Set Fire...: For Whom the Bell Tolls (I)
Midnight
Can it really be? Jonathan Archer felt the hint of a thought teasing at the recesses of his mind, trying to piece together their last week in the Expanse, a span of time that flowed, in broken chunks, into a stream of memory and nightmare. It was not so long ago when the Enterprise had entered the outskirts of the Azati system, their target clear, and their objective evident; the weapon, the great weapon, located just beyond their reach, but waiting for them to lash out in justice and vengeance.
Has it really only been a week? Or has it really been a full week? He couldn't make up his mind between the two possibilities. So much had transpired; and so much death, he noted morosely, the starship's casualty list burned into his subconscious thoughts. The activity around Azati; their desperate retreat, the encounter with the Nyrian, and…all that it entailed. And then three days of warp travel, even deeper into the ragged depths of the Expanse, en route to a rendezvous with the same man who had schemed up the means to destroy Earth.
And T'Pol…somehow, the Vulcan's collapse hung the heaviest upon him, his mind barely able to banish the image of her still sedated in sickbay. The pressure, the strain, the endurance it demanded, was diminishing them all, and it was T'Pol—her latent telepathic receptors rendering her most vulnerable to the intense emotions around her—who had fallen first.
And if we don't do something, he understood, and soon, the rest of us will follow.
"Captain?" Trip Tucker repeated the word, a note of concern evident in his voice. Together with Malcolm Reed, they were gathered in Archer's ready room, leaning on fractured furniture. The room was cloaked in shadows, lit only by a solitary palm beacon strapped to a naked beam overhead; the glow was anemic, slowly failing, casting only darkness into the recesses of the captain's weary face.
Archer shook his head, grimacing at the headache that refused to relinquish its days-long grasp upon him; but the pain helped, ever so slightly, giving him a point of focus as he swam through the effluvium that clouded his mind. "Sorry, Trip," he replied, his tone ginger, not wanting to hear the echoing sound of his own voice. "Say that again?"
"Of course." The engineer's face had grown gaunt over the previous week; nearly half of the engineering staff had been killed in the reptilian attack deep in the Azati asteroid belt, and the remaining crew had been pulling double and triple shifts just to keep the Enterprise from coming apart. "We finally got into sections six and seven on C-deck," Trip stated again. His normal joviality, the light-hearted lilt in his voice, was gone; he had no reserves left, nothing more to give. "We found the bodies of Taylor and Kamala."
"That accounts for all of the missing crew," Malcolm added soberly. He glanced at the captain, looking for an ember of strength, but found himself standing alone. "I've taken the liberty of scheduling a ceremony for both of them," he went on. "It'll be short, but it'll be something." They could not afford to take any more time to grieve the dead; the farewell would be a few words, a remembrance, and a diffuse transporter beam into the darkness of space.
"Thanks, Malcolm." Archer nodded gratefully, appreciating the simple effort from his weapons officer; such matters were ordinarily the first officer's domain. "Phlox stopped by a little while ago," he continued. "He'd like to discharge his remaining patients back to quarters." Except for T'Pol. The mental addendum, unspoken, was understood by all three men.
Trip shrugged fatigued shoulders. "I have no objections to that," the engineer replied. "But damage teams haven't gotten to general quarters yet. If Phlox wants to use some, his medics will have to straighten them up." The light flickered above, earning itself a glare from Tucker, a sideways glance from Malcolm, and no recognition from Archer. "I can send him the list of rooms that we're hot-bunking in. He'll need to avoid those." A handful of rooms had emerged scathed but usable; and in them, the surviving crew rotated through, snatching a few hours of drained sleep as they could.
Archer's desk chair was slanted to the right; and cautiously, he leaned into it, hoping that it would hold as he tried to ease the twist in his back. "What's our status on weapons, Malcolm?"
Malcolm's words, usually clipped and precise, bore a noticeable slur as he replied, giving audible hint of a cracking façade. "The forward phase cannons are online," he answered. "But I can't say for how long. The power relays are nearly fried, and a minor surge could blow them out again."
"Firepower is only at half strength," Trip added in. "Before you ask, no, we can't get it any higher. Too many EPS grids were destroyed." He breathed out deeply, his shoulders sagging. "We used up our spare stock, and still came up short. There simply isn't enough to handle a normal flow of power to the cannons, Captain. The reactor's providing enough energy." He moved his hands about, as if mimicking the flow of power. "We just can't get it to where it needs to go."
"That'll have to do." The captain's pronouncement was simple, acknowledging the unavoidable truth; if the Enterprise found itself in combat again, the starship would not last long. Instead, he was banking everything on Degra's willingness to listen.
On such things, the fate of worlds turn.
"We could wait here," Trip commented. "Hang back until we've had a chance to make more repairs." His own tone, flat and unconvincing, gave little hope for the suggestion; but he voiced it nonetheless, trying to find an option, any option, for the mission to succeed.
It earned him a thin smile from Archer. "I thought you were the one eager to push on."
"Maybe," Trip allowed, understanding his own eagerness—his own desperation—to hunt down the weapon and end the threat to Earth. "But I don't see much choice here, Captain." He spoke softly, his voice hanging, his reticence obvious. "Degra could be luring us into an ambush."
"He could." As Archer spoke, the palm beacon flickered out, plunging the small room into darkness; opening his eyes wider, trying to use the starlight from outside the viewing port, the captain eyed his engineer with concern. "But if Degra wanted to destroy us, he would've allowed the reptilians to do the job."
"I don't see where we have much choice," Malcolm added in. "We've lost track of the weapon. Meeting with Degra could be a trap, but trusting him is the only option we have."
"How did we reach the point of trusting the man who killed my sister?" Trip's disbelief was clear, but his umbrage was subdued, another victim of the bone-crushing exhaustion that had settled upon them all.
"I'm not sure." Grateful for the darkness, Archer rubbed his temples, trying to disperse a growing headache. "But I know one thing, Trip. If there's a future for humanity in the stars—it will depend on our ability to make friends of our enemies." Despite his efforts, the throbbing in his head grew, threatening to overpower his thoughts. "We have a lot of work to do, gentlemen," he continued, needing to bring the meeting to a close. "Let's get on with it."
As the two officers turned to leave, Archer spoke again. "Trip," he added, "can you stay for a moment?"
"Of course, Captain," the engineer replied; with a nod to Malcolm, he waited for the door to clang shut, sealing back out the harsh light of the bridge, and turned back. "What is it?" he asked, speaking tentatively.
Blinking his eyes furiously, Archer tried to readjust his vision back to the darkness. "Kamala was one of yours, wasn't she?" he asked softly, moving forward cautiously.
Trip nodded in confirmation. "She was an EPS control specialist." Before he could continue, the overhead palm beacon flickered back on, causing them both to wince under the new light. "A damn good one, too."
Should I? Archer paused, debating his thoughts before continuing; seeing the strain in the engineer, he was hesitant to give his next command. "I'd like you to write the letter to her family," he said finally, raising a hand to shield his eyes. "It's a request, Commander, but it would mean something more coming from you."
Trip's head slowly rotated, moving from side to side. "I'm barely holding the ship together," he answered, his unwillingness clear; as if to emphasize the words, the palm beacon flickered back off, earning itself a glare from the engineer. "I don't have time to sit down and write a letter, Captain."
Archer raised an eyebrow, the gesture unseen in the returning darkness, silently wondering about Trip's reasoning; wondering, perhaps, if he should push the matter, or let it go. "It doesn't have to be long." He knew that the letter may be an exercise in futility; if the Enterprise did not return to Earth, her family would never receive it. Just like the other families, he noted, recognizing that their fate would likely remain unknown. But, perhaps, it will do Trip some good to reflect and write the letter. "Her family deserves to know what happened to her," he added on, searching for the appropriate angle to encourage the engineer. "Try your best, Trip. It's all that I can ask."
Åamir shone upon the planet, lighting the sky up with brilliant cerulean streaks; puffy clouds of pure white floated overhead, adding to the beauty above, and down below, the water in the bay was a gentle sapphire, lapping at the small beach as soft waves washed inward from the ocean beyond.
On days like this, Dolim—the reptilian councilor, the leader of his people—dreamed of a simpler life, a time spent basking in the warmth of the sun, laying upon a heated rock; feeling the soothing rays playing upon his hardened skin, easing his muscles, bearing the relaxation and rest of an uncomplicated existence. Far from the demands of his duty, far from the dangers of space, far from the existential threat posed by the humans, he could stretch out, languid and lethargic, no more worries than finding his next meal.
It was a dream—but he was a soldier, and he would step up to his responsibilities, making the sacrifices to ensure the continuing existence of the Xindi peoples; for truly, it rested upon his shoulders to do so, a burden that no one else could quite carry. And when others equivocated, made timid by the bloodshed necessary, he would stand strong; if he had to do so alone, he would take the action to protect his people.
The news was concerning; and made more so by the absence of information.
Earlier in the day, he had received a communication from General Jokin, far off in the Azati system. The general had reported—to Dolim's unparalleled surprise—that Berezi and Jannar had intervened in the interrogation of the human captain; and claiming to be acting on a directive of the Council itself, they secured the release of Jonathan Archer into the custody of a nearby aquatic ship, allegedly for transportation to the Åamir system.
But the Council issued no such directive. And nor would we have. And now, days later, there was no trace of the human, his existence mysteriously lost somewhere in the mysteries of the Expanse. And with the interference of Berezi and Jannar, his starship has disappeared as well.
What had happened back on Azati Prime? Were the two councilors stirring up a plot of their own, ignoring the authority of the full Council, acting on some misbegotten, warm-blooded sympathy for the human? Jokin reported that the duo had left Azati soon thereafter, taking a primate corsair—armed, but hardly a warship, like his own battlefleet. And now, that corsair as well was out of communication, its location untracked and unknown, silence reigning from Berezi and Jannar.
And what am I supposed to think, if they are not here to explain their actions? Dolim could scarcely compel their attendance before him, could not demand an accounting of their decisions. Acting as equals, the five councilors were legally immune from such a thing.
No, Dolim thought, his mind brooding over the disparate elements before him. There is something that I am not seeing here. Something that pulls this together, something that explains their actions. For otherwise—all I can conclude is that the soft-skins have betrayed us to our worst enemy.
And if I must stand alone, to protect the Xindi, to restore our greatness, I will do so with vengeance.
Sickbay was darkened for the evening, and Trip Tucker was grateful.
Fidgeting slightly as he stood in the hatchway, he looked in, never more uncertain of himself; a man who prided himself on strong decisions, on the conviction of his actions, he was now hesitating. He could enter; he could leave, no one knowing that he had stopped here. Or he could continue, debating, his body holding the doorway open, never quite making up his mind.
She was in there—the only she in his life, and truly, the only she who had ever been in his life.
They had not been friends; one coldly logical, one intemperately emotional, they had danced a tango with each other. But even from the start, he had believed—sensed, perhaps, in an intuitive fashion—that there was more to her, a depth unseen, a compassion and heart, if only he could find a way to breach her walls.
He had never imagined, though, that her shell would prove to be so fragile. Or his own.
So if you love me, let me go.
His sister—his kid sister, his family—perished in the fiery storm of the Xindi attack, and he swore to wreck vengeance on the bastards who had stolen Elizabeth away on the wings of death.
Of all his friends, of all the crew, it was she who had emerged in those darkest of nights, when sleep would not come, when nightmares stalked his waking hours, when he raged with futile despair. She had become his solace, his relief, his lifeline from the pain he carried, inflicted upon himself. And, with the trepidation of two beings, both scarred by life, an unknown intimacy had emerged.
And run away before I know.
Was it a mistake? Had he misread her feelings? Or was she truly alien, unable to reciprocate the depth of his tenderness for her? For one night of passion—one night of pure connection, unvarnished, unhidden, two beings in unrestrained merging—had burned it all, thrown it all away, torn apart what they had so delicately constructed.
I couldn't face a life without your light.
Days, weeks, months passed by, as the Enterprise voyaged deeper into the darkness of the Expanse, their hopes fading in the inexorable maw of desperation. And without her, without their confidence, without their bond, the anger grew in magnitude, until he could see little else beyond the hate within his own eyes.
I only wish you weren't my friend.
And yet, here he found himself, in the threshold of the medical ward; unseen by prying eyes, the denizens within in sound slumber, he stood, his mind unknown, his thoughts manifold. For she was in there—even in the muted glow of night, he could see her, laying on a bed, her small body covered by a blanket. She was not moving; she was not awake, not aware, could not sense his presence in the doorway.
Then I could hurt you in the end.
He wanted to leave, to walk away, to pretend that he did not care; to deny the pain, the sting of betrayal. But his feet, heavy in his boots, did not cooperate. For despite it all, some part of him still fought, wanting to enter, to take her hand in his, to smooth her hair and sit by her side; to stand sentinel, keep her safe, until she woke. And then—
It takes the death of hope to let you go.
It made no sense, not even to him; but out here, in the blackened reaches of tortured space, she had become his humanity. He could not forget it; he could not ignore it; he could not let this last ray of light disappear in the abyss consuming him. Without her…there was only one way for it all to end.
But she had made her feelings—her lack of feelings—clear to him.
Deliver me into my fate.
Shifting his eyes, taking in the whole of the medical ward, satisfied that no one had witnessed his presence, he turned about; his feet shuffled at first, but then took on a resolute step as he left, making his way down the corridor. He had duties to perform; a mission before him, a task unfinished, but no eagerness to propel him forward. Instead, as his mind's eye focused forward, on the path laid out before him, he saw only the encroaching entropy of inevitable death.
My heart is just too dark to care.1
In a sea of infinite starlight, space can be remarkably dark. And here, at these unknown coordinates, far between the nearest furnaces of stellar fusion, the darkness was almost absolute.
And cold, Travis thought, shivering slightly despite the warm, stale air covering the bridge. As a navigator, his mind often drifted beyond the confines of the starship, floating through the void as if a drifting thought; it allowed him to perceive space and time in a unique manner, to appreciate the beauty of the cosmos, to truly feel as if he were one with the universe. But now, as the Enterprise slowed to a stop, the breaking thrusters jolting the inertial dampeners, he was deeply aware of just how far from home they were.
Though he knew without looking, he checked his readouts again. "We're at the designated coordinates, Captain."
Behind the navigator, deeper in the center of the bridge, Jonathan Archer gingerly rose to his feet, taking care to favor his left leg; stretching the muscle as he stood, he felt the pain crescendo sharply before waning, an unwanted reminder that he, too, was in desperate need of rest and recovery. "How long until the rendezvous, Ştefania?"
The young woman had taken T'Pol's place at the science console as the Vulcan lay, still comatose, in sickbay. "We're right on schedule, sir," she reported, speaking confidently in her assessment. "Less than a minute early."
Archer turned his head only slightly, projecting his voice over his shoulder as he continued eyeing the viewscreen, searching the dim starfield for any sign of Degra's ship. "Anything, Malcolm?" he asked cautiously, both wanting—and not wanting—to hear the answer. "Look closely—maybe they have some stealth technology."
"We're on active scan," Reed replied. He, too, remembered their lone encounter with the Romulan ship, which had appeared from nowhere; but his readouts gave no sign, not even the faintest indication, of a blip larger than a dust mote. "No sign of a ship out there, sir."
"Hoshi?" Archer turned his head about, addressing Sato. "Anything on the comm?"
She shook her head, but only once; her hair had come loose, falling forward across her face. "I'm scanning all frequencies," she answered, her dejection evident. "Nothing so far."
"They could be running late." Travis spoke hopefully, trying to convey his unwillingness to surrender belief in their mission.
"We'd be reading them if they were remotely close," Malcolm replied. His tone stood in sharp contrast, cutting off the last straw of optimism. "I think we've been set up, Captain."
Have we been set up? It was a possibility; but one that Archer quickly dismissed, for it would not make sense. If Degra wanted to remove us from the chess board, he reminded himself, then he wouldn't have saved us from the reptilians. If he wanted us gone—he would have allowed them to destroy us. But then…where is he?
Does Degra have another motivation at play? If he was unwilling to kill us, but wanted us sidelined for some reason…but why? Archer frowned, his head hurting from the accumulated strain of the previous week; there was an answer, somewhere, just out of reach. What am I missing?
With sudden, erupting force, the deck beneath his feet skewed to starboard, the Enterprise shuddering violently; and Archer's sore leg collapsed underneath him, landing him on the deck plating with a painful crash. Around him, the others clung to their posts, the quaking threatening to send each officer flying across the bridge. "What the hell was that?" he shouted out, holding back some coarser language as he projected his voice over the sudden chaos of alarms. "Go to tactical alert!"
"A spatial anomaly just emerged in front of us!" Ensign Dumitru hollered back, one hand grabbing her console as the other manipulated the controls. "It's not—it doesn't appear to be the Spheres, Captain, this is something else!"
"Back us out, Travis, as fast as you can!" Finding himself crawling, unable to steady his feet, Archer pulled himself back to his command chair.
"Tucker to the bridge!" Amid the magnetic crinkle of the intercom, the deafening boom of an explosion could be heard, and a background scream temporarily filled the channel. "This is not the best time!"
The ship shuddered again, tilting dramatically to port. "Reports of damage on B-deck!" As Malcolm spoke, the sound of a plasma surge sent him diving to the deck, a scarce second before a panel blew out, covering his chair in fiery debris. Rolling to his feet, he grabbed an extinguisher, directing the nozzle at the ensuing fire.
"Reverse at half-thrusters!" Travis added his report as he fought with the starship, trying to hold the Enterprise at station-keeping; mercifully, as he put distance between them and the new anomaly, the shudders became trembles, and the trembles became quivers.
Finally back in his command chair, Archer coughed involuntarily, trying to eject smoke and dust from his battered lungs. It hurt to speak; but he spoke as loudly as he could, trying to reassert control. "Full report!"
"Captain, I'm getting something from the anomaly." Dumitru's fingers flew as she fought with crashing controls. "There's a ship emerging, sir."
"Confirmed, Captain," Malcolm added. Setting the extinguisher down, he wiped his brow with one sweaty hand, accomplishing little. "It's a primate corsair. The readouts match Degra's vessel."
"We're receiving a transmission, Captain!" Normally soft-spoken, Hoshi was shouting over the tumult of alarms that were blanketing the bridge. "Text only!"
Keeping a firm grip on the arms of his chair, Archer didn't dare turn about to address Sato. "What's the message?"
"It's Degra," Hoshi confirmed. "He's telling us to follow him back into the anomaly."
"Into the anomaly?" Malcolm's disbelief was clear, voicing the sentiment felt by the entire crew. "He can't be serious!"
"I think he is," Archer countered. I don't see much choice in the matter, he realized; he was tired of having his hand forced, unwilling to simply accept Degra's command. But…if we're to trust each other, we have to start somewhere. Orienting his gaze to the viewscreen—eyeing the event horizon of the artificial anomaly, roiling and furious, as if ready to consume the Enterprise—he gave the only order that he could. "Follow him in, Travis!"
As the corsair turned about, reentering the anomaly, the Starfleet ship moved forward, buffeted by the incensed winds of abused space-time; torn asunder, defiled in ways incomprehensible, the near-terminus of the conduit spat out waves of exotic energy, each one crashing into the starship. The great duranium backbone groaned in exquisite pain as Travis fought with the thrusters, a losing battle to keep the Enterprise steady amid the tumult; and as they neared ever closer, the quaking increased, sending a new battery of alarms screaming across the bridge.
They slipped into the event horizon, and the convulsions fell silent.
Just shy of a minute later, the two ships emerged from the far horizon of the conduit, sliding back into normal space-time.
"Where are we?" Archer asked immediately.
"It'll take a second to confirm our location," Travis replied, already deep into the astrogation scans. "But there's a sphere nearby. I'm bringing us to a full stop," he added on, anticipating the command.
"They're hailing us," Hoshi reported a moment later. "We have visual, Captain."
Archer nodded to her, issuing an unspoken command; and Degra's face, large and center, appeared on the viewscreen. "I see that you found my message," the primate said curtly, allowing for no pleasantries as he dove in. "We have a great deal to discuss, Captain, and I don't have much time." He leaned forward, his face growing to fill the visual. "Come aboard my ship at once, and we can talk." Without granting an opportunity for answer, the Xindi's face disappeared, the channel closed.
Archer sat back in his chair, feeling it rock on unsteady support. "Well," he commented, as if replying to the blank screen, "not quite the welcome I was expecting."
"Perhaps so," Travis responded, sounding a more optimistic note. "It could've been a lot worse, though."
Degra settled back into his seat, his mind drifting for a moment as he contemplated this odd turn in events; for even a week ago, he would not have believed that he would ever host the human captain in his traveling office, much less for a conversation of cooperation and trust. No, the humans were our enemy, and this one the worst of them all; for he was seeking to stop the great weapon, to stop our victory, and to stop our salvation. But the circumstances had changed, in the most unusual of fashion, as Jonathan Archer had claimed to possess new information about the reptilians, the Xindi benefactors, and the fate of all of their peoples.
And where the facts lead, I must follow, Degra reiterated to himself, trying to lessen the sting of his betrayal of the great mission. For, indeed, he should not be here; he should not be listening, should not be inviting the lies that were sure to follow, the self-serving claims and protestations of human innocence, the attempt to divide the Xindi with distrust and confusion.
And yet…I am here. And why was he here, watching as the human captain entered the small office, escorted by only the minimum of security? Why was he here, prepared to listen, prepared to suspend his beliefs, prepared to renounce his life's mission?
Because the weapon itself never was my mission, he realized, searching for the justification that dwelt just beyond reach. Only peace is. Peace and security for my children.
As Archer took a seat, Degra leaned forward, his elbows on the desk. "I apologize for how we returned you," he said, opening the conversation with a sincere regret. "The aquatic commander was not comfortable having you on board his ship." It had been a rough conversation led by the two Xindi councilors; in the end, it was only rank prerogative and the agreement to keep the human unconscious that had created accord.
And Degra could not recall, but Archer had admitted to him—the human crew had similarly treated the primate scientist during his stay on the Enterprise. It was a thought, self-spoken not with a sense of righteousness, but with the realization that Archer would understand the precaution.
"If we'd left you with Jokin, he would've killed you," Jannar added, speaking with his normal, languid pace. Standing alongside Degra, and slightly back, he waved his hairy hands, as if illustrating the promised violence.
Archer nodded, communicating his agreement. "I appreciate the lengths you went to in order to release me," he answered, the gratitude voiced clearly. "I wish that I would've been so understanding in a similar situation."
"Yes," Degra replied, feeling a tone of curtness within. "It's not lost on us, Captain, that whereas you treated me with distrust and artifice, I have opened my ears to what you have said. I am employing no tricks here," he added. "I would rather converse as two intelligent beings who may have a common interest."
"We are taking a big risk to even talk to you," Berezi commented. He, too, stood just slightly behind the scientist, joining in the conversation. "By this time, Jokin has realized that we helped you escape, and has reported our perfidy to Councilor Dolim."
"We are treading a dangerous path here," Jannar added. "But if what you say is the truth, then the Council has greatly erred."
Degra snorted. "If what you say is the truth, then we are condemning our own people by trying to destroy yours."
"We're far from convinced, Captain," Jannar went on, his voice smooth, and nonetheless firm, as he spoke his mind. "But the danger is far too great to disregard."
Berezi directed a glare at his fellow councilor before joining back in. "That is," he observed, "if you are telling the truth. Your claims—forgive me, Captain, but they are extraordinary."
Degra didn't look back at his superior, but his thoughts were evident, as they hung over Berezi's pronouncement: and the claims of our benefactor are no less extraordinary?
Archer's face tightened. "Everything I've told you is true."
"Forgive us our skepticism," Berezi replied drily. "But we need more than your fantastic stories, Captain." Far from convinced by the human's words, his skepticism was evident, his reluctance clear.
"We need some proof." Jannar stepped forward a half-step, as if moving to cut off the primate councilor, his own tone more accepting of diplomacy. "We need something hard and solid, that we can observe and measure. Your story—" The arboreal waved a hand to one side. "They are compelling, yes, but hardly conclusive. We simply cannot jeopardize the future of our peoples based only on your word."
At the pronouncement, Degra clenched his eyes shut, seeking to hide the concern in his thoughts: after all, aren't we trusting the future of our people based only on the word of our benefactor?
Archer nodded slowly, as if understanding. "What sort of proof are you looking for?" he asked, addressing each of the councilors in turn.
"Perhaps you can demonstrate your ability to time travel?" Berezi's response was direct and pointed.
Archer's eyes blinked shut for a long moment. "As I told you, we had some assistance," he answered, his voice staying steady as he pressed back, standing his ground before the primate as his eyes refocused. "But we have other forms of proof on board the Enterprise. If you're willing to come aboard, I'm sure that I can give you all the evidence you need."
"By the Furies!" Berezi's voice shot upward in volume as he spoke with astonishment. "You expect us to simply walk into your ship?"
"Then bring a guard with you, if it'll make you feel safer," Archer answered. Unyielding, he did not rise to the bait. "You had me captive, Councilor, and treated me with dignity and respect, returning me to my own ship. Will you trust me to do the same for you?"
The small office fell silent, broken only by an airy sigh from Jannar as he shifted his gaze to the primate. "The Enterprise is hardly in any condition to hold us prisoner."
Degra, too, shifted his head, looking back at the councilor. "Yes, it could be a trap," the scientist confirmed, understanding Berezi's objection. "But we cannot ignore the possibility here, my friend," he added, interjecting the words smoothly as the councilor moved to speak again. "If there is any chance that the humans are telling the truth, then we must investigate it."
"All I can do is give you my word," Archer continued. "But you have granted me safe passage here: and I will grant you safe passage in return."
Berezi's lips pursed tight as he let out a deep breath. "Very well." Reluctant, nearly growling, it was agreement nonetheless. "We will come see your proof, Captain. But if we are not convinced—" The thought trailed off, the conclusion self-evident.
Archer shifted his body, lifting himself slightly from his chair. "There's no need to make threats." Straightening up, he stood upright, as if ready to bring the conversation to a close. "But there is one threat that we need to discuss."
"And what is that?" Jannar's forehead seemed to wrinkle in confusion.
"We know that the weapon is ready for launch," Archer answered. "Before we can take up more time, we need to know when the attack is set for."
Berezi snorted derisively. "Do you really think we'd tell you that?" Shaking his head, he went on. "We're not fools, Captain."
Lifting a hand, Degra seemed to physically force the councilor back. "Your concern is understandable, however. Suffice it to say…the precise date hasn't been determined yet."
Archer sucked in a deep breath, his chest filling out before expelling the air again. "You must have some idea," he countered. "I'm trying here, Councilors. I want to resolve this matter with you—but I need to know that another arm of the Xindi isn't attacking my planet while I'm talking to you!" His voice peaked for the first time, showcasing desperation, revealing the strain that he was under.
The raw emotion sent Berezi rocking back on his heels. "Councilor Jannar and I will both know in advance of the launch," he replied; as if, for the first time, he was starting to comprehend what the human crew was experiencing, he spoke with the slightest hint of promise and compassion. "We will make sure that it waits until you have had a full chance to make your case. You have my word on that, Captain."
"And mine as well," Jannar added, speaking through hairy lips. "And if your proof convinces us of your tale, then we'll do what we can to stop the attack completely."
The Enterprise crew was wounded and exhausted, but the damaged starship granted them no quarter.
Duty shifts, once the structure and routine of the day, ceased to matter as every waking hour was spent stemming the tide of systems failures and repairing the devastation wrought by the Xindi attack. Never yielding, never tapering, the work continued, drifting from one sleep-deprived hour into the next, demanding a finesse and attention that fatigued bodies and minds could no longer provide. Pushed to their limits, the crew moved from task to task, surviving on little more than raw persistence, the dogged unwillingness to quit in the face of their growing desperation.
They snatched short naps when they could, trading bunks in the few crew quarters still intact; sleeping in their own sweat and dirt, the multitude of unwashed scents no longer bothered them, no longer even registered. Instead, they hit the pillows already asleep, their dreams deadened as they fell into the darkness, not even nightmares alive to haunt their slumber.
And in between, on the doctor's firm orders, the crew took brief pauses in their endless efforts, a respite to visit the mess hall for vital sustenance. Amid the charred support beams and dangling conduits, the largest chunks of debris relocated, broken tables were spot-welded together; and along the banquet wall, ration packs were laid out for the hungry and the not-so-hungry, the emergency packets the only food left to serve.
And Trip Tucker picked at his food, barely aware of its presence, his mind drifting through a half-dozen data padds spread out on the table before him. Each one bespoke a different problem; each one a separate issue, each one seemingly requiring his personal attention. Floating, his thoughts not truly processing anything on the padds, Trip felt the weight of the starship's mortal wounds upon his shoulders; for he, the chief engineer, was supposed to be the miracle worker who could repair the Enterprise with little more than chicken wire and a ragged assortment of self-sealing stem bolts.
"Mind if I join you, Commander?"
Startled, Trip looked up, his eyes shifting back into focus, and a smile tried to crack his wearied face. "Of course, Hoshi," he answered. "Please, sit down."
Pulling up a wobbly stool, she took a seat, experimenting with her balance; it took a moment to find stability on the makeshift repairs. "You look like you could use a little company," she offered, giving the engineer a welcoming expression.
Chuckling lightly, Trip pushed the stack of padds away from him. "Just got my mind on some stuff," he answered ruefully. "It seems like every minute is creating a new crisis in engineering." Glancing at her tray, he tried to hazard a guess at her meal. "Casserole?"
Hoshi gave a faint nod in response. "Tuna." Gesturing at the pile of data padds, she remained silent for a moment before continuing. "Damage reports?" she asked warily, hesitant to broach the commander's stack of work.
Daring himself to sit back, uncertain if his chair would hold, Trip snorted softly. "No," he answered, almost wistful for the complications of his job. "It's a letter to Taylor's family. The captain—he asked me to write something personal for her parents."
Hoshi eyed the engineer carefully, trying to discern what best to say. "I'm sure they'll appreciate it."
"Their daughter's dead, Hoshi," Trip replied morosely, a shade of gray descending down his face. Running a hand over his unshaven chin, he felt several days' worth of offending stubble, the scraggly growth showing just how little care he had taken for himself. "And the fact is, they'll likely never see my letter anyway."
"You need to have faith, Commander," Hoshi answered softly. Her eyes seemed to widen as they communicated a delicate beam. "The captain will find a way for us to get back home."
"Will he, Hoshi?" Trip looked away for a moment, the crescendo of doubt falling heavy upon him. "I'll follow the captain anywhere," he declared, reiterating his support. "But honestly? I just don't see how this is going to end well for us."
"We have an opening," Hoshi countered. "The captain has reached Degra—there's a chance for a peaceful resolution."
With that, Tucker harrumphed loudly, drawing the attention of a nearby crewmember. "We can't trust Degra," he replied, lowering his voice again. "He's responsible for seven million deaths. His life's mission is to destroy us, Hoshi. And I'm supposed to believe that he's had a sudden change of heart?" Shaking his head, Trip made his answer clear. "No, he's playing us for fools."
"You don't know him, Commander," Hoshi replied, barely audible as she spoke with hesitation.
"I know that he killed Elizabeth," Trip shot back, leaning inward on his wobbly perch. "You can't change people, Hoshi."
Sato's face wrinkled upward with a faint smile. "All of humanity changed," she answered, seizing the steady ground. "Don't tell me that it can't happen. We've seen it happen."
Tucker grunted his disbelief. "You're telling me that humanity has evolved, Hoshi?" he pressed back. "And yet, here I am, wishing death upon the being who killed my sister. It turns out that it was a mirage. You can't change people…you can't save them from themselves. The Xindi attacked Earth, and we charged off into the Expanse, but not to make peace with them." His words built up with undisguised anger. "We set out to bring vengeance. And I…that's all I can think about, Hoshi. That's all I want. Just leave me alone in a room with Degra."
Not yielding to the bait, Sato looked at Trip closely, seeing the heavy lines etched in his face. "When was the last time you slept, Commander?"
"I don't know." The admission was simple and abrupt. "I've slept a couple hours."
Feeling a momentary opening, Hoshi followed up. "When?"
Trip rubbed his chin again, his hand covering the lower half of his face. "Since we obtained our warp coil," he answered, his words unwilling.
"That was three days ago." Hoshi's eyes widened with surprise. "We all need sleep, Commander."
Only slightly chastened, Trip reached back to massage his neck, feeling the soreness of the muscles within. "Believe me, I'd love to," he answered. "But I can't spare the time. If I don't keep working…" An uncontrollable yawn erupted from him before he could finish the thought. "The ship will fall apart." Left unspoken, hidden from all, Trip could add a mental addendum: if I don't keep focused on my work…the nightmares will come. I can't be left alone with my own mind, Hoshi. I'm not safe in my own two hands.
There was, truly, only one person that he could talk to about it—and she was laying in sickbay, the victim of her own deepest demons.
The blast rocked the entire starship, overwhelming the battered inertial dampeners with the force of the powerful explosion.
Staggering to his feet—his balance uncertain, the deck pitching beneath him—Trip rose from his makeshift dinner table, leaving the data padds to fall, scattered, to the floor. In ordinary times, it was a short stroll to the hatchway; but now, critical seconds elapsed as he moved, bending over to stabilize himself as the Enterprise sought to throw him into the bulkhead. Already, the alarms were screaming overhead, the sound reaching a crescendo, a half-dozen systems putting out cries for help; each one meant something to the engineer, and together, they meant danger.
Thick smoke was billowing in through the open hatch; the corridor outside was barely visible in the growing cloud of ash, the only light burning a brilliant lime-green that added a surreal glow to the air. It was a plasma fire; a conduit, wounded and weakened, beset by the intense internal pressure, had given way, burning fiercely in the open air of the hallway.
Coughing harshly, seeking to clear his lungs of the toxic particulates, Trip waved his arms as he moved, trying to clear a path; moving as much by instinct as sight, his eyes barely able to see as tears began to run, he could feel the heat rapidly building as the flames began to melt the surrounding bulkhead. There—he registered the source, relying on memory, his knowledge of the starship guiding him; there, approximately two meters down the left-hand side, was the ruptured conduit.
"Tucker to engineering!" Slapping the nearest comm panel, he shouted out, his words nearly swallowed by the roar of the fire. Without waiting for confirmation, he issued his next command, hoping that someone was listening. "Shut down plasma conduit twelve between sections twelve and fourteen on E-deck!"
Still moving, Trip pushed deeper into the heat, trusting that his crew was already throwing the emergency shut-off into place; it seared upon him, drenched only by his sweat, the fire suppression systems long off-line. The force was clearing the smoke away, and now, he saw the twisted orgy of destruction, the remnants of the blast; the conduit, underneath an access junction, had blown the plate completely free, the debris littering the deck plating. Behind it, a wide rupture was visibly obvious, the aperture growing as it melted away.
From the far side of the blast radius, another crewmember emerged from the smoke, carrying a multi-purpose fire extinguisher. Without a word, aiming the nozzle at the conduit, she squeezed it hard, unleashing a violent stream of suppressors.
It would take a minute to subdue the fire completely, but the task was in hand; and now, Trip's attention shifted to a body laying near his feet. Kneeling down, he rolled it over; it was MacRunnels, a young man serving under Malcolm. His uniform was scorched black, and burns were evident on his exposed skin, but he moaned softly, giving promise that he had survived the immediate blast.
Back on his feet, moving through the fiery darkness, Trip found the comm panel again, and slapped a new channel open. "Tucker to sickbay!" he called out. "Medical emergency on E-deck, section thirteen! Severe plasma burns!"
Phlox's voice, steady as always, replied a scant second later. "On my way, Commander!"
Punching the controls again, Trip shifted his focus, his thoughts running ahead. "Tucker to engineering!" His voice sore, he coughed again, trying to clear the embers from his throat. "Status report!"
"Engineering here! We got the conduit shut down at both ends, Commander. Emergency shunts are in place."
With little else that he could do, Trip slumped down to the deck, draped against the bulkhead as the adrenaline seemed to drain at a record pace; his body nearly convulsed as his chest sought to expel the smoke he had inhaled, and concentrating on his breathing, he took several shallow gasps, seeking out the dissolute oxygen left in the air. Thank God that I wasn't taking a nap, he thought, a chilling sense of relief settling over him. If he hadn't been there—if he had been away from duty, cornered in his makeshift quarters, out of touch with his crew and starship—disaster could have struck. In so many ways, he was the only thing holding the Enterprise together; without his constant attention, he knew that the Starfleet ship would be rapidly doomed.
Thank God I wasn't sleeping.
No one among the crew could see the outside of the ship.
On the ventral starboard hull, a sheet of tritanium cracked open, the long-distant effect of the conduit overload. Scarcely apart, little more than the width of a coin, it was nonetheless enough; and through the crack, forced outward into the null pressure of outer space, came a stream of gas, glittering as it froze in the cold vacuum.
The Enterprise was in danger; and no one knew it.
Fade in.
Reality intrudes into unconsciousness; sometimes in waves, ebbing and flowing with soft crescendo. Other times, it crashes in, a sudden wakeful moment of panic, the mind shifting without warning as the darkness fades into the harsh light. And sometimes, it comes into existence in pieces, one part of the mind becoming aware before the next, the body awakening in unison, a dissonance between the blissful somnolence of dream and the painful understanding of awareness.
That is, for humans.
Vulcans—masters of their own existence, subsuming their physical reality to the power of their thoughts, could place themselves into a state of tow-kath; the healing trance, though the human words were but a two-dimensional shadow of the Vulcan discipline. In this state, with the resources of the mind and body focused singularly on recovery, the patient was deadened to the world beyond; enwrapped so deeply, the patient required force, often violent force, to emerge back from the comatose state.
And thus T'Pol knew that something was deeply wrong; but she could not identify the discrepancy, the error, the flaw within her that had prevented the soothing embrace of the tow-kath. Instead, as if from dreams and disturbing nightmares, she became aware in pinpricks and pieces, as if individual cells were awakening in dissonant disorder, the sensation fueling the sense of imbalance stabbing into her deepest recesses of thought. Light was intruding amid darkness; existence amid nothingness, but none of it fitting in unity, none of it providing a steady message to sooth her growing sense of panic.
Panic. Panic? I am Vulcan. I do not experience panic. Deliberately, she tried to focus her thoughts, recalling the disciplines of nelaya: the suppression of the unwanted, the improper, and the unfit. But the alarm did not yield; as she struggled, it grew more intense, feeding as she became unnerved.
Only semi-conscious, her body still frozen by paralysis, she fought to open her eyes; and with incalculable effort, her lids opened, her irises slow to adjust to the soft lighting overhead. She was laying down, that much was obvious; and over her, a face loomed, and it was not Vulcan. It is not Vulcan. Have I been abducted? Am I in danger?
The alien smiled, an uncanny, broad smile. "Good afternoon, T'Pol," he said, his tone light and friendly. Unbidden, she felt her tension ease, if only slightly, as a recollection percolated upward from the depth of her mind. It is Phlox. He is a doctor. He is my doctor. But how do I know that? Where am I? Why am I in his ward?
Phlox straightened slightly, stepping back from T'Pol, and she recognized a medical instrument appearing in his hands. "How are you feeling?" he asked cautiously; he was scanning as much with his eyes, using his most trusted instrument as he offered gentle encouragement.
"Doctor." T'Pol tried the word, her mouth struggling to form it. "Where am I? What happened?"
Setting down the small device, Phlox leaned against the side of the bed. "You're in sickbay, T'Pol," he answered; and then, with a look of clarity, he continued. "We're on the Enterprise. It's a human starship. You and I are both assigned as crew."
"Doctor…" T'Pol felt almost infantile as she repeated the word, but found she could do little else; her thoughts could barely assemble a coherent phrase, unable to understand even little of what was taking place. "My…my head hurts." My entire body hurts, she realized, uncertain if there was even an adequate measure to express the pain she felt.
Phlox sighed softly; and reaching out, he took her small hand in his. It was illogical; but T'Pol found a sense comfort—a provision of calm—in the physical touch. "You were brought in with neurological shock," he answered, choosing his words with care. There would be time, later, to explain just how close to death she had been. "You've been sedated for several days while your body recovers."
"I—I don't understand, Doctor." Her memory, normally sharp and clear, existed in a state of mush, recollections embodied in a dense fog; the previous days…weeks…months? They were absent from her, only a dim sense of dread existing instead, as if a cloaked amnesia was seeking to protect her from a dangerous truth. "How was I injured?"
Phlox glanced away, as if debating how much to say; his patient was barely conscious, barely aware, not remotely out of critical care. Too much truth, too soon, and too plain, could do more harm than good for her immediate recovery; but T'Pol saw the hesitation in his face. "Tell me, Phlox," she said, her voice a croaking whisper. "I need to know."
The Denobulan nodded in understanding, his action buying him another moment to find the right words before he spoke. "Do you remember our mission, T'Pol?" he asked, edging in from an indirect angle.
She furrowed her brow, the action causing immense pain; unable to cope, unable to overcome it, T'Pol dug deeper, searching for the Vulcan disciplines of her childhood. And in it…she felt, somewhere, a tantalizing echo, a shadow of relief, the remembrance of a quiet sustenance of calm amid the chaos of the human storm. Her control still lacking, she gasped, speaking a single word. "Trellium."
"It's okay, T'Pol." Phlox spoke kindly, and the Vulcan—trained in the ways of reason and logic—took solace in the doctor's reassurance. "I know about your…exposure to the trellium. But I am your doctor. I don't care what brought you into my care. I am here to get you better."
"I…I…" T'Pol's voice stumbled, her thoughts unclear, wondering what lay beyond the darkened shields of her memory; what events had transpired, what sensations had she experienced, what—exquisite pain—had she endured, to seek out reprieve in a drug, even nearly unto death?
Straightening up, Phlox moved away, crossing the small medical ward. "I'm going to give you a mild relaxant," he commented, his voice carrying from the opposing side of the room. "It won't put you back to sleep, but it should help ease your pain. The thing you need most right now, T'Pol, is simply rest. Let everything else return with time."
1 Slipknot, "Snuff"