Chapter Fourteen
*NOTE: I do humbly apologise for letting it go so long without update. The past few weeks have been very, very busy. Truthfully, I have not had time to watch the tape of Enterprise this week, if that tells you anything. I do hope you enjoy it. Special thanks to all my reviewers, especially Karen Murray, Mana, and AL Martinez. Your reviews make my day, they really do.
Malcolm loved the precision of explosives. There was certain symmetry, a balance, to the careful release of energy in a contained blast that was almost poetic in a way, the molecules set free from restraint, charged with their own energy.
A grenade, a particle weapon, and even to a certain extent, a plasma weapon was an extension of this carefully controlled release. If there was one thing, above all else that Malcolm admired most about Vulcan's it was the sleek, slick, efficient design of their mechanics. Even a grenade had certain elegance to it in the hands of a Vulcan.
He stood captivated by the schematics that T'Pol provided him to go over. She was with him, in the armoury, the only two allowed in the armoury. For a slight, brief, very un-official period of time she was allowing him to make certain 'modifications' to Enterprise's compliment of phase rifles to facilitate the hostile takeover of the Orion base.
Malcolm liked hostile takeovers.
For security's sake she'd selectively translated the text that he was hungrily reading, most of it was still in Vulcan, it was a select few sections that he gravitated to, the particle density, the guidance laser, the power units.
"This is incredible" he breathed, hoping against hope that she would go ahead and translate the rest of the data disc that contained the 'classified' information. He thirsted for that knowledge like a man alone in a desert.
"It was a long time ago, Lieutenant, but at one point we were exceedingly good at killing each other." She moved around to the rifles, beginning to take the first one apart, "The design hasn't changed for millennia, and as you are wont to say, it's all in the design"
"Bloody brilliant"
"I'd like to think anything my people do is done well" she replied, "Precision is a matter of honour"
"Incredible," he picked up the pieces of the phase rifles looking at them in a whole new light, "Absolutely incredible"
As they worked, Malcolm got the sneaking suspicion that she was a lot more expert then she previously let on. Her hands moved with a familiarity and ease that, in his mind, came only with experience.
"What exactly did you do at the Vulcan Ministry of Security, Sub-Commander?" It came out somewhat abruptly, and he flushed, it had sounded like more of a demand than simple curiosity.
"You know I can't tell you that, Mr. Reed," she said absently, putting down the phase rifle she had just completed modifying, "But I am curious what prompted the question?"
He flushed again, feeling a traitorous bit of colour building under his skin, "I… I just noticed that you're awfully familiar with these weapons, indeed a lot of weapons, you have this classified materials having to do with Vulcan armaments … it just doesn't seem to fit with training of a Vulcan scientist."
"Science was something of an afterthought in my career, though I am, in all modesty, a proficient practitioner. Despite my people's belief in the illogic of violence we have realised* that they who do not live by the sword can still die by it." She finished the phase rife she'd been re-assembling.
"Logical" he said wryly.
"Indeed," she paused before starting on the last rifle, "So although we abhor violence, someone has to make the sacrifice and kill to protect our people. The duty fell upon a unique cadre of people in Vulcan society, those that have been for millennia beyond counting, the clan guardians, the warriors of the old houses."
"Your family?"
"Since before recorded history"
He smiled a bit in recollection, "Then I guess we have something in common, the Reed's have been Navy men for generations."
"You're not in the Navy," she observed.
"And you're a science officer" he shot back, "Funny how things turn out that way isn't it?"
"Yes" she agreed absently.
Malcolm fiddled with the rifles a bit more, before joining her at the table with the grenades. The stun grenades, the not-so-stun grenades, plasma grenades, shrapnel grenades… there was so much violence inherent in the whole process. For a long moment, he understood the Vulcan ethos: I am Vulcan, bred to peace.
He sighed, beginning the slow process of modifying the grenades. Higher yield, bigger blast radius, more deaths for every shot. A soldiers dream, but Malcolm never liked being a soldier.
"T'Pol can I ask you a question?"
"As you wish"
"What are the odds?"
"Of?"
"Of us finding Chief Spencer, of us freeing the slaves, of us making it out of that compound with our heads on our shoulders?"
"Do want a statistic or my opinion?"
"Both, if you don't mind"
"Statistically: slim"
"Statistically slim," he muttered, "Wonderful"
"If I may," she walked over to look him directly in the eye, "It has been my observation that humanity lives their lives with much hope. Have faith, Malcolm, things will be well. This crew, particularly when incensed, has a tendency to overcome statistical obstacles. I would rate our chance of success to be fairly high."
"Aye Sub-Commander" he could not help a slight sigh of frustration, ever since they had been on the mission they'd been shot at, chased, and abducted by every Tom Dick and Harry in the galaxy. As the man responsible for the safety of the ship, it made him nervous and just a bit edgy.
"I assume you can handle this Lieutenant" T'Pol's voice broke his momentary reverie. Silhouetted; she looked as though something just slightly off. It was nothing he could quantify, but she did seem a little upset, well for a Vulcan anyhow.
"Certainly," he nodded to the data disc, "After all you provided the hard part."
"Indeed" she took up the disc, and stored it in a clear plastic container. "If there's nothing else?"
"Good night Sub-Commander" he frowned a bit, then quickly picked up the pace of the modifications. As he finished, he paused, something about T'Pol's attitude didn't quite sit right with him. It was uncharacteristic for her to leave her work unfinished.
It didn't take much urging for him to go up the extra few decks to visit the bridge before heading to his dinner. As he stepped out onto the real working area of the ship, he smiled, just a bit. She was a proud ship, a good one, and the latent Navy man in him took his own measure of pride in his place aboard.
"Sir?"
"Malcolm" the big man acknowledged his presence with a casual wave, not exactly standard protocol, but the Briton had learned not to expect it from his Captain.
"A moment, sir"
"Sure" the Captain sounded vaguely surprised, but led the way to his ready room without complaint. "What can I do for you Malcolm?"
"Not me, as it were, rather I just had a bit of a talk with the Sub-Commander."
"The Sub-Commander?" that got his attention, if he wasn't being professional, Malcolm would have smiled. A blind man could see how much the Captain felt for his first officer.
"She seemed a bit… agitated"
"Agitated?"
"She left the armoury with work unfinished; I think that counts as agitated"
"Anything in particular?"
"Not really sir I just thought… well I thought you might want to know"
"Yes. Thank you Malcolm" When they walked back onto the bridge and the Captain went immediately for the turbo lift, Malcolm had a good idea where the Captain was headed.
The mess hall was a relatively quiet affair, he settled at his customary table with Hoshi, Travis, and Ensign Jackson. They gave him some subdued greetings. It was clear everyone's mind was on the raid planned for tomorrow morning.
"So is everything ready sir?" no one had known the real reason why Malcolm and T'Pol had insisted on staying to 'fix' some of the rifles.
"Just finished up, we're good to go"
"Do you think they'll suspect anything?" Hoshi asked, it was she, Chief Jones, and Crewman Randall who'd been working almost non-stop to crack the gate codes for the Orion base, with any luck the bay doors would open to accept the Orion fighter without question, thus landing the raiding party without suspicion.
Enterprise was going to remain in the background, for a while at least, hiding in the shadow of a gas giant's largest moon. The team would signal, and then the ship was to come out, spitting red phase blasts and torpedoes, hopefully knocking out several systems, like internal power, in the process.
The slavers wouldn't know what hit them until the slaves, freed and armed, followed the Enterprise crew into the heart of the station. With any luck they'd have numbers on their side, if not accuracy or training. Malcolm was willing to put his solid British pound on the slaves. Even the meekest dog will bite if provoked, and as he thought it, the slavers had been building enough provocation for this to be their last.
"Hey"
It was Trip, or Commander Tucker, rather. The two men had developed a very manly sort of friendship, beating each other up in the gym and indulging in shore leave together. He was pleased to see him, but also surprised, Trip usually had dinner with the Captain and T'Pol in the Captain's Mess.
"So the Commander has come down from on high to mingle with the commoners huh?" Leave it to Hoshi to put things bluntly. The cheeky Asian let her eyes sparkle at Trip and Malcolm felt a slight twinge.
"Don't know were Jon ended up, last I heard he was still pluggin' away on th' bridge. But m'belly started protestin' a long time ago, so here I am. Besides, who wouldn't want the comp'ny of ol' Trip the magnificent?" He puffed out his chest to an absurd size and everyone had a good chuckle at his expense.
"I don't know about Trip the magnificent, but I sure could use Trip the belly dancer" one the female crew members catcalled from a few tables away.
"I live to serve" He said jovially and Malcolm felt another tinge, that Trip could be so easy and that social situations, for the taciturn Brit, were anything but easy.
The door slid open after a few minutes and out popped the Captain and the Sub-Commander. It was something so common, seeing them together, that Malcolm barely registered their presence until he heard Trip's mild expletive.
"Son of a bitch" Malcolm looked, but didn't see any cause for it.
"Trip, Malcolm" The Captain walked over to their table and greeted everyone. T'Pol ever close at his side.
"Ensigns" T'Pol's voice actually sounded deeper than the Captain's did. It was pitched low and clear, but surprisingly gentle.
She had a slight frown, and again Malcolm thought that something was just a hair out of whack. He scented the faint smell of sulphur and smoke. She had been meditating. Good, if anything were bothering her mediation and the Captains Mess would do wonders. He worried some times, she pushed herself too hard, but then he did recognise some of the same drive in him, in her.
Trip's whole attitude had changed, instead of the charming, jovial man; there was an angry looking, suspicious human being. His arms crossed belligerently over his chest and he pushed back from the table.
There was a long, cold silence. For a moment, everyone in the mess had just stopped. Forks stilled, plates clattered to a halt, and drinks paused midway.
T'Pol finally murmured something low and sibilant, she turned, and Malcolm saw what had apparently been enough to set Trip off. Archer's hand was very neatly and discreetly on the small of her back. He stood a moment longer, and then joined her in the privacy of the Captains Mess.
There was another long silence, and then, surprisingly, it was Hoshi, the young, shy, soft-spoken, communications officer who showed everyone up.
"Well I hope you're happy, Commander. I'm so thrilled that our Chief Engineer has such respect for our First Officer. To the point of not speaking in a civil fashion, even. God damn it, Commander, what the hell is your problem?" Her dishes clanked and a murmur of assent followed her words.
Malcolm was not the only person who had not thought Hoshi had it in her, Trip sat slack jawed, not quite comprehending.
"I…."
"They're together Trip" Malcolm sad softly, "Everyone can see it but you. Give the woman a bloody break, and as for the Captain… it's his life Trip, he's a grown man. If this is a decision he wants to make you'd be a fool to put your friendship on the rocks over it"
The soft noises, the clanking of silver and china, and the steady stream of conversation returned slowly to the mess hall. A few still stole glances over at Trip, his meal forgotten, who slumped silently, broodingly in his chair. Together Malcolm and Hoshi left the mess hall, Ensign Jackson took a few moments longer, he was having chef's special peach cobbler.
After he left Trip was alone at the table. No one came to sit with him.
*NOTE: I borrowed a phrase from the LOTR: TT movie, kudos to Peter Jackson, Tolkien, or whatever screenwriter wrote it, but I felt it described the situation aptly.