Chapter Four ­– Of Emptiness and Empathy

It was surprisingly easy to avoid someone on a starship. Trip avoided Archer simply by staying in Engineering and never going to the Bridge. That behavior drew no suspicion, since everybody knew how obsessed Trip was with his engines, and, anyway, his presence topside usually meant that the ship was in big, big trouble. The captain avoided Esilia by working on his calculations on the Bridge, rather than in the Command Center.

T'Pol avoided the captain by keeping her eyes firmly on her instruments, usually with her back to the captain's chair. Their shifts were uneventful, requiring only the briefest of contact at the beginning and end of the watch.

By the third day, however, the captain was feeling detached and isolated, missing the easy camaraderie of his senior officers. He sat in his chair on the Bridge, pretending to be immersed in yet another astral equation, but really studying T'Pol out of the corner of his eye. The Bridge was silent, as usual; the helm and communications stations were being manned by junior officers, whose attentions were fixed on their never-changing consoles. Travis and Hoshi had volunteered to work on systems repairs on the Ikaaran ship. The tactical station was been monitored remotely from the Armory.

For the sixth time in ten minutes (yes, he was studying her that carefully), T'Pol shifted her position in her chair and drew a deep breath. To Archer's eye, she looked profoundly uncomfortable. He toyed with the idea of relieving her of duty and ordering her to her quarters or to Sickbay to rest, but couldn't think of a single scenario that would place such an order outside of the category of "completely improper." As long as she was performing her duties, her physical comfort was none of his business. And besides, he didn't have the mental fortitude to risk a cold snub if he asked her, even in private, if she were feeling okay. No, his ego had not quite recovered from that awful dinner inquisition, and there was only so much humility he could conjure on a daily basis.

It was a character flaw that he would live to regret in short order.

T'Pol was never one to clock watch, but when her "shift" – to the extent that any of the senior officers were bound by strict duty segments – ended, she shot out of her seat and headed for the turbo lift. She could feel Archer's eyes boring through her back as she waited for the lift to arrive. His gaze, the split-second glimpse that she had gotten as she had turned around in her seat, had been concerned. She didn't expect him to comment, not after three days of aloof behavior, and he didn't. But his chair was still turned slightly in her direction even as she stepped into the lift and directed it toward Sickbay.

Several hours later, after ignoring yet another tray of dinner on his Ready Room table, Archer pressed the open door button. Trip walked in, looking grey and haggard. Something was wrong.

All thought of avoiding his friend was pushed aside. Archer stood up, and took a step toward him. "What's the matter, Trip?"

The engineer rubbed his eyes and looked at the floor, swallowing convulsively. "T'Pol had – we, uh, lost the baby."

Archer placed the padd he had been using gently down upon the desk. The universe suddenly seemed immensely fragile. "Is she okay?" he asked, hating the way that sounded, but not knowing what else to say.

"Doc said she'll be fine." Trip closed his eyes briefly.

Why are you here? Archer wanted to ask. Instead, he inquired, "How's she taking it?"

Trip shook his head sadly. "The same way she takes everything else. Logically. Unemotionally. There wasn't anything she needed me to say or do, so I left."

"How are you doing?"

The engineer shrugged. "I don't know how I feel. I was just getting used to the idea that there would be a kid, and now, there isn't. It feels so . . . unreal." A mirthless smile appeared. "Phlox thinks that if we wait for her natural mating cycle to roll around, she'll be able to sustain a pregnancy okay. It seems her body interpreted the baby as a foreign object, like a virus, and attacked it."

Archer put a hand on Trip's shoulder soothingly, and led him to the couch. He handed him the untouched glass of iced tea that had come with his own meal, then took a seat opposite. "I guess the thing to say is, there'll be other children, but I always thought that sounded dumb." He leaned forward and clasped his hands between his spread knees. "I'm really sorry, Trip."

The two men sat in contemplative silence for a while. Then Trip rose and said, "I'll be in Engineering."

"Take a few days off, Trip," Archer said, but not in his command voice.

"Actually, Cap'n," Trip replied hollowly, "I really need to . . . there's gotta be something down there that I can fix." He moved toward the door.

"Trip," said the captain, "would you mind if I went to see her?"

There was no accusation in Trip's eyes as he responded, "I think she'd like that. Dr. Phlox already released her from Sickbay. She's in our quarters."

Heavy feet took the captain to T'Pol and Trip's quarters later that evening. The two resided in what had been Trip's cabin, since it was easier for T'Pol to move her few belongings to a new space than it would have been for Trip to pack even a fraction of his clutter. Trip's quarters were slightly larger as well, second only to the captain's, as he had been intended for the second-in-command spot before the Vulcans had insisted that T'Pol accompany Enterprise on its first mission. Perversely, and it was not something that he was proud of, Archer had never reassigned the official First Officer's quarters to her.

He paused before ringing the door chime. At T'Pol's signal, the door slid open and he found her, as he'd expected, kneeling, staring into her lit meditation candles. She didn't look any different, a little tired, maybe, but that may have been the shadows cast by the flames. He stepped in, hesitated, then gingerly knelt down opposite her. His subconscious reminded him that this would necessarily be a short conversation, since his knees couldn't take this position for very long.

She waited, her expression completely unreadable. Finally, Archer said the only thing that came to mind. "I'm sorry this happened to you."

T'Pol opened her mouth, as if to chastise him for the illogic of the sentiment, then closed it again. After six years in close confinement with these humans, she could read them like giant screens with block lettering, yet she was no closer to understanding the complex play of emotions that drove them. Why her captain would be sitting there with a mixture of pain, regret, sadness, and pity flickering across his features, she could not fathom. Where was the logic, even minimal human logic, in mourning an undeveloped fetus that wasn't even his own offspring? She supposed she could tell him that she no longer felt the physical discomfort that had manifested itself when her body decided to miscarry, or that Vulcans had no vocabulary to acknowledge a being that had never actually come into existence. She didn't think that would change anything.

Like Trip, the captain was upset. Unlike Trip, he made no move to touch or embrace her, did not seek tender comfort from her. He simply watched her, silently. He chewed his upper lip and stretched his mouth so that those peculiar dents appeared on the sides of his face. But he didn't say anything else.

She searched her mind for an appropriate comment. "I . . . appreciate your coming to see me, Captain," she said, thinking that sounded about right.

It seemed to release him from his tense scrutiny. He reached inside his uniform, to the inner pocket designed to lose things in, and pulled out an audio disc. He held it out, well above the flame, and said, "I don't know if this is at all helpful, but I sometimes listen to music to . . . get past rough spots. This is a symphony that incorporates the sounds of water, you know, rivers and waterfalls and rain. I thought maybe you . . . I mean, I know you meditate, but, I thought . . . ." He trailed off as she had made no move to take the disc. "Well."

Just as he began to pull the disc back, she reached up and grasped it. "Thank you, Captain." He levered himself backward, trying to gain his feet gracefully. Her voice forestalled him. "There's something else." It was her thoughtful, measured, you're-not-going-to-want-to-hear-this voice, the one she reserved for pronouncements of how ineffective their weapons were being in the middle of battle, or how miniscule the chances were of the one gambit that they were relying on to save their lives actually succeeding. Archer lowered himself back onto his protesting knees.

"About dinner three nights ago," she began, and watched the captain's green eyes take on that now familiar distance, "I have noticed that our guest's conversation topic has caused you some distress. I do not believe she was aware of the implications of her questions."

He managed to keep most of the chill out of his voice, in deference to her ordeal. "I really don't want to talk about this with you. Not now. Not ever." It was bad enough that he had admitted to carrying a torch for her; no way was he going to either justify it or apologize.

She persisted. "It is illogical, Captain, for you to believe that there are no companionship options for you. And, given the needs of a normal human male, it is unrealistic and unhealthy to expect to live the rest of your life, which could be another forty to fifty years, given the present life span of your species, celibate."

"Priests have been required, for over two thousand years, to live celibate lives," Archer pointed out, while one part of his mind wondered, aghast, at the fact that he was even having this conversation with his Vulcan First Officer. Was everyone on board obsessed with his sex life, or lack thereof?

"You are not a priest," T'Pol answered, predictably.

Archer remained stubborn. "Your point?"

T'Pol lowered her gaze to the flame before her, hesitant now to trespass on such intimate ground. On one hand, it was not the Vulcan way, to insert oneself into another person's life decisions uninvited. On the other, though, the sheer illogic of the captain's position, his seeming acceptance of a solitary life, even as Enterprise became a generational ship, could have repercussions in his performance and decision making. "Your reasons for not fraternizing hold some validity. However, there are other options open to you, if you choose. Humans are not innately xenophobic, and, while you dislike Vulcans for your own reasons, you have shown remarkable open-mindedness toward every other species we've encountered."

Archer stared at her in silence. She went on, seeing no need to, as humans put it, "beat around the bush." "The Ikaaran woman is attracted to you. Since the feeling appears mutual, perhaps that is an option you might consider." The captain's mouth dropped open, as if suddenly unhinged. She had rarely seen him actually rendered speechless; it was an interesting phenomenon. She continued. "It would be unfortunate if Trip's and my difficulties in conceiving and carrying a child to term were to discourage you from considering a partnership and family with a non-human."

The captain rose painfully and slowly from his position on the floor. His head was spinning; was his Science Officer really playing matchmaker and sex therapist? He needed a drink. This conversation was not supposed to be about how to get him laid; it was supposed to be about how sorry he was for her and Trip's loss – damn, he had to get out of here. He hadn't thought he had the capacity to be more embarrassed than he'd been three nights ago; he'd been dead wrong.

"T'Pol," he croaked, backing toward the door, "you're entitled to bereavement leave; I suggest you take it. I don't want to see you on the Bridge for at least three days." She looked up at him, now looming over her, without argument. "As for your suggestion," he thumbed the door control, "I'll take it under advisement." He stepped out into the corridor, unfastened the top two buttons of his shirt for air, and headed toward his own quarters.

The Science Officer stared at the now closed door. She placed her hand over her flat belly and surrendered the twinge of regret and disappointment to the meditation flame. It took some pushing; it didn't want to go. Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she turned the audio disc over in her hand, thinking. With a glance toward the door, out of which her grieving husband and her freaked out captain had both fled, she rose and inserted the disc into the player. The sound of rushing water (a noise rarely, if ever, heard on Vulcan), intertwined with strings and percussion, crept into her mind as she laid her empty body onto the bed. The symphony settled into her bones and nudged her gently into peace.