Chapter Sixteen
"Jeezzzz…." Trip groaned as he slowly came back to consciousness, "You get the number of the shuttlepod that ran me over?"
"Easy Mr. Tucker, you've had quite a shock" the warm, cheerful voice of Doctor Phlox was at his said. He was still seated on the deck plates of the Orion facility, but milling around were Starfleet personnel. They'd won the fight, apparently.
"What happened?" Trip tired to shake out some of the cobwebs.
"You were engaged with the Orion pirates, Mr. Tucker…." Phlox began to explain. Trip sat up further, a massive headache forming behind his eyes.
"I know that," Trip cut him off irritatedly, "How'd y'all get here?"
"The Sub-Commander called" he said matter of factly.
Mechanically Trip looked around for the Sub-Commander. He found her, well, some of her, the top half currently enveloped in the bear-like grasp of Captain Archer. Only her feet and forearms were visible from his perspective, as she had him in a tight hug in return.
"What the hell?" he wondered aloud. "How she manage that?"
"Hypothetically, Commander, if you were the administrator of this kind of a…. facility. What do you think is the most pressing concern you would have?" the good Doc sat back on his haunches, easily limber.
"Does that have anything to do with…"
"Humour me, Mr. Tucker, please"
"Alright" he thought for a second, "Escape I guess."
"Providing that an individual escape is difficult and unlikely," he amended, scanning the Commander for internal injuries.
"Some kinda group demonstration… a riot, maybe."
"Excellent" Phlox exclaimed, putting away his scanner and taking out a hypo, "And what Commander Tucker, would you do to quell a riot, given that you want all of the, ah, merchandise in one piece?"
"I dunno, riot gear, tear gas… waitaminute… did she gas us?" he asked, incredulous.
"Exactly!" Phlox looked as pleased as if it was he who'd made the deduction, "There was a riot control system in place in the pillbox, with an emergency breaker. She tripped the breaker and everyone in the bay got a full dose. Somehow the Sub-Commander managed to find a comm device and contact the ship."
"Gotcha" Trip stood all the way back up, noticing that T'Pol and Jon were still locked together in a tight embrace. The crew, or at least those who'd been revived, were studiously ignoring them.
"Commander?" it was a timid question, but a welcome voice.
"Hoshi?"
"How you feeling?" she asked, as he turned around to face the petite Asian.
"Hunnert percent better now" he grinned.
She gave him very wry look, "Right. Anyhow … I've been trying to get through some of the Orion database, well what I can translate of it. I can't find any mention of Chief Spencer. But they haven't updated anything in about a week, so it's still very likely that he's… somewhere"
"Have you asked around, maybe someone saw him?"
"There are over six hundred people listed here, and most of them are still unconscious." She looked away for a minute, and then said softly, "Another thing… I, I want to apologise for what I said last night. I lost my temper, I shouldn't have…"
"No, no" he interrupted, "You were right, I shoulda…" He cut off at Hoshi's gesture, turning around to find Jon and T'Pol slowly making their way towards them. Slowly because T'Pol's eyes, although her face had been treated, her eyes were still blank and unseeing.
"Sir"
"Trip, Hoshi," he stopped, T'Pol's hand on his forearm to guide her. "How you feeling Commander?"
"Little groggy, got a wicked headache."
"If I may, Captain," Phlox turned from where he was treating another crewmember for exposure to the gas, "He may be conscious, but the effect is different based on the individual bio-chemistry, I suggest at least twenty four hours for the drug to be completely rid of the system, just to be on the safe side."
"Sounds about right." Jon unwound T'Pol's arm from his own, "Trip you mind…"
"Sure," He took T'Pol's hand, letting her slide it up to his elbow.
"Get some food and rest, both of you, and check with Malcolm's team. Make sure they get cleaned up as well."
"Aye sir" he walked T'Pol over to the shuttle carefully, going out of his way to avoid obstructions and little half steps that might throw her off balance. It wouldn't do to compromise that impregnable Vulcan dignity.
He chuckled a little at himself, worrying about a Vulcan's dignity. Jon was right, damn him, it was easy to care for her. Once you got past the Vulcan bit. He worried too; both Jon and the Doctor had deliberately ignored the fact that T'Pol was still sightless. In Trip's estimation that was never a good sign.
Decon went remarkably without incident, at least to the Sub-Commander's perspective. She'd somehow expected Mr. Tucker to be more… aggravating. He'd been nothing but helpful and solicitous since escorting her from the Captain's arm. Even with the necessary application of the decon gel; he'd helped her without the usual amount of apprehensive tension she'd come to expect from him.
The scent of her quarters was a familiar and welcome sensation. Her mind was running itself in circles, dangerously pre-occupied with her incipient blindness. The first gentle rush of the air from within her private space was a gentle relief.
"You gonna be ok here?" asked the Commander, careful not to be condescending, but still concerned for her well-being.
"They are my quarters Mr. Tucker," she responded, somewhat more harshly than she intended. Hearing a slight intake of breath and the sharp sting of hurt, she quickly soothed, "I do appreciate your… help"
A slight exhalation, this one in consistent with the formation of a smile, "Anytime"
Alone at last, T'Pol tried to orient herself. It was difficult. The loss of one of the primary sensory inputs was a devastating blow to her sense of well being.
'Meditation' she thought immediately, 'I must meditate'
She began to search for the candles, cushion, and the low, Japanese table she'd acquired in San Francisco. The table was easy enough to find, she tripped over it half way to what she thought was the bed. Nursing the pain of a stubbed toe, she lowered her centre of gravity, in an effort to be more balanced.
After striking her head on the corner of the chair she'd pulled out but neglected to push back in, T'Pol sat down on the middle of the floor and pondered her options. A memory sprang unbidden from the recesses of her thought and she let it flow through her…
Her ancestral home was the Te-Vikram system of caves, set deeply within the L-Langon Mountains. They were an arid, rough terrain, on a planet known for its arid roughness. It was, she still believed, the most beautiful place on Vulcan.
Set apart by the sheer viciousness of their ancestry, infamous for their murderous priest-kings in an age where viciousness was a norm, her House was still remarkably well known for their proficiency at the martial arts, preserving the older forms from oblivion and generating constantly new and interesting ways to kill with single blows.
Her father was her teacher. He was one of the most decorated and knowledgeable of all the disciples of Sekhet. She learned from the cradle what many Vulcans never willingly conscienced that deep within they were all a warrior people.
The irony in this realisation, the irony of the martial practice, is that for the rational beings that they were, the more that was known of the intimate acts of violence, the less likely it was to be ever used.
One moment… one training scenario in particular involved the extinguishing of the torches that lit the deepest, darkest cave. Two, sometimes three combatants fought in the black, relying not on sight but on touch, taste, sound, and smell to navigate their gloomy domain.
"Don't balance with your eyes, true balance comes from within" she spoke aloud, the syllables of the harsh, old Vulcan resonating off the bulkheads. She shut her eyes, it was silly, she noted, but psychologically her mind still needed the physical closing to focus.
She heard the slight whine of servos, decks down, running the coolant lines to the main impulse reactor, the indistinct hum of conversation, crewmembers talking as they passed her door. The air recycled every few minutes, humming as the conduit opened and closed, the pressure equalising with a slight hiss. She could scent her candles, the sachets of herbs she folded in with her clothing, reminding her daily of her home.
Taking this, she began to meditate, reaching deep within herself to calm the tempestuous storm of emotion that was threatening to overtake her. It was the first real test of her control since the disaster in the Captain's quarters.
Slowly, methodically, she reached into herself and calmed the emotions. It was like ordering a tornado to stop blowing or the waves to cease pounding the shore. But slowly, carefully, her protections held. She forced the waters to be still and the howling of the winds to stop.
For her, it was probably the most important moment in her life since her decision to leave the Ministry of Security and pursue a career in science. It validated her control, her very identity. As the peace of the ages enveloped her, T'Pol let her eyes open.
She was filthy, the decon gel having just spread the dirt around. Using her newly found discipline she slowly, but surely navigated her cabin. She gathered her towels, soap, everything she needed. Perhaps she stayed under the pounding spray longer than strictly necessary, but to a Vulcan a water shower is an extravagance in the extreme.
She picked soft clothing, comforting clothing, and as she combed out her hair, she realised that it was getting long. Not overly long, but beyond regulation length for a Vulcan officer. It covered the tips of her ears. She gently combed the last few droplets of water from her head. She'd get around to cutting it… eventually.
Taking the opportunity to indulge she also picked out a scented, lightly scented, skin crème. Vulcan skin was watertight. In a less than arid environment special care needed to be taken so that it remained smooth and dry.
It was a very personal gift from one of her colleagues at the Science Academy, T'Lar. They'd been in several philosophy courses together, finding a measure of interest in each other's company after the strict schedule of classes was up. It was a parting gift as she left to for Earth.
It made her feel relaxed.
Just as the warm currents of contentment began to wash up, her stomach had to go ruin everything. She was hungry. Contemplating a visit to the mess hall, she was on the verge of calling in one of her privileges as First Officer and asking a steward to bring her a meal.
Footsteps in the hall slowed at her door. They shuffled momentarily, a clank of metal as something knocked against another. Then the pressure of the air vent in the ceiling abruptly switched off and air rushed up from under the door, carrying with it the scent of her visitor. It was Jon.
She went to the door and opened it, "Can I help you with that?" She asked, holding out a hand for his burden, the scent identifying it as plomeek broth and a salad of some kind.
"No, I got it" she stepped back and a whoosh of air rushed by her as he displaced more space in her cabin. "You're taking this remarkably well."
"I am…"
"Vulcan, yeah I know." He set the dishes down on her desk, "How are you feeling?"
"As well as can be expected," she searched for, found, and sat on the bed. It was easier than trying the chair.
"I believe it" he came forward, cupping her chin, "I was scared to death"
"I'm quite well," she responded, basking slightly in the warmth of his mind. "and relatively undamaged."
"Relatively?"
"The damage is not permanent" it was the first thing she assessed when she tranced down. "The retinal cones are swollen, that is what is preventing my sight. It will subside."
"You've spoken to the Doctor?"
"I don't need to"
"T'Pol…."
"But if you insist…"
"I do"
"Very well" she acquiesced quietly, his hands, still on her face dropped down to her shoulders. He sent her a clear, albeit forceful mental query. He wanted a hug, but he hadn't quite gotten the hang of forming and sending mental images.
Gently, she admonished, I'm hardly going to miss the idea
"Sorry" he sat next to her on the bed, "I'm not exactly used to this"
You're progressing very well, considering humans are not inherently telepathic, it was easier for her to speak telepathically, she didn't have to take the slight, but still necessary step of translating her words from Vulcan to English.
"Thanks" he suddenly took in a breath sharply, "oh yeah, I got something for you"
She heard him fiddling around, the scritch-scraping of a screw top thermos, and the very subtle, humans would say non-existent, aroma of plomeek broth. He sat down on the bed next to her and took her hand, "Careful it's hot"
As she sipped, she felt him rustling around on the other side of her bed.
"Jonathan?"
"Just a sec…." he rustled a little more. "Alright, c'mere"
She arched a brow but gamely followed his instructions. He reached for her arm and guided her into a cosy nest of pillows backed by his chest. He grunted with approval and snuggled her close. She gave him a mental query.
"You ever read Kipling?"
"Whom?"
"Rudyard Kipling, he was a children's author back in the day, British, well, British living in India during the Imperial era. Wrote the Jungle Book."
"I… do not believe so"
"Good" he snuggled more, "Now you will"
"The Jungle Book?" she questioned.
"Nope," he said, "My favourite, Rikki-Tikki-Tavi"
"Jonathan I cannot read."
"I know," he seemed pleased with himself, "I'm going to read it to you."
She was surprised, but touched, "Very well"
"This is the story of the great war that Rikki-Tikki-Tavi fought single handed, through the bathrooms of the big bungalow in Segowlee tenement…." He began