I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think they will sing to me.
--
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
-- T.S. Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
Chapter Six – The Better Part
"Bridge to Sub-Commander T'Pol."
T'Pol winced as Trip, startled, dug his thumb a bit too hard into the base of her neck. She shot him an exasperated look over her shoulder as she rose to answer the comm.
"Sorry," he muttered. She was so much better at performing neuropressure than he was; whenever he got the hang of a technique, she moved on to a new one and he had to start from scratch.
"T'Pol here."
"Sub-Commander, we'll be entering the Azati system in about six hours."
"Thank you, Mr. D'Agostino. Have you informed the captain?"
"He didn't respond to the page, ma'am."
T'Pol exchanged worried glances with Trip, but kept her voice level. "I'll locate him myself."
Trip sat up, wiping the perspiration from his chest with his tee-shirt. "This doesn't sound good."
T'Pol's fingers flew over her computer console. She was one of the few people who knew how to isolate bio signs on the ship. She looked up. "The captain is in his quarters."
Trip threw his shirt on, fighting alarm. "And he's not answering the comm? Damn." He raced out the door, with T'Pol on his heels.
Trip's dread only intensified when he found the captain's door unlocked. Archer often neglected to engage the security code during the early evening hours; his quarters were like Jupiter Station sometimes with all the comings and goings, and he got tired of walking over and manually releasing the door every time he had a visitor. But it was nearly one o'clock in the morning, and the damned door should have been locked.
They found him sprawled on his back across the bed, still in uniform, boots on – another bad sign – dead to the world. T'Pol checked for his pulse, her heart freezing for a moment when she couldn't find it, before she remembered that the human pulse point was under the jaw, not behind the ear. It was slow and steady, but even the light pressure on his skin didn't wake him.
Trip leaned over and shook Archer gently. "Cap'n. Cap'n, are you all right?"
First the lips moved: soundless, half-formed words, a sigh. I suppose you expect me to invite you back to my apartment. . . Well, what are my chances?. . . Hmmm, you're in luck . . . Then the fingers twitched reflexively. You remember my sister, Lizzie?. . . Of course I do. You're prettier than I recall, much better looking than your hound-dog brother . . . He frowned and moved his head, an unquiet dreamer, fighting consciousness. I've never seen water so blue. I wish . . .
"Captain." His whole body convulsed as he came awake all at once, heels digging into the mattress, jamming him up against the bank of pillows. His left hand, tightly bandaged, came up in a fist while his right groped around for a non-existent weapon. "Captain," T'Pol repeated, her normal monotone a soothing sound, "you were dreaming."
Dreaming, yes. Archer turned his face into the pillow for a moment, trying and failing to hold on to those disappearing wisps of hope. The images of peace, even joy, dissolved as if they'd never been. He was alone; Elizabeth Tucker and seven million others were dead; and they were hurtling though space toward certain disaster. 'Human voices wake us, and we drown.'
He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, removing the tears along with the remnants of the first pleasant sleep he'd had in weeks. "What?" he asked in a gravelly voice. "What's happened."
"You didn't answer the Bridge's page," Trip said, worry clouding his voice. "We thought you were -"
"Incapacitated," T'Pol supplied as Archer swung his legs over the side of the bed, grumpily waving off assistance. He sat, hunched, willing his thoughts to organize themselves. T'Pol went on, "We'll be entering the Azati system in approximately six hours. I believe you wanted to brief the crew beforehand."
Archer sighed deeply. "What time is it?"
"Oh-one-hundred hours."
Another deep sigh, a roll of shoulders. "Senior staff at seven hundred. Stay on the fringe. No point in announcing our presence before we know what's in there." He rose stiffly and headed toward the shower, turning when neither Trip nor T'Pol made any move to leave. "I'll see you at oh-seven-hundred. Dismissed."
x x x
T'Pol had just settled into a chair in the otherwise empty Crew's Mess with a mug of chamomile tea and a PADD when the door opened and the captain stepped in. He looked presentable, if not entirely rested, in a fresh uniform and damp hair. He had removed the wrist brace. Stubborn human. He paused before striding to the drinks dispenser for a coffee, and for a moment, T'Pol thought that he might duck back out again or escape to his private Mess. But he quickly covered the urge so plainly etched on his face and walked slowly over to her table.
"May I join you?" he asked quietly, as if he half-expected her to say, No, go away.
She inclined her head slightly and he sat.
Sensitive enough to know that there was something in particular on the captain's mind, T'Pol waited. After a while, Archer said, "I want to apologize for the way I've treated you lately. I was out of line a number of times, and . . . well, I really have no excuse for it."
"You have been under a great deal of stress," T'Pol answered gently. "Further, it is impossible to injure feelings that I do not have."
Archer smiled briefly at her lame attempt at humor, then sobered. "Be that as it may," he continued, eyebrows raised, "I said some very rude things to you, T'Pol, and I swore at you. That's not who I am, and you deserve better treatment than that. I apologize."
She gazed at him in silence, not entirely sure after all these years what to do with a human request for forgiveness. "This is where you say, 'I accept your apology,'" Archer prompted.
"I accept your apology," she parroted, and as he relaxed his shoulders, the hard part over, she added, "But it is not necessary."
He decided to let her have the last word, apparently, and sat back, blowing the steam from his coffee. She resumed her reading at the passage where she had left off. After a moment of feeling him watching her read, she lowered the PADD and commented, "Lieutenant Reed's report on the Askarinoc."
Archer grimaced. "Don't tell me they were a figment of my imagination, too."
T'Pol was not sure whether this was a rhetorical question, so she handed the PADD over. "Unfortunately, there were no remains of any of the intruders, so they persist as somewhat of a mystery. However, their existence is fully documented by Mr. Reed."
The captain closed his eyes briefly. "We were lucky we didn't lose any crew." He saw Hayes flying backward, and felt the cold of open space on his skin. "Somehow, I thought it would be . . . worse."
"Perhaps the Askarinoc underestimated Enterprise's capacity as a warship," T'Pol observed.
"A warship," Archer repeated softly. "Yeah, I guess that's what we are, now." He scanned the report, as much to avoid T'Pol's eyes as to glean insight about the surprisingly short-lived battle. Reed had described the encounter thoroughly but succinctly, with no mention at all of the captain's strange behavior. Better than I deserve, he thought wryly. "I'm sure Starfleet will be interested, if we ever get home."
"When we get home," T'Pol was compelled to say.
The captain eyed her, his face devoid of expression. "Right. When."
With his elbows on the table, he lifted his mug of coffee, still steaming but no longer scalding, and started in surprise when he felt that movement arrested. T'Pol covered both of his hands with hers – she who did not reach out and touch, but who did not seem to mind when he touched her – in an odd reversal of roles. He placed the cup gently back down onto the table, but she did not let go.
He couldn't look at her, so he turned his gaze toward the view port, at an unfamiliar star system which may or may not contain the Xindi weapon. "I don't think I can do this," he admitted quietly. He couldn't tell whether the warmth radiating through his hands came from the mug or her palms.
"You are right," T'Pol said. "You cannot."
His eyes flew to hers that time, and he tried to pull his hands away. She was Vulcan, though, and it took very little effort on her part to thwart his escape.
"You cannot do this alone," she went on calmly. "There are nearly one hundred beings on board Enterprise, each one with his or her own specific skill, each one a part of this mission for a reason."
"Even Porthos?" Archer challenged absurdly, trying to deflect the intensity of her stare.
"Porthos," T'Pol replied, "reminds you of Earth, and of everything that is at stake."
Damn the woman. Bad enough that she had no sense of humor. Did she always have to be right, too?
She went on. "It seems the Askarinoc were not the only ones to underestimate Enterprise and her captain."
"You think I built them up in my mind."
"I do."
"That they represented something bigger."
"Yes."
"Well, that would mean that I am crazy, now wouldn't it?" There was a hint of, Aha - gotcha with logic, in his voice.
She stopped him cold, wiped the smirk off of his face, by saying, without a touch of accusation, "No, Captain, only that you are afraid." Another pull of hands, more resistance. A drop of hot coffee sloshed over the side of the mug. "It would be illogical, and uncharacteristic, for a human in your position not to fear failure, as devastating as the consequences would be."
"You wouldn't know anything about that. Vulcans don't feel fear." And just like that, he was back to the aloof man she knew. He slid his hands out from under hers, and picked up the PADD, pretending to skim the information there as he said casually, "Maybe you should've headed this mission. A Vulcan would have made better choices. Captain Vanik," he pulled the first name he could think of out of thin air, "probably wouldn't have tortured a prisoner in an airlock for information."
"Captain Vanik would likely still be arguing the logic of cooperation with the prisoner, even now, instead of approaching the Azati system," T'Pol retorted, stopping a millimeter short of sarcasm.
A short laugh escaped him then. He couldn't help it. Snarky T'Pol always took him by surprise.
He slid the PADD back across the table to her, a movement which stopped as abruptly as her change of topic. "Have your nightmares abated?"
"They're not as . . . frequent," Archer said, after a moment and a deep sigh. "I've been able to get a little sleep. But I think maybe Phlox slipped me a mickey in that concoction he gave me." T'Pol simply raised an eyebrow and said nothing. "And I haven't had anymore . . . well. Whatever that was, it hasn't happened again. I don't think it will."
Ghosts, demons. It scared him to think that reality could slip away from him so completely while he was on the Bridge, at a time when his wits were the only thing standing between Enterprise and destruction. Especially now, here, in this place where Enterprise was the only thing standing between Earth and oblivion. And that fear had ultimately convinced him to accept Phlox's natural sedative remedy (he didn't even want to think about what it was made from) and sleep uneventfully, if not dreamlessly, off and on for close to thirty hours.
"I don't think it will," he said again, as much to convince himself as his First Officer. "Besides, something tells me there won't be any time for dreams, either asleep or awake, until this is over."
T'Pol didn't respond to that, only pushed her now-cooled cup of chamomile tea to the captain's side of the table, and picked up his mug of coffee. "You cannot do this alone," she reminded him.
Archer smiled slightly and raised the mug of medicinal-smelling tea. "Cheers, T'Pol," he said, gesturing with the mug, and took a tiny sip.
x x x
There was one more fence to mend, and the captain's boots felt like lead as he stopped in front of Engineering. Enterprise was an hour out of the Azati system, and Archer knew somehow that if he didn't do this now, he never would. He had a sneaking suspicion that this was one of the last moments under his control, before endgame.
Trip's face was cautiously open as the captain approached. He immediately launched into a report of the status of the engines. It had taken several hours to recover from the Askarinoc beatdown, he explained, moving quickly to the computer monitor, but they were finishing the last of the simulations now. Archer put up a hand. Trip's voice trailed off, and the two stood uncomfortably for a moment, the engineer waiting, the captain searching for words.
Finally, he managed a soft, "How're you doing, Trip," letting the engineer know that it was Jon Archer, not The Captain, standing in front of him.
Trip shrugged. "A bit better than you look," he observed. "But it's nice to see you closer to normal, Cap'n."
Archer shifted uncomfortably, having arrived at the heart of the matter before he was quite ready. "Well, um, I wanted to . . . I know I haven't been myself lately, and . . ." He swallowed, resolutely refusing to break eye contact. He would not allow himself that cop-out. "I seem to be getting a lot of practice apologizing lately. You, Malcolm, T'Pol. I said a lot of things I didn't mean."
Raising his hand, palm out, Trip said, "The last couple of days have been crazy. I swear, I couldn't do what you do, make the decisions you make. I'd be surprised if you weren't completely stressed out."
"I'm not just talking about the last few days, although that's. . . well. We've been in the Expanse for a while now, and I know I've been. . ." Archer frowned, frustrated that he couldn't seem to complete a thought. Closing his eyes, he clenched his teeth, blew out a breath, and then made himself say what he needed to say. "I've been trying so hard to be the captain, I haven't been a very good friend. I'm sorry."
Trip looked away, embarrassed, relieved, or disappointed, Archer couldn't tell. But there was a glitter in the blue eyes when they turned back to him, and a grim set to the engineer's mouth. "To tell you the truth, Cap'n, you're right. You haven't been. You've been kind of a jerk, and not the guy I've known for ten years. But, you know what, I don't care."
Archer took an involuntary step backward, hurt.
"Frankly, I don't want you to be warm 'n fuzzy," Trip continued fiercely. "I don't want you friendly. I don't want you reasonable." Trip clenched both his teeth and his fists, and dropped his voice almost to a growl. "When you and Degra were in the simulator, I listened to that. . . that murderer talk about how he had designed the weapon that decimated Earth. How he was so damned proud of himself. Those seven million people never did anything to him, and he just wiped them out, all in a day's work.
"I want us to destroy that weapon. I wanna make those Xindi bastards pay. I want us to make the Askarinoc look like nursery school teachers." He leaned closer to Archer, and the captain could feel the waves of hate radiating off him. "And if that means that you have to be an ice-cold, hard-hearted son-of-a-bitch, then, hell, Cap'n, I can live with that."
Archer stood for a moment, feeling empty, feeling as if the better part of him had deserted him once and for all. There would be no restraint, and no absolution. No one would remind him of the quality of mercy. Very well, then, he capitulated to the universe, you win. "We will stop them, Trip," Archer promised, "and they will pay. I swear it on my life."
x x x
Enterprise eased into the Azati system, cautiously scanning for any ships that might give away her position. The red giant, Azati Prime, filled the center of the viewscreen like an enormous evil eye. There was a hush on the Bridge, as if the command crew couldn't quite believe that they had made it this far, that they were within a few thousand kilometers of the massive weapon which threatened to destroy their world. It was still possible, however, that their ploy had failed, that Degra had, indeed, sent them on a wild goose chase as he'd insisted. They could have been within touching distance, or light years away . . .
"There's a convoy of ships approaching," Hoshi said, and put it up on screen. The shapes were familiar: Xindi.
Archer drew himself up stiffly, as the last nine months crystalized into this moment. "Let's see the lead ship's signature," he ordered, not taking his eyes off the screen.
Two blocks appeared on the left side of the screen, one depicting the trail of the Xindi ship they had boarded, the other showing the one in front of them. They were identical. "Degra," Archer breathed. Their gamble had paid off. Despite the detours, despite the challenges, Earth's lone Warp Five starship had found the facility where the Xindi weapon was being built.
And there it was again, the fear. He knew they would be hopelessly outnumbered. He knew there would be a confrontation, a clash of lasers and torpedos, hull breaches and flames. He knew more of his crew would perish. He knew he would not come out of this alive.
How can you murder children?
And in that moment, he was the Xindi, fighting to preserve his homeworld. And he was the Askarinoc, willing to lay waste to everything in his path. And he was the Nausicaan, reciting the roll of the dead Fuller, Sim, Vaughn and the soon to be dying. And he was human, feeling his humanity slipping silently away.
He recalled, vividly, how he had begged, cajoled, and bullied Admiral Forrest into letting him take Enterprise into the Expanse, for an opportunity to meet the Xindi head-on. All I'm asking is to take Enterprise and find these Xindi. What do we have to lose, a single starship? Seems like a small price to pay if there's one chance in a million . . . How he had scoffed, full of hubris, at the Vulcans' insistence that the humans were unprepared for the horrors of this region of space. It's a risk I'm willing to take, and I imagine most of my crew would be with me. How Soval had described the Klingons who had returned, physically turned inside out, still living.
That was not the only thing the Expanse turned inside out, he reflected. Morals, ethics – everything he had blithely counted on to make him human. Without those, he didn't know who or what he was anymore.
You cannot do this alone.
This had been his father's goal, and his own dream, to explore space. Human curiosity had led to this. Their push to touch the stars had resulted in a lie foolishly believed and a vicious strike pre-emptively taken. If Vulcans ever stooped to saying, "I told you so," at least he wouldn't be around to hear it.
He looked around the Bridge at the determined faces, and let his mind review the crew list, matching faces to names and ranks. He knew them all. Every one of them was committed; every one of them was counting on him.
He straightened his shoulders, fully in command of the Bridge, of his ship. He would not let them, or Earth, down - no matter what it took.
'Human voices wake us, and we drown.'
"T'Pol, send what you have to the Situation Console," he ordered with quiet authority. "And get Trip up here, on the double." It was time to finish this.
How naïve he had been to think the nightmare would end when he awoke.
The End
