Set Fire...: For Whom the Bells Tolls (II)

Jonathan Archer found himself oddly confused as he guided the three Xindi down the central corridor, taking care to navigate the jagged edges of sawed-off beams and torn bulkheads.

He was the captain of the Enterprise—proud of his starship, proud of his crew, he felt compelled to show it off in the best possible light, even with the battle damage so evident around them; wanting to showcase the best that Starfleet had to offer, the best of humanity, a thriving and successful people dedicated to coexistence. And it seemed incongruous to reveal the wounds and scars, highlighting the severity of the attack they had sustained, wanting to highlight that they had been the victim of a brutal, unprovoked attack.

"I apologize for the condition of the ship," Archer said, his voice light as they rounded a sharp corner; the air around them grew warm, the evidence of a wounded plasma conduit. "But we had a little encounter with some hostile aliens."

Looking around, his head on a slow swivel, Jannar's eyes were wide; unaccustomed to seeing the results of battle, the councilor stepped cautiously, trying to avoid the debris. "To tell you the truth, Captain," he observed, speaking languidly, "I think you surprised General Jokin with your resilience. The reptilians aren't accustomed to anyone fighting back so furiously." His face wrinkled up, burying his expression beneath furry hair. "At least, any warm-bloods."

It triggered a snort from Degra. "They tend to think that cold-bloods have a natural superiority in battle."

"I won't deny that they're formidable," Archer replied, picking his words with diplomatic tact; the air was cooling again, and he felt almost chilled as the conduit receded behind them. "But we humans have one thing going for us," he added, speaking on a moment's reflection. "Stubbornness."

It earned the captain a smile from Berezi, who joined in for the first time since boarding the Enterprise. "No," he acknowledged, speaking with a slight note of amazement, "you certainly don't give up. Even when you're outmanned, outgunned, and completely outclassed." Shaking his head, as if with disbelief, the councilor went on. "You make me wonder about you, Captain. So many beings would have fled for safety by now, but you…here you are, trying to talk to us."

A half-step ahead as he led the way, Archer glanced back, offering a shrug of his shoulders. "A fraternity brother of mine once said that 'persistence and determination alone are omnipotent.'1I'm not going to give up, Councilor. I will show you that humans are your friends, not your enemies."

"Fine words, Captain," Jannar interposed, gesturing lightly with his hands. "But how do you intend to do that? You may be persistent…but the fate of our race is in the balance as well, and your claims are extraordinary."

Archer gave a slow nod of understanding. "I don't expect you to simply take my word for it, Councilor," he replied, coming to a stop midway down the corridor; he stood outside a standard hatchway, and reaching out, he punched a simple code into the control panel.

If he was chilled before, the captain was now downright frozen as icy air poured out of the makeshift morgue; but he steeled himself, giving no outward sign as he stepped inside, waving the three Xindi in after him.

Jannar gasped, but it wasn't from the glacial freeze; for the arboreal, unaccustomed to sight of war, saw the human wreckage laying around him. Overwhelmed by casualties, the bodies lay on the floor, covered by white sheets, each one representing a person, a story, a legacy, a life; each one a death, a victim of a war brought upon them by others.

Degra, too, slowly came to a halt as he entered, his eyes fixated on the lumps beneath the cloth; only Berezi was able to look away, to look the human captain in the eye, to press ahead. "What do you have to show us?" Berezi asked, his voice sharp, trying to snap his colleagues from their shock; only slowly, the duo looked back, the discord evident on their faces.

Archer breathed deeply, the air coming out as frost. "Let's start here," he stated; awkwardly stepping over a body, he punched a command into a panel, and a drawer emerged from the bulkhead. The length of a body, it came out with a hiss, the metallic slab holding the corpse of a Xindi reptilian.

"Damron," Degra blurted out, shock overcoming his restraint. "That's Damron."

Archer turned about, eyeing the scientist carefully. "A friend of yours?" he asked curiously, his tone intended to provoke a response.

"A…colleague, of sorts," Jannar answered slowly, his words unrevealing. "He went missing several months ago."

Offering a glare, Berezi pressed the obvious question. "Did you abduct him, Captain?"

"Not quite," Archer replied, grimacing as he spoke. "I mentioned that we found a trio of reptilians on Earth, in the past, developing a bioweapon."

"I recall you mentioning that," Jannar replied, nodding in confirmation. "Though the story was quite fantastical."

"Nonetheless, it happened," Archer answered firmly, refusing to yield to the arboreal's skepticism. "He—Damron—is one of that trio. We were able to bring his body back with us."

A furtive look flashed between the two primates before Degra spoke again. "Damron was in charge of the reptilians' biowarfare division."

"Yes." Even in the frozen room, Berezi's voice dropped the temperature by a degree, making his displeasure known. "His disappearance raised a few questions that the reptilians were…unwilling to answer." Eyeing the human captain from beneath his hooded brow, the primate councilor spoke again. "You say that you found him in possession of a toxin that is lethal to your people?"

Wrapping his arms around his chest, Archer gripped tightly, doing his best to calm a shiver. "Yes, Councilor. I can show you the cannister and the remnants of the toxin."

"In the past." Jannar interposed himself, his tone laced with skepticism. "By magically traveling back through time yourself." A snorted breath came from his nostrils, erupting as a gust of icy particles.

Doing his best to restrain a glare, Archer shifted his gaze to the arboreal. "It's as I explained," he answered, speaking slowly, as if belaboring the point. "We had help, Councilor, just like they did."

Jannar's hairy brow raised upward, cresting in a point. "So you've said, Captain," he replied. "And your story hinges on this claim of time travel, and yet, you offer no proof of it." Visibly shuddering from the cold, he pulled his arms tight, almost shrinking his body inward. "It is more plausible that you captured Damron in the present. I am willing to listen," he added, stressing the word. "I would not be here otherwise, Captain. However, you promised proof, not circumstance. What can you offer that cannot be explained away?"

Deep in the body of the Enterprise, a set of reinforced storage lockers had been installed, part of the hurried remodel prior to the starship's departure for the Expanse. For what purpose they were to serve, even the designers were uncertain; of what utility they could be, Jonathan Archer had not known, but with other, weightier matters on his mind, the lockers were installed in a single afternoon, built in and nearly forgotten.

Until, that is, Archer and T'Pol had returned from Earth of the past, and found themselves in need of a secure repository.

With the trio of Xindi flanking him, standing uncomfortably close to the human in their suspicion, the captain took care to shield the control panel with his body as he tapped in an access code known only to a handful of the Starfleet crew. There was, perhaps, little that they could do with a purloined security cipher; little, perhaps, that the Enterprise could do to stop the Xindi from forcibly taking the contents, even without proper admittance. But this is not the time for a security failure, he told himself, knowing that he must remain vigilant, unable to completely accede to his own protestations of openness and friendship.

A chime sounded in response, and the small door—no more than a square foot—audibly unlatched from within. Taking the handles, Archer lifted it off, and set it aside, using his body to press the Xindi trio backward as they leaned forward, trying to make sense of the darkened cubicle. "Gentlemen," Archer said softly; gesturing with his hands, he cleared the space, noting the grumble on Berezi's face.

Reaching in, Archer wrapped his hands around a roughly cylindrical object, feeling once again the considerable heft; bracing himself, he pulled it out, bringing it into the flickering light of the corridor. His feet spread wide to balance himself, the captain watched the immediate response; the threesome all eyed the object, not speaking. Jannar's face grew noticeably heavy, while Berezi turned a pale shade of gray; only Degra, perhaps more inclined to believe the human from the start, did not react.

"Damron—and the other two, in Earth's past—had this with them," Archer confirmed. "We identified it as Xindi technology, and our doctor found a large quantity of toxin inside." He lifted the end of the cylinder slightly, holding it out to Degra. "Our doctor analyzed the toxin. Exposure is fatal for my people. We did…keep a trace amount in this unit."

Reaching out, Degra accepted the proffered device; giving it a cursory inspection, he turned his gaze to Berezi. "I can have my engineers confirm it," he commented, his voice slipping into a growl. "But this is a Xindi stasis tube."

Berezi returned the directed look, communicating as much with his eyes as his voice. "You have a doctor aboard who can verify the toxin as well?" The toxin could be a human creation, he seemed to say. To frame the reptilians. The stasis unit could have come from anywhere.

It earned him faint laughter in response. "Of course, Berezi, but what do you expect to find?" What people would create a toxin lethal to themselves in order to frame another race—that has already expressed its genocidal plans anyway? Yes, the stasis unit could be from anywhere, but the toxin will be from Damron.

Standing aside slightly, as if hesitant to be near to the dangerous substance, Jannar wrapped his hairy arms around his chest. It was not from chill, for the corridor was rather warm; but rather, gripping himself tightly, he radiated a sense of unease and discomfort. "This may be as you say, Captain," he interposed, speaking in the temporary silence that had fallen. "But this…" he pointed at the stasis unit. "This only proves that the reptilians disobeyed the Council by continuing to develop a bioweapon."

"It's evidence of more than that," Archer replied sharply, his tone cutting back before he could stop the retort; but the lack of tact failed to convey across, falling upon ears that did not perceive it. Closing his eyes, murmuring a word of gratitude to the Great Bird, the captain concentrated on making his next claim. "Are you familiar with chronometric flux?"

Degra glanced at Jannar before answering. "I am, Captain, though my colleagues may not be," he replied, thinking over his words as he spoke.

Archer gave a soft nod. "Understandable. It's…" It's complicated, he wanted to say, not certain that he understood the theory himself; and definitely, he did not comprehend the math involved. Gesturing with his hands—an empty gesture, as it did nothing to explain—he sought the simplest explanation. "Every quantum particle has a time-stamp on it, Councilors. That's how we can quantum-date an object, and know if it originated in a different time."

Berezi tilted his head. "Yes, I recall that," he replied, pulling a thought deep from his memory. "The Xindi medallion that you gave to Degra—that's how you were able to show that it came from the future."

"Exactly." Where do I go next? With the threesome watching expectantly, Archer went on, hoping it would come to him. "Now picture an item from our current time. If it travels in time, then returns to the present, its quantum date would still reflect a present origin."

Bushy eyebrows raised over Jannar's eyes. "That makes sense, Captain. But if that is the case, how can you claim to prove that—this stasis unit—traveled back in time, and returned to the present?"

Bingo. For a moment, Archer felt an unwanted wave of fatigue wash over him, reminding the captain of just how long it had been since he had slept; squaring his shoulders, seeking out his resolve, he spoke again, hoping that he was finally achieving progress with the skeptical arboreal councilor. "When an object moves through time like that, the quantum date takes on a certain…" He smiled faintly, knowing that his next words would be imprecise. "Fuzziness. It's referred to as a chronometric flux. With a sensitive enough analysis, you can even identify how far in time the object was transported, based on the degree of the…"

"The fuzziness." The response came from Berezi, but it was not derisive; instead, the primate tilted his head, speaking with understanding of the complex quantum physics. "Degra, do you have such a device on your ship?"

"This is all theoretical," Degra replied wryly, exercising little restraint as he spoke. "My equipment can decipher an anomalous quantum timestamp, but a chronometric flux?" He shook his head, indicating the answer as he continued. "I wouldn't be able to confirm the Enterprise's readings."

"Even so," Jannar added in, his own tone more skeptical, "it's hardly conclusive, Captain." Raising a hand, he cut off the expected retort; the forceful gesture was unusual for the arboreal, but he had heard enough, and was ready to speak his mind. "Perhaps your story is true, and you found Damron in your past, plotting to destroy humanity with a bioweapon." Lofting his head slightly, he projected his voice firmly. "It doesn't prove your underlying conjecture."

One. Two. To hell with it. Clenching his teeth, Archer couldn't make it to three. "What evidence do you need, Councilor?" he asked, ire clear and cutting.

For a moment, Jannar did not respond; raising a hand, he brushed the hair around his mouth, as if thinking about his next words. "The core of your claim," he said at last, "is that we've been misled—that the same beings who have helped us, who have told us that you humans will cause our destruction, are in reality setting us up." He rotated his head on his neck, the gesture unfamiliar to the human captain. "Where is your evidence of that?"

Sworn vitriol threatened to erupt as Trip Tucker read the diagnostic report, his ire rapidly building; and for a moment, his vision blurred, tinged in red, the crescendo overwhelming him with a stabbing pain deep in his brain. Awash in the swirl, a maelstrom besetting him, he could sense his body wavering, even as the deck remained steady beneath his feet; reaching out, he felt for the bulkhead, nearly slicing his hand on the torn, jagged edge of battle damage.

His balance returning, ever so slightly, he could hold back no longer. "There was a micro-fracture in the magnesium jacket!" Slapping the padd in the palm of his hand for emphasis, he cringed slightly, the impact leaving a sting. "That's why it ruptured. It should've been replaced!"

Ensign Guliyev glared back, unwilling to back down in the face of his superior officer. "I ran a pressure test on the entire conduit," he answered. "It passed every qualification, Commander."

Christ Almighty. The imprecation came, unwanted, to Tucker's mind; a man little accustomed to such language, cringing at his own words, it seemed the only thing befitting of the moment. For every moment, every time, every task that he handed off to someone else, Trip found himself cleaning up the errors; and when the Enterprise was ready to fly apart into so many small pieces, it was beyond even him to be everywhere, fixing everything, the only person standing between their mission and their destruction.

Frustration clear, Trip lashed out, verbally snapping back at Guliyev. "Tell it to MacRunnels!" Seething, he spoke hotly, the volume building with ire and wrath. "You can find him lying in sickbay!"

As if materializing from nowhere, a curt, strong tone intruded from behind, cutting in with force. "Commander."

Closing his eyes for a second, Trip swore again, not welcoming the interruption; and turning about, he lowered his voice, speaking in warning. "I'm a little busy, Doc," he answered, addressing the Denobulan physician. "Unless something is ready to explode, it'll have to wait."

"This can't wait." Phlox glanced over at Guliyev. "You can return to your duties, Ensign." With a nod, the younger engineer quickly departed; and Trip, as well, turned brusquely about, a cloud of fury threatening to storm upon both men.

"Halt, Commander." Unperturbed by the looming tempest, the doctor—normally amiable and kind—spoke with steel, his words tolerating no disobedience, his authority clear and stated; unassuming, he seemed to swell in size, filling the corridor with his presence.

Trip ground his teeth, and lifted one last foot, tempted to press his luck; but he pressed a deep breath of air out between his lips, and turning back about, he swallowed the retort that had nearly sprung from his throat. "What's the problem, Phlox?" he asked instead, barely opening his mouth to speak, his jaws clenched with tension.

Tucker's eyes glared with warning, but the doctor did not yield. "I understand that you've barely slept since the raid on the Nyrian," Phlox stated, referencing the event nearly four days previous.

Snorting through his nose, Trip recalled his earlier chat. "Is Hoshi tattling on me now?" His tone, flippant and barbed, expressed feigned indignation and disregard for the concern.

"Perhaps she's worried about you, Commander," Phlox responded, his tone growing caustic as he cut back in. "And frankly, I think she has good reason to be."

Running a hand down his face to mask the wave of exhaustion, Trip begrudgingly yielded the point. "Well, I appreciate that," he replied. Maybe, he figured, if I give an inch, acknowledge Phlox's concerns, he'll let up and leave me alone. "We've all been working triple shifts, Doc, not just me." Tucker shrugged, doing his best to ignore a stabbing pain behind his shoulder, and smiled a cold smile. "Maybe you should go back to your office, and draw up a sleep rotation for the crew."

"I'm not leaving so easily, Commander." Phlox's face was showing no levity, grounded with a grave solemnity rarely seen in the Denobulan. "You know my medical authority takes precedence over everything else on board the Enterprise."

"You know I hate to argue with you," Trip answered, speaking with false sheepishness. "But I'm holding this ship together with old-fashioned duct tape and baling wire. If I took five minutes away, we'd blow apart, Phlox, and I think our survival surpasses even your medical authority."

"Has it occurred to you that we'll be far worse off if you collapse from exhaustion?" Growing irate, his tone harsher, Phlox stepped forward, filling the small corridor with his body. "Or if you make the wrong call?"

"Your concern is duly noted, Doctor," Trip shot back sourly, struggling to hold his own frustration in reserve; for how could Phlox not understand that the engineer was the only thing standing between the Enterprise, its crew, their mission…and the abyss? "But I've got to get back to work."

Turning his back, as if to leave, Tucker was brought up short by a heavy hand falling upon his shoulder. "I don't believe so," Phlox retorted, his voice as firm as his grip.

Turning back with surprise, Trip stared at the doctor. "Come again?"

Phlox dropped his hand, but stood strong and unmoving. "I'm ordering you to bed, Commander."

Shit on a stick. The words flew through Tucker's mind, but he held them back, choosing instead to look away as his face crumpled up with disbelief. "Come again, Doc?" he asked instead; was it possible that Phlox didn't understand just how dire their straits were, how critical every second of his attention was to keeping the Enterprise intact and spaceworthy?

"I'm relieving you of duty." Folding his arms, the doctor spread his feet slightly, taking up an iron stance in the middle of the corridor. "You will go to quarters—immediately—and not return to your post before 1100 hours."

"Six hours?" Unable to hold himself back any longer, Trip's voice rapidly rose, unleashing incredulity and ire; heated air filled the corridor, crackling with angry energy, as the twosome faced off. "Phlox, have you considered that there won't be an Enterprise left in six hours?" Tucker demanded, shouting across the small distance separating them.

Phlox didn't shift a muscle. "Please don't make me involve security," he replied, matching the livid engineer with his own, calm tone; quieter, but giving no indication of retreat, he stood firm, facing the fury, as they stared at each other. In a battle of wills, each could be potent, but Phlox's medical authority reigned supreme on board the Enterprise.

Slowly, as if forcing the doctor to earn every gust, Tucker blew the air out of his mouth, easing his breathing. "How about four hours?"

Phlox smiled softly, but shook his head. "I can't compromise on this, Commander. It's six hours. In reality, you need far more," he added pointedly. "I assure you, I'm not underestimating the gravity of our situation."

"All right," Trip answered. "As soon as I—"

Phlox smiled more broadly. "Why don't I walk you to your quarters?"

The Enterprise was, after all, a ship of voyage and discovery.

Launched nearly three years' previous, on a mission to explore the galaxy, and discern the mysteries of the cosmos, the NX-01 possessed a number of science labs, each one slightly different in task, but together designed to breathe new light and new understanding into humanity's understanding of reality. And in the frenzied overhaul just prior to departing for the Expanse, a number of the labs had been repurposed—but not all of them, for there would still be a need to conduct scientific inquiry, even in the bleakest days and still-bleaker nights in the hellscape that was their new mission.

And now, today, as a frustrated Jonathan Archer led the trio of Xindi into one of these rooms, he felt his chances of navigating their way to a peaceful resolution disappearing before his grip. Jannar's resistance, the refusal to believe any evidence, the insistence to see plots and schemes and artifices behind every piece of proof, was irrational and beyond Archer's ability to counter. For one cannot reason with the irrational, the captain reminded himself, wondering just how he was going to find a way to puncture the arboreal's extreme skepticism.

Archer had another card to play, but in his mind, it was no stronger than the last, for Jannar was demanding evidence linking the transdimensional aliens to the Xindi's benefactors; and that final step, that last link, was one that the captain could not bridge. Yes, he knew, he could marshal evidence against the beings; but even he was operating on the word of an operative in a long-futuristic "temporal cold war" to claim that the beings and benefactors were, indeed, one and the same.

And how could he prove that link, when all he had was Daniels' word?

As the broken hatchway clanked shut behind them, Archer smiled at his guests, trying to convey a sense of strength and certainty that he did not feel. The room possessed a single, still-working computer screen; and with the input of commands, he pulled up the image of a being, laying in a bed, as seen from above.

The lone human in the room did not fail to note just how quickly and sharply the three Xindi stiffened in shock, as if they recognized the being.

"This is one of the transdimensional beings that I've been talking about," Archer confirmed, watching the hurried look flash between Berezi and Degra; Jannar's eyes were glued to the image, not moving away. "We found him a few months ago, adrift in a pod, in a pocket of space that was being altered at the quantum level."

"He appears to be dead," Berezi commented, the implication clear but unspoken.

Archer nodded. "Yes. We found him alive in the pod, but in failing health. When we removed him…he died quickly, before we could even get him to our sickbay."

Degra's hooded eyes, still opened wide, looked back at the captain with understanding. "Because he couldn't survive in our quantum realm."

"As soon as he was exposed to our realm, he suffered intensive cellular degeneration," Archer replied. "It's as if our space is toxic to him." Shrugging his shoulders at his own word choice, he went on. "Well, toxic isn't the best word, but it works."

His gaze still locked on the image of the being, Jannar spoke slowly; almost absently, as if barely following the conversation. "Perhaps you can explain it better, then," he suggested. "Some of us are not scientists by nature."

Eyeing the arboreal carefully, Archer tapped the controls, replacing the image of the being with a microscopic enlargement of an organic cell. It appeared, in many ways, readily familiar, but a certain vagueness was visibly evident. "His species evolved in a different quantum realm, with a different set of physics," the captain explained, hoping that he wouldn't have to go into more depth; he barely understood it himself, much less well enough to answer questions. "Living tissue—really, atoms of any type—exist in a very delicate balance, grounded in the quantum laws of their realm. When he was exposed to our realm, with our quantum laws, his cells and atoms couldn't cope, and started coming apart at a subatomic level."

"And that's what killed him?" The question came from Berezi, but spoke of understanding.

"Exactly," Archer confirmed. "His atoms simply can't exist in our natural realm." He looked back at the trio, ready to bring the argument home. "That's why his species built the Spheres—they alter the quantum laws in our realm to make it habitable for themselves. In time, once it's ready for them, they'll come across to colonize our space."

"And any of us living here will be unable to exist in this altered space." Degra spoke quietly, barely above a whisper. "Us—the Xindi—will be wiped out by these people."

Eyeing each of the endangered representatives carefully, Archer decided to press his point home. "Your hope—our hope, for all of us, for our entire galaxy—is that we stop fighting between ourselves, and recognize that we have a common enemy. It may be the future for us, but it's also destiny. The Xindi, us humans, and dozens of other species…" Gesturing broadly, he encompassed the races of the realm with his hands. "We're going to come together to defend our space from these invaders. But if we destroy each other, the survivors will not be strong enough to stand against them."

"You speak eloquently, Captain," Jannar observed, "but you speak of future events, of destiny, like they have already been written."

"And yet, so do we." Berezi's wearied comment drew a sharp look from the arboreal. "We speak of the certainty of humanity destroying us in the future, Jannar, but we can claim no more certainty than the captain can. If you claim that his destiny is speculative—then so is ours, just as much."

For the first time, Jonathan felt a promising surge of strength. "I have done my best to offer more than words," he continued. "I have shown you our evidence, in openness and good faith. And no," he stressed, eyeing Jannar carefully, "I have not denied that I have a survival motivation for convincing you."

"So you say, Captain." Jannar's tone harbored the air of unrepentant skepticism. "But your evidence is still circumstantial, and easy to falsify. You have yet to show us anything conclusive."

One. Two. Screw it. Exhaustion, anger, fear, and indignation built to an overwhelming tide, crashing to the surface of the captain's mind. "You know," he snapped, "I'm getting tired of hearing that!" Glaring at the councilor, his eyes piercing wide, Archer held back no longer. "If you're so intent on disbelieving everything I say, then why did you come at all?" Breathing heavily, his words spent, Archer's hands curled up into fists.

"There's no need to yell, Captain," Degra countered carefully; sensing the danger, he stepped forward, in front of the arboreal. "I'm sure that you recognize the need for skepticism."

"When the fate of both our races hang in the balance?" A part of the captain—an instinctive, battling portion of him—wanted to press forward, to confront the recalcitrant Jannar, to force the councilor into submission; but another instinct, perhaps more profound, caught him, aware that Degra was acting to preserve what hope Archer had left. Sucking in a deep breath, he shot it out before continuing. "I think your skepticism is misplaced, Councilor."

"We're not fans of death, Captain, no matter what your people may think of us," Berezi replied, taken slightly aback. Glancing at the others, he gave his final verdict. "Can you arrange to have your medical data on the patient and the bioweapon sent over to our ship? We'd like to take a longer look at it."

It was a tune; a happy tune, a reminder of a different time, a different life, that played in Phlox's head, accompanying him as he moved about the medical ward, tending to his never-ending litany of duties as he fought against the entropy of battle and brutality. Bringing a light touch to his step, it gladdened him, bringing him remembrances of days of yonder spent back home on Denobula Triaxa; sitting beneath the divaracata trees, smelling the subulata blossoms, humming sweet descants of love to Feezal and the others.

Days, that is, when the nightfall did not subsume everything, days that did not seem like one prolonged hallucination, days when his closest comrades were not on the verge of collapse, stalked unto death by the specter of despair.

The doorway clanked open, catching Phlox's gaze; and a slight smile creased his face, if only momentarily, as Jonathan Archer entered sickbay, appearing weary for the world. "What can I do for you, Captain?" Phlox asked cautiously, doing what he could to read the expression on the human's face; but a hundred emotions, buried beneath a hundred wearied lines, gave little concrete indication.

Glancing around, not quite looking at the physician, Archer's shoulders sagged; every bed in the small ward was in use, most with bodies laying unconscious, in varying states of damage and injury. "The Xindi just returned to their ship," he answered. "I think I'm making a connection with Degra. But Jannar—he seems determined to argue with everything I say."

"Please remember your diplomacy, Captain," Phlox replied, understanding the subtext. "It won't do us any good to make enemies of our…enemies, I suppose."

"I'm tired of damned diplomacy, Phlox!" Archer snapped back immediately, the words rushing out. "All we're doing is sitting around and talking—and that weapon is out there, somewhere, ready to strike Earth! We need to start getting results, damnit!" Raising a hand, he ran it down his face, closing his eyes for just a second; and his eyes remained closed a second longer, struggling to open again, giving him a twinge of alarm. I could fall asleep right here, he realized, not appreciating the thought as his body wavered. While standing up.

"We all need some rest, Jonathan," Phlox offered, his voice shifting softly. "You as well."

Archer smiled wanly, still trying to regain a firm balance. "I'd love to, Phlox," he answered. "When I can find the time."

"Don't make me relieve you of duty as well," Phlox countered. Concern, not umbrage, shone in his eyes, but his voice spoke with strength.

At the words, Archer's eyes shifted, looking directly at the doctor. "Who else—who—have you relieved of duty?"

Phlox could only hope that the captain would understand the order he had given. "I sent Commander Tucker to quarters for bedrest."

Archer's eyes flashed as he held back a retort. "I appreciate your concern, Phlox," he replied. "I really do. But right now, I need everyone on duty. The Enterprise is barely holding together here, and our mission's reached a critical point. I can't afford to be losing my key personnel." He looked overhead, as if expecting the ceiling panels to fall down at that very moment.

"You are correct on one regard, Jonathan," Phlox countered. "You can't afford to lose key personnel—but you are, Captain." His gaze shifting, the doctor looked around sickbay, before finally settling on T'Pol. "The crew is reaching the breaking point. Commander T'Pol was just the first—and the most unusual, I'll admit," he added, frowning. "But unless we build in some rest for people, she will only be the first. We've been pushing ourselves too hard, for too long, yourself included."

Despite a dozen thoughts in his mind, Archer did not respond; instead, his eyes followed, falling upon the slender Vulcan woman laying beneath the thin blanket. "How is she?" he asked quietly.

Phlox gifted a smile, happy to give a piece of good news. "Why don't you ask her yourself?" he suggested, nodding his head towards her. "She's awake, after all."

From halfway across the compartment, T'Pol seemed to barely stir, raising her head slightly from its pillow; but she tilted to one side, her eyes opening to embrace the duo, and a murmured word of Vulcan slipped out from between her lips. "My apologies," she added a moment later, sinking back down as the effort drained from her. "I was trying to rest, Doctor." Her voice was soft, barely audible, and cracking with dryness.

Sickbay was not large; and within moments, the captain hovered above her, looking down with a concerned smile. "It's good to see you again, T'Pol," he commented, doing his best to banish the worry from his tone. He wanted to encourage her, to reassure her, to promise his friend that everything would be alright; but the sight of her, emaciated and exhausted, disturbed him in ways that he could scarcely express. "How are you feeling?"

Staring back up at him, her face wrinkled up. "I'm going to hit the next person who asks me that," she groaned.

It was so—dissonant—for the Vulcan that Archer shook his head, as if clearing his thoughts, to ensure that he had heard her correctly. "I'm sorry, T'Pol," he replied, slowly, the syllables dragging out as he searched for the right words. "What is—how are—are you functioning within normal parameters?" Cringing as he spoke, the captain could find no other way to express his question.

Her head still sunk into the pillow, T'Pol let out a sigh. "No, it is my fault, Captain," she stated, a tone tinged with regret. "I should not take offense at such an ordinary question. After all, I've spent enough time around humans to grow accustomed to it." Her eyelids draped closed for a lengthy moment, her breathing shallow, before she continued. "I am not used to having an answer for it. I am not used to feeling in such a manner, Captain. It is disconcerting." Unsettling, she appended silently. Terrifying.

Uncertain of the gesture, Archer reached out, resting a hand upon her arm; when she did not respond, he raised a soft eyebrow at Phlox. No, the doctor answered, giving a measured shake of his head. She cannot feel your touch. Her body is still numb. Reaching deep into his repertoire, the captain pulled out a false note of optimism. "I'm sure I'll see you back on duty soon, T'Pol."

Her head shuddered in a peculiar way. "I do not believe that I will be able to return to my duties," she replied quietly.

Perturbed, not quite understanding, Archer furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"I'm—broken," she answered, squeezing the word out with vehemence. "I can't perform my duties in this state!"

"You'll get better, T'Pol," Archer replied, finding strength in his own voice. "We'll get you back on your feet, back on duty, and back to normal. Believe me, T'Pol, you can recover from this."

She spoke no words of response; but her eyes drooped shut, no longer willing to look at her captain, and Phlox stepped forward. "That's enough for now," he said, intervening gently. "T'Pol, you could use some more rest. Captain," he added, "if you'd care to walk with me?"

With a nudge from the Denobulan, Archer turned and walked slowly to the hatchway, his gaze fastened backward on the tiny Vulcan woman until the doors clanged shut behind him; only then did he turn his eyes to the physician. "What's her prognosis, Phlox?" he asked, speaking hopefully, as if refusing to believe the evidence before him.

Phlox took a second to respond as he thought. "She's not wrong, Captain."

Archer's eyebrows shot up. "I don't like hearing that, Doctor."

Glancing away for a moment, Phlox pondered his words before continuing. "You need to appreciate that she's a Vulcan, and not a human, Jonathan. We've gotten so accustomed to her, that sometimes we forget that there are differences."

"I'm not sure I follow." Archer's tone had a ring of warning, as if daring the doctor to forge ahead.

And Phlox forged ahead. "She suffered intense psychological trauma," he answered. "If we were back home, she would need to be in a Vulcan sanitarium, under treatment of their adepts. The level of damage—I'm not sure that she will ever be able to recover from it." Taking a deep breath, he went on. "But that's not even the worst of it, Captain."

Archer could feel his face growing stony.

"T'Pol is dealing with intense feelings of guilt and failure." As if to distract from his words, Phlox gestured with his hands, hoping to draw the captain's gaze. "Truly, for the first time in her life. Most sentient species…learn how to grapple with these emotions in childhood, or early adulthood."

"But not Vulcans," Archer answered slowly.

Phlox shook his head in confirmation. "But not Vulcans," he echoed. "The Vulcan way is premised on the suppression of emotions such as these, rather than learning how to process them. Take an emotional experience that—for anyone—would be intense, and place it in the mind of someone who just suffered intense mental trauma and who has no previous experience in processing these emotions?" The question lingered in the air, the answer unspoken, but clear and evident.

Clenching his jaw, Archer spoke through tightened teeth. "You speak of guilt and failure, Phlox," he remarked. "What for?"

Phlox replied with a studied look. "Her damned Vulcan logic tells her that she let us all down, and you most of all. Captain…do you have any concept of how much pressure she was carrying for you? And she feels like she failed you when you needed her the most, when you were on Azati Prime and she was in command during the battle. She blames herself for that attack, Captain, and for the damage we sustained. And now she's compounding it, because she's blaming her own weakness for depriving you of your first officer." With a final gust of air, the words came out, hurried and spoken, tinged with the doctor's own reproach.

"Christ," Archer swore slowly, with no other thoughts coming to mind save the imprecation.

"That's the wrong deity, Captain," Phlox answered. "This crew committed themselves to following you into hell…but they also trusted you to take care of them."

Dear Mother, I love you/I'm sorry, I wasn't good enough.

A final wearied burst of adrenaline fought brutally against the onset of exhaustion, the frayed edges of reality torn asunder into shards of perception as Trip Tucker fell into the bed, the side of his face planted into a pillow already dampened with sweat. His eyelids drooped, closed, and shot back open, his mind struggling desperately to stay awake, to ward off the coming dreams and nightmares of his slumber; his vision shrank, blurry and unfocused in the darkness, the stygian gloom enveloping him.

Dear Father, forgive me/'Cause in your eyes, I just never added up.

Sore muscles, wrapped in tension, slowly stretched, giving way to the wave of fatigue sweeping over him, each one speaking of aches and pains incurred by stress and overwork, by a young man burdening himself with far too much responsibility and reproach. And as they loosened, draining him of the last, faint reserves of stubborn resistance, Trip yawned mightily; his eyes fell closed, and he yielded at last, but it was not to be the sleep of tranquility.

In my heart I know I failed you/But you left me here alone!

The restless slumber of a distressed mind beset him as he lay in the bunk, his body twisting about, turning in one direction and then another; frayed nerves and upset dendrites misfiring in disunity, thwarting his desperate effort to seek out the peace of Shangri-La. One moment, he was laying on his back; the next, on his right side, then his left, then sprawling horizontally across the mattress, his body twitching with unconscious alarm as siren calls extruded from within.

If I could hold back the rain/Would you numb the pain.

Deadened to the outside world, yet not truly asleep; unaware, yet not truly withdrawn, Trip's body was soon caked in a slather of sweat, adding to the oppressive warmth of the small room. The environmental systems, thrice-damaged, provided little help; battered beyond repair, taken offline for mercy, the quarters were filled with stale air, hanging over him as if a dank blanket, weighted down by the smell of a dozen other unwashed bodies.

'Cause I remember everything.

Conduits and corridors, dreamlike and tentacled, they remained alive in his mind, even as the cloak of his coma deepened. Stray and disconnected, dead memories clawed their way to the surface, defeating every effort to seek solace and quiet. And Trip could feel the struggle, fought the struggle, compelled the struggle, seeking to calm the turbulence, in a futile battle against the question that drove him.

If I could help you forget/Would you take my regrets.

"Commander?" The sound of a voice, feminine and pleasant, broke into Tucker's fevered dreams, crashing through the paralyzing reverie that was threatening to consume him; and he grasped it, latching on with his mind, feeling the strength and stability of the intonation amid the cacophony. Searching for the drive to awaken, he lifted his hands to his face, rubbing his skin with palms; he imagined, though he could not see, the sweat-and-grime patterns left behind, smeared as yet another layer of grease upon grease. "Trouble sleeping, sir?" his guest asked, her tone hesitant, worried about the engineer.

'Cause I remember everything.

Groaning slightly—his throat dry, it was painful to make a sound—he swung his legs over the side of the bunk, rising upward, before finally dropping his palms and cracking open his eyes. Shadows formed before him, filling in his vision with surreal hints of echoes amid the obscurity of darkness; slowly, all too slowly, his surroundings came back to Trip, recalled as much by memory as by sight.

Oh dear brother, just don't hate me/For never standing by you or being by your side.

Lengthy moments later—stretched out, as if forever—as he peered into the room, his vision starting to clear, Tucker perceived a person standing before him; more moments passed as the fuzziness receded, the faint light giving shape to the body, and finally, he recognized the voice that had spoken to him. "Taylor!" Trip exclaimed excitedly, rising to his feet far too quickly for his sore body; staggering midway up, he sat back down, blood washing down from his head.

Dear sister, please don't blame me/I only did what I truly thought was right.

Gripping his forehead with his fingers, Trip wavered slightly before catching his balance, feeling an intense sense of unwanted vertigo. "I thought you were dead," he said softly, addressing the young woman. "We—we all thought you were dead." Stabilizing, he lowered his hand, and glanced up, looking her in the face; struck by how clean she looked, he marveled at the quirks of fate. "Your entire section decompressed, after all. No one's seen you since then." Sensing that he was rambling, Trip was unable to stop the flow of words. "Did you find a sealed compartment? How did you survive?"

It's a long and lonely road/When you know you walk alone.

Taylor shifted her body slightly, telegraphing her answer before she spoke. "No, sir," she responded quietly, giving a soft shake of her head. "No such luck."

Trip furrowed his brow, not quite understanding her answer. "Then how…" His words trailing off, his shoulders slumped, the realization settling in. "You're dead, and this is a dream." Running a hand through his hair, he allowed his head to sag forward, the temporary elation dissipating quickly; dejection returned, settling back upon him with a bone-tired exhaustion. She was only an illusion, one last fitful hope, an ember of the glow that had once fueled him.

If I could hold back the rain/Would you numb the pain.

"Commander?" Curiously, the reflection of what had once been Taylor spoke again, addressing the engineer as he looked away. "The letter," she stated. "To my parents." When Tucker's gaze did not return, lost somewhere in the recesses of the room, she shifted slightly and continued. "How's it going?"

His eyes still distant, Trip let out a soft breath. Digging deep within, try as he could, he found no reserves, no hidden pool of strength, no remaining modicum of passion; and he shrugged, unable to give an answer, the words hollow and meaningless. "I've had other things on my mind…other projects to attend to."

'Cause I remember everything.

"Of course, sir," Taylor replied. Her understanding, so simple and confident, struck deep inside him, damning him with resounding strength. Trip Tucker—the engineer, the commander, the friend—had always taken care of his crew, had prided himself on placing his people first. But now he could scarcely lift a stylus to the padd, could not fathom the words, could not write the letter that duty obligated him to write.

If I could help you forget/Would you take my regrets.

It was his dream, but Taylor wasn't willing to let go so easily. "Have you had a chance to start it yet?" she pressed.

Trip lifted his eyes, staring at her, uncertain of how to glare at a ghost. "I've tried," he admitted, unable to mislead his dead colleague; he wanted to say more, to claim that it was well in progress, that the words were coming easily, but the lie would take energy. "I've gotten as far as, 'I regret to inform you.'"

"That's a little dry, sir." Taylor's voice remained light, but barb was sharp, not yielding a single step as she pushed for more.

'Cause I remember everything.

"But you're off duty right now, aren't you?" Taylor added on, not willing to allow silence to settle upon the small room. Without moving, her presence seemed to grow, as she spoke with a fervent conviction. "There's no repair work to interfere with writing it."

Running a hand through his hair, Tucker barely noticed the greasy spikes left behind. "Yeah," he acknowledged, unwillingly, at a loss for how to push back; for what could he say in response? "It's not that simple, though," he tried, searching for an explanation that was not forthcoming.

I feel like running away/I'm still so far from home.

Taylor gazed upon the commander, her eyes open with a façade of innocence. "So what's the problem?" she asked. "The letter doesn't have to be long. The captain told you that."

Unable to address her any longer, Trip's gaze fell away, as if suddenly preoccupied by the deck plating; silent, unspoken thoughts ran through his head, but he was unable to give voice to any of them, for there was no satisfactory answer that he could provide, not for her, not for himself.

"You can't think of anything to write?" Taylor filled in the blank, for she knew his mind; she spoke with mock astonishment, her tone fooling neither of them.

You say that I'll never change/But what the fuck do you know?

Now, she eyed him angrily, moving about to draw his attention; and unable to resist, Trip looked up, meeting her gaze with his own watery eyes. "I served on the Enterprise with you for three years!" Taylor exclaimed, recounting the days from the starship's initial launch; for the engineer, it was a lifetime ago, when he was a different person, a different entity, so full of youth and vigor, ready to charge into the heavens. "You personally pulled me from the Saratoga to be on your team!"

In the midst of despair, it was a fond memory, and Tucker finally let loose with a faint chuckle. "I'd forgotten about that," he admitted, recalling the stunt he had pulled to secure her for his own staff. "Captain Brody still won't talk to me."

I'll burn it all to the ground/Before I'll let you run.

"You told me that I'd make a fine Chief Engineer someday," Taylor continued, prodding him along.

"You will!" Trip raised up slightly, propping himself on his hands, before sinking back down. "I mean, you would have."

"Then tell my parents that," she added softly.

"It's not that." Trip felt frustration swelling up, threatening to overwhelm him yet again. "I can tell them about your engineering proficiency—hell, you're one of the best we have! We had! Hell, I don't even know how to refer to you!" His voice rose with ire as he struggled. "But your service record already says all of that."

Please forgive me/I can't forgive you now.

"Then tell them about me." She smiled, gently, her face creased with warmth. "Tell them about our experiences together—about the practical jokes we played on Rostov, or that one time when I found that glitch in the injector assembly that everyone else missed."

Trip's face, too, cracked slightly. "You did have a wicked sense of humor."

Taylor nodded, granting her acknowledgment. "My service record doesn't say how hard I worked, Commander," she added. "Or how much I enjoyed my job. Tell my parents about that!'

I remember everything.

The cold surged through Tucker, bringing a rapid end to the temporary reprieve. "You don't understand," he pleaded back, speaking through clenched teeth.

"What don't I understand?" Taylor shot back, matching him with indignation. "You're damned right, I don't understand! Why can't you tell them how much you liked me? Why can't you tell them that a little part of me still lives?"

"Because you don't!" The words exploded from him, shooting outward with vehemence. "You're dead, Taylor, you're dead, and it's my fault!"

If I could hold back the rain/Would you numb the pain.

Taylor's tone softened with empathy. "How is it your fault, Commander?" she asked. "I chose to come on this mission. I knew the risks, and I accepted them."

Gesturing wildly with his hands, Trip spoke frantically, words flowing from his mouth. "Not just this mission, Taylor," he countered. "The whole situation with the Xindi. How do I tell my parents that their daughter is dead because of me?"

She furrowed her brow, expressing confusion. "What do you mean?"

'Cause I remember everything.

"We were so convinced that we were ready to take to the stars," Trip went on, a harsh tone evident in his voice. "The Vulcans tried to warn us—and I was the first to reject their advice. But did we stop to think?" Shaking his head, his bitterness evident, he went on. "We were so certain that we could make friends with anyone we met, that we didn't even bother with our own defense."

It all went by so fast/I still can't change the past.

"It was inevitable," he added sourly, looking away, unable to address the dead crewmember directly. "We made an enemy, and we weren't prepared for it. And when they struck—Elizabeth is dead. It was my responsibility, Taylor." He clenched his eyes shut, trying to hold back the water. "I was supposed to keep her safe; she was my little sister. But my recklessness attracted the wrong attention, made us an enemy, and Elizabeth paid with her life."

I will always remember everything.

"How do I tell my parents that?" A sharp pain erupted in his temples, and he clenched his jaw, trying to will it away. "I couldn't, Taylor, I couldn't tell them, and I fled out here instead, swearing my revenge. But look at where we are now: reduced to relying on the good faith of the same Xindi who built the damned weapon in the first place."

Waving a hand about, he indicated the damaged room around them. "The Enterprise is mortally damaged; I'm the only thing keeping the ship from exploding, and Phlox has me confined to quarters for rest, so I can't even do my job! What good am I, sleeping in this room? What good am I to anyone, Taylor?"

If I could start again/Would that change the end.

With a sudden jolt, Trip shot upright in the bed, snatched from his restless slumber. Groaning loudly, feeling the agony in his mind, he glanced at the clock: barely an hour had passed.

We remember everything.2

Hours come, and hours go; precious time elapses, the great weapon sprung free from its watery cocoon, its gleam ready to bring annihilation down upon the inhabitants of the far-off planet of Earth. All that stands in the way—the last, grasping straws of hope—stand, bickering amongst themselves, long-time colleagues and friends fearing for the death of their own people if they should make the wrong decision; and the evidence before them not so clear, not so concise, as any would want under such circumstances.

The primate corsair was not so large—large enough, perhaps, but smaller than the neighboring Enterprise. As Degra's flag vessel, it was a ship of science; it carried within a crew of engineers and researchers, experts in esoteric fields, equipped with analytical machinery designed to plume the secrets of the galaxy. Short of a true, planetary research facility, it was the best the primates could offer.

Unfortunately, all of the science at their disposal could not overcome basic fear.

"These tests only confirm that the stasis tube is of reptilian manufacture!" Jannar insisted, his voice raised with unusual ire. Waving a data padd in front of Degra, as if daring the primate to seize it from him, Jannar finally slapped it down on the engineer's desk. "There are a dozen explanations for how the humans could have obtained it!"

"But only one explanation for how they could have obtained the toxin." Berezi spoke far more calmly, stating what they all knew. "It's real, my friends. Dolim did conspire behind our backs to create a bioweapon."

"I don't disagree with that." Jannar rotated his head, showing the peculiar Xindi gesture. "But does it come as any surprise to you? It still falls far short of proving his main conjecture!"

"What more proof do you want?" Degra puffed out a sharp burst of air. "You saw the images of the being. It was the same species as our benefactor!"

"Yes," Jannar replied, his tone slowing down carefully. "It was, Degra. But consider this: we did not see the actual body. The image could've easily been falsified. Archer is in a fight to save his people, after all. Can we really afford to take him at his word?"

"Can we afford not to?" Berezi intervened quietly, leaving the question dangling in the air for a lengthy moment. "If we are to err…which side is the side of caution, my friends?"

Glancing between the other two, Degra spoke first. "I don't relish the thought of genocide. I would prefer to be certain—to be absolutely certain—that we're doing the right thing."

Jannar glanced down before continuing. "Consider this: we barely know this human, whereas we know our benefactor. It's helped us repeatedly; it brought our peoples together, united us from the diaspora, and gave us a common cause. I think a record like that earns it a little faith from us, especially when weighed against someone who has a very large self-interest in convincing us otherwise."

"And are we to believe that our benefactor is doing all of this, truly in good faith?" Degra shot back. "You accuse Archer of having a motive—but what of our alien friend?"

"I am not a fool, Degra," Jannar retorted, stepping forward in a rare display of physical strength. "I don't believe for a moment that our benefactor is doing this purely out of generosity. But Archer's claim that our benefactor is actually the force disrupting the fabric of space? I need more than conjecture. I need more than circumstance. I need proof."

"What more proof do you need?" Degra's eyes drooped down, the hoods hanging low.

"Perhaps…" Jannar trailed off for a moment. "Archer claims that the Spheres are responsible for the disruptions. Can he link our benefactor to the Spheres?"

"I doubt that would be enough for you," Berezi countered, a little tiredly. "If Archer links the two…you'll simply claim that it's two different factions, or something else, Jannar. You seem intent on finding on the holes in anything the human says." With a faint shrug, he continued. "I'm not sure anything will be sufficient to convince you."

Jannar's hairy face wrinkled up in semi-apology. "You do me wrong," he replied softly. "I'm not your opponent on this, my friends. But I am saying this: it will take far more to convince the Council than we have seen thus far."

Pressure builds; beneath the hull, the leak grew, pushing the plating outward, until finally, it exploded. Sending the plating tearing out into the emptiness of space upon a torrent of gas, crystallizing in the frosty coldness, the Enterprise sprung a dangerous, perhaps fatal, tear in the remaining sheeting of the hull.

It would take time for anyone to notice, time in which the venting would expand still more.

1 Calvin Coolidge (Amherst, 1891)

2 Five Finger Death Punch, "Remember Everything"