There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hand

That lift and drop a question on your plate; . . .

-- T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"

Chapter One – Dangling Between Captain And Friend

Enterprise dropped gracefully out of warp, and Jonathan Archer's eyes flew open. He stared at the blackness where the ceiling should be, then reached over, flicked on the lamp, and commed the Bridge

"Archer to Bridge."

Ensign Carpenter, who had the watch during Gamma shift, looked at Crewman D'Agostino. D'Agostino pushed the pin on his chronometer and mouthed, "Twelve point eight seconds."

"Bridge, Carpenter here, Captain." The ensign raised his eyebrows at his companion.

"Why have we gone sub-light?" The captain's voice was gravelly with sleep, but still steady.

"Sir, I'm pretty sure we heard a mayday, so I figured if we came out of warp, we'd be able to pinpoint the source better." He waited, second-guessing his command decision as all young officers-in-training do.

"Okay," agreed Archer. "Do you need me up there?" He was already sitting on the edge of the bed, ready to respond if necessary.

"Uh, no, sir, I believe it's under control for the moment."

"Right, then, let me know if anything develops." He snapped the comm off.

D'Agostino grinned from his position at Communications. "How the hell could he feel that?"

Carpenter shook his head. "That dude's scary. I don't think he ever sleeps."

Archer scrubbed his face with his palms, and glanced at the chronometer on his nightstand. Oh-two hundred hours. Damn. Hours to go before duty, not a snowball's chance of getting back to sleep. For the third night in a row, he found himself contemplating the ceiling of his quarters, wide awake, and not particularly keen to surrender himself to the world of dreams again. Three nights of strange, half-remembered, completely unsettling nightmares. Three days of dreading what the next night would bring. He looked over at Porthos, who, having heard his master's voice, was staring at him expectantly. "Sorry, boy, it's not really time to get up yet. Go back to sleep."

The beagle just waited. He didn't care what time it was; he'd been awakened and that meant it was time to eat.

"Fine," Archer grumbled, "one little snack, and then you have to go back to sleep." He crossed the small room and retrieved a dog cookie, Chef's special vitamin-packed recipe that smelled foul but seemed to appeal to the canine.

Once it became clear that the midnight snack was over, Porthos settled himself back on his doggy bed and laid his muzzle on his paws. Archer lay back down and examined the ceiling some more. He reached over and picked up his personal PADD. He could study some more Vulcan grammar; that ought to put him in a coma in a heartbeat. But his eyes just skipped over the words as his mind wandered. Well, fine, then. He'd just go for a walk, work off some of this nervous energy.

At the door, he paused, looking back at the dog. "Wanna come for a walk?" Porthos just raised one brow and closed his eyes, as if to say, You must be joking. It's quarter past two in the morning.

The ship was as silent as it ever was. Only the floor lights were on – energy was at a premium now that they were in the Expanse. Who knew when the next opportunity to refuel would come? The shadows could seem a little eerie, he supposed, to someone who didn't know and love every nook and cranny of the ship the way he did.

He passed two crewmen, who eyed him oddly. He smiled at them and nodded briefly, as if he were just out for a normal constitutional, and then realized that he was still in his pajamas. Okay, maybe it was a little strange for the captain to be wandering the ship in his jammies and barefoot in the middle of the night. He winced, thinking about what the gossip would be tomorrow.

He rounded a corner and saw a familiar figure up ahead. Apparently Commander Tucker couldn't sleep, either. He quickened his step to catch up with his friend. At the sound, the younger man turned around and grinned widely. "Hey, Jon, what's up?"

"I see you can't sleep either," Archer observed. "Got stuff on your mind?"

Tucker laughed. "Plenty of time to sleep when I'm dead, Jon."

"Well, there's a lovely thought," the captain said, shaking his head.

"I just like bein' able to walk around the ship at night," Tucker said, resuming his stroll. Archer fell into step beside him. "During duty you're always running here an' there, trying to stay ahead of the current crisis. Or, if you get a quiet moment, you're trying to anticipate the next disaster. But at night, you know, you can just listen and think. You know what I miss about home?" he asked suddenly.

"Besides loud bars and easy women?" Archer joked.

"Well, that, too." Tucker smiled. "I miss just walkin' for miles and miles, all by myself. I used to go walkin' after midnight all the time back on Earth. I miss having time to just . . . think."

Archer considered for a moment. "I miss water. Times like this when I get too wired to sleep, I'd head to the pool and do fifty, sixty laps. Or I'd drive down to the beach and just watch the waves and listen to the ocean. No matter what was on my mind, it was never bigger than the ocean. Kind of the same feeling as looking out at space, but, of course, there's no sound."

They reached the end of the corridor and turned around to go back the way they had come. The impulse power of the ship, which Jon always found to run less smoothly than warp, hummed under their feet. They walked for a while in companionable silence.

"Maybe I'll go see what the kids are doing up on the Bridge," Archer commented finally.

"You'll just make 'em nervous, hoverin' over 'em, Jon," the engineer noted.

"I don't 'hover,'" the captain protested mildly. "I just like to keep them on their toes. You do the same thing to your staff, so don't get all holier-than-thou with me, Trip."

The engineer stopped in his tracks, triumph written all over his face. "Trip? I'm Sim. See, even you can't tell us apart." To Archer's horror, Tucker turned to face him, put his hand to the back of his head, and held out a part of his brain. "I think you might be looking for this?" he inquired politely.

Archer jumped back with an inarticulate cry, arms flailing. Sim smiled Trip's smile. "See? Now, how am I not Trip?" he asked reasonably. Archer backed up until he fell over, pushing himself, crab-like, away from the steadily advancing clone. Pushed up against the corridor wall, Archer watched, horrified, as Sim crouched to place the brain on the floor, then detached his face and laid that down, too. "Oh, can't forget this," the skeletal jaw moved, "the best part." The hand reached inside the uniform and pulled out a beating heart. "Here, Jon," Sim said, grasping the captain's arm and pulling it, "take care of it."

The heart landed in Jon's open hand.

Archer shot straight up in bed, his heels digging into the mattress as he tried to escape. His own heart squeezed so tightly, he thought for a moment he was having a coronary. His cotton tee-shirt was stuck to the cooling sweat on his body, and he shivered. It was just a dream; it was just a dream, he muttered to himself, over and over, trying to get his breathing back under control.

He still gripped the PADD in his right hand, the Vulcan language lesson having long since given way to a screen saver. He set it aside carefully. The chronometer gave the time as oh-five thirty-five. Yeah, not going to try that sleep thing again. He rubbed his eyes. He felt like crap.

Porthos didn't stir this time as Archer moved quietly about the cabin, dressing. Showered and shaved, feeling a bit closer to human, he stopped in the Crew's Mess for a double-strength coffee and sat at a corner table to nurse it.

Odd, him having that dream about Sim. He thought he'd made his peace with that decision. As he'd told – okay, yelled at – Sim, he needed Trip on this mission. Not in a million years could he ever have convinced himself that the clone, whom he had watched develop from an embryo to a grown man in a matter of days, was exactly the same as his best friend. Besides, there was no guarantee that the enzyme Sim had researched and found would have worked; the gamble was not worth Trip's life.

Still, he'd seen a side of himself that he hadn't thought existed. For there was no doubt in his mind or heart that, had it come right down to it, he would have shot Sim and dragged him to Sickbay himself in order to save Trip. Not just the mission, but Trip.

He closed his eyes sleepily, then jerked back awake. Wouldn't do to have Alpha shift personnel find their captain snoring in the corner of the Mess, or worse, thrashing and fighting in the midst of yet another nightmare. He drained his cup of the last cold dregs of coffee and grimaced. Tasted like motor oil. He got up and poured himself another.

Two hours and one more cup later, he put the finishing touches on the next few days' duty rosters before disposing of his cup and making his way to the Bridge. His stomach wasn't interested in breakfast. As usual, he was early, and, as usual, T'Pol was already at her station. Ensign Carpenter slid out of the command chair, murmuring, "You have the Bridge, sir."

"Thank you, Ensign," Archer said, not in the mood to try any small talk. "What's new with the mayday?"

"Crewman D'Agostino boosted the gain, sir, and we're scanning for the point of origin. Nothing yet, though."

Archer turned to T'Pol, who, for the moment, had her eyes glued to her console. "Sub-Commander, anything on long range?"

T'Pol looked up briefly. "The mayday code indicates a Nausicaan vessel, Captain, although, as the ensign said, we have not located it yet. There is, however, a wide area of debris approximately seven thousand kilometers from our current position. It is consistent with an explosion of some sort."

"Greeeat," the captain sighed, drawing the word out. Nausicaans were high on his Not My Favorite Beings list, but that didn't mean Enterprise would not respond to a vessel in trouble. "Keep scanning, and let me know if any of that debris starts heading our way." He shrugged his shoulders in his uniform, trying to dispel some of his tension.

Eventually, it was Hoshi, taking her position at the communications console, who caught his attention next. "Captain, I've narrowed down the source of the mayday. It's definitely Nausicaan, and it's still broadcasting. We should be in range for a visual."

"Onscreen," Archer said. The view screen was filled with a dusty pink cloud, in which a small boxy ship drifted. "Any idea what that debris is?"

T'Pol said, "It is, or was, another ship."

"Hail them." Archer gripped the arms of his chair. "This is the starship Enterprise. Do you require assistance?"

There was a jumble of words before the translator kicked in. "Enterprise, do not come closer. Dangerous cargo aboard."

"Full stop." Archer turned to T'Pol. "Scan it."

After a moment, the Science Officer said, "Sir, it appears that the ship is carrying a cargo of tamirite."

"What's that?" Somehow, he got the feeling that the answer to that question was not going to make his life any easier.

"Tamirite is a substance used in mining and terra-forming operations. It's an explosive which can be extremely unstable and volatile. If not handled carefully, one cubic meter of this substance can produce an explosion equal to a five mega-ton nuclear bomb." Archer glanced over at Reed, the ship's resident explosives expert, who nodded briefly in agreement.

Better and better. "Nausicaan ship, are there any casualties aboard?"

"We have four dead, and three with injuries," the Nausicaan reported.

"There is a hull breach at starboard," T'Pol observed. "At the rate their atmosphere is venting, they have approximately ten hours left."

Docking was out of the question. "Can we evacuate the survivors by shuttle pod?" Archer asked quietly.

"It would be risky," T'Pol answered. "Unless the tamirite is stable, any disturbance to the ship, including landing a shuttle pod, could cause an explosion." She considered. "Tamirite can be rendered mostly inert by gradually lowering the temperature to approximately 79 kelvin. We would have the capacity to do that, if we were allowed access to the ship's environmental program, and if the hull breach were repaired."

"How long would that take?"

"Given the size of the vessel, no more than eight hours."

"Nausicaan ship, can you send us a schematic of your vessel?" To Archer's surprise, the Nausicaan readily agreed, his cooperation confirming T'Pol's assessment that the ship was doomed. Archer activated the comm. "Bridge to Engineering."

"Trip here."

"Meet me up here as soon as you can, will you?"

"On my way."

Further attempts to communicate with the Nausicaan ship were met with silence, although the channel was still open. After a scan, T'Pol reported that the three bio-signs on board were getting weaker. Archer gave Hoshi the conn and assembled the rest of the Bridge crew in his Ready Room. It was a tight fit, but the last thing he wanted was for the Nausicaan crew to overhear any discussion regarding the likely chance of their being blown to atoms. As he waited for his engineer to arrive, a shadow of the nightmare crossed his mind for a moment. He shrugged it off, but could not resist a testing, "Hey, Trip," when Tucker entered the room.

If the engineer thought it odd to be addressed so informally while on duty, he gave no sign. "Mornin', Captain, what's going on?" he asked curiously, and T'Pol filled him in on the situation.

"I guess it's possible to repair the hull breach without blowing the ship to kingdom come," Trip mused. "Then it's just a matter of interfacing with the ship's computer, and lowering the temperature gradually. But since she's drifting in space, the trick'll be gettin' close enough without colliding. Maybe grapple 'er to keep the distance constant."

"Take a steady hand on the rudder," Archer said doubtfully. "It's a tiny margin of error."

"Well, we can't just leave it there," said Reed, "a ticking time bomb in space for anyone to come across."

"I could do it, sir," Ensign Mayweather said quietly. Archer looked at him, then down at the floor, thinking hard. He had no doubt that Travis could hold both ships perfectly still, relatively speaking, for as long as it took to make repairs. The young pilot would balance the starship on the point of a pin if his captain asked him to. Yet, with all the debris from the destroyed ship, whatever that had been, floating around, there was the excellent chance that some random piece of flotsam would jostle the Nausicaan ship and cause the tamirite to detonate.

"Could we evacuate the crew and blow the ship up ourselves?" Archer asked as a last-ditch suggestion.

"The resulting radiation would likely spread to at least a seven light year radius of the blast, " T'Pol said. "There are several worlds, some inhabited, which would be affected."

Archer turned his back and stared unseeingly out the window. "I don't see that we have a choice. Malcolm, take a look at the schematic of the ship and see what we're working with here. Trip, how long do you think you'll need to get your gear ready?"

The commander shrugged matter-of-factly. "Once I know what that hull is made of, gimme a couple hours, I should be ready to suit up."

"Fine, give me an update on your progress at ten-hundred," the captain said unhappily. "I don't want to rush you, but the faster we can get this done . . ." He let the sentence dangle.

"Understood, sir," Trip said, the picture of confidence. The door opened behind the captain, and he slumped, bracing his elbow on the bulkhead and covering his eyes with one hand.

A voice behind him startled him and snapped his spine straight. "Sir," said T'Pol carefully, "may I remind you that there is a greater mission at stake here? The sooner we get to Azati Prime --"

Archer turned around. "I am well aware of the greater mission, T'Pol," he bit out. "Not a second goes by that I'm not thinking of the greater mission. But I can't very well leave a nuclear bomb drifting in space, can I?"

The Science Officer was silent for a moment, then said, "I disagree with your course of action," Archer gave a You got any other ideas? snort, "but I do suggest that Enterprise retreat to a safer distance and that Ensign Mayweather pilot the shuttle pod instead. It is possible that, in the event of an explosion, we may be able to escape a shockwave if we immediately go to Warp Five."

If she really thought we could outrun it, she would have said so, Archer thought sourly. "Fine, T'Pol, calculate the minimum safe distance." T'Pol left. Archer took a few deep breaths. He really wished he'd slept better the night before.

At ten-hundred twenty, a restless Archer made his way to Engineering. One of Trip's more endearing traits was his tendency to get so absorbed in his work that he forgot everything else, including appointments. Archer found him sitting on the floor amidst piles of tools and supplies, taking inventory. He glanced up, then looked chagrined as he realized what time it was.

"Sorry, Cap'n," he said, making a move to rise.

Archer waved him back down. "Not a problem. I figured you were still busy. Need a hand?"

Trip motioned to the pile of equipment. "If you don't mind, that stuff's ready to be packed."

Archer began fitting the tools carefully back into their specially-made case compartments. He didn't need to ask why nobody else was helping Trip with his preparations; he knew from long association that Trip preferred to make his final inspection himself. The engineer always wanted to make sure that everything was in its proper place so he could access anything he needed in a hurry. There weren't many people he would trust to help him pack for a mission, especially one this dangerous. The captain was one of them.

Trip glanced up as Archer stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. "Having trouble sleepin'?" he asked, sympathetically. Close up, he could see the shadows beneath Jon's eyes.

"Oh, I can sleep," Archer replied, "I just don't want to."

"Nightmares?"

The captain merely shrugged, unwilling to dignify the problem by saying it out loud.

Trip considered, then grinned mischievously. "Well, it has been a while since you had a shore leave, you know," he commented. At Archer's look, he continued, "Nothing realigns a man's system better than having his ashes well and truly hauled."

"You've discovered this principle to be true," Archer observed dryly, raising his eyebrows slightly.

Whether it was the accuracy of the observation or the Saharan tone of voice the captain used that made him feel cheap, Trip didn't know. He blushed to the tips of his ears, wondering how to dislodge his foot from his mouth. "Well, uh, me and, uh, T'Pol, uh,. . ." he trailed off uncomfortably.

"I would rather cut off my own arm," Archer said severely, "than have this conversation with you right now. Really."

"Right," said Trip. "Doesn't matter anyway. I'm not even sure what's going on between us."

Archer spent a moment dangling between captain and friend, and finally said, "Oh."

Trip let out a sigh, in full confession mode now. "Yeah, she, uh, she says she's just experimentin', but... I dunno."

"Mmm," Archer murmured, then added, with more than a touch of sympathy, "Ouch." His first thought, Damn, that's gotta hurt, was followed swiftly by the more pragmatic, Well, what the hell did you expect? She's a Vulcan scientist. Finished with his packing, he snapped the case shut and rose. Trip stood, too.

"Yeah, ouch." Trip grimaced. "I shouldn't have said anythin'. Can we, you know, just forget I even brought it up?"

"Brought what up?" Archer asked innocently, clapping his friend on the shoulder. "You ready?"

Trip snorted, "Ready to tap dance on a pile of dynamite? Can't wait."

In the shuttle pod, Travis ran though his flight check, flexing his fingers like a concert pianist about to perform a lengthy concerto. Trip sat stiffly in his EV suit, checking and rechecking his instruments. His helmet sat on the floor near his feet.

"Do the bare minimum, Trip," Archer reminded him, his gruff tone masking how very worried he was. "We're not looking for anything fancy. Just enough of a repair so we can stabilize that tamirite."

Tucker gave him the gimlet eye. "Don't hover, Jon. Nobody wants this over and done with more than me. This'll be the quickest patch job in the history of the world."

Archer leaned over and grasped Travis' shoulder, steadying him with parental sternness. "Travis, you are the best pilot I've ever met, bar none. I know you can do this."

Mayweather looked scared, but smiled shakily. "Thanks, sir. I'll do my best."

"Trip," the captain said, "I'll see you when you get back." He stepped out of the shuttle and took his place behind the airlock door. The outer doors opened, and the shuttlecraft took off smoothly, as if on a Sunday drive.