CHILL BLUE[
It had been a welcome opportunity, and T'Pol had silently appreciated that she had been included in the away team for this mission. It was logical, of course, that the Enterprise's science officer should be in a position to appraise and advise matters concerning the Vulcan Institute of Science And Communications, and also that the sole Vulcan crewmember be called upon to act as emissary and, if she were to be accurate, mediator between the Vulcan physicists and her human colleagues—but it was also a refreshing experience, intellectually, to be among like-minded individuals for a short time.
The tour had been instructive, and T'Pol considered the time profitably spent. The captain, she had nevertheless detected, had been less than impressed by the advances of the communications department. The signs had gone unnoticed by their Vulcan guides, but in her time aboard the Enterprise she had grown accustomed to the little gestures each human invariably relied upon to subconsciously express various extremes of emotion. When the captain was mentally lacking in stimulation, a process he referred to as bored', he coughed a lot.
If you would prefer to retire for a few hours, Captain, I am more than capable of gathering any pertinent information, she had offered, a short time into their tour.
No thanks, I'm fine. And he had coughed again, masking the sound behind one curled fist. T'Pol could understand the benefits of covering one's mouth when emitting contagious germs, but even she had known that this was not the reason Archer chose to do so. She had not offered again.
Their meeting with the heads of department had been scheduled for 20:00hrs ship time. She refrained from adjusting back into Vulcan methods of timekeeping, if only for the sake of the captain and Lieutenant Reed. She and the captain were in attendance at the appointed time, seated around the clean white table in the main visitors' suite. The table, she noted with approval, was round. This was of mild interest to her, viewed somewhat differently from the last time she sat in conference among her own people—there was an earth legend, supposedly, pertaining to an order of warriors whom had traditionally seated themselves around a circular table, to avoid discriminations and the elevation of one individual above another. When it pleased them, humans could display startling evidence of logic.
At precisely 20:00hrs Sparek and T'Lau, respectively heads of the science and communications research departments, arrived, and greeted her and the captain with formal Vulcan courtesy. Sparek was the elder of the two, displaying the first signs of gray in his hair and early evidence of lines grooving his face—and, in T'Pol's opinion, appeared modestly dignified. T'Lau was younger, barely older than she, and of less stern but equally controlled countenance.
Of Lieutenant Reed there had been no sign.
You are missing a crewman, Captain Archer, Sparek intoned passionlessly. His companion indicated his agreement with a token raised eyebrow.
Mr. Reed is usually very reliable, I'm sure he just got held up, Archer replied, matching the toneless quality perfectly. T'Pol was faintly surprised, and impressed, at his control.
He should be with us presently, she confirmed, feeling her compatriots may be in need of a translation. The captain's vocabulary could be somewhat . . . unorthodox. Perhaps we could begin and brief him when he arrives.
The two Vulcans nodded silently, and seated themselves in the opposing seats to T'Pol and Archer. The seat facing the tall, slender windows in one wall remained empty, proclamatory in their composed silence. T'Pol noted the uneasy shuffle of the captain's feet beneath the table, and mentally addendumned her growing list of human idiosyncrasies. When embarrassed, they fidgeted.
Mr. Sparek, perhaps you could tell us why you contacted us? Archer began.
Sparek had barely opened his mouth to reply when the outer door to the plaza was thrown open, buffeted back against the wall by the force of the storm outside. Lieutenant Reed did not so much enter as appear to be spat inside by the strength of the rising gale.
Archer slipped from his seat before T'Pol or her counterparts could offer a word of acknowledgment, approaching Reed with a cringing determination she had witnessed in similar, if slightly more volatile, situations. He reached out and patted Reed's sleeve, his brow creasing in puzzlement. The three Vulcans did not need tactile contact to confirm information seen by their own eyes, another trait T'Pol had catalogued as expected of humans. Archer had merely been testing with a second sense what any logical being could accept from only one.
Mr. Reed, T'Pol said, speaking for them all. You appear to be dry.
Well, give that woman a cigar, Reed replied—and she noted a pertinent, if hardly unprecedented thing. It was Mr. Reed's custom, when disturbed or anxious in some way, to avert his eyes and speak rather to an inanimate object than the individual to whom he addressed the comment. He appeared to be studying the floor quite meticulously. I just walked here in my own private bubble of summer.
The four of them gave him a look, and said nothing.
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How so, Lieutenant? T'Pol asked, archly.
Reed blinked at the sudden whiteness, the starched, vibrant glare of pristine walls and floor and ceiling, translucent flares of light spiraling across his vision at the shock. For a moment, or maybe more than a moment, he had been seeing storm lit darkness—not the carefully-lit, somehow protected darkness of the institute's plaza, but a deeper blackness, and a colder light; the darkness at the bottom of his closet, and the flash of lightning over distant houses . . . the dance of shadows in a stranger's eye.
Forget about it, Reed replied, a brief flicker of a glance alighting on T'Pol before his focus returned to the captain. Sorry I'm late, sir. The weather's been a little . . . unpredictable.
From what I can see, the weather looks positively schizophrenic, Archer tried to joke. Reed appreciated the effort, but he wasn't fooled—he knew that this would be discussed once away from the watchful eyes and prying pointy ears of the two Vulcan scientists.
He took his seat sheepishly, a little dismayed that it faced the window and the tumultuous weather outside, and the captain did likewise. T'Pol and the two strange Vulcans gave him a doubtful glance, and imperiously nodded in greeting.
Captain Archer, T'Lau began, we contacted you to request this meeting because we have a proposition we wish to put to you.
So I gathered. What did you have in mind?
T'Lau appeared about to reply when T'Pol interceded. Perhaps, T'Lau, you would oblige us by giving a brief explanation of your work here. For the benefit of Lieutenant Reed. She directed a wry, scarcely perceptible glance to him, her perfectly-shaped eyebrow forming the question mark her statements so far had been missing. Reed turned his eyes away, hoping to conceal the blush he felt sting his cheeks, but the only direction left to look in was to the flares and bolts outside. Looking firmly at the captain, he said:
Sounds like I missed something, sir.
Only lots of big words.
Reed smiled.
With respect, Captain Archer, T'Lau protested, it was for the very reason we contacted you that we thought it prudent to brief you on the basics of our research here. We have recently been entrusted with some important information for the attention of the Vulcan High Command. One of our ships is in orbit around Titrinus waiting to receive it, a light-year from this location. We would be . . . grateful . . . if you would agree to be the courier.
Archer stirred in his seat, shifting his weight forward onto his resting elbows. Why would you ask us to carry this . . . information? From what I remember the Vulcans make it a policy not to disclose any more than they have to.
Captain . . . I trust you recall Klaang? Sparek continued. The data he carried was embedded at a molecular level using a technique still in its early stages of development. We, here, have been working to perfect a similar technique. Unfortunately our genetic structure is copper based, an environment which has been proven to cause serious corruption of data in our controlled tests. We require a human to carry this information.
And . . . you want me to risk one of my crew for this . . . this favor? Archer challenged. Has this technique even been tested on humans?
T'Lau looked back with cold, infinite calm. he said.
And which of my crew did you expect me to offer up as a lab rat? Or were you hoping for a volunteer?
This would be a matter of utmost security, Captain, Sparek explained. Obliquely. Reed, remaining silent till now as the captain debated, did not miss the obvious connotations. If the captain reached the same conclusion, he gave no sign of it.
What is this information? Reed asked.
That is a matter for the Vulcan High Command, T'Lau replied. If they felt that you would understand, they would no doubt share it with you.
I guess we'll have to agree to disagree on that one, Archer mumbled.
If we were to agree to this, this . . . Reed waved a hand vaguely in the air. . . . no offense, but what would be in it for us? I mean it could well be taking us several days off our current course, and putting unnecessary strain on our systems. Not to mention mine, he thought.
We have an extensive database of star charts in this facility, Sparek replied. We would be willing to share these in exchange for safe passage of the data.
There was a silence, broken only by the spiteful growl of thunder low in the hills, the dash of rain against the tall windows, and the lancing flare of intermittent lightning. It was then that it happened—in one especially violent, striking white flash which lit the room with chill blue neon, Reed felt the brush of cold, creeping fingers on his temple, and felt hot, bubbling breath on his neck. Like soda, popping, fizzing, smelling faintly of lemonade.
He jumped, shying aside in his seat. T'Pol looked at him oddly.
Is something the matter, Lieutenant? she asked.
No, no, he hastened. It's nothing.
Forget about it. You'll know, one day. When we're ready for you to know.
Well, Captain? pressed Sparek, softly. What is your decision?
Archer opened his mouth to protest once more, but Reed jumped ahead, hardly understanding the thrum in his head that put the words there or the eerie, detached calm of hearing his own voice put them forward, and said:
I'll do it, Captain. That is . . . if you're willing to let me.