Chapter Fifteen
Commander Charles Tucker III, with advanced degrees in Warp Field theory and a registered professional engineer, the first and only choice for Chief Engineer of the first warp five Earth vessel, was standing in the cargo bay of 'his' ship watching a Vulcan put on her boots.
She was precise, every loop, every steel shank, every deft turn of her finger was neat and accurate. Just like her. Just like her work. Just like her personality. Just like her people.
He was a proud man, from proud ancestors; he didn't like admitting himself in the wrong. Trip wasn't entirely sure he was in the wrong. She was a domineering, arrogant, prissy know it all. The trouble was people said the same things about him sometimes too.
Maybe that was it, he mulled it over in his mind. They were too much alike. This was supposed to be his crowning glory. It was his name supposed to be in the record books: Archer and Tucker, like Lewis and Clark, or Aldrin and Armstrong. Nevertheless, a tiny little scientist with big pointy ears had squeezed neatly into 'his' spot. She could command, she could obey, she could be solidly stubborn, or be pliantly flexible. She was everything he could be and she did it with class.
It was the look on Hoshi's face when she upbraided him in full view in the mess hall, which finally pushed him to this point. He'd always had a sweet spot for Jon's little linguist. He never wanted to see that look of absolute disgust directed in his way ever again. He knew it, he knew he was being unfair, obstinate, and unreasonable. Jon told him, the crew showed him, and even his own conscience whispered to him that he was in the wrong. But someone so sweet and so genuine, like Hoshi, stooping to the level to which he'd succumbed was enough.
Trip wanted it to be before the mission. He wanted it out of the way. He saw what no one could miss as they briefed for the incursion. Not everyone was coming out of this unscathed. It was so emotional and yet not, when Jon formally put T'Pol in command. He was the Captain, she, the first officer, they would do what they had to do.
That didn't mean either of them had to like it.
"May I help you Mr. Tucker?" she was prim, proper, and entirely unemotional.
T'Pol had boots laced, her jumpsuit neatly tucked, and the 'scattergun' or old-fashioned double-barrelled automatic shotgun slung across her back. She had a holstered pistol, a knife, a bandolier of grenades.
She looked like a five-year-old playing commando in the front lawn.
He had the same equipment, minus the shotgun, as did Malcolm, as did the rest of the six-man armoury team. He offered her the little tub of greasepaint to cover her face she declined.
They stood there looking at each other.
"Mr. Tucker?"
"Yeah," he felt awkward and was certain it was only going to get worse, "I just wanted to … clear some things up before we got out there."
She raised the 'sceptical' eyebrow, "By all means"
"I…, um, well that is…I'm sorry" the last he mumbled so softly and so garbled, that suspected even Vulcan hearing mightn't pick it up.
"For…" drat she did hear it.
"For bein' such a … schmuck"
He could see 'schmuck' filed and catalogued to get looked up later. Bloody woman had a mind like a computer.
"Apology accepted Commander."
That was all? 'Apology accepted commander' was all she had to say. He was a bit disturbed at the ease with which she accepted his apology. He tried to steal a surreptitious look at her but she was subtlety as he was not. His eyes met a surprisingly warm set of Vulcan hazels.
"Mr. Tucker I understand your concerns," he voice dropped a bit in pitch, and she looked away, "I will say this but once, but it will be said, I… care for him quite deeply. I know he is your friend, I respect that. You need not fear for him from me."
The shock and surprise of her admission must have shown on his face, because she arched her brow interrogatively. Then, seemingly puzzled, she added, "Does that allay your concerns Mr. Tucker?"
He nodded, slowly, "I… I guess I…"
"You're his friend. I believe I understand this… relationship. Friendship is a very, very human trait. I'm becoming more familiar with it though"
"Vulcans don't have friends?"
"We have colleagues, acquaintances, family, mates, but…I do not know of a relationship in Vulcan society that quite corresponds to human friendship."
"Well then…I guess, Why don't we give it a go then" At her look of sudden alarm and surprise he amended quickly, "Friendship."
"Perhaps," she acceded.
"Well it kinda looks as though we're gonna be stuck together for a long time, Sub-Commander, it's not logical to be at each other's throats all the time" he tried for a tail end of a joke, but as usual, in the presence of the almighty Vulcan joke nullifying zone, it fell a little flat.
"As you wish"
Seeing that it was as far as he was going to get, he turned to leave the cargo bay. In the hallway he ran into Jon, clearly there for a much more 'personal' goodbye for his First Officer. It took surprisingly little self-control to swallow the snide comment.
Before the door slammed closed on the couple, he heard an indistinct male voice, then quite clearly, in T'Pol's normal hauteur, "Don't worry, I believe Mr. Tucker and I have come to an understanding."
The invasion of the Orion base went off with surprisingly few hitches. The bay doors accepted Hoshi's code without a murmur of protest. Once they set down inside the oversized shuttle bay, Malcolm made short work of the main power with the Orion ship's weaponry.
They piled out into the pitch black interior of the shuttle bay, six armoury officers, Malcolm, Trip, the Orion woman, and T'Pol. The Orion led them to the 'slave bay'.
It was incredible. Every picture Trip had ever seen of old style 'maximum security' Alcatraz type prisons paled in imitation. The walls were covered in cells, with long thick bars; some of them had a mesh covering, at one point electrified.
There were noses, children crying, adults groaning in pain, small whispers of fear, the prisoners general furtive hum, loud enough to be heard, low enough to not attract attention.
To say it was pitch black was an understatement, until T'Pol hit a breaker on the island in the middle of the bay, it cast a single shallow illumination from one crookedly hung spotlight on the crown of the guard tower.
"Wani ra daifu ro T'Khasi" She was standing in the light, the thin pale circle, the noise stopped. She repeated herself, "Wani ra daifu ro T'Khasi"
A chant began, low and soft at first, but then gradually gaining tempo and volume, it sounded to Trip's uneducated ear, "Tuk Assi"
"What are they saying Sub-Commander?" thankfully it was Malcolm's nervous query; Trip didn't have to look like even more of an idiot today.
"They are chanting T'Khasi" she raised her hands for silence.
"Well what does that mean?" he asked again, sounding just a vague bit irritated.
"It means 'Vulcan', in Vulcan."
T'Pol drew up to her full height, in the silence, and then began to speak. The little UT Hoshi gave them kicked in after a few seconds. She was instructing them, telling all the able bodied that the cells weren't locked. That they had weapons, medicine, and food. That they could fight back against their oppressors.
One by one, and slowly, too damn slowly for Trip's taste, they started to trickle down the face of the cells. Malcolm had an assembly line set up. Every one who wanted one got a phase rifle or a pistol and several grenades. There was one group who came down last, coming silently, then all stepping dramatically into the light at once.
They were tall, underfed, but still massive, with two very slender antennae and blue, blue skin. Andorians. They looked skeptically at T'Pol, but hefted the weapons with alacrity. Trip was nervous; the relationship between Vulcans and Andorians wasn't exactly peachy.
"You would put at your back with a weapon, Vulcan?" one of the female Andorians sneered, hefting the phase rifle alarmingly.
"I am called T'Pol," the sub-commander replied evenly, "And what reason would I have to not allow you the privilege of dispatching the Orion's of your own free will?"
"You Vulcan…." The word that followed, the translator didn't catch, but Trip was sure it wasn't complimentary.
"You… pigs!" the Orion women, the one they'd rescued and the others, slave girls eager to revenge themselves against their former masters, shouted and brandished their Starfleet weapons. "They bring us food, weapons, medicine!! And all the gratitude you have to show for it!! We should just leave you here for the masters to find!!"
Several of the other agreed, a maniac look in their eyes, the people, who'd been at the doors, ready to leave now began to congregate about the Starfleet crew and the Andorians, muttering darkly.
"Any more of this we'll have a riot on our hands" muttered Malcolm and Trip wasn't far off in agreeing. The soon-to-be ex-slaves were starting to get a desperate kind of energy, the kind of energy that turned a peaceable group of people into a violent, hungry mob.
"Peace" T'Pol set down her own weapon, trying to restore a semblance of order to the crowd, "I will have peace. Anyone how wishes to fight, may of course do so, otherwise…"
A massive explosion, arced through the almost cavernous slave hold, presumably from the Orions, cut off her speech suddenly. It detonated in a bright flash of painfully white light, their eyes having accustomed to the near pitch black of the powerless base.
T'Pol dropped like a stone. The whole concert of slaves, Andorians, Orions, and Starfleet started shooting. Suddenly it wasn't dark in the slave hold anymore, angry hissing plasma bursts and bright red phase fire lit up the bulkheads.
A sudden deep bass, the resounding crescendo of grenades, made Trip's chest thrum in concert. He hit the deck coughing suddenly at the violent impact. All around him people were shouting, there were screeches of pain, the meaty 'thunks' of a plasma bolt driving home.
Malcolm was still standing, plugging away doggedly at the enemy. He tried in vain to shout orders, commands, but no one was listening. The Orions were everywhere, in the cellblock, at the doorways, sniping from above and cutting in from the back.
He had one thought: get to T'Pol.
Jon would never forgive himself if, now that they'd just found each other, she was killed in something as silly as a prison riot, which is what this was beginning to amount to. Trip was his friend. It was his job to make sure she came home.
He crawled, over the bodies of wounded and dying slaves; they'd managed a kind of protective ring. Everyone had clustered around the guard's island. It wasn't exactly the best tactic, the weak light from the hanging spot illuminated them far too well, but Malcolm had somehow managed a kind of organization.
They were firing volleys, alternating rounds. It was enough to keep the slaver's heads down. Then on command, they volleyed grenades in the general direction of the last set of slaver plasma bursts. Grenades weren't exactly precision weapons, they just needed a general area.
T'Pol was alive when Trip crawled over, and as he touched her arm, she grabbed his wrist in an iron grip, just this side of breaking it.
"It's me," he gasped, wincing, "Let go, let go, it's me"
"Mr. Tucker," she sounded as calm and cool as if she were ordering in a restaurant. "How has the situation developed?"
"Developed! They're blasting the hell out of us! Can't you…" then he got a closer look, her face was burnt and swollen, her eyes were open, but blurred and unseeing, as if a film had dropped over the lid.
"No, Mr. Tucker I cannot." She arched her head for a minute, and he realized she was trying to triangulate by sounds. "How far are we from the pill box?"
"Coupla feet. Why?"
"I need to get in" T'Pol's hand went from his wrist to his forearm, "You'll need to be my eyes."
He swallowed back an outraged shout. Clearly she had a purpose in mind. It was only logical. He grabbed the heavy shotgun, shucked the pump to chamber the rounds
"Grab my pocket" she snugged her fingers in the thigh pocket of his jumpsuit, and he half crawled, half scooted over to the very corner of the pillbox, then whirled around the corner, gun leveled. No one was there; he relaxed, lowering the muzzle incrementally.
Suddenly on of the Orion slavers, dressed in loose fitting leathers and heavy boots, rounded the corner. They stared at each other for a split second, shock written on both faces, Trip fired first.
The gun in his arms exploded, the Orion dropped like a stone. The recoil knocked him off his knees, painfully onto his butt. When the bright light of the incendiary faded, leaving a white smear across his vision he hissed at T'Pol, "What the hell was that?"
"My shotgun Mr. Tucker" She moved past him, feeling her way to the door, trying to locate a keypad. Trip got up, wincing at the bruise that the recoil left him, and helped her fingers find the panel.
"It's welded," he offered, when she scratched at the solidly attached panel. She said something, not very softly, in Vulcan. She reached back grasping blindly and he offered her his hand. She slid down the arm to the shotgun, still warm from the last shot.
"Wait a sec, you can't see, ain't no way I'm lettin' you shoot this thing." he pulled it back out of her grasp. "Jus' tell me what ya need shot."
"The doors have a locking mechanism in three places" She moved her hands, marking out the top, middle and bottoms of the solid door. "Every twenty six inches"
"Alright, clear out," he aimed the shotgun, but she caught his forearm as he moved her out of the way.
"You need to fire both barrels" she took the gun from his hands and with surprising capability, shucked and chambered the next rounds of shells. It was just in time, another Orion rounded the corner, and she must have heard because she brought the gun up to her shoulder and fired.
Thunder exploded again, he could see the flash and the expanded cloud of lead shot, the Orion's, because he could now see there were two of them, dropped like flies. She shucked the chambers again and dropped, dragging her hand against his leg. He hit the ground just in time, angry green streamers shot over where his head would have been.
T'Pol, who's hand was still on his forearm, tugged herself over his prone form. She slapped a square of something over the corner of the door then rolled away. There was a slight flash, and then the door made a deep clicking noise.
She pushed at the door with her feet, it slid open marginally and she slipped in a slender space he didn't think was physically possible. The last thing he remembered seeing was the slim Vulcan straining against the door to shut it behind her.