A/N: Thanks to all those who've reviewed this story, nudging me to continue. It was always the intention, but I didn't expect the gap between the last chapter and this one to be so long. So sorry!
--
Admiral Archer looked out the porthole in his cramped quarters, watching the stars whiz by sub-light. This was his favorite part of being on a ship – the serenity as the wondrous universe passed by. Even when Enterprise was retired, there was so much more to see - more stars, more worlds. He'd made a personal list of planets and cultures he wanted to encounter like the fire-eaters of Taron VI, where the people could literally lick flames thanks to their physiology, and the water dancers of Sati.
This voyage wasn't about seeking out new worlds or new civilizations; this mission was about war.
Two constitution class vessels had already engaged the Romulans – both were destroyed within a matter of minutes. The Vulcans, the Tellarites and the Andorians all lost ships, too, and quickly to the enemies – the Romulans, Orions and Arali.
We've probably lost more by now.
Taking a deep breath, he sipped at his scotch. Two months had gone by, coordinating with admirals and captains of other vessels until finally everything had been arranged, troops had been assigned and a destination had been given. Orders at long last came yesterday to gather the fleet of human, Andorian, Tellarite and Vulcan ships and head into Romulan space in hopes of finding the aides, like Staron (T'Pol's assistant) and diplomats who were lost less than three months ago. The rendezvous was scheduled in two days.
The crew was a little jumpy from the waiting and Captain Chris Richards, despite being a good commander, hadn't gotten used to having a superior on board with the ability to see his style in action. Archer continued to bite his tongue to keep from providing advice, but old habits were difficult for a man like him to break; and he constantly had to remind himself that his role here on the ship was strictly as commander of the fleet. This was Richards' ship.
Maybe that's what's been giving me headaches.
His hand rubbed his temples and he thought about the look on Richards' face when he told them the orders presented from Admiral Gardner.
Just as he was about to find some headache medicine, the door chimed.
"Come in," said Archer.
A young black man with a smile whiter than porcelain sauntered in: Travis Mayweather. Immediately Porthos greeted him.
Travis cut the small talk and got straight to matters. "There's uh … rumblings around the crew that we got new orders."
"What did you hear?"
"Xavier said Admiral Gardner contacted you."
I'm going to have to talk with the Communications officer about confidentiality. Archer sighed and pointed to a chair in his room, which Travis immediately took.
"He did," said Jon.
"Crew's getting antsy. Been out here for a month and not even a minor skirmish so far."
"I know."
"I tried to tell them they didn't want a fight, but … this is the first real war for a lot of them. Most of them were teens when the Xindi attacked Earth."
Archer gave a nod and closed in on his old helmsman. "I know." A hand reached to the man's shoulder.
"Can you discuss the orders?" asked Travis.
"Not yet. You'll know soon … and you can pass that around the ship."
"Thanks, Admiral."
Jon smiled. "You know, we've known each other a long time. Maybe off duty you could call me Jonathan or Jon. Wouldn't make me feel so old."
"Sure thing."
"Good."
Travis got up and headed for the door. Before he jabbed his finger on the button to let himself out, he turned his head slightly.
"Jon, some of the guys are getting together for a basketball game tomorrow night around 1900. If you're interested--"
A grin spread over his lips. Travis was a decent basketball player – no Phlox – but still better than most. The smile increased, despite wondering whether it was such a good idea. Being a military commander was his job, not getting to know the crew and fitting in.
But, before he could think more on the matter he spoke up. "I'd like that."
"Good," said Travis. "See ya there."
When the Helmsman left, Archer pushed his hand across his forehead and sighed. Time for another analgesic. When he got to his medicine cabinet, he saw only two more vials.
Better slow down, don't want Dr. Higgins thinking I'm a drug addict.
Shooting the medicine into his neck, he gave a slow sigh and felt a slight tingling at the base of his skull.
Better.
Grabbing a book, he stretched out onto his bed and let his dog cuddle beside him. He knew soon, in two days, this would be a luxury he wouldn't have. There was something else he wouldn't be able to do in two days – contact T'Pol. They'd be traveling in communications silence. Putting down his book, he leaned forward to his monitor and nudged a button as the ship rocked violently causing Porthos to yelp and Archer to jump to his feet. In days gone by he would've demanded a report; now, he'd have to wait until someone contacted him. As he hung by the comm, knowing that call would come, he heard Captain Richards' voice.
"Admiral, maybe you should get to the Situation Room. We've got company."
"What is it?"
"Orion ships. And it looks like they took care of the T'Ran."
The T'Ran was a Vulcan ship, one that Captain Venek commanded and had for some time. Archer's head bowed in memory and a frown worked over his face.
That ship wasn't scheduled to meet us for two days with the rest of the fleet. "On my way," he said.
As quickly as possible, he slipped into his uniform and headed for the area directly behind the Bridge.
---
Sitting at her desk, T'Pol watched the rain cascade down her window, lulling a gray city to sleep. Sunday afternoon. It was the wet season in San Francisco, the bone-chilling kind that pleased Andorians because it reminded them of their icy home – not a welcome climate to a desert-loving Vulcan.
December.
She'd been sitting in her seat for a few hours, typing up a response to T'Pau without making any headway. Her fingers remained frozen above her keys as she read the minister's words again: "The pride of the Vulcan fleet, the T'Ran, has been destroyed. We have yet to hear from the Plomah or the Aran'na."
Captain Venek, a respectable man. His death is a significant loss to the Vulcan people.
The ships listed by T'Pau were ones she knew had been assigned to Admiral Jonathan Archer, and it inferred the entire fleet had been or was under attack.
If the Vulcan didn't know better, she'd say her heart felt heavy.
I am a creature of reason. And my heart has no emotion.
It didn't stop her from looking at a picture on her desk for the fifth time in the past ten minutes, one that Jonathan had given her more than a year ago. The silver frame held some of the Enterprise crew – the Bridge personnel, Commander Tucker and Dr. Phlox – taken after they entered the Expanse. It was a photo Starfleet asked for – a publicity shot they could send to the media, they said.
Gazing at it, she noticed the lines of Reed's face and the way he leaned into Ensign Sato without touching her … without breaking protocol. She saw Travis' calm determination and the boyish vigor fade. Phlox, the only mark of joy, presented an over-extended smile; her friend could grin in the most challenging of circumstances. Her eyes darted to Trip who put his weight against the railing as if he used it to support him - devastated about Elizabeth, heart-broken about his home state. And then her eyes stopped on Jonathan's face: resolute, as if he would never know defeat, no matter how inexperienced he was as a military commander.
It had been so many years ago and the memory – the desperation – still lived in her mind.
A beep rattled her from her musings, and hope filled her brain.
Is he still alive? Has he contacted me?
When bringing up the image on the monitor, she was surprised to see Phlox. Instead of providing a smile, his hair was nearly standing on end as if he'd toiled for days without rest.
"Doctor," she said, "this is unexpected."
"I hope I didn't disturb you."
"No." She waited, too patiently.
"Good. Gral--" he said.
"Yes?" she said.
"He's awake."
A grin threatened to spill onto her lips. "Awake?"
"Awake enough to argue with a nurse."
"Have you notified Shran?"
"He was the first one I called. He's on his way."
"Then, perhaps, this would be a good time to visit the ambassador?"
"I'm sure he'd like the company. Although, maybe only an hour or so – he still needs to rest."
T'Pol ended the call and quickly prepared to make a short journey to the ICU.
Jonathan cannot be dead.
She would welcome the distraction of seeing her friends and remain optimistic about Jonathan and the Potomac. Tracing the mouth of the man in the picture, her former commander, she spoke illogically to the picture.
"Be careful, ashaya."
----
Shran beamed as the little Tellarite blinked two beady red orbs at the people staring at him expectantly. Snuggled into a bed that was two-times his size with white sheets draped over him, T'Pol thought he looked almost like a child.
And although his coloring was tan, not the usual brownish-red, his face still bore trauma and he was much thinner than before, his fang-like teeth gave way into a smile.
"Your friends are here," said Phlox. When Gral didn't respond, he spoke again. "You do remember Shran and T'Pol, don't you?"
"Of course! Of course!" grunted Gral. Annoyance resounded in his voice. "I'm not an idiot."
Shran mumbled something under his breath as T'Pol shook her head.
Gral continued, pointing at Phlox. "What I want to know, and what no one has told me, is why the devil I'm here!"
The doctor sighed. "There was an explosion in the Council room, and you sustained serious damage."
"An explosion? How many people were hurt?"
Shran grabbed onto his friend's forearm. "Many," he said. The Andorian's voice shook slightly. "Your aide Kar, Sera and Kator are among the honored dead. The final count, according to Captain Reed is 64."
"Then I grieve for them," said Gral. "What tragic news."
There was a moment of silence, and then the little pig-man looked up swiftly at T'Pol. "Where is Archer? Is he among the dead?"
I hope not. T'Pol said, "No. Currently he is on the Potomac serving at the front. While you were unconscious, Vulcan, Andoria, Tellar and Earth succeeded in declaring war with the Romulans, Arali and Orions. Starfleet sent several ships to engage the enemy. Jonathan is on one of them."
"Tarnok!" Gral frowned. "Is it all bad news?"
The blue man said, "No. They promoted T'Pol to president in your absence."
"Congratulations, Skinny."
Shran said, "And she had the antennae to contact the Klingons."
"The Klingons?"
T'Pol poked up an eyebrow. "There are reasonable Klingons in the galaxy. Besides, there is an old Vulcan saying, those who are not your enemies are your allies."
Shran's antennae lurched forward and scowl covered his forehead. "Sounds like an Andorian saying to me."
"Have the Klingons agreed?" asked Gral.
"They are close," said T'Pol. "One is a personal friend. Kolos."
"Never heard of him," said Shran. "Only a Vulcan would have the patience."
Gral grunted as if to agree.
Shran said, "There is other news. Jhamel and I have finished building our nest and are ready for the Garnok-aran ceremony."
T'Pol knew it was a bizarre Andorian ritual where the parents spilled their blood over the nest of their unborn child to ensure strength and vitality. Although she knew Jhamel was more sensible than to believe that, she gathered that Shran's stubbornness won.
"And there is another item that may be of interest to you," said Shran. His eyes fled to T'Pol and a grin began to creep over his lips. "She and the Pink Skin …."
"You and Archer?" asked Gral.
T'Pol straightened. "Yes?"
"You two garrang-odong?" asked Gral.
She knew few Tellarite curses, but this she was well aware of, and she gathered Shran was as well; he chuckled under his breath. Pulling her robe around her, she stared the little man in the eye.
"Crude, but accurate."
Gral snorted and then squealed like a pig. As he opened his mouth, presumably to continue to tease her, it shut again when a little woman with two squinty black eyes, a long snout and a tubby body barreled through the door. Unlike Gral she had black hair, long lashes and wore ruby lipstick, as if she were human. T'Pol had met her many times before and knew her name by heart: Martog.
"My love," said Gral.
The woman gave a high-pitched squeal and put her hands around Gral's.
"Here are the peanut butter crackers you asked for," she said.
"The food here is enough to put a Tellarite back in a coma." Gral's smile broadened.
"I expected to find you here," said Martog to Shran and T'Pol. "It's good of you to come see Gral so often."
Gral's eyes lit up and she explained her comment. "They've seen you nearly every day since your accident more than two months ago."
"The hospital was on my way," said Shran.
The Tellarite remained quiet, a twinkle formed in his eye.
Shran waved, dismissing the gesture. "Let's not get all sentimental like a bunch of weepy human females."
"Blue has a point," said Gral.
They talked for more than an hour about the food in the hospital, which Gral noted was bland and lacked the taste of fresh kill, and the Council or lack there of. They spoke of many things that had happened since the blast – funerals, who had perished. The ambassador seemed eager to regain his title as president, but Phlox shook his head.
"You'll be here for another few weeks. Although you're awake now, your body needs time to heal. You almost didn't survive," said Phlox.
Shran pointed, his antennae lurching forward as he spoke. "It's sheer Tellarite stubbornness that's helped you live."
"And an excellent doctor," added Martog.
Phlox provided an overextended smile.
"Yes, I suppose that didn't hurt," said Gral.
The chuckling in the room gave way to romance as Gral and his wife rubbed snouts and began grunting. Shran skewed up one side of his face, in a gesture somewhere between admiration and disgust, and then leaned into T'Pol.
"Let's get out of here."
Phlox, all too interested in the Tellarite couple, received a sharp poke in the ribs from Shran as the Andorian and Vulcan made a quick exit. Within a few minutes the doctor met them outside.
"I have not yet seen a Tellarite mating ritual like that. I understood their species to be able to mate under nearly any circumstance, but --"
"Doctor," T'Pol said, hoping to be spared the details. "When will Gral be able to assume the presidency again?"
"No time soon. Gral's injuries are still quite severe. Perhaps he can begin light duties in two weeks, but right now he needs as much rest as possible."
"It is unfortunate," she said. "We need his assistance more than ever. There is a race I believe that could assist us and they've been allies with Tellar for ages."
"The Ithanites?" asked Shran. His lip curled at the mere mention, and T'Pol could understand why.
The race was like Earth's pygmies – small and vicious. Their skin shone brilliant copper and their eyes were blacker than the darkest caves of Vulcan. It had been documented that they ate the flesh of their brethren or enemies, cannibals, and bathed in that blood. The explorer Stok, a Vulcan, had recorded the midgets performed this ritual thinking they gained more power, and that power was of paramount importance to them.
Thinking about this race tearing into the flesh of others simply for power made her stomach turn.
Barbaric.
Logic, reason and patience – characteristics admirable to a Vulcan - none of these traits could be found in a single Ithanite. Their culture stole from others to advance their own technology, gaining them the ability to shield their ships and achieve great speeds.
Although T'Pol wasn't certain of how the Tellarites and Ithanites allied, it had been said that the Tellarites and the Ithanites were related somehow; their bloodlines separated thousands upon thousands of years ago. It mattered little, the fact that the races were friendly was all that was important.
Andoria and Ithan were involved in a war that raged since the beginning of time. Their skirmishes these days were few, as if both races grew weary of the battles, but they had never declared peace.
"Yes," she said. "The Ithanites."
"Good Grendal, why would we want their help?"
"Because we are desperate for allies and they have technology that may assist us in the war."
"If we want the Ithanites, we are desperate."
Phlox shook his head. "I would be remiss if I allowed Gral to work even for a few minutes. His blood pressure would--"
"Doctor, we have no choice. I doubt the Ithanites would listen to either of us," she said, nodding to Shran. "Besides, he will simply be talking."
"She's right, they would never listen to an Andorian, and I would rather be killed than speak to one. But she's also right when she says they have unsurpassed technology. We have spies that have indicated they've reached warp 11."
"I still don't think --" said Phlox.
T'Pol said, "If the Council has any hope of continuing and if the allies have any hope of winning the war, we must continue quickly."
"Come back tomorrow at least." Phlox frowned. "I'll have time to prepare a sedative for him to at least keep his heart rate slowed."
T'Pol nodded. "Very well."
Atypical, the doctor walked off without goodbyes as if to show his displeasure at the decision and T'Pol had to bow her head. These were difficult times, and if she'd had a choice in the matter, she wouldn't risk Gral's health. A small headache formed in the back of her eyes and she rubbed at her temples eager to ease it.
"He's just doing his job," said Shran. "Looking after Gral."
"I know."
"Frankly, I don't understand why you say we have to act so quickly."
"T'Pau told me today that the Vulcans lost the T'Ran."
"It was your best ship!"
"It was."
"When did you hear this?"
"Directly before coming here. I was responding to T'Pau when Phlox contacted me."
"Wait, wasn't the T'Ran assigned to Archer's fleet?"
"It was."
"Have you heard from the Pink Skin?"
"No."
TBC
A/N: Next chapters – space battles, Klingons and Ithanites!