Disclaimer: Star Trek and all its intellectual property belongs to Paramount/CBS. No infringement intended, no money made.

Author's Note: This story features violence and bad language (some) and snark (lots).

"As your Head of Security, sir, I request permission to accompany you."

I hold my breath.

Far too often, in my opinion at least, Captain Archer treats my security concerns with a dismissiveness that borders on cavalier. Even today, there was no order for me to accompany the Away Team. But given the fact that the entire senior command complement of the ship is embarking on it, to visit people whom Starfleet at least have never encountered before, I'm prepared to dig my heels in.

I read the hesitation. To some extent, I share it myself. In their absence I'm the senior officer aboard, given my status as a Bridge officer, and I assume responsibility for the safety of the ship.

I'm under no illusions as to the weight of that responsibility. Had circumstances been different, had I been able to reassure myself that the captain really has fully learned the lessons that were so necessary to cure of him of the boy-scout optimism with which he set out in the beginning of the voyage, I'd have been more than happy to have been left to look after the rest of the officers and crew.

Unfortunately…

Well, yes. T'Pol's going along, and I have implicit faith in her sound good sense, not that there's any guarantee the captain will listen to her if her advice conflicts with his curiosity, ideas of diplomacy or sense of fun. There's still more than a shadow of reckless optimism about Captain Archer, and as for Trip…

It's imperative that I be allowed to go along and supervise.

Possibly the captain accepts that there's at least some sense in the request, or maybe he feels that refusing too often borders on not giving his Head of Security's opinions sufficient weight – at least he seems to have learned that he really ought to listen to the voice of caution that usually sounds from behind the Science Station on the left of him when he's parked in the Captain's chair, even if he doesn't always heed it. If it wasn't inappropriate for me to offer advice unasked, he'd get it from behind the Tactical Station on his right as well, which would probably piss him off royally.

That said, it's increasingly weighing on my mind (even if the thought brings with it a pang of disloyalty) that this mission might actually have been somewhat safer if Starfleet had opted to entrust the command of it to Commander Robinson, an older and more seasoned officer, rather than going with Jonathan Archer, who is far too apt to be ruled by his heart rather than his head. It really shouldn't be necessary for us to continually irritate him by preaching caution, but what's the alternative when Captain Carefree wants to go swanning about the galaxy, meddling in alien affairs and visiting strange new worlds without so much as an umbrella or a towel, let alone his own phase pistol? He's already shown a capacity for epic blunders (including P'Jem, the Suliban internment camp, and getting sucked into a civil war/terrorist cell a couple of weeks ago), so perhaps a word or two from his security officer when he starts acting like a child watching the clock at one minute to recess would not be completely inappropriate, even if it does get up his nose. My duty is to protect the ship, and sometimes it feels like that duty includes protecting it from him.

But whatever his reasons for indulging me this time, he nods, and with a surge of relief I hurry down to the Armoury to get my mitts on a phase pistol. Most likely I'll be told to leave it behind (or at least put it away somewhere in my toy box if I manage to get on board the shuttlepod without the captain noticing I have it), but it's my fixed opinion that it's better to have one and not need it than need one and not have it, and that the possession of a weapon is always a good argument in a dispute.

Diplomacy is admittedly not one of my strongest suits.

I'm careful to keep the right side of my body on the opposite side from Captain Archer as the landing party assembles in the shuttle bay. T'Pol's far too observant not to notice the presence of the phase pistol but a slightly elevated eyebrow is her only comment, while Trip's too excited by an outing after a rather dull period of charting stellar phenomena to notice anything that isn't forcibly inserted into one of his bodily orifices.

Given the helm – the captain's presumably more eager to continue discussing the diplomatic aspects of the visit – I'm on my mettle. I'm tensely aware that the atmosphere of the planet below includes a layer of highly flammable tetrazine, and as part of pre-flight checks I studied the landing protocol supplied by the Paraagan colonists. The only threat the arrival of the shuttlepod presents is the emission from the plasma ducts, and once the 'pod's safely set on its approach vector, there won't be any problem about shutting off the ducts to prevent any leakage. It'll make the craft slightly slower and less responsive, but that's a minor issue, especially given the fact that the sky of the planet below us is cloudless except for a few wisps of white, with a weather report of low wind and perfect visibility. Aware that we'll be a bit less nippy than usual, we've allowed plenty of extra time.

Still, with one of the Fleet's best pilots sitting at the console on my left, I'm slightly… not 'anxious' exactly; 'self-conscious' would be a better way of putting it. "This should take a bit longer than usual," I remark for no particular reason.

The captain has been chatting with T'Pol, who seems very nearly excited about the visit. Given that from what I can glean, the colony was established with a matriarchal power structure, I suppose it's unusual enough for even a Vulcan to sit up and take a bit of notice. Actually I don't suppose he's been paying any attention at all to my flying technique, but he breaks off to respond. "It wouldn't be very polite to ignite their atmosphere. When are you supposed to close the plasma ducts?"

We're descending on a steady glide. The altimeter has just passed eighty kilometres and a few moments later I tap the twin switches to close off the ducts. The click's a pleasant sound, given my hyper-awareness of the risks involved, but the two DUCT CLOSED lights come on to confirm the action. There are warning sensors that would sound immediately if there was any malfunction; the shuttle engines have to be switched on occasionally during repairs and servicing, and the last thing you want is plasma exhaust venting into a shuttle bay. "The protocol said fifty kilometres, but to be on the safe side I'm going to lock them off at about seventy-five," I reply, in case he wonders why I've done it so early.

He nods and turns back to the discussion. I have to say it's the first time I've heard T'Pol sound positively chatty; even Trip's watching her with amused interest.

"Although the matriarchal elements in the culture have diminished it might be best if I were to ask–"

We never do get to find out what she thought it would be a good idea to ask. A sudden huge flare of yellow light blanks out the viewscreen and next moment the shuttlepod is flung off course as if it's been batted by a giant cat . I'd try to regain control but we're battered and blinded, thrown around like dolls in a tumble-dryer while below us, the planet burns.