A.N

My exams, I passed all my exams! I got a bloody A for English! And Modern Studies and my Intermediate Two Maths! And a B for Art! God knows how but I thank him and well, frankly I'm still reeling. This chapter would probably be a bit longer with an extra bit at the end if I hadn't been so stressed over these results, and so shocked when I got them this morning.

Anyway, about this chapter. Well… it'll either sink or swim with its audience. I'll let you decide that…

Thanks for the huge appreciating of the last chapter –smile–

. . . . . . .

Twenty-eight minutes past midnight.

The shadows moved like liquid smoke, every corner they grasped or body they flooded over they took and flooded over with pleasuring menace. Although the room had four walls and a ceiling, as it should, stepping in onto the heavy wooden floor felt like you were stepping in to a gaping abyss. Unless you had been born with the eyes of a nocturnal creature's the shadows would sweep in to render you utterly blind and clench a fear on your heart. Every corner was unsettlingly cold. The metallic fibres of the room were a biting chill to touch, and air thin and icy to breath.

Fingers tapped in quick succession of each other on a table. Like long blue claws they shot into the wood of a feverishly polished table, echoing the sound of a patient predator. Material moved and whispered in the abyss. A pair of heavy heeled boots came to rest quietly with content on that well polished table. Through the smoky shadows a hand was raised idly and on its silent command a weak orange light fell quietly upon the place, switched on by a stiff figure in a corner.

His eyes, sharp and red and barely marked at all by a grey pupil looked up at the heavy steel door eagerly as it began to open. He ran a hand through his wispy black speckled auburn hair and tenderly licked his parched blue lips. His long scarred and chipped antennae stood forward to attention. At the feet of his chair something moved restlessly with scurrying claws and the same anticipation as the red-eyed tyrant.

"Yes?"

The oozing impatience in his voice was warning enough that the figure behind the door was to stop his fearful delay and bring himself forward quickly, which he did. He stood in the doorway, a halo of white light drowning his stout outline and his quivering hands. He had little reason to be nervous though. He was the bearer of good news.

"They've launched sir."

The hot crimson red of his eyes suddenly became greedy with delight. Sweeping his boots off the table with an eager thud onto the floor, sending the scurrying shadow that had settled beside his chair running, his blue palms pressed into the desk as he leant forward enthusiastically.

"The shuttlepod?"

"Yes sir. The Phae will be occupied in twenty standard Earth minutes."

"And the shields have kept us out of any unwanted limelight?"

"Yes sir."

"And everyone that we had anticipated is on the Phae?"

"Yes sir."

"Including—"

"Vulcan 1805 is aboard sir, yes."

This time he forgave the interruption, sensing a rising excitement in the messenger that echoed his own.

"Good… Good, get the boarding teams assembled then. Five men from this ship to board the Phae with me, three from her sister to destroy the shuttle. Then heed those over the Compounds to stay on alert and wait for my word. Those in Vulcan space have to watch their tails for now, but no actions just yet."

With a simple nod the messenger's job was understood and he departed.

The excitement in his crimson eyes was growing dangerous, becoming borderline insanity. It was not an uncommon sight, not one that was often feared by his crews anymore.

He turned swiftly to the stiff figure in the corner.

"Do you have the Vulcan documents?"

He nodded and reached for a cabinet that stood in the corner with him.

"No, wait, leave them for now. We'll wait until we have what we came for, then they'll be of use to us to show to her. Perhaps finally we'll have clarity, no?"

The figure fell back into a stiff silent stance.

"Not much of a talker. Fortunately I prefer that in a crewman."

He nodded a thank you but no more. The crimson eyes turned front again and he laughed quietly in good nature.

"You have no idea how much I'm going to enjoy this."

. . . . . . .

Twenty-nine minutes past midnight.

Porthos raised his head from where it rested on the cushy arm of the couch. His keen hound nose had already sussed the scent of his owner traipsing quietly down the cold brown hallway outside. There was barely a wisp of enthusiasm for life in those shuffled footsteps and Porthos let a small whine scamper from his throat.

Jonathan ignored the bitter biting winds that crept through the ajar windows and cracked doorways of the hall. His coat hung loosely on his shoulders, he didn't bother to pull it closer around him or take consideration of the rising goose pimples along the back of his hung neck. He wore a listless scowl across his brow and his dulled eyes sighted nothing but the dusty ground before him.

Reaching his door with the gleaming gold carvings on a heavy block of oak wood that read '187, Archer' he fumbled for his cardkey and slowly raised it to the little security box. The door swung open before he had even finished swiping. A fresh breeze ran from the entrance as the hinges swung slowly open.

Through the darkness there was a small commotion as Porthos slid off the couch in a characteristically ungainly manner and trotted happily over to Jonathan. The little beagle's cast had been removed that day; any movement he made was a happy one.

Jonathan ignored him however as he stood utterly still and warily. He dropped the key back into his pocket and peered uselessly into the shadows at a blinding darkness. As Porthos' little wet nose began to tickle his ankles he finally willed himself forward on a silent tread, avoiding all the spots of the floor that creaked as he advanced into the cold living room. A clump of grey shadows of the sofa instantly caught his sharp attention.

In the top drawer of the dresser that sat at the end of the apartment's short corridor rested his phase pistol, moved from its old spot in the stiff kitchen drawer after T'Pol had mentioned the fiasco she had gone through with trying to seize it for her own defence against Paul.

Slowly he opened the compartment and claimed it into his steady grasp as he began to creep forward now. In his restless churning gut he had the strongest and most uneasy feeling that the lump atop his sofa, which shifted slightly in a light sleep, was indeed Paul himself.

Hammering his palms together the lights were slammed on and Jonathan aimed his weapon with fury at the sofa dweller who leapt clean in heart thundering fright.

"What? No, don't shoot!"

Behind them Porthos began a maelstrom of furious barking and growling, sensing his master was on the defence for himself.

Both men blinked frantically in the new wave of hot white light and as Jonathan gained his sight slowly he was allowed to realise his mistake.

"Trip?"

The Commander, who regained his eyes a few seconds later, blinked once again and looked on guiltily at his emotionally drained former Captain. He quickly offered him a half smile and a meek wave.

"Jon, hey, you're back. Ah'm sorry, ah didn't know what time you'd be home at so ah waited, and ah must have fell asleep, 'bout an hour ago ah guess. Ah never realised how late it was."

He took another look at the digital wall clock as it flickered to 00:30.

There was a sudden clatter as Jonathan threw his pistol back into the drawer.

"Trip, what are you doing here?"

The Southerner had to remind himself that tonight of all nights he would have to draw out all the patience and sympathy that he held in reserve, as these were not character traits he was often associated with.

"Look, ah'm sorry for invadin' but ah couldn't leave ya alone tonight. Ah know how much she's come to mean to ya. Ah figured t'night wasn't exactly gonna be a stroll in the alpha quadrant for ya so ah thought y' might 'ppreciate a bit o' familiar company. Ah haven't exactly seen much of ya since we landed anyway, aint exactly been the best friend for ya, though ah also figured y' had T'Pol for company so what'd y' need me for, eh?"

Another half smile graced his golden toned face.

Jonathan no sooner after felt a swarm of guilt approach his emotional front and the fatigue of his voice slowly trickled away to be replaced with the weakest but truest of gratitude.

"No, I wouldn't mind a bit of company actually, especially if you're offering it."

A strange relief shot through Trip as he sat back down on the couch and waited for Jonathan to join him.

"So how was it tonight?"

If there was anything more forward about Trip it was his ability to ask the most direct of questions about the most delicate of matters yet in the most sensitive and thoughtful of ways. The note of tenderness that held true to every tone of every word spoken was enough even to prompt Jonathan to open up.

He sat with Trip and Porthos as he blew a weary sigh.

"I watched her go as she was carried off on the shoulder of a trigger-happy Vulcan guard into a flying prison with Soval behind her who was enjoying every last minute of it. I'd sooner be demoted to Ensign again than have let tonight happen, and I can't stand knowing that there's not a damn thing I can do about it."

Trip managed a frown as he heard 'flying prison' and sat back with quiet sympathy as Jonathan best described his torment, but came nowhere close to emphasising his true pain.

"What d' y' mean a 'flyin' prison'?"

Although he did not delve into details of the night, not even beginning to imagine that he could, Jonathan described to his dear friend what only an hour ago he had been made to endure, including the ever sombre face of T'Pol, right until they heard about the Phae, and then as he watched the shuttlepod take off into space with her securely aboard. Finally Jonathan sagged, his neck craning back over the edge of the couch as he looked up at the cream ceiling, lost.

"She's not coming back, is she?"

Trip's frown, which had lasted the duration of Jonathan's sketchy recount of events, softened until it disappeared and he looked upon his friend with aching compassion.

"Don't say that. She'd give you a lecture if she knew you were saying that."

Despite the emotional odds Jonathan managed to smile, very weakly and shakily. He knew however, better than Trip understood, that T'Pol had come to realise with him the very slim chances they had that they would ever reunite if her people continued to be as stubborn and self-righteous as they were being right now.

"I suppose you're right."

There was a chocked falter in his voice. Trip offered him a tender pat on the knee.

"Ah know it seems unlikely but ah just can't see this being the end of it. If nothin' else there's gonna be wars about this one."

Although it was a quiet joke Jonathan could hear some hopeful sincerity spoken at the tail end within the casual accent. He nodded, the smile falling from grace but his eyes renewed with a flickering light. For tonight, just now, he was reluctant to go on with the issue.

"You know they show water polo highlights at this time…"

Jonathan fingered the remote, which he picked up from the arm of the couch. He decided to test out Trip's pity. He was given a smile from the corner of the Southerner's mouth.

"It's your apartment."

The digital wide screen television instantly came to life. Porthos looked at it briefly before settling his maw over Trip's lap.

After flicking through a couple of sports channels and eventually finding what he wanted the two men settled back in the couch. Trip quipped a brow at the screen.

"Highlights from the Texas/California game."

Jonathan nodded. "Perfect. We hammered your asses in that one. There's beer and chips in the fridge if you want any."

Trip huffed in a mocking pout then got up to fetch the greasy snacks and alcoholic beverages. One of Texas's poor failing moments of defence had just been shown.

Silently Jonathan's mind lingered on the word 'perfect', not appreciating his own choice of vocabulary at all. He didn't mean it now, and he doubted he would every truly mean it again.

. . . . . . .

She groaned and in an instant the groan was swallowed up whole by the four walls around her. She attempted to move but a searing pain shot down her back and she came to realise she had not been stunned by simply just a standard phase pistol. She moved her hand and felt sheets of thin glossy paper-like material move under her fingers. Apparently the guard was more sympathetic than he had had her believe before. The photographs must have fallen from her belt and he hadn't had the compassionless heart his earlier actions had boasted to leave them where they had fallen.

She tried to move again and found with her resurfacing conscious that the pain was subsiding and becoming bearable, almost numb. Eventually she opened her eyes.

She had fallen into the grasp of an abyss. If indeed there were four walls, a ceiling and a floor around her to compose a cell they were entirely lost in the frozen darkness she had now become a shadow of. She was left to assume only that she was lying atop a steel bench and that beneath her palm were indeed the photographs and that upon her finger was still the same ring Jonathan had given her, and not a cruel duplicate her captors had replaced to mock her.

"Would you like the light on?"

Her heart clenched and she sat up in a shot, her head spinning from disorientation but the fright helping her forget that. In the sightless dark there were footsteps across a metal floor and another figure began to cross the room, perhaps even right in front of her. Disturbingly she could not tell, as she could not see.

"Well?"

"Who are you?"

Her sense of reason began to fall into place and she gathered to her, her level-headed Vulcan composure. If the owner of the voice were anything to fear, then whoever it was would have most likely attacked already in her sleep.

"I'll put the light on then."

As the voice promised the darkness quickly evaporated and there was now a weak orange glow to speak of, and the bear minimal of sight to savour.

T'Pol rearranged herself on the bench, sitting with a stiffer, straighter back and her feet upon the ground. She fought off the temptation to scratch her back and rub across the bridge of her nose and attended instead to seeing who her cellmate was.

"I'm sorry if I startled you. Unfortunately it is something I'm well known for doing."

In an instant T'Pol could see why. She was a meek looking Vulcan, barely muscular, barely anything of build at all. Her arms hung dully at her sides like fleshy bones and her legs, although hidden under a fanfare of silky blue material, appeared to struggle uncomfortably to keep her standing. She had hardly a chest and an entirely flat rear and stomach. It appeared as though she had not been fed properly in her entire short lifetime.

However it was none of this that caught T'Pol's attention, she had seen poor builds such as these before, they were unfortunately not uncommon amongst humans. It was above her bony neckline that she found her eyes rudely drawn and stuck to.

Above the neckline the girl had scarcely a shred of Vulcan features upon her. Her skin was frighteningly pale, white almost, even down her arms, and her eyes a spectacular and harrowed blue. Her thinning hair was a shimmering blonde and her ear tips barely pointed at all, only just enough that you could not deny she was indeed a Vulcan.

"I'm not what you think I am."

Her voice along with the texture of her skin suggested she was only twenty-nine, perhaps thirty. To a human she would have seemed not a month or so beyond seventeen.

"I am a Vulcan, nothing more."

T'Pol finally realised that after the girl had first spoken she had made no indication that she had heard her, or that she was interested in anything beyond how she looked. She pulled her glazed gaze up and focused better on the girl's eyes.

"I apologise. I did not mean to stare."

The girl, sensing T'Pol's truth in her quiet voice soon crossed the room and took a seat on the steel bench beside her. In a moment her tense shoulders and shaking fingers seemed to ease slightly.

She was a decorated figure, with various accessories for the wrists and fingers and around her neck, and even for her earlobes. T'Pol had seen many of the female crew of Enterprise with pierced ears, for them to wear 'earrings' in, Hoshi had explained once. It was not a concept she understood however, jewellery. Aware that she was wearing a ring for herself though, she fingered it almost guiltily in the new hypocrisy she boasted.

"I watched him give it to you. You must mean a lot to him. Rings are an important symbol to humans."

T'Pol looked up at those haunting blue eyes again and offered the girl a short look. Quickly she understood, and left the ring and Jonathan out of the conversation.

"My name is T'Kai. The humans call me Kai though, and I prefer it."

T'Pol's short look soon faded into silent curiosity. She was finding it difficult to bring herself to talk, feeling for now she simply wanted to withdraw into contemplation, or meditation, but a Phae cell was hardly the place for either of these.

"And you are T'Pol. If you don't mind, it's something of an honour to be here with you, amidst the circumstances."

T'Pol refreshed her gaze for a second time to mild surprise.

"Oh?"

T'Kai took the invitation to explain herself.

"I work for Starfleet, or did until last Thursday. I was the only Vulcan working there at the current time, except for yourself, although you were in space. They would talk about you a lot, about the entire Enterprise crew really, but I liked to hear what they had to say about you. They said that you were just like one of the crew up there, that you had fitted in better than most human Science Officers would ever have. You gave me reason to think I couldn't be like that myself. I worked well with the scientists in Starfleet and I was hoping for a place on Columbia, under Captain Archer's command."

Seeing that the Vulcan chose to talk in fluent English, T'Pol simply complied by doing the same.

"Why do you work for Starfleet? Why not the High Command?"

In the brief moment of silence that there was between them, T'Kai laughed very quietly through her nose. T'Pol's eyes flashed with bewilderment as she did so.

"I've been shunned on Vulcan for many years because it was rumoured my mother mated with a human instead of her bond-mate. It's not true though, the rumours only came about when I adopted my… distinct features in adolescence. Even the High Command believes it though, and so is too wary to adopt me into their numbers. On Earth I found refuge from that, and people willing to accept me into their environment as I was, eventually, until the High Command detained me and boarded me onto the Phae."

"On what charges?"

"There were none. They told Starfleet that their reason for my arrest was confidential, but they have not even told me as of yet the justifications for their actions, so I assume there are none."

T'Pol felt the visual memory of her session come back to mind. She remembered glancing upon the stony face of Admiral Forrest several times over the short fifteen minutes it took. They had been ready to fight for her, but their resolve had crumbled and with it her last express route back to Earth. She wondered if the same had been done for her frail companion.

"I am sure there will be plenty of opportunities on Vulcan for you to prove your capabilities for working with the High Command."

T'Kai nodded slowly. "I'm sure there are, but that is not what I want to do. I would sooner rotten on the Phae than work under a Communist rule."

Strong words, T'Pol noted for someone in such a restricted situation. Very human words, she noted in the back of her mind.

Her back growled in pain. She shifted uncomfortably, restraining herself from fingering the burn that was tightening a patch of her skin directly between each shoulder blade. It was not a wound she minded bearing though. It reminded her that she had at least tried.

"Is that Captain Archer?"

The young Vulcan's curiosity had seized her tongue over the silent promise she had made herself not to mention the man T'Pol had just been torn from.

The photographs sat at her side so she picked them up carefully, wedging them between her belt and her hip again.

"Yes."

"He appears intoxicated."

There was a tip of amusement on T'Kai's bold but respectful tongue. T'Pol looked down to see the picture of herself, Jonathan and Trip sitting above the other more composed one.

"He is."

"Ah."

The pale sip of light that came from a dirty orange bar upon the mucky green ceiling flickered on and off briefly several times. The Phae was not a ship that was kept in good condition. The lingering smell of other, perhaps less… groomed passengers still lingered in each soiled corner, and even scatterings of various different colours of blood from various different species stained the walls from previous voyages. T'Pol's nose twitched in the stale air, but did nothing more.

Then the ship lurched.

It was no gentle rock back and forth as both T'Pol and T'Kai discovered, finding themselves lifted from the bench and scattered over the floor. They hadn't the time to compose themselves before the ship took another dive forward and left them thrown up against the wall. Finally after a third merciless jerk that left them bundled in a corner the ship fell into a stationary lull.

"Engine problems?"

T'Pol picked herself up and offered a hand down to T'Kai.

"Unlikely."

T'Pol had sat through both enough bouts of engine trouble and hostile attacks to be able to tell the difference.

"It seems the Phae is being targeted by heavy weaponry."

A darting of fear crossed over T'Kai's eyes, but despite her rebellious attire, and tongue, she was still very much a Vulcan with the very capable ability to suppress her emotions. She stood warily at the door. Hurried footsteps stormed by.

"By who?"

T'Pol stood back slightly, looking to the ceiling. "That is impossible to determine from in here. But from reviewing the Phae's history it could very well be Klingons, if indeed we have one aboard with us."

She could tell T'Kai wanted to express fear again, but she admired her restraint that she did not. T'Kai seemed like a Vulcan ready to burst into the nature of a human's, and T'Pol admired that she did just managed to keep herself in check.

"If there is one thing we must grant about this ship, it is its ability to defend itself. I doubt that whoever is attacking will have enough time even to board before backup forces arrive."

T'Kai looked upon her with slight scepticism. It was clear that she wanted to believe T'Pol, but from the scars that riddled her arms and hands it was also clear her past would not quiet let her keep an optimistic mind about the matter.

The ship took another sudden trembling hit and T'Kai seized a deep crevice in the wall as T'Pol was forced to brace the murky floor again. Below her the cold steel began to vibrate. However this was not the shuddering force that ran its course through Enterprise when she was being pushed into maximum Warp. This was the jittering of a ship being held in its place whilst it tried desperately, and without success, to escape.

"She's being held down."

T'Pol saw no point in lying to T'Kai. The young Vulcan's knuckles went a sickly white against her already paling skin as she kept a firm grasp on the scarred wall.

"I wonder where that Klingon is."

T'Pol quipped her a brow, almost as a sort of comforting smile. T'Kai herself did.

"They say that you've smiled before. And cried. And even laughed. It's funny that you still hold on so tightly to your emotions when the humans must have shown you by now that it's not always bad to let them show."

T'Pol only lowered her brow, and said with some restrain upon her tongue, "I fail to see why that is 'funny'."

The struggling vibrations eventually stopped. The ship fell into a second unsettling lull. T'Kai's fists grew tighter still on their slipping hold of the crevice.

"Are they boarding?"

T'Pol looked untouched by fear. Carefully she stood up again and brushed herself off.

"Most likely, if it was indeed even an attack in the first place. There are several different other reasons for why the ship could be behaving as it is. It could simply be we have wondered into an uncharted asteroid field, or even—"

She never got to finish her attempts at comforting T'Kai.

Heavy healed boots echoed outside, just beyond the doorway in the narrow grey corridor. They stopped just in front of the door. A shadow flickered through the crack in the bottom. T'Pol fell still, and T'Kai moved slowly away from the door, backing into the orange shadows beyond.

"I think we may have been boarded."

T'Pol turned to her fretting companion, about to agree on the inevitable when the heavy steel door finally opened. Hearing the gentle release of pressure on its locks alone forced her almost against her will to turn back round.

"Sub Commander T'Pol."

With the fresh wave of bright yellow light that flooded in through the open doorway T'Pol felt a blindness stab through her head before she was able to distinguish the bulky shadow in the doorway. The first thing she did notice as she blinked furiously, and slowly brought forth her gaze again were the antennae, and she felt her heart clench again.

"I'm going to enjoy having you aboard."

And then, for the second time in only an hour, she succumbed to an involuntary unconsciousness before she had even hit the floor.

. . . . . . .

He looked down bleakly at his watch with watery eyes damp from exhaustion and an unshaved chin. The saliva in his mouth was sticky and his throat tasted dry and rough. His muscles were stiff and his hair unkempt. He was no longer twenty-one anymore.

It was only shy of three o'clock. It was still as dark as midnight, and colder still than then as the painfully early hours crept torturously by.

Needless to say he could barely close his eyes to sleep. Beside him Trip and Porthos hadn't this problem, wishing away the dawn as they should in deep dreamless sleep. The T.V sat on mute, playing a reel of adverts that not once possessed him to purchase what they desperately tried to sell to him and the nation. He despised commercials. He also despised the tearing emptiness in his heart, but at least with the commercials he could turn them off.

He lifted the remote to do so when suddenly he was frozen numbly in mid-action. A news bulletin, one which unknown to him stopped every channel's morning schedule, bombarded the screen before him and instantly possessed his thumb to hit the volume control.

"Governor Kate Williams is asking for an immediate evacuation into underground shelters now for all Californian residents. So far the body count at the Vulcan Sausalito Compound had soared to five hundred as the bombs continue to hail down and destroy the complex."

In a small box at the top left hand of the screen a live feed proved her devastating words. The Compound's main entrance sat in rubble as missiles, which seemed to come from every direction of space itself, continued to fire upon the massive stone building. There was no digression over the images of the dead Vulcan bodies that lay trapped in amongst the fallen structure, and their numbers were not few.

"Where these attacks are coming from is still yet unknown and so far Starfleet and the High Command have been able to say nothing more than order an evacuation. All we can report is that the damage is devastating, and the loss of Vulcan lives are still yet soaring as we speak so I repeat, Governor Kate Williams is asking for an immediate evacuation into underground shelters now for all Californian residents."

It was all he had to hear. Before he had even allowed his flooded mind to absorb properly what he had just witnessed he knew exactly all about what Starfleet and the High Command were desperately trying to figure out themselves.

He slowly turned his head to the left. Trip sat in reeling shock. He could not speak, he could not bring his gaze to Jonathan. He could only sit and continue to watch the newsreel with horrid devastation.

"We need to get down there."

It was the only prompt Jonathon gave him to start moving. He got up and grabbed both his jacket and his phase pistol and commanded Porthos to heal, of which for once he listened and obeyed. "Come on."

Something in his angry and distressed voice was enough to stir Trip's gaze forward onto him.

"It's like the Xindi… all over again."

Their contact of eyes became fixed and stern, before Jonathan shook his head sadly.

"No, not this time. This time they know exactly what they're doing, exactly what they're hitting and exactly who their prime targets are."

"What?"

Jonathan threw him his own denim coat from the hanger on the wall in the living room.

"I'll tell you when I tell Soval."

. . . . . . .

Starfleet's doors were brimming. Hundreds had leaked into the corridors, the curious and confused out to see what the sudden uproar through the air was about. That curiosity however was unfortunately short lived and quickly destroyed as with the truth of the matter came panic and terror.

The tactical team were alive and fevered with work. Officers ran North, South, East and West desperately trying to execute a successful and safe evacuation amidst the chaos. Malcolm was at the heart of the fray, Forrest having immediately handed him the responsibility of head tactical officer without question or doubt about it.

"You ten take the back quarters. Stewart," a young female officer's head appeared above a team of forty in the main entrance hall, "you're in charge. Round up the stragglers and place them on a bus as fast as you can. Head for the mess hall after that. It's doubtful there'll be anyone in there, but we're not going to take any chances, okay?"

"Eye Sir."

She hardly needed a prompt before she led her small, silent and sombre team out.

The last devastating report was thus: The bombs were heading towards Starfleet. Every few minutes Malcolm was refreshed with the latest hits; the motorway between San Francisco and Sausalito, malls and offices along the way, anything that must have looked of importance to their attackers from space. The injured were soaring, the body count with it, and the trail taking a direct route to Starfleet as it went.

"Gallacher, your team take the roof."

Another eleven officers departed swiftly.

There were many reasons for why Malcolm was head tactical officer now, and when he was aboard Enterprise. His dead aim, his love of the position, his sharp knowledge of weapons and his keen strategising abilities. However none of these were of any comparison to his level-headed and calm, reasonable attitude in even the more surprising and hellish of situations such as these.

His eyes would barely flinch as he watched Vulcan casualties teeter back and forth, freshly evacuated from the Compound which had been torn apart within minutes just half an hour before. The idea of an invisible enemy could not penetrate his steady heartbeat and even blood pressure. He thrived on the adrenalin and above all his attitude leaked its influence over his team and slowly but surely he and they began to ease the number of terrified Starfleet employees out the building.

"Collins, I want you and eleven others in the docking bay immediately. If they attack anywhere first it will most likely be there. Get the stragglers and get out as quickly as you can. We don't know how much time we have, so assume we only have minutes."

He watched his forty dwindle away until he was left with a team of seven for himself. He needed thirteen. He wanted a team to lead out and orbit Earth as soon as possible. He began to comm. Stewart.

Admiral Forrest appeared from the West Wing. Soval, cut and bruised across the face but lucky compared to too many of his counterparts, was at his side looking perhaps the most phased and perplexed he had in his entire long lifetime. Malcolm gave his darting eyes and disturbed features only short consideration before he spoke into his communicator.

"Stewart how are you doing?"

"Sir I sent five up to the mess hall. I'm pretty sure we're about done here at the back though."

Malcolm's mind was instant to calculate the next move. "Good. Perform one more sweep of both areas, look for anyone hiding or still asleep in their quarters or in the bathrooms and then report back here. I need a team up in the air a.s.a.p. Reed out."

The Admiral had begun to bark his own orders out as his arms moved frantically pointing back and forth to various other high-ranking Starfleet personnel.

Although calm was a taboo word for the moment some funny breed of order had begun to settle. People knew where they were going, the injured and utterly terrified were being transported by others, the buses were quickly heading toward underground retreats and the scenario was beginning to play out as it was supposed to, as it did in the drills. The drills that had been arranged after the Xindi attack, and were ones that everyone everyday had preyed they would not have to execute for real.

Malcolm watched six recruits return from the back quarters and race towards him, Stewart at the rear as she ushered on a crowd of fifteen or so pale faced stragglers still donning their nightwear around her. Travis and Hoshi were amongst these numbers.

Despite her desperate demands for the crowd to keep moving the duo stopped at Malcolm, who gave Stewart a grim pat on the back as she went and told her to keep going with whom else she had flocked together.

"What the hell is going on?"

Malcolm quickly told the other five who had just come down from the mess hall empty handed to wait with the standing twelve. He would grab Stewart in a moment.

"We're…" Malcolm caught sight of something black and squirming in Hoshi's arms but had to force himself to ignore it, attending to Travis's question instead, "under attack, or at least the Vulcans are and by the looks if it we're next on the hit list if the line of bombings across San Francisco so far are anything to go by."

He spoke with an eerie calmness. Hoshi and Travis listened with dizzying horror.

"What? By who?"

Malcolm could not answer Travis's second question, as much as he so dearly wanted to.

"We don't know yet. You'd better just get yourselves out of here for now. I'll catch up later."

A weak smile graced his lips and he gently jerked his head towards the door to prompt them to move out. They never got the chance however.

A grinding of rubber tyres outside signalled not the launching of a bus but the speedy and reckless parking of a car. Gravel scattered fearfully as doors were throw open and even before the vehicle had managed to come to a complete stop new bodies threw themselves into the inside fray.

Jonathan geared himself into a flat sprint as he pushed himself through and against the tilde wave of escaping employees, his eyes set on one person alone as he went, the Admiral. Trip cantered at his heel, his face pale and his eyes menacingly confused. Neither saw their three senior crew counterparts.

"What the hell is going on?!"

The Admiral stopped barking orders as he was approached and gazed upon Jonathan with some haunting hybrid of relief and desperate terror in his eyes.

"We have a State emergency going up. The Compound was destroyed half an hour ago, so was the main motorway to Sausalito. We have to evacuate now, before they reach Starfleet."

Jonathan's eyes were mad with overwhelming shock as he watched the hell of panic burn around him. Trip spoke up shakily for them both.

"Who's 'they'?"

"We do not know yet."

Without warning, without expectance or suspicion Jonathan turned like a dog bitten. He grabbed the freshly spoken Soval around the collar of his outfit and threw him hard against the nearest marble pillar. His eyes were on fire with frantic angst, his mouth twisted into bitter rage.

"You don't know? Well I'll tell you who 'they' are Trip,"

Trip and Forrest looked on in silent aghast. Behind them Malcolm, Travis and Hoshi approached. From the medical wing two Denobulans, their arms laden with medical supplies, quickly became a part of the sudden hushing crowd as they listened to the torn, heart breaking words of Jonathan.

His eyes were freshly drowned with hot lashings of salty grief and his teeth grinded together, barely allowing him to speak. His voice shuddered but he placed his words clear enough for the gathering crowd to hear.

"'They' are rogue Andorians out there in space bombing you. They've been planning this attack for years, on the main population of Earth bound Vulcans. They'll attack the Egypt Compound, and the London one, and the Barcelona one, all after they bomb out California, and just for the hell of it, probably Australia and Japan as well. They'll do exactly what I warned you personally about two years ago. They'll carry out the very same manoeuvres and plans I warmed you about, but you wouldn't heed because my sources came from another Andorian, an allied Andorian. They'll kill millions just like a warned. But again you wouldn't listen because you're an ignorant bastard!"

"Jonathan!"

As Forrest chided him a slowly sickly smile crept over the length of the Captain's tear soaked lips.

"Wait, Maxwell. You haven't heard the best part of it yet. You know what the trigger was?"

There was a shuddering silence now, so Jonathan continued with ironic triumph in his voice.

"T'Pol. You sent her up there on the Phae and she was just who they were waiting for. You see, T'Pol and I have a bounty on our heads amongst these people, just like I told you about two years ago. You didn't just imprison her Soval, you killed her!"

The words' echo haunted the hall and the ears of those who stood in it.

The Ambassador took his time trying to swallow, the panic continuing to swell in his eyes.

"Captain, it is perhaps a little rash of you to accuse me of such a thing, is it not?"

Jonathan looked almost sick with hatred.

"Then why did you send her back to Vulcan? Why did you put her on the Phae when her only crime was going into the Expanse and showing your high and mighty lot that the High Command isn't the only place every Vulcan wants to be in?!"

"Just as you have dealt with your… terrorists in the past Captain, so must we now."

The entire hall seemed to cringe as Jonathan tensed.

"Terrorist…"

For a long moment of silence Jonathan kept his trembling grip tight and secure on Soval against the pillar, who in turn didn't dare to move. He held eye contact viciously and relentlessly and kept a murdering glint in his expression. He seemed to growl with every hard drawn breath and his fingers twitched as he fought off the temptation to slowly tighten his grip further and further still.

"Is that what they're calling her these days?"

Finally, he let go.

Soval stumbled back and away from Jonathan where he was hurriedly taken in by the arms of other important High Command Vulcans who had been watching closely.

"You'd better prey Soval that when I find her, she's still breathing."

A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

"Jonathan!"

The Admiral's stern and mortified expression landed on his cold, tear-strung eyes. Their gazes fought, until Forrest's hand slid off Jonathan's shoulder and Jonathan turned to the crowd, spotting for the first time his old former senior crew around him, save his First Officer.

"If Enterprise isn't up there in an hour with me and my crew Admiral, I want a damn good reason why not."

Inevitable, underground talks were on their way.

. . . . . . .

The underground base, almost like a cave but excused of that image entirely by its curved steel walls and solid wooden flooring, fought off bounding echoes on its walls as they raced through the twisting hallways and crevices, reflecting the thundering rage of Jonathan.

They were in what had been given the title of a conference room, simply a hollow of the underground refuge that had a table bolted to its floor. But nonetheless it was a conference room and around the bolted table sat Jonathan's senior crew, the Admiral, the Ambassador and a collection of military Vulcans.

Military Vulcans. At any other time, in any other circumstances he might have found the concept amusing, joked teasingly about it to his Sub Commander who would have tolerated the snides with a silent expression.

Now his chair flew back as he stood up furious at what he was being made to hear from Soval.

"Sit back? Let them drift above our heads until they go away on their own? This isn't a landing party of five Andorians Soval, this is an entire damn fleet, probably more! I can assure you, they're not going to back off."

At the other end of the table Soval sat with his arms folded calmly across his lap and his face unmoved by any expression.

"If they have stopped the bombings then we can only assume the most logical conclusion, and that is that they are pulling out of their attack. For what reason is impossible to determine, but any move we could make may provoke them to continue another attack instead of retreating on their own grounds."

Jonathan pressed his palms into the table, leaning forward with eyes ablaze.

"Saying they do pull back. They still have a ship full of Vulcans in their custody, say what, twenty, thirty?"

"Forty-five, and they are not all Vulcans. Only seven of them are."

Jonathan restrained himself.

"Even better. So do we let them drag these prisoners off for interrogation and most likely torture and only then after that for them to be held to ransom or to be killed, or do we try and rescue them? Or better yet, sit on our hands and see if them give us them back on their own grounds?"

Soval turned calmly to Forrest.

"I suggest taking Captain Archer off any attempts at a rescue mission. His personal emotional attachment to the situation could prove fatal at any crucial crux of a rescue operation."

"Soval, if you have a problem, then you say it to me."

Around them the others were deadly silent, even the Admiral could not bring himself to voice an opinion yet.

"I am simply saying Captain, that your infatuation for T'Pol could easily cloud your judgment. However if it were left as your decision, you would take yourself and your crew on a rescue mission now. Therefore I need an objective opinion on whether this would be entirely wise."

"Well you haven't exactly been wise yourself lately! Or do I need to remind you of what prompted all this? Of who wasn't listening two years—"

"Jonathan, that's enough. We're helping no one and getting nowhere with this. I know T'Pol's up there and I know this is a dangerous and unpredictable enemy, but we have to think before we can do anything. And if this is how you're going to be on a rescue operation then I'm afraid to admit Soval has a point. Your First Officer can't be your main and only concern here. You have to focus on the bigger picture, on the other Compounds, the other places you said could be targets and the other prisoners. Now if you can do that, I'll let you take a team up in Columbia, but if you can't then I'm going to have to allow Columbia's Captain full charge of the situation."

Slowly Jonathan pulled his chair back up and sat, his silence haunting around the eyes. Debates had been raised about what ship to pull out of dock. Jonathan would not be getting Enterprise. He only agreed to this, eventually, because of its superior weaponry range and hull plating, and Enterprise's need for essential repairs and upgrades.

"Thank you. Soval, you say your guards would be able to prove themselves useful as a tactical team?"

From the corner of his eye Jonathan watched Malcolm come to a quiet alert. In his eyes was not an eager look.

"They often deal with volatile criminals, yes, including before Klingons and Andorians. They are more than aptly trained for at the very least to serve as a backup team to Lieutenant Reed here."

Upon hearing his name Malcolm took his turn to stand, slightly more composed than Jonathan but none less agitated looking.

"With all due respect Ambassador, my officers are more than enough in number and capability to fight against these rogues."

"And yet you brought a team of MACO with you into the Expanse."

"That was a very different situation and besides the point here. This is an enemy we more or less know, that we've dealt with in the past on Enterprise. Forty of my officers are more than enough for the job, thirteen would do."

The Admiral drew forth his voice of reason again. "Malcolm, sending ten armed Vulcans aboard with your team wont do any harm. I'm going to have to insist they come."

Malcolm looked on the verge of issuing some sort of argument, but he turned to Jonathan instead who, with his chin on his hand, nodded reluctantly. On that he sat, not content but willing to abide with his Captain.

"You do not have a full engineering team."

Trip sat forward on his chair, not prepared to stand for the Ambassador, but prepared to lock eyes across the table.

"Two of your former Ensigns are in Britain at the moment are they not?"

"Starfleet have others trained for the job down here with us y' know. Ah could pick out the best for the job maself right now."

Soval nodded patiently. "Yes, but I see no harm in sending up a few of our own technicians with you. Above anything else they have superior knowledge of Starship engines, and if you insist in sending only Columbia up there as… 'bait', and not some of our own ships as well then it would be wise to send up a few Vulcan engineers, no?"

"Well they wouldn't have 'superior knowledge' we need if you'd just share it with us. Don't give us that bull now Soval."

He kept the volume in his voice at bay, but the volume in his eyes spoke loud enough for all to hear.

"That matter aside for the time being Commander, I will insist in sending up one of my own if need for dire repairs arises. He will cause you no bother, and obey your orders."

Slowly Trip sat back, not exchanging glances with Jonathan, not needing to as they mirrored each other's agitation to perfection.

"And your medical team?"

Phlox sat furthest from Jonathan, far closer to Soval as they were separated only by a corner. Although he had been ecstatic to see the Captain again, it was not in better circumstances, and his features were unnaturally grim. He turned to Soval with humourless stunning blue eyes.

"They have me, and my son."

"Is that all?"

"It sufficed in the Expanse."

"You lost lives in the Expanse."

"And saved many more. With all due respect Ambassador, I have medical skills and experience, especially with humans, that far surpass the skills of your best doctors. Vulcan medics have yet to fully understand the human anatomy, I do. And the Vulcan one as well."

He looked briefly to Jonathan who, it could not be denied even in the shadows, was smiling.

Soval sighed. "Very well, we will supply you with any materials you require."

Phlox nodded, placing his own slightly subdued but still characteristic smile on his face. "Thank you Ambassador."

The Ambassador was unwilling to linger on the subject.

"I assume that you are not taking a full eighty-three crew with you Captain."

Jonathan sat up slightly, raising his chin from his hand. "No."

"Then I also assume Ensign Sato will not be accompanying you?"

Jonathan looked from the Vulcan to his pale linguist who sat closest to him with a frown. "Yes."

"But you will hardly need a linguist on this mission. The Andorians speak English, communication if they allow it should not be a problem."

Jonathan cocked his head to the side mockingly.

"And if I need a negotiator? Her skills do go beyond deciphering alien languages."

"I can provide you with an aptly trained negotiator."

Jonathan dared to laugh as he sat back slightly. "A Vulcan negotiating with an Andorian. I doubt even T'Pol would be able to pull that one off. You should have enough logic to have figured that one out Soval."

The Admiral sat tensely, finding it above difficult to keep his leading Captain's manners in check.

"Soval, Jonathan will choose his crew just as you've chosen yourself who you want to board with his team."

Soval leant forward slightly. "Then I am to assume you are taking this Helmsman with you as well to fly."

Travis and Jonathan exchanged looks and weak smiles. "Of coarse. This is my senior crew Soval. I trust them with my ship and my life. They served me impeccably for the past seven years, there's no doubt they'll serve me just as well now."

"You are without a First Officer though."

Jonathan felt a grinding in his stomach. She would be here, directly beside him at his very side right now if the situation would have allowed it. As it was he had to suffer blows of guilt and angst whenever another mentioned her, even in casual passing such as this.

"Commander Tucker is third in command, he takes T'Pol's post when she's not around or unable to."

Soval looked above ready to offer yet another Vulcan crewmember to him.

"You will not be giving me another First Officer."

He silenced him on that.

"Are we in agreement then?"

Both Ambassador and Captain turned to the Admiral. Archer's senior crew looked directly ahead at Soval's. Jonathan stood up.

"Yes. Now lets move before we lose any more lives up there."