Shore leave.
And unsurprisingly, 'shore leave' is pretty literal on this planet composed largely of broken, isolated pockets of land lost in the ocean that covers something slightly more than 98% of its surface; land that still supports life – there are flora and fauna that survive on the largest ones, some in great profusion – but no civilisation.
There were people here once. Scans from space show the unmistakable traces of cities in the huge, shallow lagoons of sparkling blue water. But whoever they were, they're long gone, and there's no suggestion that they were even close to warp capability. Even the two moons that circle it show no sign of ever being visited.
It's surprising that none of its inhabitants have survived. One or two of the biggest land masses are large enough to support a modest population, even if the life style would have to have been primitive. Maybe they did for a while, and something happened; disease, famine, civil war, even – eventually – the inevitable consequences of a limited gene pool. Perhaps previous visitors from space had found the place, visitors with far less benevolent intentions, who'd scooped up the inhabitants and carried them off to some fate unknown. Whatever it was, it had happened long, long ago. Here and there the ship's scanners reveal buildings buried in the green pockets of life, but they're ruined and deserted. Nothing moves there bigger than the lemur-like creatures that have colonized the place.
The ship's scientists are intrigued of course. The 'exo-' variants of all the branches the ship possesses assemble their paraphernalia, eagerly awaiting the all-clear to visit. On the Bridge T'Pol completes the careful analysis of the planet's atmosphere and weather conditions and the scans of the area where the proposed landing will take place. An earlier failure to take appropriate precautions beforehand very nearly had tragic consequences, and she approves the fact that the captain has learned from that near-tragedy. Not enough, perhaps, to adopt a sensibly Vulcan habit of simply examining a new world from orbit without feeling the need for any closer investigation, but Humans are a young and impulsive species and she cannot reasonably expect them to grow up all at once.
Still, as a scientist herself, she is perfectly willing to take part in the studies that a prolonged visit will allow. One of the exobotany team is currently injured and laid up in her quarters with strict orders to rest, and T'Pol has no objection to standing in for the invalid, collecting the samples that Crewman Doyle can examine later and at leisure with no ill effects to her recovery.
"The evidence suggests that when the world was inhabited, the ocean levels were significantly lower," she explains next morning, standing at the Situation Table at the rear of the Bridge where the captain and her fellow officers have assembled to hear her findings. "At a guess, the water historically held in the polar ice caps melted, raising the sea levels to a catastrophic degree.
"It will require geological studies to confirm this theory and postulate a reason for it, but the presence of these 'drowned cities' make it all but certain that some such climate disaster did take place, effectively wiping out the civilisation that created them."
"But completely? With these big islands still available?" Commander Tucker gestures at the one where they're planning the landing later on. "There's fresh water, and stuff to eat, and it's beautiful down there."
"Tropical storms at those latitudes, surely?" Lieutenant Reed stands slightly further away from the table than usual, arms crossed almost as if defending himself from the sight of all that unbroken expanse of water; only one small area of the planet had land-masses tall enough to defy the advancing oceans. Still, this can be no more than a coincidence; as the son of a Royal Navy family he probably knows more than most aboard Enterprise about the movement of air masses around the earth's equator and the stormy weather conditions they produce, which are things that ships' officers will naturally encounter on the high seas. The knowledge probably hasn't been much use to him in the airless and waterless reaches of Space, but he still must fix a wary, knowledgeable eye on the rotating weather systems of every planet they come across.
"Almost certainly," T'Pol replies placidly. "But people who effectively have nowhere else to go will not be deterred by weather conditions."
Ensign Sato shivers slightly, though she says nothing. As the ship's language specialist she'll be one of the landing party, tasked with finding and, if possible, interpreting any fragments of language the long-dead inhabitants of the planet left behind them.
The shuttlepod will be carrying diving equipment. There are quite a number of expert divers among the crew, even some among the archaeology team, and much may be learned from a study of the sunken cities. Even from orbit the unmistakable rectangular patterns of streets and houses are visible, though the action of the waves over possibly many centuries has been almost as unfriendly as the invading jungle that has smothered the few houses left on land.
Where there is diving to be done, Commander Tucker will never be far behind. He hasn't managed to coax the captain into allowing him down with the initial investigating team, but has mentioned the length of time since their last shore leave – and the absolute suitability of the current location for swimming, surfing and relaxing – so many times that even good-natured Ensign Mayweather appears likely to throw something at him if he mentions it again. Even if he does so in conjunction with a reference to there being cliffs just inland which would be heaven for any guy whose idea of fun is hauling himself up them with ropes and pitons.
=/\=
Malcolm is suspicious. That's his job, and he's very good at it. He scowls at that very, very watery world, which he instinctively distrusts even more than a desert one, and tries to find plausible reasons why nobody should visit it at all.
The weather is disobliging; it's sunny, bright, warm, and unlikely to change. The seas are warm and clear, and actually rather less saline than Earth's, though still not drinkable. The geology appears stable; not so much as a vaguely pressurised tectonic plate or a slumbering underwater volcano disturbs the landscape for thousands of kilometres. The fauna, while presumably provided with the average number of predators to keep the biological balance, don't seem to provide any specific threat to Humans who are bright enough to keep their wits about them (now seated at Tactical, Malcolm levels a Stare at Captain Archer, who is talking to Travis about the cliffs now Trip has finally been shooed away to Engineering). The flora ... well, his allergy shots are up to date, and this time the landing party will be far more vigilant for unexpected substances in any pollen that may be blown their way. That much he can be sure of, because water or no water he'll be there to make sure they are – or if not in person, deputised for by one of his staff who will be so drilled in the necessary precautions that they could (and quite possibly do) recite them in their sleep. He's mentioned the necessity for protection for landing parties so often that it's unimaginable to him that anybody, ever, in the entire future history of Starfleet, will ever dare to neglect such an obvious precaution again.
This comforting delusion lasts precisely until the personnel detail for the first exploratory mission is being discussed later that day.
"I can't see any reason for a security detail, Lieutenant," says Archer cheerfully, appearing not to notice that his security officer is staring at him, aghast. "I'm sure you can find something to do with the targeting sensors if you'd rather stay aboard..."
There are sub-tones in his voice that take little interpreting. Nobody but the two of them on board ship knows the story of his great-uncle's watery, heroic end in the Clement, and sheer grit got Malcolm through the basic Starfleet swimming tests. And no-one ever knew what he was like the night before or the afternoon afterwards, or how many nights of shattered sleep the achievement cost him. Having lost his future as an officer in the Navy, however, he hadn't been about to be robbed of a place in Starfleet.
The captain, of course, knows nothing of that part of the story. In a moment's drug-addled weakness, pinned to the hull by a Romulan mine and convinced his last hour had come, Reed had confessed to a secret terror of drowning; and now, compassionately, he's being offered a way out that will surprise nobody. He'd done such a superb job to start with of creating the humourless stereotype he now fills that probably half the crew still suspect that his inability to smile is a congenital defect he was born with, though he can only hope that at least his Armoury team now regard him with something warmer than respect. He thinks they do, and he feels he's established an excellent working relationship with his Beta and Gamma shift deputies, but he knows far better than to put any great reliance on his reading of subtler interactions like friendships. His shy accord with a certain Commander Tucker is a novelty he cherishes but still isn't quite sure of the parameters of, though lately he's ventured to start doing his own share of teasing when they're off duty – a development that certainly would not be approved of in the Reed household were his father to learn of it. Playful interaction between officers of differing ranks would not, apparently, be tolerated aboard a real ship.
"Ensign Gomez has an Open Water diving certification, sir," he says levelly now, with just a hint of appeal. He appreciates Archer's subtle kindness, of course he does, but no security at all?
The planet is beautiful. A tropical paradise. 100%, 24-carat, genuine, foolproof, money-back-if-you're-not-completely-satisfied safe...
Ensign Gomez also has the fastest draw with a phase pistol in the Armoury. If they'd ever competed, she'd quite possibly have beaten him. Her small-arms accuracy is phenomenal, though with a rifle he's the better of the two of them.
(He enjoys a brief and unworthy mental image of Em's voluptuous figure poured into a wet-suit with a harpoon gun poised for action cradled in her arms. The regulations and their respective ranks may draw an unbridgeable divide between them in that respect, but there's no regulation that says you can't imagine.)
"I suppose there's no harm having her along to keep an eye on the diving team, then," the captain says thoughtfully.
"I think that would be an excellent idea, sir." Malcolm draws a stealthy breath of relief.
At least somebody with sense will be going.