Chapter Ten – Of Patterns and Promises
He didn't think he was being overly sensitive, but there were definitely some strange looks coming from Hoshi's direction at Travis Mayweather and Deirdre MacKenzie's wedding. She and Esilia had spent much of the reception, a lively ceilidh in the tradition of MacKenzie's Scottish ancestors, in deep discussion over the spiked punch. From across the rec room, he could tell that Esilia was in full question mode, that Hoshi was taking the conversation very seriously, and (from the way that both women's eyes kept drifting toward him and then darting guiltily away) that he was the topic.
He had spent some time this morning explaining the purpose of the upcoming wedding to Esilia. Like everything else, this human custom intrigued her, and she had peppered him with questions about the variations among different Earth cultures. When he had exhausted his own limited knowledge on the subject, he'd simply reached for his padd, called up detailed information from the ship's database, and let her read it.
He supposed it was the starship variation on the lazy-Sunday-morning-in-bed-with-the-paper theme. He'd been propped comfortably against a pile of pillows, Esilia resting back on his bare chest, both of them buried under two extra quilted, filled blankets, or "duvets," as his mother used to call them. He had discovered over the past two weeks that Esilia liked to sleep this way, taking advantage of their shared body heat.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered, taking advantage of her distraction and pitching his voice low. She heard him anyway.
"I was very much sought after on Ikaar," she answered primly. He laughed; nope, she hadn't lost her bluntness. "Are you considered beautiful on your world?" She tipped her head up to look at him as he gave a derisive snort.
"Ah, no," he said quite decisively. "I guess the most you can say about me is that I have an . . . interesting face."
She narrowed her eyes. "Interesting is good," she murmured, "for an explorer. And we are explorers, arent we." And then, setting the padd aside, she proceeded to chart the territory.
He wondered if the crew suspected anything yet; he didn't think so. While they had not been secretive, they had been discreet. Most days, they didn't even eat their meals together. Esilia was still working on interfacing her technology with the ship's systems. All of her spare time seemed devoted to that cause.
But now, gazing suspiciously at Esilia and Hoshi, he thought maybe he'd underestimated the speed of the ship's grapevine, or the perception of the ship's Communications Officer.
Before he could excuse himself and escape, he was captured by Corporal MacKenzie (try as he might, he just could not think of her as "Deirdre") and pressed into a five-couple Scottish dance, aptly named "The Military Two-Step." He stopped worrying about whatever Hoshi and Esilia were plotting long enough to concentrate self-consciously on not crushing the bride's feet with his size elevens as she flung him around the room. The dance itself was a repeating pattern, and he found himself almost enjoying himself once he'd gotten the hang of it. So much so that, after a grinning, breathless bow to his partner, he forgot to dash for the door, and was ambushed by his Communications Officer and pulled back onto the dance floor for a decidedly slower, more intimate number.
He tried to catch Trip's eye over Hoshi's head resting comfortably just beneath his shoulder, to beg or even command him to cut in, but the damned engineer simply toasted him silently with his glass of wine. Once he had danced with Hoshi, he was trapped; other female crewmembers approached, one by one, and took this unique opportunity to dance with their captain. He couldn't refuse. He hoped that whoever had programmed the music hadn't included any freestyle dance tunes; he had no desire to look spastic in front of his crew. As it was, it seemed that every song was slow and romantic, which he thought he could handle, as long as nothing more intricate than shuffling one's feet in a circle was required. Finally, another Highland reel began, this one with long rows of dancers, and he seized the chance to escape the dance floor.
He retrieved the padd from the table where he'd left it and ducked out of the room. He checked the time; it was past twenty-three hundred hours. He should go to the Bridge, check in with the Watch Officer. Instead, he headed for the lift and his quarters. After a hot shower, he'd rewatch one of his favorite water polo matches until he fell asleep.
Fifteen minutes into the game, his door chime rang. He opened it to find Esilia, two glasses of punch in her hands. "You didn't want to stay for the party?" he asked, stepping backward to let her enter.
"It was interesting, but I'd seen enough," she answered, handing him a glass. "A fascinating human custom, this dancing."
"You don't dance on Ikaar?" Archer filled Porthos' bowl with water, just to have something to think about besides touching her.
"Rarely. Our mating ceremony is not quite so . . . lively." Her hands fluttered expressively as she tried to find a way to describe that which had no translation. "Your avyah decides, and gives you – well, 'gives' isn't the right word, but, that's really all it is – and you go with your mate."
Archer stared at her from the shadow of the tiny kitchen alcove. She hadn't used the term for mother or father, so he suspected the word was a title. "What's an 'avyah'?"
"Your guardian. My aunt, Leev-Sran, was mine."
"Ah. So, . . .?" He raised his eyebrows.
Esilia shrugged. "So, technically, I can't be given, because she's dead now."
"Can you . . . give yourself?" He took a step toward her and relieved her of her glass, placing it on the desk.
She frowned a little. "I don't think it's ever been done."
"Why don't we try it?"
She just looked at him and waited.
He put his hands on her shoulders gently, nudging her backwards toward the bed. "I want you to stay on Enterprise. With me. Will you stay with me, and be my wife?" He tried to keep his face neutral. The nervousness he had felt the last time he had attempted this, all those years ago in San Francisco, paled in comparison to the reactor-sized knot in his gut right now.
Esilia thought about it for a full, maddening minute. "Yes," she agreed finally, and pulled him down on top of her.
x x x
Archer stared distractedly at his eggs and toast, which were rapidly solidifying on his plate. He took another sip of orange juice to soothe his dry throat. It didn't help. Esilia was noisily enjoying her latest food obsession, plain yoghurt, moaning softly after every tangy spoonful. Usually, the thought of consuming such unrelenting tartness would make Archer's entire body pucker, but this morning, his mind was elsewhere. After the fourth or fifth sighing groan, Archer stood abruptly, and held out his hand. "Would you come with me, please?"
Surprised, Esilia didn't move. The door to the Captain's Mess slid open, revealing Trip and T'Pol, who both had a standing invitation to use the private dining room. Lorian was not with them. Before they could enter, however, Archer addressed them. His voice sounded strangely tense. "Trip, T'Pol, if you don't mind, I need your help."
Esilia found she couldn't read his demeanor. She ventured, "Is there something the matter? Have I done something wrong?"
He simply kept his hand extended, until she finally rose and took it. "Nope."
The three of them followed the captain's lead, bewildered and not a little nervous. Was there some emergency they were not aware of?
Archer stepped into the Crew's Mess, which at this hour was populated by both the A and B shifts, all helping themselves to the buffet-style breakfast. Archer maneuvered through the milling crowd to the front of the room, conversations stopping as he passed. The captain rarely took his meals in the Crew's Mess, and only ever really hung out there at night when it was empty and he couldn't sleep. He still had hold of Esilia's hand, pulling her gently behind him, itself an odd sight, since the captain never fraternized to that extent. He was a man of constant small touches, a grasped elbow, an encouraging pat on a shoulder, but at the same time, he was intensely private; openly holding hands with a woman was completely out of character, a fact not lost on the crew.
He halted just in front of the big window, and waited while the last of the noise dwindled down to silence. All eyes were on him, expectant. Just do it, Jon. He cleared his throat and spoke both to Esilia and to room in general.
"As you know, in some human traditions, including mine, it is customary for two people who intend to marry to publicly make vows to each other, which they then spend the rest of their lives trying to keep. So." He grasped her other hand, so that they faced each other. Esilia looked curious and interested.
"I, Jonathan Archer, promise you, Esilia, daughter of the house of Lavaoss-Saanaa, that I will cherish you and protect you for all of my days. I promise I will always put your welfare before my own. I promise I will be faithful to you for the whole rest of my life. And I promise I will try to find some way every day to make you happy." He reached into the pocket of his jumpsuit and pulled out the ring made of silver alloy, crafted by the quartermaster at his request from a matched set of old fashioned pens. He had guessed at Esilia's ring size, and as he slipped it on the third finger of her left hand, he noticed with relief that it was only a little loose.
Esilia regarded him for a moment with fathomless dark eyes, then began to speak in her own language. He recognized his own name and hers among the liquid syllables. When she finished, she reached up and removed the green-blue teardrop pendant, her salish, that had hung around her neck since her birth and placed it around his.
"T'Pol," Archer prompted quietly and seriously, "you have to say, 'I now pronounce you husband and wife.'"
The First Officer looked at him blankly. "Why?"
He chose the most obvious reason. "Because you're the ranking officer, that's why. I can't marry myself."
"I now pronounce you husband and wife," T'Pol repeated dutifully.
Archer smiled briefly but affectionately at his bride, and squeezed her hand, feeling his ring on her finger. He heard Trip's voice in a stage whisper. "Uh, Cap'n, aren't you forgetting something?" Before Archer could respond, the sound of bells filled the room, as crewmembers began to tap gently on their glasses, cups, and plates with their utensils. "You gotta kiss the bride."
Refusing to blush, Archer bent slightly at the knees and leaned in for a modest but firm kiss, to what seemed to him to be thunderous but unnecessary applause. He smiled slightly, glancing around self-consciously, and said, "I'll be on the Bridge." One last squeeze of Esilia's hand, and he took himself off to duty.
x x x
Archer studied the inventory one last time as T'Pol briefed him, once again, on the upcoming negotiations. He was leaving her in command, taking Trip and Reed, the former for his engineering knowledge, the latter for protection. Although the captain of the merchant ship seemed friendly enough over long distance communication, his insistence that they discuss terms over a meal, on board the freighter, made Reed nervous, and Archer was willing to yield to his security officer's expertise.
T'Pol had just finished her latest list of warnings when the chime to the Ready Room sounded. "Come in," Archer invited, and was surprised to find Esilia standing there. She had never come to his office before; in fact, in the six months they'd been married, and in all the time she had been on board before that, she'd only been on the Bridge once.
His wife did not look happy. He knew why.
"I was about to come and see you," Archer said quietly. He raised his hand slightly, signifying that it was not necessary for Trip and T'Pol to leave the room. This wouldn't be pleasant, but it wasn't personal, either.
"There's a Wyric ship approaching," Esilia said, in a tone that begged him to tell her she was wrong.
"Yes," Archer answered. "They have anti-matter that they're willing to sell us." Oddly enough, in preliminary talks, the Wyric had been most interested in, of all things, seeds, which Enterprise preserved for its hydroponics laboratory. They could spare several kilograms of various plant seeds, from citrus fruits to cucumbers, and still have enough to feed the entire ship for years. The Wyric merchant had come across Earth food some months back, and now jumped at the chance to corner the market on these delicacies found nowhere else in the known galaxy.
"You're not going to trade with them are you?" Archer's silence was his answer. "You can't – they're cold-blooded killers. You don't know these people. They murdered my whole family when they ambushed the Tanaar."
Archer fought the urge to pace. "Seel," he said, "this is the first time in two years that we've come across anyone willing to sell us this much anti-matter for a price we can afford. I can't let this opportunity go by. Who knows when we'll get another chance."
"I can scout for another source of anti-matter," she argued back, sounding reasonable. "That's what I do."
He spread his hands. "I know that," he answered deliberately, trying to keep calm and focused. "But in the meantime, the opportunity is here, now, and I can't ignore the needs of the ship based on a war that we're not even involved in."
His wife went still. "What if I suggested that you trade with the Xindi? How would you feel then?"
He immediately opened his mouth to debate the ridiculousness of that comparison, then shut it just as quickly. These people had killed Esilia's closest relatives, and had tried to blow her out of space, as well. The situations were not so different. "I understand what you're saying. I really do."
"Then let me find you another source."
The captain took a deep breath, feeling, without seeking, the unspoken support from his two senior officers. "Your request is denied. I'm sorry, but this is the best thing for the ship."
Archer would have preferred tears, but Ikaarans, he had learned, did not cry. Instead, Esilia's face went utterly blank, and she folded her hands over her abdomen as if she'd just been sucker-punched. She held his gaze, black eyes unreadable, then nodded almost imperceptibly and left the room.
As he always did when he was about to lose his composure, Archer turned his back on the room to look out the window. His hands clenched at his sides.
"Cap'n?" Trip asked uncomfortably.
"Please," his voice sounded gravelly, so he cleared his throat, "please tell Mr. Reed to meet us in Launch Bay One in ten minutes." He held himself stiff until Trip and T'Pol left, then braced his hands on the wall, lowered his head, and took several deep, shaky breaths.
When he got to the launch bay, Esilia was just climbing into her scout ship. Panic pushed him across the room quickly to grab her arm. "What are you doing?"
Her expression was devastated and hollow as she replied, "If the Wyric scan Enterprise and find an Ikaaran bio-sign, they won't do business with you. I won't go far."
He wished he could find a reason to forbid her to go, but her point was sound. They couldn't afford to have this deal go sour. Slowly, he released her arm and backed away. Even if they hadn't been in a public place, he doubted he would have been able to find the right words to heal the rift between them. And at that moment, he wasn't at all sure she'd come back. "I'm sorry."
She ducked into the ship without a word and closed the hatch.
x x x
The mood in the shuttle pod should have been exultant. Not only had they acquired enough anti-matter to last Enterprise for a year (if they were careful), they had paid what, to them, seemed almost a nominal price. In addition to the seeds, they had transferred crates of oranges, tomatoes, apples, pears, and cantaloupes, in stasis, all of it now exclusive to the Wyric trader. He could name his own price.
Trip had ended up negotiating most of the deal. The captain had been distracted and distant, not his usual gregarious self, despite the hospitality of the Wyric merchant. With the Wyric completely unaware of any ties between the humans and the Ikaarans, there was no tension evident in the transaction or during the multi-course meal that followed. As with the Vulcans and Andorians, the humans could easily ally themselves with both the Wyric and the Ikaarans, and would need to walk a careful line in the future between the two enemies.
Reed and Trip traded worried glances behind the captain, who was silently piloting the pod into the launch bay. The space the Ikaaran ship usually occupied was glaringly empty. Archer powered down the pod, performed a perfunctory post-flight check, and shot out of the craft as if it were on fire. "Take care of off-loading this, will you, Trip?" he requested in a deceptively quiet tone as he strode to the door.
"Sure thing, Cap'n," the commander answered, and shot the lieutenant another anxious look.
It was six days before Esilia came back, in the middle of ship's night. The officer of the watch gave her permission to dock, but, not being aware of the circumstances of her departure, did not think it necessary to inform the captain that his wife had returned. So Esilia let herself into the captain's dark quarters, expecting him to be asleep. He was wide awake, as he had been every night she'd been gone.
He watched her enter the room, then pushed himself up against the pillows. There was no point in pretending to be sleeping. After a moment of silence, he realized that he would have to make the first move. "Seel. I'm sorry." She didn't answer right away, so he figured he might as well get it all out there. "I hurt you, and I'm sorry for that."
She pulled a padd out of the pocket of her jacket and tossed it onto his lap, her expression hidden by darkness. In the blue glow, he could make out a map; a planetary system which, from the coordinates, was less than three days away at Warp One.
"You can get anti-matter at the trading post orbiting the fourth planet's second moon." Her tone was level. She hadn't accepted his apology yet.
He reached out and caught her hand, surprised as he always was at how hot her skin was. "Seel, come on, sit down." She obliged, stiffly. He rested his forehead against her arm and sighed. "I have to do what's best for this ship," he said slowly, "and I can't put the crew in jeopardy to spare someone's feelings. Not even yours. I know you're mad at me, and I understand why, but we needed that anti-matter."
After half an eternity, she reached down and stroked his face. "Promise me that next time you'll let me at least try to find another source, before you deal with those . . . murderers again?"
He could do that. "I promise." He drew her down to lie beside him. "Am I forgiven?"
"Almost."
He nuzzled her neck. "You know, there's an old human custom that happens after two people have a disagreement like this."
"Oh?" she responded, intrigued.
"Yeah, it's called 'making up.'"
"Is that anything like 'making love?'" There was a hint of a smile in her voice.
"They're closely related." His fingers found the clasp of her jacket, unhooking it.
"Well," suggested Esilia, "why don't you show me how humans make up," she shrugged out of her jacket and shirt in one motion, then pulled the blanket aside, "and then you can show me how humans . . . make love."
Archer smiled against her lips. "Deal."
Seven months later, they welcomed Alillia-saanaa Archer, "Lily" for short, into the world.