Chapter Four
"That was some serious flying," Travis commented, recalling his latest white-knuckle ordeal at the helm of the Enterprise. "The Columbia was all of fifty meters above us, flying belly to belly, both ships hurtling forward at warp five. One wrong move and we would've lost Commander Tucker—and the rest of us would've been nothing more than molecular dust, our remains strewn across a light-year of space by the explosions of our matter/anti-matter cores." Dressed casually, itself unusual for the youthful lieutenant, he gestured with his hands as he spoke, illuminating the force of the threatened explosion. "If you've ever seen a star explode, think about that—but at many times the speed of light."
Gannet resisted the urge to nod as she walked backward, keeping the image of the helmsman steady in her headset camera; the gyrostabilizers assisted in the task, but they could not completely counter a bobbing head. "How did you keep your cool?" she asked encouragingly. The twosome were strolling down an Enterprise corridor, slowly making their way to the launch bay, as the journalist captured the inside story of the starship's grand adventures.
Travis gestured down a T-intersection, and accepting the direction, Gannet backed into the new corridor. "When I was studying to be a pilot, I read something that Chuck Yeager once said," he answered, referring to the first Earth pilot to break the sound barrier. "He was flying by the seat of his pants, in an experimental jet that was little more than a cockpit strapped onto a rocket. No one knew what would happen when he broke the sound barrier—even the most favorable guesses where skeptical that he'd survive." Travis could picture that historic flight in his mind, but in his mind, it was he who sat at the controls of the Glamorous Glennis. "He said, 'I never let myself be afraid. I just focus on the dials and concentrate on flying.'"
"That simple, huh?" Gannet responded. She slowed to one side, allowing Travis to move ahead, giving her a circular view of the young man.
Travis nodded in confirmation. "Most of the time, simple works best. You can't stop to think about what you could do with, well, the twitch of a finger. Instead, you remember your training, realize that you can do it, and keep the starship moving forward." He came to a stop next to a closed hatchway; the markings on the door read Main Launch Bay. "We're here."
Gannet stepped aside, and Travis pressed his palm into the door reader, unlocking the simple mechanism; and the doors split open, a slight clank revealing the wear and tear of four years in interstellar space. Gannet alertly allowed him to cross the threshold first, but she was close behind, stepping into the large room. She looked around slowly as they moved onto the upper catwalks, allowing her recorder to take in the details with a slight degree of awe.
Travis waved a hand forward, and they stepped forward to the half-stairs that led down to the upper hatches of the shuttles. "The shuttlepods sit down below," he explained, pointing to Shuttlepod One before them.
"Which one did you use to penetrate the Sphere in the Expanse?" Gannet queried, trying to recall the questions she had formulated prior to their tour. Admittedly, it was tough to stay focused on her task; studying the blueprints of the Enterprise had not prepared her for experiencing it firsthand, and she was taken slightly aback with amazement as Travis showed her around the futuristic starship.
"One," Travis answered. He gave her an encouraging smile. "Do you want to see inside?"
"Only if it's okay," Gannet answered enthusiastically, and not purely out of journalistic interest.
"Don't worry," Travis replied, and he deadpanned: "I knew the helmsman." Punching a series of commands into a control panel located along the guardrail, the half-flight of stairs lowered down to hover just over the top of the auxiliary craft, and the upper hatch of the pod lifted open. Leading the say down the stairs, with Gannet staying a half-step behind, he dropped himself in, moving to one side to make room for the reporter.
Imitating Travis' actions, Gannet dropped in as well, and looked about in awe; the automated systems had flipped on when the hatch had opened, and the interior of the craft was bathed in the soft accent lighting and colorful displays of multiple monitors. For her, a reporter on Earth, the sleek surfaces and smooth curves of the pod looked like something from a visionary imagination. "It's beautiful!" she exclaimed, little knowing what else to say.
"I always thought so," Travis agreed. Shifting about in the small confines, he took a seat at a secondary console. "Unfortunately, we use the shuttles less and less."
"Why is that?" Gannet asked immediately, curiosity driving her questions forward.
"We're getting more comfortable with the transporter," Travis answered, but a slight distaste was evident in his voice.
Gannet gave him a sideways glance. "Makes sense, I suppose," she said, allowing for her own discomfort with the notion of being disassembled, converted to energy, beamed across a distance, and then converted back and reassembled. "Gets you there in a few seconds, after all."
Travis gave her a broad smile. "Yeah, but there's no skill involved."
"Maybe not for a pilot," Gannet countered.
"Yeah, well, I've always found myself getting attached to a steadfast spacecraft," Travis replied thoughtfully. "It's a little crazy, but every time we use the transporter, I feel like we're turning our backs on these guys." He patted the console fondly. "A good shuttle is almost like a trustworthy friend."
Gannet let herself fall back into the copilot's seat. "I suppose so," she answered, "but you can't move forward without leaving something behind. And isn't that what Starfleet is about? Moving forward? Leaving the past behind?"
In most contexts, it would be an innocent comment; but she meant more by it, a fact not lost upon Mayweather. "Starfleet's about a lot more than just moving forward," he answered, "but yes, sometimes it does mean leaving behind things that we care about…If you don't mind me saying, Gannet, I wasn't expecting to see you at the Conference, but there you were." He glanced downward, showing his hesitation, before continuing. "It got me thinking about my own choices. About the things that I've left behind to explore with Starfleet."
Gannet paused, taken aback; and removing her headset, she pushed a dislocated strand of hair back behind one ear. "Is it my imagination, or are you actually opening up to me?" she asked at last, uncertain of how to respond to Travis' uncharacteristic admission.
"Don't do that," Travis retorted, feeling a little rejected. "Whenever I try to get a little serious, you turn it into a joke."
"It's a bad habit," Gannet replied quietly, "but I am listening to you, Travis. I just—I just don't know what to say."
He waved his hands in the air. "Say something, Gannet, say anything," he answered. "But try telling me how you really feel."
Gannet took a deep breath. "Okay, Travis, here it goes: I miss you too. And it wasn't just your decision to depart with the Enterprise—I also made a decision that day to sever things. I do wonder what could have been. And it's really good to see you again. Really good."
Travis rolled his head back slightly before replying. "So where does that leave us?"
"I still want to be with you," she answered softly, hesitantly, uncertain of the ground beneath her.
Travis nodded slightly. "I still want to be with you, too," he confirmed, amazed at how powerful his feelings still were after four years.
Their eyes fastened together, unsure of what they were doing, their future unforeseeable, Travis and Gannet leaned in towards each other, allowing the feelings of lost love and renewed passion to drive them together.
Four heads stared in unison at the overhead monitor in sickbay, itself illustrating an anatomical reconstruction of the recently-deceased Susan Khouri. Three of the heads were uncertain of what they were seeing; covered with medical jargon and detailed depictions of the human body, Archer, T'Pol, and Trip Tucker were reliant on Phlox to interpret the data for them.
"The autopsy confirms what we already suspected," the physician was explaining, using an old-style laser pointer to direct the attention of his three fellow officers. "Manner of death was phase-pistol fire, a single shot to the abdomen from close range. Given the damage, she couldn't have survived for more than a few minutes after the blast."
Jonathan Archer nodded in understanding; he, too, had reviewed the data packet from Starfleet Command, but it was helpful to have his own trusted doctor review the medical information. "Starfleet still has no idea how she got past security and into the inner room of the Conference," he observed, realizing the sheer implausibility of the achievement; there were multiple tiers of security, many of them overlapping, protecting the chamber. No one could get in without being subject to several security checks and providing a full security certification—at least, in theory. "Starfleet's working theory is that someone helped Khouri get inside to find us, and then someone, likely another person opposed to her entrance, shot her just before she entered the chamber."
"The case file contained very little biographical information on Ms. Khouri," T'Pol added. "And nothing recent. Starfleet couldn't even confirm where she has been living for the past year. One of their investigators stated that she had 'fallen of the face of the Earth.'" It was an un-Vulcan phrase, and T'Pol stumbled slightly over the idiom.
"That may actually be the case," Phlox countered. He pressed a command on his data padd, and the overhead monitor flipped to a scrolling screen of initials and abbreviations. The toxicology report shows traces of myofibrilin."
"Myo-fibro-what?" Trip countered, far more familiar with sub-quantum wave-particles.
"Myofibrilin," Phlox repeated, enunciating each syllable carefully. "It's not a common substance. They actually ran the toxicology twice, because they were so surprised to find it the first time."
"What does it do?" Archer pressed, searching hopefully for any answers. Or even a direction to follow.
Phlox smiled kindly. "It's a drug used to counteract the atrophy of muscles in zero-gravity environments."
"I'm familiar with it," T'Pol replied. "But it is an obscure drug. Humans have rarely used it since your discovery of artificial gravity. Doctor, did Starfleet provide any theory to explain the presence of the drug in Ms. Khouri?"
"No," Phlox admitted. "They were quite puzzled by it. But I remembered something that Doctor Lucas once told me, about some of his early work in medicine. He was stationed on one of Earth's lunar colonies, and some of the oldest portions of the colonies date back to before humanity's discovery of artificial gravity, particularly in the mining zones. They were never upgraded with gravity plating. The workers in those mines were often treated with drugs like myofibrilin."
"If Khouri had spent the last year on the Moon, it would explain why there aren't any recent records of her," Archer added thoughtfully. "The mining colonies in particular either don't keep good records, or don't disclose them to the lunar authorities."
"You'll be even more interested in this part, Captain," Phlox continued. "He mentioned that his colony was a sort of safe harbor for anti-alien sentiments."
"Like Terra Prime," Trip realized.
There was a slight pause before the captain spoke again. "She wanted to alert us that Terra Prime had created a Vulcan-human hybrid child," he said, struggling to put the pieces together. "And they killed her for that. But why would Terra Prime have created a hybrid child at all?" he asked, feeling like something was still eluding him.
"I don't know, Captain," Trip answered. "But right now, this is our only lead. We need to investigate it."
"And how do you propose that we investigate it, Commander?" T'Pol countered strongly. She was as interested—more interested—than anyone else in solving the mystery, but Vulcan logic still counted for something. "They're hardly going to answer our questions."
"Undercover work," Archer replied firmly. "It's our best shot."
"I'd like to be part of that mission," Trip volunteered immediately.
"I'd like to volunteer as well," T'Pol followed a short moment later.
At that, Phlox could only frown. "It might not be safe for a Vulcan," he countered with concern. "No offense, Commander, but you may not be very welcome there."
"It's my child, Doctor," T'Pol answered quietly. "I'm going."
Archer felt a plan coalescing in his mind. "We'll have to disguise both of you," he commented, seeing the very real danger of the mission. "Trip, you're one of the most recognizable humans on Earth—and you're invariably connected to Starfleet. And, yes, T'Pol," he added, talking quickly to cut off any objection, "sending a Vulcan into a hotbed of Terra Prime activity seems, well, questionable logic." Try as he could, though, he knew that he could not deny his two trusted officers and friends the chance to find their child. "Let's get you inserted, and see what you can find."
If Malcolm had been present—if he was not still excommunicated from the Enterprise—he would've argued the folly of sending Trip and T'Pol, of all the available officers, into the mining colonies.
In the early days following the close of the Final World War, as humanity's new alien benefactors helped the self-defeated remnants of Earth's population start to rebuild their shattered world, eyes inevitably turned to the resource-rich bodies of the nearby heavens; a planet spent of its natural wealth, rebuilding across the globe, developed an insatiable need for both basic and exotic materials. Hovering overhead, seemingly within arm's reach, Earth's moon tantalized with untapped potential. The first rocket ships had thus taken off, the first steps in humanity's return to the firmament, and early settlers braved the barren hardships of the moon as the first mining colonies took root.
Digging down below the Moon's dirty surface, a warren of tunnels emerged, many began with little more than old-fashioned mining technology and methods. As time passed, as the miners became more sophisticated, the excavations became safer; but the work still required the presence of a human hand to guide the equipment, and deep beneath the regolith, cave-ins still happened.
And so it happened, on this day, in one tapped-out vein of rock, a shower of rock and dirt collapsed inward. Alerted by the noise, the miners had come as fast as they dared; and with alarm, their scanners indicated the presence of a still-warm body under the rubble. With deliberate haste, the workers rigged makeshift supports overhead and moved the debris aside, hoping that they had perhaps arrived in time.
All of them veterans of the Moon's mines, they wore a thick skin, often inured to the danger of their work, but as they dug into the mound of loosened bedrock, even the most experienced among them lost the surge of adrenaline, defeated by what they found.
For underneath the rocky debris, they found the dead body of Dr. Mercer.
Captain's Log, supplemental. Trip and T'Pol have been successfully inserted into the Orpheus Mining Facility. While I miss their presence on the Enterprise, I hope—I sincerely hope—that they are able to find their child, or at least the next clue that can lead us forward in this mystery.
"This is the second time we've been through here," Trip commented, more than a trace of irritation lacing his voice, as he stepped around a loose rock sitting on the floor of the mining tunnel. They had been wandering the depths of the tunnels for over an hour, heading down shafts and crosscut passages, some large enough to fly a shuttle through, and others so cramped that he had to stoop over to fit within. Every tunnel, though, looked vaguely the same to his eyes: gray, gray, and gray.
"Perhaps it simply looks the same to you," T'Pol rejoined, immediately regretting her tone. Following the psychological trauma she had endured in the Expanse, her Vulcan sense of control had yet to fully return; and the added emotional stress of discovering she was a parent, and the worry about her missing child, was taking an added toll on her. Try as she might, she was unable to maintain equanimity with her colleague's grousing.
"Does it look any different to you?" Trip retorted, though he dreaded hearing the response: he was sure that T'Pol, citing her eidetic Vulcan memory, would claim that she could recall every crawlway that they had transversed.
T'Pol pulled her thick woolen cap lower over her head; not just an accommodation for a desert-bred Vulcan in the chilled recesses of the unheated moon, it served to hide her pointed ears and tapered eyebrows. "We still have twenty minutes to report to the foreperson," she answered with an even tone, getting a better handle—for at least a moment—on the exasperation she felt.
"Which doesn't do us any good if we can't find him." Trip brought them to a halt for a moment as a pair of dusty miners crossed the approaching juncture, pushing an old, wheeled ore cart before them; despite their disguises, he didn't want to bring any attention to himself and T'Pol, and he waited for the duo to disappear into the crossing tunnel, the sound of their passage fading away in the echoes of the mining warrens.
T'Pol glanced down again at her common-issue data padd. "The map clearly shows where the foreperson's office is," she replied, unwilling to admit that even with her acclaimed Vulcan acuity, she had been unable to follow their path in the confusing mess of illuminated paths.
"Maybe you downloaded an outdated map," Trip answered promptly; it was a knee-jerk response, but it had an element of real concern. Mining tunnels often shifted, with old passages closed off, and new ones opened. A map, particularly an old one, would be of limited use.
"The map is correct," T'Pol countered. With an unusual expression crossing her face, she tilted her head to one side, as if trying to get a different perspective on the layout provided by the padd.
It wasn't lost on Trip Tucker. "Maybe you're reading it wrong then."
"Perhaps we should ask for directions," T'Pol admitted finally, a tacit acknowledgement that, perhaps, his barbs were accurate. She gestured down the cross tunnel, where the ore cart could no longer be seen.
Trip rolled his head back and, pursing his lips, let out a deep, whistling breath. "Give me that," he demanded, reaching out to take the padd from T'Pol. Hesitant, she handed it to the engineer, and he looked down at the jumble of lines, turning the padd first horizontal, then fully upside-down. "I think I know what the problem is."
T'Pol's raised eyebrow was hidden by her woolen cap. "What?" she asked, curious if Trip had actually diagnosed a solution.
Tucker shrugged his shoulders. "We're lost."
T'Pol drilled him with a very un-Vulcan glare.
"Okay, okay," Trip replied, holding his free hand up in mock surrender, as if realizing that he was pushing T'Pol too far. "Let's try that direction," he decided, pointing down the opposite spur, where the ore cart had initially emerged.
T'Pol stepped further into the intersection and took a long look down the passage; worked by laser drills and superheated implements, the walls were smooth, and the strips of bioluminescent lighting affixed to the walls provided enough glow to see that the tunnel was comfortably broad. "Any particular reason?" she asked, uncertain if it was human intuition, or simply a random selection.
Trip nodded. "Honestly, it's the only tunnel that looks vaguely different." Gesturing to the Vulcan to follow, he started down the rocky corridor.
The two officers and one-time lovers walked together, moving carefully, Trip a slight step ahead as they lapsed into uncomfortable silence; the smooth-cut walls were unvaried and uninterrupted, showing only a generous curve as they continued, keeping their vision from seeing much ahead. The danger and uncertainty of their position, coupled with the tension between them, kept both sets of nerves on edge.
"Commander," T'Pol said finally, not knowing if she would find a better time. "I know you're not convinced that I'm telling the truth. About the child," she clarified.
Stopping short, Trip turned to face the Vulcan. "What do you mean?" he asked, trying to mask his ire—his ire with Terra Prime, his ire with the mining complex, and his ire with T'Pol.
T'Pol waited a second before pressing onward. "You think I may have gotten pregnant without your knowledge," she stated.
Tucker rubbed his forehead with a dirty palm. "I never said that!"
"You never needed to," T'Pol replied softly. "I have sensed it."
Trip turned his gaze away from her and down the tunnel, a means to cool down and collect his thoughts. "Why do you Vulcans always think you understand humans better than we understand ourselves?" he answered, expressing more exhaustion than irritation. "How do I make this any more clear, T'Pol? For the last time, and for the record, I do believe you: you were never pregnant. Our child was created in a lab, not your womb. Now do you believe…oh, I can't believe this," he said, his voice drifting off in incredulity as his gaze shifted over T'Pol's shoulder.
T'Pol's head turned as her eyes followed his, and they settled on a hatchway only scarce meters down the path. It was labeled "Foreperson."
"Damnit," Tucker groaned.
Situated as they were, with the Enterprise in orbit of Earth, Travis' quarters were ideally oriented against the breadth of the solar system for the light of the risen Moon to stream in through his window, granting illumination in the otherwise-darkened room. The lights turned off, and even the ever-present glow of computer monitors on sleep mode, the gentle glow fell upon the room's inhabitants, shining lightly upon their glistening skin.
Laying in his bed, Travis was curled around Gannet, content that all was right in his world. "I'm glad we finally left the shuttlepod," he commented, reaching towards her to push back a stray strand of hair.
"I thought you liked the shuttlepods," Gannet countered with a faint tease, aware that the tried-and-true pilot enjoyed a certain bond with the craft he flew.
"I like flying them," Travis clarified with a languid smile. "Other things…well, there's only so much you can do in a pod."
The two lay silent for an extended moment, and Gannet rolled over, looking Travis in the eyes; he had a distant look, as if lost in some secret thought, and she had to avoid taking offense. "I have a rule," she commented, touching him on the cheek. "If I'm in bed with someone, they have to be in bed with me too."
"Huh?" Travis' eyes resolved back into immediate focus. "I'm right here, Gannet."
Gannet gifted him a smile. "You are not here," she answered tentatively, uncertain of how far she could press. "Something's on your mind, Travis. I can tell."
"Oh. I'm just worried about some friends of mine," Travis replied, his voice still vaguely absent. He rolled onto his back, looking up at the ceiling above them.
"Want to talk about it?" Gannet offered encouragingly. She shifted her head into the crook of his arm.
Travis chuckled once. "I wish I could," he replied. "But I'm under orders not to talk about it."
"That's the last thing you should tell a reporter," Gannet responded with a tease.
"Nah, it's just…" Travis' voice trailed off. "I can't talk about it, that's all. Maybe we should talk about something else."
Gannet propped herself up on one elbow. "What do you want to talk about?" she asked.
Travis took a deep breath. "How come you haven't settled down?" he asked, broaching a tender subject. "I guess I assumed that…after I left, you'd find someone else and, well, settle down with them."
Gannet snorted. "I'm never going to settle down, Travis," she replied. "At least, I can't see myself ever doing that. But…it doesn't mean that I'm not willing to get serious with someone, if the right circumstances come along."
Travis shifted his gaze to the face hovering over him. "And what constitutes 'the right circumstances'?"
"I'll know it when it happens," Gannet answered coyly. She hesitated, then asked the question foremost on her mind. "What did you mean earlier about reconsidering some decisions you've made?"
Travis sighed, trying to figure out how best to express his disparate thoughts. "I've spent my whole life in space," he answered, "going from one place to the next. I grew up on a space freighter, running from port to port. I never really had a steady place to call home."
As Travis paused, Gannet stepped in. "I thought you enjoyed it," she replied, curious about his answer.
"I'm not saying that it didn't have its moments," Travis countered. "But there was a part of me that always wanted…someplace steady, someplace consistent, where I could lay my head at night."
"And the Horizon just didn't do that," Gannet stated, hoping that she understood properly.
"No," Travis confirmed. "My uncle had an acreage outside Ouagadougou," he went on. "When we would return to Earth, I got to stay with him. There was something—different about having firm ground beneath my feet, a place that I could always return to. Something comforting about it."
"Are you interested in finding a new place?" Gannet was hesitant to voice the thought, uncertain of his answer.
Travis sighed. "Seeing you again…it made me start thinking," he answered. "There is something very tempting about staying in one place for a while."
With a broad smile, Gannet gave Travis a firm kiss, and the two sunk down into the mattress, locked in a passionate embrace.
It's been a long road, getting from here to there, Trip Tucker thought to himself, uncertain if the lyric was ever meant to apply to his current situation. Wandering through the maze of corridors and tunnels, he felt as if he had been there for days, trying to navigate the bedrock jungle of the Orpheus mining operation; from that initial moment, stepping into the entry shaft, it had truly been, well, a long road, getting from there to here…wherever "here" may be.
"Fresh off the boat?" A gruff voice broke into Trip's inner monologue, and the engineer glanced over in the direction of the sound, grateful, hoping that this newcomer may be able to provide better directions than the error-prone map on his data padd. It was a large man, skin the color of cocoa, head clean-shaven, and wearing standard mining coveralls. "One of the S-K models," the miner commented, pointing to the padd in Trip's hand. The miner's face split into a smile. "They only give those to grubbers."
Trip nodded, assuming that he properly understood the miner's nomenclature. "I guess you found me out," he replied, giving a sheepish smile of his own. "I just arrived earlier today. At least, I think it was today."
The miner chuckled. "Time passes differently down here," he answered, understanding the flippant comment. "But then again, a lot of things look different from down here." Stepping forward, he extended a thick hand. "Josiah Greaves," he added, identifying himself. "I'd welcome you to hell, but, well, hell is warm. Here…" he gestured with his other hand. "There's little warmth."
"Turner," Trip replied, offering his barely-concealed alter identity, and he received a punishing handshake.
"So what brings you here?" Josiah asked conversationally, glancing around at the mining activity in the tunnel. They were far from the only beings present; the others, though, were focused on their work, laboring away with handheld laser drills, separating the valuable ore from the generic bedrock.
"Change of scenery," Trip replied noncommittally. His response could be taken in several different ways, and the engineer was curious to see how Greaves would answer. "How about you?"
"Yeah," Greaves replied, chuckling lightly, "that's what I was after, too. Only it wasn't the landscape I got sick of." He gestured broadly at the unending tunnel of monochromatic rock. "I'd far prefer to be down on Earth, but at least, up here, I'm surrounded by own kind. Back home, it seems like everywhere you go, humans are getting to be an endangered species."
Trip nodded in apparent agreement. "I know what you mean," he responded, a little surprised that Greaves was opening up so quickly to him. The larger man apparently felt comfortable assuming that all humans felt as he did.
"Which way are you going?" Greaves asked, pointing down to the data device. Tucker simply handed the padd to the experienced miner, and barely glancing at it, Josiah pointed down a splinter tunnel. "This way," he said, ducking his head and stepping into the slight space. "It's bad enough that you can't walk down a street without some freak show scaring the hell out of your kids," he continued, picking up his pace, both physically and verbally. "Truth is, you can't spit on the sidewalk without hitting one of them. No, if that's not enough, now the Prime Minister is making treaties with them." He emphasized his words with a well-aimed spat of saliva, staining a clump of gray dust in the recesses of the shaft.
"Sometimes I wonder where it's all going to end," Trip observed, feeling more than slightly uncomfortable. Is this really what has become of humanity? The engineer paused, allowing Greaves to drift a slight step further ahead of him. I'm not sure I can be a part of this.
Greaves glanced back to make sure the newcomer was still following him. "It's going to end with human beings becoming outnumbered on our own world," he clarified, certain that he knew the answer.
"I'd hate to see that," Trip countered, struggling to find the appropriate comment. He felt, somehow, dirty, just saying the words. "Can you imagine raising your children on a world like that?"
"I can't," Greaves answered gruffly. "And I'm not the only one. We're all over, but we've been forced into the shadows." He lowered his voice, speaking in confidence, even though the two men were alone in the tight passageway. "Some of us are meeting tonight at twenty-two hundred," he stated. "Level seven, junction four. That is," he added with a teasing smile, "if you can find it."
Trip smiled. "I think I'll like what you have to say," he replied. "It's…relieving to find some sympathetic minds."
"You'll find plenty," Greaves answered. "You're headed about hundred meters down this tunnel; when you meet the T-intersection, hang a right. That'll take you right where you're headed." Greaves turned back to return to the main passageway. "I'll look for you tonight," he added, departing back into the shadows.
Trip felt like he had made progress in his mission, but he couldn't help feeling disappointed.
T'Pol watched the two humans converse from a small crevasse; even with her delicate Vulcan ears, accustomed to detecting sounds in a thinner atmosphere, she could only overhear a slight murmur, unable to decipher anything more. Both men were turned away slightly, depriving her of her ability to read their lips.
But she could, for the most part, see Trip's face. While he kept his expression largely passive, not giving his thoughts away to the other miner, T'Pol was too attuned to his demeanor. She could tell, in an almost screaming sense, that he was deeply uncomfortable with the discussion.
Carefully, T'Pol stayed in her crevasse, ducking back further into the cloak of dimness as the dark-skinned man passed before her. He didn't turn to look as he walked by; even in the shadows of the tunnels, his eyes accustomed to the low light, he would have struggled to see anything more than another generic miner. Nonetheless, she waited several beats, until his rustling sound had disappeared down the passageway, before she emerged into the bioluminescent glow of the larger passageway.
"Commander," she hissed, still cautious of any unseen beings. Hearing her, Trip began to turn, as she went on. "I've learned something—"
Trip reached out quickly, raising a dirty hand and covering her mouth; and he pulled her aside, back into the crack she had emerged from.
"The locals aren't very fond of aliens," he whispered apologetically. Even with the woolen cap covering her uniquely Vulcan features, something about T'Pol still looked foreign in the depths of the mines; and Trip couldn't afford to be seen fraternizing with the…well, with the enemy, he reflected. "I think I found an in with them, but I don't want to jeopardize it."
T'Pol over the human's palm, and belatedly, he dropped his hand. Taking a second to wipe the dirt from her mouth, she quietly continued. "A doctor from the Orpheus medical facilities was found dead yesterday," she said, still visibly unhappy with the manhandling. "He was buried under a cave-in."
"Uh huh," Trip nodded. He, too, was attuned to the Vulcan's mannerisms, and he knew the answer to his upcoming query. "But you're not buying it."
"No," T'Pol answered. "The doctors rarely travel into the mines. They usually stay in the living section of the complex, unless there's an emergency call requiring them to go on-site. He was alone in the collapsed tunnel. And," she continued, building her case, "the particular tunnel was an abandoned spur. The miner I spoke to said it was tapped out many months ago."
"Right," the engineer replied, stretching out the word. "Something doesn't add up."
"The logical explanation," T'Pol answered, "is that either he was lured there, and the tunnel was intentionally collapsed on him, or he was killed elsewhere, and his body was planted in the tunnel to create the appearance of an accidental death. Either way, someone conspired to kill him."
"I can see that," Trip allowed, speaking slowly. "But why, T'Pol? And who? You call it logical, but from where I see it, there are other possible explanations."
"Perhaps," she stated, willing to give Trip's illogical objections some credence. "However, he also worked in the same clinic as Susan Khouri."
"And if Khouri was killed to cover up the presence of…our child," Trip followed up, better understanding the Vulcan's logic, "it stands to reason that the doctor may have been killed for the same reason."
"Precisely." To T'Pol, the logic was firm. Perhaps not conclusive, she admitted, but firm. "If we can gain access to that clinic, we may be able to find our daughter."
"I like the odds of that," Trip agreed. Before continuing, though, he glanced back out into the passageway, looking both directions; satisfied that they were still alone, he continued. "You saw it, but I made contact with a miner named Josiah Greaves," he mentioned, keeping his voice even lower. "He seems to be a part of a xenophobic group here, possibly even Terra Prime. He invited me to some sort of a meeting tonight."
"I'm sure that I'm not invited," T'Pol commented with a dryness unique to Vulcans. "The logical course of action is for me to investigate the clinic, and for you to attend this meeting."
Trip shook his head. "No way, T'Pol," he countered. "If our daughter is in that clinic—if there's even a chance—that's where I need to be."
"I understand your need." It was an uncommon sentiment for a Vulcan to acknowledge, but T'Pol made it sound warm and natural. "But she may not be there. And one of us should attend that meeting."
Trip let loose a long sigh. "Damnit, T'Pol," he groaned softly, "I hate it when you're logical."
Jonathan Archer stretched his arms over his head, listening to his back crack. The morning session had run long, and after several interminable hours, he had slipped out the back, claiming that his dog needed a bathroom break.
He had, in fact, brought Porthos down to San Francisco, and after retrieving the beagle from their temporary quarters at "Starfleet Central," the two took a stroll along the pathways of the Presidio. It was by a fluke of fate that San Francisco was one of the few major cities on Earth to escape mass destruction during the Final World War, and as the city grew in global importance, the old military base and park was preserved as an oasis in the heart of San Francisco, with its cemetery standing testament to the bloody history of Earth's past.
As Archer and Porthos strolled down the Coastal Trail towards the southern end of the Golden Gate Bridge, he finally found himself relaxing under the warmth of the rare January sun. The breeze blowing up the bluffs from Marshall Beach was chilly, and the waves beating against the rocky shoreline sent a fine mist spraying across the Trail, but for a man who had once flown thru outer space without an environmental suit, it was barely noticeable.
Porthos zig-zagged across the path, excited by the myriad scents of small rodents, rabbits, and the ubiquitous squirrels. After years spent in the sterile confines of the Enterprise, the dog could barely contain his glee at the presence of so many rich odors. On more than one occasion, Archer had to pull the beagle out from underneath a bush, where he had gotten himself stuck in the pursuit of a tantalizing smell.
Ahead of them, and far above, rose the majestic towers of the Golden Gate Bridge, resplendent in its glory, with its swooping cables plummeting downwards to hold the weight of the causeway. At the near end, tucked underneath the concrete pilings of the bridge's terminus, was historic Fort Point, preserved from the days when it guarded the gateway to the harbor with its massive guns.
Archer paused, closed his eyes, and inhaled, drawing in a deep breath, relishing the delightful boutique of the wildflowers lining the path. Beside him, Porthos let loose a throaty howl, and seconds later, Archer's ears picked up the tingling sound of a transporter beam.
Damnit, Archer thought banefully as he opened his eyes. The shimmering effect of the transporter field was vanishing, and in its place stood the form of Soval, the Vulcan ambassador to Earth, and Vulcan's representative at the Babel Conference.
"Greetings, Ambassador," Archer said, mentally shifting gears into his best diplomatic mien. "What can I do for you?"
"Live long and prosper, Captain Archer," Soval replied, holding his right hand up in the split-fingered Vulcan salute. Porthos trotted up to Soval, and in his best canine tradition, put his front paws up on Ambassador Soval's leg, awaiting an ear scratch.
"Porthos, down!" Archer scolded as Soval looked down at the beagle. Archer suspected that it was the Vulcan's stern gaze, and not his own command, that made Porthos hop down and return to Archer's side.
"I noticed that you left the morning session early, Captain," Soval said, gesturing for Archer to walk and talk with him.
"Porthos here needed a bathroom break," Archer responded, stretching down to pat his dog. "I take it they continued for a while after I left."
"Yes," Soval answered evenly. "Ambassador Gral can be quite…quarrelsome," he said, referring to the Tellarite ambassador.
"I know what you mean," Archer replied, chuckling. "He argues every little point, and just when you think he's agreed to something, he reopens it for more argument." The Tellarite people's love for a good argument was legendary, a fact which the captain was learning first-hand.
"I think the Tellarites will eventually come around," Soval continued, pacing slowly down the trail. "Gral may be argumentative, but he is quite intelligent. I believe he will come to see the benefits of the proposed coalition."
The two men walked in silence for a few minutes, with the pounding of the waves providing a regular, percussive beat, and Archer noticed that both he had the ambassador had subtly altered their pace to match the rhythm.
"Ambassador," Archer said, finally breaking the silence, "I'm sure you didn't track me down and come out here, just to enjoy a short stroll. Is there something on your mind?"
Soval didn't break his step. "I've been…concerned…about some recent developments on Earth," the Vulcan began.
"I've heard the reports too," Archer responded softly. While Terra Prime itself was an underground organization, it was linked to several surface groups, which had been waging a full assault against the Babel Conference over the planet's media. At the same time, various groups continued to stage flash rallies across the planet, popping up in one city, then another. The heated rhetoric was beginning to catch on, and there were several unconfirmed reports of alien residents being harassed by mobs.
"Indeed," Soval confirmed with a raised eyebrow. "At one of these…rallies…yesterday, I was…what's the phrase? 'Burned in effigy'?"
"I wouldn't take it too personally, Ambassador," Archer said with a grin. "I'm sure it's just the ears."
Soval made no pretense of comprehension. "What is the human fascination with our ears?" he replied in disbelief.
"Vulcans bear an unfortunate resemblance to several…manifestations…of the Devil," Archer explained haltingly as he caught Porthos with the recoil of the leash. A rabbit bounded in front of them, and the beagle strained to chase it.
"That would account for several things," Soval responded, with no hint of being perturbed. "After Vulcan made first contact with Earth, our observers reported a strong increase in apocalyptic attitudes. Our scientists thought the connection was allegorical."
"Look, Ambassador, am I concerned about the xenophobics?" Archer stated, trying to tackle Soval's concerns directly. "Yes. But they're just a fringe group. They're not going to prevent the Coalition from forming. Most humans see Terra Prime for what it really is: a group of people who can't accept change, a group of people who are so scared of being left behind that they're striking out at every symbol of progress they can find. Very few people are taken in by the rhetoric of these groups."
"Captain," Soval observed, "I am afraid that, perhaps, it is you who do not understand the breadth and depth of the Earth opposition. I have seen these things before…and they have an uncanny ability of derailing the progress of an entire race."
In the depths of the mining warrens, "night" was an artificial concept; while the lights dimmed in the common living areas of the Orpheus complex, the tunnels, lit as they were by bioluminescence, maintained the same ethereal glow in the waning hours of the evening as they did at the height of the day. However, in recognition of the biological heritage of the miners themselves, the workplace activity largely shut down in the late hours, allowing the workers to maintain a collective circadian rhythm.
And so it was, as the dusk hours settled into the quietude of night, that Trip Tucker found himself in a large, central junction, the size of a decent room, clustered together with a baker's dozen of mining colleagues. Before them, along one side of the room, the floor sloped upward, creating a natural platform; and on it, Josiah Greaves stood tall, summoning the collective to order.
Greaves lifted a hand, and the gathering fell silent. "Seven million humans were wiped out, in the span of a breath, by aliens," he stated forcefully, opening with a clear reference to the morning of the Xindi attack on Earth. Trip cringed at the reference; following the death of his sister and only sibling in the cowardly attack, Tucker himself had vowed murderous vengeance on the Xindi.
Around him, the small crowd murmured and nodded.
"Did our government demand an apology?" Greaves raised his voice, confident in his message, and rumbling louder with support, the room agreed with Greaves that their government had failed.
"Did our government demand reparations for the families of those seven million?" Greaves asked next, and a collective no replied back to him. "Did our government demand the extradition of Degra, the terrorist who built the weapon?" A stronger no came back, punctuated by a solitary fist rising in the air.
Never mind that Degra gave his life to prevent the second attack, Trip reflected, recalling his own shifting attitude to the Xindi scientist. You can't let something as mundane as the truth interfere with good rhetoric.
"Did our government address Starfleet's crimes of palling around with aliens?" Greaves demanded to know, his voice building ever stronger and fervent. "After all, it was Starfleet that brought the alien menace to Earth!" Trip masked his sigh, uncertain of how to even respond to the accusation, as the gathering chorused back; and, realizing that he was surrounded by a sea of true believers, the engineer began to feel concerned for his safety. Casually, trying to not create any waves, he inched backward, trying to clear a free path from the body of miners.
"And now these same leaders," Greaves went on, "want to deliver Earth on a platter to the Tellarites, Andorians, and—yes—the Vulcans!" The large man spat to one side, his feelings about the Vulcans clear, and in that moment, Trip knew that T'Pol was in serious danger. She never should have come here, he admitted, realizing that both he and T'Pol had allowed their emotions to influence their better judgment.
"Nathan Samuels claims that future generations will look back on this era with pride," Greaves declared, "and yes, we will look back on this era; but not with pride!" Next to Trip, a squat miner bellowed out a potent epitaph, condemning the perfidy of the Prime Minister. "Future generations will look back in regret, for these are the days that our own leaders have sacrificed Earth! Already, tens of thousands of aliens are populating our world, and their numbers grow daily. With the dawning of this new coalition, humanity will be drowned in our own home!"
As a roar of traitors arose from the gathered miners, Trip edged further back, truly alarmed by the rhetoric he was hearing.
"I love humanity too much to sit by and let this happen," Greaves went on, surveying the small crowd with his eyes, locking on to each miner in turn. "Starfleet is leading our government around like a love-sick puppy, and it is to Starfleet that we must take our battle!"
Trip started pushing back more forcefully, causing a deep glare from the miner beside him. I know where this is headed, he thought with a sickening feeling.
"There's someone here tonight who is going to help us send our message!" Greaves bellowed. "I give you the pinnacle of Starfleet's alien lust himself, Commander Charles Tucker of the starship Enterprise!"
Shit. Still caught in the montage of bodies, Trip realized he was trapped, as a dozen sets of eyes turned and fell upon him with violent intent.
A short distance away, unaware of the danger threatened to her by the roused miners, T'Pol did her best to navigate through the crawl spaces of the mining operation. She had studied the map on her padd thoroughly in anticipation of the evening's mission, and now, her memory served her well; it was the map itself, prone to inaccuracies and lacking updates, that tried to lead her astray.
Reaching the end of a snaking crawl space, T'Pol paused, peeking between the slats of a metallic grate. Beyond, she could see into a large room; lit not by bioluminescent strips, but by the soft, dimmed glow of artificial lights and computer screens, several beds could be seen within, each one with a panel of controls along one side. None were occupied, and indeed, she could sense no presence in the room.
Satisfied, she grabbed the grate, and pushed it outward. It came off with a startling clang, and the Vulcan paused, waiting to see if any sounds stirred from beyond. A lengthy moment later, when no response seemed forthcoming, she swung her legs around before her, and exited the cramped tunnel into the room.
It was immediately apparent that she had found the medical ward. Albeit several generations old, her experienced eyes could still recognize the equipment; and the monitors lining the walls were unmistakably scrolling forth with medical jargon and data. This is it, she realized, not bothering to smother her elation. Somewhere in here, she knew, she would find her daughter.
Still following the map that was inscribed in her mind, T'Pol crossed the room to the far hatchway, and it opened on cue, not needing any credentials or verification.
Her mind had scarcely a moment to register the danger, as a controlled blast of phased energy erupted from the other side of the doorway, nailing her in the chest, and in one fleeting thought as she expired, T'Pol realized that her mission would be for nothing.
Two men, one dressed in security fatigues, the other possessing a lean, angular face, stepped into the room, maneuvering around the unconscious alien. "It's a pity," Paxton observed drily, looking down on the insensate form. "She was so close."