger on that M fifty two; changed it from a three point two to a two point eight pound trigger pull."
Hayes shrugged, "We can note it was modified but honestly, commander, most of the old mike fifty twos didn't have a set number on the trigger pull, they typically were between two six and three five."
"Tinkering with weapons is risky business." Reed admonished, his body language showing more than a little jealousy.
Mayweather smirked at the armory officer, "Tinkering is what led to the M twenty seven A one, lieutenant commander."
"Tinkering with a phased won't cause it to explode in your hand." Malcolm protested.
"Neither will fiddling with the trigger group on a handgun." Hoshi countered wryly.
"Alright folks," Trip interjected, "Lets clear the Nacelle so Kelby can get the coils fired back up. Vamoose!"
"Care to join us for coffee, commander?" Archer inquired, hoping the impromptu overture would catch him without a plausible excuse where-by to excuse himself.
"I gotta head down to engineerin' once we drop off all this stuff," Trip lifted the EBR and DMR from where they were sitting against the bulkhead, "and make sure we getting everything back up and runnin' I'd hate for a seven day trip back to L two to end up takin' ten on my account."
"Maybe tomorrow..." Archer was fishing.
"Not likely, sir, I've got about seventeen days of work and ten days to get it all done in." Tucker stated plainly as he bent down to grab a steel case of 6.8mm assault rifle ammunition in one hand and one of larger 8.6mm marksman rounds in the other.
"Trip, we took a few shots, but its not that bad." Archer scoffed.
"Not the damage that's the issue. Convertin' over for Warp eight protocols is gonna require a refit of the whole EPS grid. They're gonna be replacin' every EPS conduit and manifold in the system at Lagrange two. Problem is those heavy duty numbers are shoddy, lousy mountin' hardware, and they bleed off power from the connection points. They're not gonna pass muster, so we need to fabricate adapters to makes up for the bad mounts and go ahead and get 'em emplaced before the work starts of Kelby's gonna have about a month of work to do after the fact."
"I had no idea..." Archer choked out.
"Most folks don't see why they're still usin' the damn things." Trip shifted the other case of ammunition over to his left hand, looping a pair of fingers through the carrying handle on each and grabbing the assault rifle with his right. "Major, need anybody else to carry anythin'?"
"Me and the gunney can take care of it Commander, just report back to Staff Sergeant Chang at Armory three, sir."
"Roger that." Trip stepped to the door, slung the assault rifle and began climbing down the access ladder one handed. "Down ladder, down ladder. Anyway..." He continued between grunts as he worked his way down the ladder laden as he was, "that's just one of the problems we need to address. We still need to make that ceramic bufferin' system for the main deflector to cut down on energy loss, fabricate new ammunition feed flexies for the extra sabot magazines for batteries three and thirteen. And, unless you want to be gettin' this request tossed up to you three times a week, I'd really better put that large-screen display in the mess area."
Archer chuckled, "Couldn't Kelby just tell them 'no' like you do?"
"Kelby is a good guy, but he just does not have a very convincin' pissed-off face. He'd say 'no' and the next thing you know they'd be submittin' the request directly to you, cap'n."
Archer furrowed his brows in concern, "Is that going to be a problem for the department?"
"Nope, everyone in engineerin' respects him, he held everything together on the warp eight run back to Earth with the Vulcan High Command, managed to actually tweak efficiency, and he's fair, he won't have any problems with the department."
Trip reached to T'Pol through the bond upon reaching the bottom of the access ladder, Careful on the ladder, darlin'.
Her mental reply sounded at once amused and a little offended, Trip, I know how to use a ladder.
I know, but you're new to this whole pregnant thing, darlin'.
My morphology has not yet been pronouncedly effected.
Trip waited in place for his observers to descend, and waiting dutifully and almost apprehensively while T'Pol made her way down.
"She's not about to pop yet, commander." Hoshi said under her breath, just close enough for Trip to hear.
Trip blushed, stepping back and away, suddenly remember that while the present company and majority of the MARSOC detachment were privy to the truth about his relationship with T'Pol, he had to maintain appearances that he was nothing more than stud-horse to the remainder of the crew. T'Pol finished her descent without issue and took up a position just slightly closer to Commander Tucker than would be dictated under normal circumstances, hands clamped behind her back. To the untrained eye it would simply appear that T'Pol was wearing a slightly looser uniform than usual, only those who knew her well could detect the physical signs of her pregnancy.
Hernandez was the first to speak up, "You look tired, commander, maybe you should retire for the night."
"Sorry, ma'am, no can do, I need to get fabrication started, we've got make and prep installation for eight hundred and thirty hardware adapters, and that's just the first thing on the list." Trip replied with a bit of a frown.
K'diwa, you will not be returning to our quarters tonight?
I'm sorry, darlin', but I've just got too much to take care of.
Trip had been true to his word, almost too much so. T'Pol had been experiencing some slight mood swings and hormone imbalance that had become more pronounced the last month and a half. Her desire to spend time with her mate had prompted her to begin some creative rescheduling of science/astronomical phenomena department duties. To her chagrin Trip had been doing as much to avoid spending to much time alone with her as he had been trying to avoid the captain. She never felt a sense of rejection, always she could feel the soothing threads of his affection in the bond, but now it was tamped down by the weight of almost self-mortifying discipline. He quashed his own desires with a sort of mental brutality that was hard for her to be privy too, even harder to imagine what it must feel like to him. He was sleeping less, eating less, he had also become remarkably terse in most of his interactions. There had been comments that the commander had gotten progressively more cranky over the last four months which prompted a whole school of speculation over the cause.
She found many of them amusing, not because of their inherent inaccuracy but because of how close they came to the truth without actually striking upon it. Some speculated that it was lack of sex that was causing the problem. Implications were made of Vulcan frigidity and in the closeness of mutual quarters Tucker couldn't manually attend to certain biological proclivities. Others suggested that in accordance with Vulcan tradition they were now married and that Tucker didn't want to be tied down with T'Pol. One speculation posited that there was a fundamental disagreement between the two of what the child-to-be would be named and where it would be raised.
The last had a higher degree of plausibility by dint of the ability to suspend disbelief, it also implied that their relationship was inherently functional in its own right but they were subject to disagreements. In point of fact they had already arrived at both decisions with ease. She thought back remembering the day in sick-bay when Phlox had been able to scan and identify the baby's gender. Phlox retired back to his office on the pretense of checking something to give the couple a few moments alone with the revelation.
"K'diwa...I wish to name him for my father."
Trip was smiling wide, eyes loving and just barely rimmed in tears of joy, "Of course, darlin', what's our lil guy's name?"
"Solan." She said, her voice choked with emotion.
"That's a great name, baby. Our lil Solan." He placed a hand over her womb, resting it there.
There had, fortunately, been no further medical scares since her body's attack on the implantation site almost five months ago. All of the scans indicated a phenomenally healthy fetus with a remarkable mixture of both human and Vulcan genetic markers. Phlox had enthusiastically pointed out certain points on the genome map, identifying traits as either human or vulcan and what significance they carried. He seemed as enthusiastic as if the child to be was his own, smiling wide and stifling chortles.
"Such a fantastic pairing! I'm surprised you managed to do this so well on your own."
She and Trip had exchanged amused looks, "While Commander Tucker may not have objected to observation in that regard I can assure you I would have found such non-essential persons...distracting, given the situation."
Given his current disposition T'Pol was certain that Trip's reserve was nearing it's end. He had been correct that their intimacy had made refraining from engaging in acts of affection incredibly hard over the last four months. While the patrol had a marked degree of tension and risk related stress, it had been shorter than average. Enterprise had been patrolling the border consistently, for 128 days straight. A week in they had discovered an active scan protocol that could at least detect cloaked Romulan ships, it was a clumsy method and required the Enterprise to constantly broadcast its location much like early human Sonar. Six times they had been forced to engage and beat Romulan warships back across the cordon and into their space. All along the boarder there had been dozens of potential incursions and in each situation the sensor protocols they had developed helped turn back the Romulan ships or, in some occasions, destroy them.
The temporary coalition that had formed was torn on what possible punitive actions should be taken against the Romulan Empire. Both Andoria and, surprisingly, Vulcan favored an expeditionary force being sent into Romulan space to find and reduce strategic assets and military staging areas. Tellar had been in favor of Annexation while Rigel had agreed with Earth a tempered approach of economic embargo and containment was preferable. The debates where heated, almost seeming hostile at points, but there was no denying that there was something occurring between their five peoples. Trade, military exchange, and co-chaired projects had increased markedly. Andoria no long required Tellarite freighters be boarded and inspected after reporting into the regional outposts. Rigel had removed all trade duties, Vulcan was actually working with Andoria on a joint defense cordon.
I understand, K'diwa, please be certain to attend to your nutritional intake and sleep requirement later. It hurt a little to be deprived of her mate, but she understood his reasoning and the pain it was causing him too.
"Alright folks, I gotta get this issue back to the armory, y'all enjoy y'all's evenin's."
"Don't work too hard, Trip." Archer intoned as the engineer began to walk away.
"No promises." Tucker fired back in a crowing tone.
MCS protocols dictated that maintaining warp coming into or while in transit of the Sol system was strictly forbidden except in time of war or other expedient emergencies. Even at full impulse it would take them several hours to reach Lagrange 2. Archer sat in the command couch reviewing department reports but was only half paying attention. Three days, three more days and he was losing both T'Pol and Trip, and while he felt he had made some serious progress with Tucker since their confrontation in the corridor after he returned from his R&R on Vulcan almost five months ago, he knew things were still not "alright" between them. The other day he had seen perfectly calm and pleasant when Archer had come to examine progress in engineering, Tucker had cracked a few jokes, pointed out upgrades they had made and enthusiastically elaborated on what significance they held for the ship. It was almost like the old Trip was back, but there was something cold in his eyes, it seemed to indicate he was making either a supreme effort or was a phenomenal actor.
Chief Yeoman Garnier interrupted his contemplation, "Sir, the invitations for the Naval Ball and Gala were transmitted twenty eight minutes ago and have completed printing, I have them here, sir."
Ears pricked and heads rose from their individual responsibilities, the Naval Ball was one of the barometers for individual career advancement. An invitation meant that you were being considered for staff level positions or promotion. Receiving an invitation at all was an indicator that MCS believed the individual had a promising career ahead of them. Some officers never received an invitation, for the vast majority of commissioned officers they could expect to only be graced with a single invitation throughout their career. There were numerous smaller galas and socials held by MCS, usually at the fleet level, but the Naval Ball was for the best and brightest. A printer was kept on each ship to produce the invitations for such formal gatherings, with the Naval ball the text was metallic silver on an eggshell colored stock. If the text was printed in metallic Gold it indicated an imminent promotion.
Archer accepted the invitations from the Chief and began thumbing through them. There were seventeen total for the Enterprise which was a relatively unprecedented number. He noted his, Hernandez's, and Reed's invitations all in the traditional silver ink and paused at the gilt letters of the following invitation, pulling it out of the stack.
"Miss Sato..." Archer lilted.
"Sir?" His communications/electronic warfare officer chirped.
"Looks like you're going to be lieutenant Sato soon." Archer grinned.
To her credit Hoshi didn't squeal, but her voice showed her intense pleasure at the announcement. "Thank you, sir."
"Congrats, Hoshi." Mayweather declared, a big smile on his face.
Archer went back to thumbing through the invitations; Mayweather, Kelby, Clarke, DiTomaso, most of his senior officers, then another edge of Gold lettering caught his eye, lifting it out of the stack his stomach lurched. The text seemed to stare back at him sullenly, defying him to try to deny what he was seeing; Charles Anthony Tucker III.
He put it back into the stack and continued thumbing through, looking for another set of gold letters so he could ask the question that was even now chewing at him. The gnawing feeling in the pit of his stomach made him feel physically ill, he wasn't sure why, it wasn't jealousy or indignation, just a sudden sense of uncertainty and maybe even a little fear. What did it all mean? Could it be they would be pulling him from Enterprise and not Trip? Were they going to have Trip another boat and pulling him off Enterprise in the first place was just to placate what MCS viewed to be an intractable commanding officer? He almost felt dizzy, head swimming and he felt a tightness in his throat.
"XO, could you come speak with me in my office, please." Archer croaked quietly.
"Aye, sir." Erika replied crisply. "Lieutenant Commander Reed, you have the conn."
"Aye aye, ma'am." Reed stepped away from the tactical station and made his way to the command couch.
Archer stepped into the ready room and moved to behind his desk, looking out the plate sized porthole. Hernandez stepped into the room a moment later, when the door closed she leaned back against the wall, arms crossed.
"What's this about, Jon?"
Archer pulled out the invitation and tossed it onto the desk. The raven haired XO looked down at the desk, not even seeing the name, just the gold lettering and dropped her arms to her side, "We knew this would happen eventually, but just think of it this way, that means Admiral is in the pipeline for you soon."
"It's not yours...look at it closely." Archer replied in a quiet voice.
Hernandez stepped closer, leaning in to look at the named on the invitation prompting an immediate huffing voice, "Well, how about that..."
"What do you think it means?" Archer said quietly.
"I'd guess this means they're going to end up sticking him on a Frigate doing Sol security patrols, it'll keep him close enough to Earth that he can be home a few days every month." Erika shrugged.
"He's been receiving alpha three level priority messages from Admiral Black for the last six weeks." Archer turned to look at his XO, "I don't even have alpha three clearance."
Erika folder her arms back across her chest, looking down at the desk, chewing on her lower lip as she tried to divine some sort of meaning behind it all. Alpha tree clearance, a promotion, the extent to which MCS was willing to go to let Tucker transfer off Enterprise when they could just as easily say "deal with it" and leave him to either accept his posting or resign. She didn't feel any particular animus towards Trip at all, his subtle anger with the captain was in many ways understandable as was his willingness to sacrifice his career for a family. As long as she had known Jon she was fully aware he could be a complete child when things didn't go the way wanted as it pertained to his ship and crew.
"You know," She began, "every time something happens with Tucker that throws you, you always retreat to this room."
Archer turned around, a frown on his face, "What are you trying to imply?"
"Stop running from it, Jon. Just stop running away scared every time Trip does something that doesn't fit into your visions of him. I don't know if you always saw him as a little brother or a son or what, but he's not that Florida kid in the ridiculous swim trunks with the spear gun anymore. He's a man, you've watched him become one. He didn't screw T'Pol in the back of his car after prom, he go his wife pregnant because they wanted to start a family together. He didn't take over the football team and then tell you to stop telling him how to run his team, he led hundreds of men in battle against an overwhelming enemy force. No matter how much you want him to stay that fifteen year old kid, he has proved to the world he's not." She half scolded, half consoled. She often had to take this role; Jonathan Archer was one of the coolest heads in a crisis one could imagine, his capacity for diplomacy set the standard for MCS, but when it came to interpersonal relationships he really was still a little boy. "You have to accept the fact he is never going to be that kid again, take pride in the direction you did give him, accept the fact that if we've done our jobs our protégés will always be greater than we are."
"Dammit, you're right..." He gave her a rueful look, "as usual. It's just...I look at him sometimes and I still see that kid. He'll grin or start using his hands when he's talking and I swear, its like I'm right back there at Cocoa Beach again talking to that crazy kid about warp theory and the obsolescence curve of the research and development model."
"Jon, you know he's not that person anymore, he's been through three major conflicts now, he's madly in love with the woman of his dreams and he's got a child on the way." She approached, entering his personal space and placing a hand on his shoulder.
"Hell of a habit to break..."
"If you can do it, you might be able to stop acting like you're still twenty four." She quipped with a smirk, her left brow arched and head bobbing in a snide nod.
He gave his XO a testing look, "I had a lot more energy when I was twenty four."
She raised an admonishing finger, "Oh no you don't...I'm not getting transferred off, and if you were ready to bust Trip and T'Pol over breaking regs I sure as hell am not going to let you get away with it."
Archer sighed in faux defeated exasperation, "We'll just have to wait until you get one of these," He stated flicking the invitation with his index finger.
"Then you better start creating situations that'll buck me for a promotion."
Trip made he was down the length of the corridor on E-Deck heading for his quarters, taking a long moment to remember the events of the last five years living on the ship. He'd seen them at their best and their worst. He could, with just his own two eyes, pick out every wound the ship had suffered over those five years. He remembered the heady days of new star ship smell, when everything was brand new and smelled of industrial chemical compounds and just a general newness. He'd seen this very corridor barely lit with panels ripped open by EPS explosions, beams hanging across the corridor like great tree branches hanging low in a thicket as if it was something out of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow or some Gothic tale. The ship smelled lived in now, dozens of lives taking their course up and down this and the other corridors of the ship. In this moment he felt a pronounced sense of melancholy, it was like he was leaving home knowing he would never return. All the joys, all the pains, each and every sensation he had experienced while serving on Enterprise coming back in a glut of nostalgia fueled sadness.
In all likelihood he would never cross these hallowed halls again, and he ached in his very soul knowing that he wasn't just living a ship and a crew, but a part of his life. The pain of a child moving away, walking through the empty house one last time knowing that all the feelings and friends bound to a geographic locale would be somehow lost. You could never truly go back, even if you kept in touch, you would become an outsider and that special intimacy created in youthful friendship would be lost forever as years rolled by, changing who you were and the people you had once known.
Today, he had to remain strong though, all the events of the years now had led him to this point. A new life, a new path, was laying out before both he and his wife, his T'Pol. An unexplored area, an unknown region of space, a road that ran up a hill and obscured what lay beyond promising both pains and joys and events that would come to further define him lay just over the rise, just around the bend, just one more mile along. Road signs and maps, adventures and disappointments; life...life! He realized that on top of it all he was more than a little scared too. The unknown lay before them when he still felt a strange safety here. All he could do now was to take T'Pol's hand, literally, figuratively, whatever, and head down this new road.
He had resolved to make the cut clean, a swift stroke that would not leave time for any pain. Over the last three days he had very quietly moved their personal possession out of their quarters and off the ship to be delivered to the house MCS had acquired in their stead to act as their quarters. Nine years worth of largely banking his pay had left him with a substantial nest-egg and he had tapped deeply into it to find the perfect house for he and his soon-to-be family. The ship itself was still set to MCS Zulu time which had migrated far from Greenwich, England to San Francisco to fit more uniformly with MCS command. As it was, the time was 0328 as far as operations were concerned, it would be hours before the people that would make this separation the most painful would arise, making this the perfect time. He reached the door and entered before he could think about how the events of his life had changed so radically in this very room.
T'Pol lay curled slightly on the bed, her blue pajamas parting just enough to reveal the slight growth of her belly laden, as it was, with their child. He could almost swear that every time he looked at her he noticed something new about her, it was the sort of thing he would almost be too embarrassed to say out loud, it dropped of money pubescent love. But it was the truth, every day they allowed themselves to be open with each other they learned something new about one another. Most recently he discovered she would mock-wrestle with their sehlat cub. He had returned to their quarters for a quick change of clothes after having disassembled and done thorough maintenance on Ventral rail-gun battery four. His uniform had been covered in a fine layer of black friction soot and he had been forced to seek a replacement. Upon entering the room he had witnessed T'Pol tickling the cubs stomach babbling some nonsense speech in Vulcan, while it's little paws scrambled, trying to gain purchase against the air. When she had turned, she looked surprised, startled even, and she flushed a deep olive shade. She had attempted to explain away the behavior as seeking to ensure the cub was properly socialized with humanoids.
He had to resist the urge to lean in close and wake her with a kiss, it would be far to hokey, even for him. Today, more than any other day, he had to hold himself in check, they are so close, the end was in sight, just another hour or so and they would be free. He could be the husband he wanted to be, tender and loving, supportive of her internal struggle between emotion and logic. She could be the wife he felt that she wanted to be, comforting, steadfast, and mercurially passionate. He resolved himself to head to the washroom to shower before waking her when her eyes opened and she moved her head to look at him.
"K'diwa." She said softly in her sleep constricted voice, reaching a hand outward for him.
Trip stepped over to the bunk and knelt, twining his fingers with hers, and let her touch his mind. He felt her concern and her own sadness, but also a strange contentment that she would be with her mate without the need for appearances or subterfuge.
"You are troubled." She almost whispered.
"Its just a lil sadness, darlin'. We've leavin' a part of our lives behind today." He consoled her gently.
"I do not relish the thought of saying farewell to the crew, I have come to experience...fondness for many of them." Her reply was all Vulcan, but also very much what he would expect of his often strangely emotive T'Pol.
"That's why we're not goin' to, darlin'." Trip reached up and pushed an errant lock of hair from her forehead, "We're goin' to leave now, that's why we prepared the message."
"There are still some clothing and hygiene items that have not been suitable prepare for our departure." Her voice had returned to the analytical T'Pol he found at once annoying and adorable.
"Leave 'em, we'll get whatever we need once we're off the ship. Everything important is already waitin' for us, all we need to do is get ourselves out of here and to our new home."
"Trip, you have not slept in over forty hours, you require rest." She scolded.
He knew what he had to do, the same sort of misdirecting manipulation that always forced concession from her; it was a sneaky tactic on his part, but it worked because there was something inherently genuine in it. Closing his lips over hers he leaned in close, his right hand unlocking from hers and coming down to rest on her belly and, by extension, their child. He closed his eyes immediately, letting himself savor, for just a moment, the sensation of it. He hadn't allowed himself this kind of kiss since they returned from Vulcan, in the name of duty, propriety, and maintaining the illusion he had remained chaste not only in more public areas but in private as well. He let the feeling roll through him, through his mind and out into his body, down burning arms and aching fingers, tired legs and sore feet. Explosions in his brain, before his closed eyes, and a feeling of not just her resolve melting, but his as well.
When they finally parted she opened big brown eyes, pupils wide and her lower lip pouted slightly. "I will begin preparations, K'diwa."
"I love you darlin'." He said gently, bringing his hand up to run the back of his crooked index finger along the contour of her right ear.
Without further platitudes he stood and stepped towards the washroom. "I'm gonna grab a quick shower, I have our outfits in the closet."
"Our outfits?" T'Pol's brow climbed.
"Part of the adventure, darlin'." Trip grinned.
"Adventurism is illogical." She chided despite the amusement evident in her voice.
He leaned his head out of the door, giving her a long look with the grin still on his face, "...So?"
"Indeed." She watched as he ducked his head quickly back into the washroom and ran a hand over the growing overt sign of her pregnancy. Without concentrating she dipped into her body consciousness and felt the form of her offspring's semi-conscious mind. It was sleeping, content in the warmth and protection of its constricted home. One of the regular debates that she and Trip had engaged in of late was what, if any, middle name was appropriate for the child. He had made it very clear that it was going to be of paramount legal necessity that he be listed as Solan Tucker to ensure his citizenship status was unimpeachable. T'Pol had then suggested they give him the alternative of a human name he could vacillate between should he not choose to accept Vulcan identity. Trip had insisted that there was nothing wrong with Solan and that he would already have a human last name. The debate had continued on and off for the duration of the sortie to the Romulan border with neither reaching consensus on what course should be taken.
Bringing her other hand up she began caressing her stomach as if it were the child itself, the mutual telepathy of mother and child, so elemental and basic allowed her to touch his limited consciousness and vice versa. She felt nothing but a sort of ineffable and overwhelming joy, not sure if it was native to her or her son. In it there was an even greater sense of comfort and ease radiating from the tiny mind, "Ashau nash-veh, Solan-kam."
Opening the closet she spied the raiment for their surreptitious departure; his clothing consisted of a pair of gray denim slacks and a white button down shirt. For her he had set aside a red sundress and a white blouse, the color of the dress and the cut of the blouse reminding her instantly of the swim wear she had donned during their all-to-short stay in Florida. She promptly stripped off the pajamas and donning a pair of undergarments began to dress in the clothes provided. The fabric was pleasing, soft and light and the workmanship was clearly at a very high level. Thought not immediately visible, the weave had been done in such a away as to create a floral pattern within the fabric itself. She slipped it on, immediately appreciating that the cut of the garment gave her ample room to move given the recent changes to her body yet still was elegantly draped. When Trip emerged five minutes later clad in nothing but a towel she gave him a single long appraising look. She had been experiencing rather pronounced hormonal spikes of late and she was just about to voice her thought that perhaps their departure could be delayed another hour or two when he stepped in very close and whispered softly in her ear, "Once we're home, darlin'."
She arched her brows, "That is acceptable."
Malcolm bolted upright, some sudden and great feeling of dread gnawing at him in the same way an oncoming head-ache pressed down on you, left you knowing with impending dread that it would be a bad one. Within seconds his eyes were focused, his mind clear, completely ready to focus on his suddenly apparent task; just one of the advantages of his augmentations. Like the Captain, executive officer, and many of the officers on Enterprise he was primarily a series 4, but he did have 19 percent series 5 genetic makeup which made him a cut above the average fours in terms of reflexes, strength, reaction time, and capacity for immediate situational awareness. Swinging his feet out of bed and placing them on the floor he began quickly mentally tabulating the best course of action, the apprehension was now manifesting itself as a kind of tingling sensation in his left big toe.
Reed bent forward, running a hand through his hair as a single involuntary yawn shook his body, the deep breath rushing oxygen into his blood stream and firing up the super-dense musculature on his relatively compact frame. One thing he had always been able to count on in the looks department was his physique. He was rarely the tallest guy in the room, as a matter of fact he was often enough the shortest, and he had always viewed his facial features to be an almost a farcically British caricature but if there was one thing that was certain, he was never ashamed to take off his shirt.
He hastily grabbed the first pair of sweats and an athletic shirt he saw, pulling them on before shoving his sockless feet into his running shoes and dashing out of his quarters. He hadn't travel more than ten meters before he spied Travis heading down the same hall.
"You too, huh?" Mayweather greeted.
"I know Trip, he'll try to slip away." Reed replied, "It's who he is, he hates goodbyes. Was the same thing on the Togo...didn't say a word to anyone, just got up early, hopped ship and that was the end of it."
"I think everyone was anticipating giving them a combination baby shower, going away party though. Was that why you told me not to get excited about it?" Travis inquired, both heading down the hallway toward T'Pol's quarters.
Malcolm nodded solemnly, he had absolutely no doubt that the engineer was planning it this time. Fives had a series of unconscious cues that were designed to allow large numbers of them to activate simultaneously, going on their natural combat instincts. Things like body movement, hormone cues, smells all allowed one five to know another five had been set off. Other augements typically referred to it as "going fivey" as it was almost a visible chain reaction as they all started to react to the cues and the modified low-expressing MAOA started working overtime. Fives themselves often called it the "madness network" and those more accustomed to its workings would often jokingly say something like "ping" when they felt their bodies switching over to battle mode. Travis was primarily an early generation system three, but he had about 24 percent system five in the mix on his mother's side of the family which caused him to react very strongly to stressors and the activation of other fives. The hierarchy of reaction had Tucker and the Marines go off first, Trip himself was 94 percent system five so he reacted very quickly and very visibly. Next Travis would start to go "fivey" which would in turn set, him off.
"What time is it, anyway?" Reed finally asked.
"Oh four twenty seven. Why?"
"We might still catch them. Last time he did this, he didn't get away until oh five twelve."
As they rounded the corner they spotted Hoshi standing outside her quarters, tiredly rubbing her eyes. She looked as worn out as they felt and made no compunction about letting the world see it. She took a few swaying steps then fell in behind them. Her voice was sleep muffled, having a somewhat nasally congested quality that was uncharacteristic for her. She was hardly awake at all at this point. "Slow down will ya, my head is falling off."
Both men slowed their pace slightly while Hoshi found her legs, and head. They were close enough now that if Trip and T'Pol left the quarters they would spot them. The last thirty meters, with each step, both Malcolm and Travis seemed to believe they would catch the two ducking out of the quarters to make a hasty get-away. At which point they were fully prepared to break into a run to intercept their colleagues that had managed to become their friends over the years. There was still a bit of denial occurring, that somehow at the last minute the whole transfer issue would be called off. T'Pol would be allowed to stay and have her baby on Enterprise, Trip would return to commanding Engineering and the Operations staff. Their baby would be born and grow up on the ship and they would all be the child's aunts and uncles and god-parents. It still seemed unreal, nobody had left the Enterprise family since the commissioning. Some junior officers and enlisted had been transferred off, but the core staff, the faces you knew, the people whose lives had become a part of your own refused to leave the ship. It wasn't just the prestige of the posting, it was the fact that there was indeed something special about the relationship that developed between those that served together.
Their pace slowed more and more as they drew closer to the door, finally reaching it they stood, looking back and forth between each other as if unsure what to do. Hoshi made an exasperated sound and barreled between the two pressing the chime, cutting her eyes back with a scolding look, "Our pilot and armory officer being non-committal, how are we supposed to survive our next engagement?"
"This is different," Reed protested, "Trip and T'Pol..."
He never finished, the door had not opened, no words had been issued from inside. It was possible that they might be asleep, grabbing a few hours of rest before what promised to be an eventful day. They all shared looks, trying to determine what, if anything, the lack of response entailed. Expressions went from uncertain to almost hopeless, Reed knowing what to expect and Mayweather operating off Reed's previous experience. Hoshi furrowed her brows, nostril's flaring defiantly, she could read their faces and refused to believe their shared mien of defeat. She pressed the chime again defiantly and waited, her agitation showing. They stood silent for another three minutes, nothing happened, no word from inside, no opening door.
"They're gone." Reed said evenly, just a hint of dejection present.
"Maybe they're...you know." Travis' expression was sheepish.
Hoshi placed her ear to the door, sparking an immediate sound of protest from Malcolm which was quickly silenced by an admonishing finger. She furrowed her brows deeper, pressing her ear firmly to the door. She arched a brow, moving her head to gain better purchase with her ear, almost as if she head something, remaining that way for minutes that seemed to roll on forever. Finally she straightened and looked seriously at her two male colleagues.
"Nothing." She pronounced with deathly seriousness.
Reed rolled his eyes, keying the intercom on the door controls, "Reed to conn."
"This is the conn." Came the reply through the tiny speaker.
"Status on persons Tucker, Charles A., and T'Pol?" Reed inquired.
"Negative status, sir. Persons not present aboard. Should I query Lagrange two, sir?"
Malcolm shook his head, "Is there a transport log?"
"Wait one, checking, sir."
The Briton looked up at the taller Mayweather and plucky Sato, a subtle kind of sorrow written on every inch of his face. He hadn't even been able to say goodbye and chances were he wouldn't get too until very long ex post facto.
"Sir, persons beamed down to Marine Air Station Beaufort at zero four oh nine on flag authorization."
"Bloody hell, bugger it all." Malcolm slammed his fist into the wall, the plating groaning in protest at the strength of the blow.
"Sir, there is a message addressed to Reed, M J, Mayweather T R, and Sato, H that you can access from the console in the room." The officer of the watch intoned plainly.
Malcolm was still preoccupied by disappointment and anger, prompting Travis to speak up, "Roger that, are the quarters currently accessible?"
"Affirmative. Is there anything further?"
"Negative. Nothing at this time." Hoshi replied as Travis put a reassuring hand on Malcolm's shoulder.
"Roger that, conn out." With that the communications cut.
Reed was pacing back and forth the width of the corridor, his agitation plain to see. "That's the second time he's done this to me. Lighting out in the dead of night without so much as a good luck and a half-way decent insult."
Hoshi opened the door and ushered the two men inside, the room seemed empty, dead, sterile, except for the subtle smells of T'Pol's candles and the soap smell still wafting from the washroom, and the odd scent their little saber toothed creature had created, not unpleasant in its own right but defying proper categorization and description. Malcolm stood in the middle of the room, wondering what his friend's life had been like in the room, having to work hard to remind himself that he wasn't dead, just gone. Somehow it seemed like a member of the family had died, it would be years before he would ever get to see him again, if at all. Despite the ease of transportation, the fact that Earth had become such a smaller place with nobody more than two or three hours away from anyone else, it became uniquely complicated for two people at actually manage to link up in this day and age.
"Alright you three," Trip's tone was almost chiding, Reed spun almost expecting to see the engineer standing in the door, instead he saw his friend's face on the viewscreen of the desk console, "What to say, what to say. I had rehearsed all this a hundred time in my mind. It's never quite as easy when you start actually sayin' it all. Well, first off, thanks for lookin' after T'Pol when I was on Vulcan, that really means a lot to me. It was hard as hell takin' off like that, then when she told me she was pregnant...if it hadn't been for you guys I'd've probably been so distracted from worryin' that we wouldn't be able to have this conversation now." He leaned back a bit, "Well, we're gone now if you're seein' this. I can't talk about my next post, highly classified and all that." He paused as T'Pol crossed into the camera field, "Right, but enough about all that, I know what y'all have been wonderin' about all this time, and without further a-do the part y'all have been waitin' for. It's a..." He lifted a printout of a high resolution scan of the baby in T'Pol's womb, "a boy! We've already decided on a name, Solan Tucker, sorry Malcolm, Travis, should be joinin' the family in mid April." He held the scan up in front of the camera, showing the scan render of the little being, arms and legs drawn up close to its body and a tell-tale bulge on the pelvis. The tiny face seemed serene, lips in a soft line while the eyelids seemed to be softly closed, as if sleeping. The little point on each of the two tiny ears very clear.
Hoshi took a sobbing breath, "He's a little angel."
Travis was grinning ear to ear, "Way to go, sexual vanilla."
"Anyway, we...T'Pol and I, we just want you to know," He lowered his head a little, looking away from the camera, "we both love y'all, you've been more than friends to us, you've been family. So this isn't goodbye...goodbye is a four letter word...followed a three letter word, but it's still a four letter word. Lets just call this until next time...which has two four letter words...dammit, I'm babblin'."
T'Pol's face abruptly appeared on the view screen, "I believe what my husband wishes to indicate is that 'our paths shall assuredly cross again'." She lifted her head away and spoke, "There, k'diwa, no four letter words." Then she did what they never thought they would witness, she stroked the back of his neck gently.
Trip smiled at the camera, his face sublime with a slight smile, "Yeah, what she said. So long for now."
With that the screen went blank, the room once again darkened, the three compatriots standing there taking it all in and beginning, each in their own way, to process it all.
"I've heard her call him that before," Malcolm commented, "what does it mean?" He looked over at Hoshi who was getting misty eyed in spite of herself.
"Its from an ancient Vulcan dialect and translates best to 'beloved'."
Travis was still smiling, forever the optimist, forever finding joy in the joy of others, "Man, they really are happy. I mean, when all those rumors were going around the ship about how T'Pol got pregnant, it sort of had to make you wonder just a bit."
Hoshi shook her head, "I didn't buy those stories for a second, you could look at T'Pol and know..."
Malcolm cocked a brow, a smirk slowly sneaking onto his face, "Oh, really? Know what?"
"Don't make me spell it out..." Hoshi half protested, half scolded.
Malcolm felt some strange sense of catharsis, sort of like the covert exit hadn't occurred at all. The farewell message certainly lacked what a face to fact encounter would, but the fact that Trip and T'Pol had decided to single the three of them out, compose a private message for them felt special somehow. It was recognition, de facto or otherwise, that a special relationship had formed between the five of them over the years. Of course, it T'pol and Trip's case it was a very special relationship codified by little Solan Tucker currently nestled in his mother's womb. They all three stood silent, exchanging looks, smiles either forming or already formed and a strange feeling of liberation lifting them out of the pit of gloom in which they descended.
"Well, who's hungry? I'm feeling a bit peckish." Malcolm chirped.
"Breakfast sounds good, we can start breaking the news about little baby Solan to the rest of the crew." Hoshi replied, the idea of telling everyone somehow appealing and hoping beyond hope that she would get to hold the baby at some point.
"One of us is going to have to tell the captain, soon too." Travis commented, his smile diminishing a little.
"Not it!" Hoshi called out immediately.
"That's not very bloody-"
"Not it..." She reiterated.
"I'll do it." Mayweather volunteered. "Lets all go ahead and get ready for our shift, I'll tell the captain as soon as he comes into the mess."
"Thanks Travis." Reed said softly, smiling to the pilot.
"Hey its no big deal, beside, you two will owe me one," He laughed and made for the door.
"And here I assumed you were just being nice." Malcolm half protested.
"Don't ever ass-sume anything, lieutenant commander." Hoshi jibed as the two followed Mayweather out of the door and down the corridor.
T'Pol sat with her eyes closed, feeling the unusually warm January winds whipping around her as they traveled along a shaded stretch of US 1 south in the unconventional opening top ground car that Trip had waiting for him at the Beaufort Air Station. He had said very little since beaming down. When he had declared their destination was Florida she almost assumed they were going to see his parents and perhaps the relative inefficiency of ground conveyance was to allow preparation time for their arrival. Something about the trip was soothing though, seeing the trees and foliage that still clung to verdant shades during this abnormally temperate winter. The sun coming from the east was frequently filtered by tall old-growth pine and oaks letting the light danced across her in a strobing effect.
At points they passed small towns lying just off interstate 95 which had served as the main roadway by which they had traveled from South Carolina down through Georgia and into Florida. These places seemed untouched by time, inured to the twenty second century and all it entailed. She reflected on how strangely dynamic Earth was, among many cultures population had hyper-concentrated to urban centers, illogically so in some situations. On Vulcan cities tended to grow where aquifers provided a supply of fresh water to sustain life, it was logical that people would remain close to these water sources rather than create elaborate and expensive infrastructure to move water great distances to outlying regions. Still, on many other worlds where natural resources were in place to support life and fast and reliable transportations allowed access to urban and government centers, beings still flocked to every growing urban sprawls leaving a country side that was pristine, but also utterly alien to most of the sentient beings indigenous to the planet in question.
Earth still clung to the small towns, rural communities, and suburban low-rise as if there existed a distinct stratification of culture. It was not imposed, it was voluntary, and while many of Earth's more urbane and sophisticated elements referred to those who eschewed the concrete forests as bumpkins, rednecks, or primitives, there existed a strangely calm demeanor among these people who were not quick to accept, but once they did so, did so unconditionally.
T'Pol breathed in the various scents and the unsullied air greedily as she felt the strange contentment spreading through her body. Her own satisfaction spreading to her unborn child which, in turn, radiated a calmness back to her. Only in her mate did she find hesitation, concern, even a little fear. His uncertainty rooted in concern over whether he was making the right decisions, if by some oversight he was dooming their life together. He was unsure if his decision to accept the posting offered by Admiral Black was the right choice for her. All of his mental anguish revolved around her and what he could do to keep her content. She found that it hurt to consider, a deep ache that caused not only her physical discomfort but that was also affecting their child. They had just entered Florida when she reached over and placed a hand on his right thigh, stroking gently, a simple gesture but one that was vitally essential to his mental health. He immediately understood that he was projecting and took all the dark feelings and shoved them away in the dark area she had learned to avoid. He took her left hand in his right, lifting it to his lips and kissed the back of it before lowering it again, still keeping his fingers twined with hers. The feelings of love, adoration, and comfort spread out from him and into her, rekindling her own feelings of contentment and she drifted softly into a comforted sleep.
He had awoken just minutes ago as they skirted along the edges of the Indian river to their east, the speeds reduced as she felt growing anticipation in her mate. He spoke, softly, just barely audible. "We're almost home, darlin'."
Home...their home, a true home beyond shared quarters where they were forced to be different people on the other side of a door. Home, a place that was their household where she would be matriarch as her mother ruled over the family holding outside Shi'kahr. Home, a place where she could love him and be loved by him without restriction and where their child could know an affection that was Vulcan and Human, complete in each but tempered by neither. Off across the river lay a strip of land and then a wide sea...and there at their own little end of the world they would be insulated from eyes that sought to judge or quantify. He turned off US 1 and onto the leaf shaped exit ramp leading onto the Pineda Causeway following it across the Indian river to an impossibly narrow and defiant strip of land that seperated the two bodies of water arbitrarily making one the Indian and one the Banana, and finally onto another strip of land hailed by a sign as Satellite Beach.
"A hurricane in twenty fifty four wiped out almost all of Satellite beach, used to be houses as far as the eye could see." Trip explained, his voice tinged with something almost melancholic. No doubt thinking about the devastation wrought near the home of his parents by the Xindi weapon over a year ago.
He turned off the Causeway onto a street titled Melaleuca drive and continued down a little over three hundred meters to turn left onto a road named Ocean boulevard, following its even path until he once again took a left onto Flamingo drive. Off before them, about one hundred fifty meters distance lay a single raised bungalow amidst the palms and beach grass. The next closest house was easily a quarter mile away, and off to her right T'Pol could see the ocean. A surge of joy that she couldn't quite understand raced through her as she realized almost immediately that this was to be their home. Moments later he turned into the driveway and pulling up into the paved circle situation in front of the front porch stopped the vehicle, putting it in park and turning off the engine. In the back seat the sehlat in his pet carrier made a mewling sound.
He opened his door, walking around the front of the vehicle and over to the passenger side door, opening it and extending a hand.
"We're home, darlin'...our home."