Jonathan Archer took a deep breath and then another spin around the Situation Room - waiting. His new position didn't allow him to be on the Bridge, even when there was action, like now. Instead, he'd spent the past ten hours contacting captains to coordinate the fleet, moving some while ordering others to maintain their positions. Although it had been mostly successful, a few still hadn't made the rendezvous, which is why the firefight was growing more intense.
Worse, the T'Ran was floating in space, all of its crew dead even, even before the ships were scheduled to rendezvous at the coordinates they held now. Although the ship was scheduled to move under Archer's command, it hadn't officially done so and the admiral hadn't been given the chance to provide any orders to the Vulcan captain or crew. To his dismay, the ship didn't get so much as an opportunity to send a distress call, beaten quickly by the Orions they fought now.
Instead the T'Ran lay battered and defeated, its hull caved in and its bridge destroyed, on the edge of Romulan space like a cemetery marker.
I won't let another ship be destroyed.
The Potomac shimmied and Archer heard the comm blare. Whirling behind him, he jabbed his thumb against the button at the communications console.
"Archer here."
"We've got two more Orion engage us. One off port, one off starboard. I'm having Mathers send you the coordinates now," said Captain Richards.
Jon nodded to no one in particular and crossed his arms when the data sped across a console in front of him. Although a chair was at the station, the admiral was intent on standing or pacing.
"Confirmed," said Archer. Turning to the only other person in the room – a young man from tactical, Ensign Arthur Westing - he repeated the coordinates to him.
"Aye," said Westing. The young man, roughly 26, hunched his thin body over a screen and typed the information in, repeating every number.
Within a few seconds the information displayed on the screen, much like the one Archer used to view Xindi data during his time in the Expanse, mapping out where every ship in the vicinity was located lighting green discs for the ten allied ships (including the Potomac), a gray dot for the T'Ran and thirteen large, red triangle vessels that closed in.
The floor shook again, the Potomac rebounding from another hit, and Archer felt the ship change its axis.
"Hold on," he said to Westing.
Both grabbed for the console before them, steadying themselves as the ship veered again. A stylus used rolled onto the floor and Westing covered his mouth for only a minute. Soon it became stable and the two looked up at the display.
"I wonder what's going on," said Westing.
So do I! thought Archer. The Orion vessels must've known Potomac was the flagship, as the barrage of fire continued unabated.
"Westing, Communicate to the Yorktown, Aran'na and Kirmat again to use pattern Charlie-Bravo-2. And communicate to Captain Vega in the Thames to break off her attack and help the Potomac. Won't do us any good if the flagship is destroyed."
Arthur's eyes widened as he nodded vigorously.
Archer heard the request go to the Andorians in the Kirmat, and then the captain of the vessel, Commander Tan, argue. Jon rolled his eyes. It'd been that way for the past ten hours. Anytime an order was given, cajoling, arguing and demanding was involved. The Tellarites hated to be told what to do, the Andorians seemed intent on doing whatever they pleased and the Vulcans responded to nearly every order with "your plan lacks logic."
I don't know if I can take this campaign if it lasts a year.
Frustration leaked from Westing's voice when he tried to repeat the order to the Andorian commander, so Archer closed in on the comm. He slid a hand over Ensign Westing's shoulder, gently urging him out of the way, and then spoke sternly to Commander Tan.
"I don't give a damn what you think," Archer said. "I asked you to move your ship with the fleet, and I expect you to do it!"
The Andorian said, "We've engaged with the Orion ship we know attacked the Toltek, those dogs!"
With a little more venom in his voice, Archer spoke again. "They're going to attack a lot more of our vessels unless you help us."
There was silence, and the admiral used that to his advantage. "You're afraid?"
"Afraid? An Imperial Guardsman has no fear! We'll do as you ask," said Commander Tan. The connection was closed and Archer swiped his hand over his face.
"They're driving me crazy," said Westing. "Errr, sir."
"Me, too."
And then the two harried back into their frenzied pace.
The ship shook again and a new volley of communiqués on coordinates came through. The screen displayed more green dots descending on the lead Orion ship that attacked the Potomac, and Westing sighed in relief. The comm whirred again, and the tactical officer intercepted the message.
Westing relayed the final responses. "Yorktown and Ar'ala confim. Captain Vega has moved to 37.7.9."
The walls reverberated and Archer thought he distinctly heard metal shards flying against the hull.
That's either good news or bad news.
Xavier Mathers voice came through to the Situation Room. "Sir, only one vessel left at port attacking us thanks to the Thames."
Good news. "Thanks, Mathers."
The display against the wall showed the new information and Archer ordered attack patterns, watching the red lights representing the enemy vanishing from sight. Sweat poured down his face as he and Westing continued to monitor the battle and provide orders directly to the commanders.
When the last two enemy vessels remained, Archer halted the attack and communicated surrender conditions. Of course, he did so ordering the fleet to withdraw slightly; Orions were known to prefer blowing up their own ships to surrendering. When the battle cruisers didn't detonate, he coordinated with a Vulcan ship, Ar'ala – the largest one in the fleet and the one with the most room, to transport the survivors.
It was only then, after that was successful, Archer breathed a sigh of relief.
He knew from personal experience that other vessels, Romulans, may lurk undetected – thanks to special technology that kept them hidden somehow and would be much more challenging than the Orions – armada or no.
Westing grabbed a padd and noted the information down as Archer checked in with captains in the fleet – the men in charge of the other vessels in the area. First, he contacted those from Starfleet – the Yorktown, Thames, and Endeavor. Then, he called the Vulcan captains of the Ar'ala, Tat'sahr and Plomah; Andorians – the Kirmat and Toltek; and the Tellarites – the Narg and Tuk.
The Narg and Toltek sustained heavy damage and needed assistance with repairs. Every ship had crewmen who'd died, and at each report of the casualties Archer grimaced. Being an admiral meant that hearing about death was more commonplace as he was responsible for more vessels than being a captain and having only one ship with just its crewmen to be concerned about.
Thirty two lost, he thought. A frown spread over his face and he closed his eyes. With a moment's rest, he realized his headache raged again, and he ordered Westing to his cabin to retrieve the last of his analgesic. The kid brought it back quickly and the admiral shot it into his neck hoping it would do the trick.
I hope this lasts longer than the previous one.
After synchronizing additional engineers to the ships that needed them, he walked onto the Bridge. The sight around him caused his jaw to drop. Tactical was unmanned and charred as if the tactical officer, Rita Hayes, had been injured and Xavier Mathers had a small burn mark across his cheek as he reported the dead and wounded to the captain.
Richards, his top two buttons of his undershirt loosed, noted Archer, stood from his chair.
"Can I help you with something, Admiral?" asked Captain Chris Richards, stiffly.
"Wanted to check in on you. Everything okay?" he asked.
Another quick scan of the deck, with Mayweather turning in his chair – sweat trickling down his face – told him this was a tough battle, much more harrowing than the protected Situation Room let on.
Hard to gauge a battle behind reinforced walls.
"Everything's fine, sir," said Richards.
"Rita all right?" asked Archer.
Richards frowned. "I haven't heard from Dr. Higgins."
"Let me know when you do." Archer sighed. "And, when you have a moment, I'd like to speak with you."
"Yes, sir."
"Thanks," he said.
And then he retreated back to the Situation Room and sent word ahead to Starfleet Central Command of the small victory using an encoded subspace channel.
----
T'Pol brought up an image on the monitor and provided the Vulcan greeting to it – it was a Klingon with white hair and beard, ridges creeping from his head to his nose. Even on-screen she could tell he was tall, with large shoulders, and yet lankier than most Klingon men.
It was the lawyer who represented Jonathan more than nine years ago for a trial against the Duras family, and the same man who'd spent one year on Rura Penthe because of his contempt for the Klingon penal system. She knew there was a bond between her former captain and this man, and she'd been counting on it for the past month or more, as she made sporadic communiqués urging him to join the Council.
"Kolos," she said.
His voice boomed and his smile, a face full of fangs, sprang up on the screen.
"T'Pol. Do Vulcans never give up?"
"Our race is known for its tenacity."
Chuckling, he agreed. "You are indeed. You call again about this movement for peace?"
Reminding him, she shook her head. "It is a council of planets, all unified against forces who threaten to destroy our planets."
"Yes, I remember. I still don't understand how this involves Qo'noS?"
"The Romulans could expand into your territory."
"Unlikely."
"Admiral Archer indicated you were a man who was trying to change your culture – to bring prominence to the other castes."
He scowled. "I am. Are you questioning my honor?"
"No, I'm merely suggesting this may be a way to do so."
"T'Pol, I want to bring my people peace. Involving them in a war that does not include us is madness … even if it leads to peace further down the road. As a Vulcan, can't you see the logic in that?"
"Many years ago, the humans fought a race of trans-dimensional beings. At the time, Vulcan argued protecting Earth was up to the humans, and only them. And yet during the conflict Enterprise discovered that these trans-dimensional beings would've destroyed the every galaxy to make the universe inhabitable for their race. Vulcan would've been destroyed." She took Kolos' momentary silence to continue. "Come to Earth and talk with us. I'm certain we could agree to a--"
"Klingons do not value men who turn tail and rush to negotiation. I do not want to disappoint you, but I have made up my mind on the matter: my decision is no."
T'Pol closed her eyes while Kolos spoke about honor, Rura Penthe and his people. The headache was building again, ringing in her ears like a tin can being beaten close to her jaw. Slowly, she opened her lids and watched the man on the other end.
"If you change your mind--" she said.
"I won't," he said.
"Then, peace and long life. I hope you succeed in your quest for peace."
"Being at peace … it is a life-long quest."
It is at that, especially for a Klingon.
And then the screen faded to black. Standing, she grabbed her head and noted that her headaches had increased in severity and frequency. Making a beeline for the bathroom, she rummaged through her cabinet to find an analgesic and shot the medicine into her neck quickly. Almost immediately her brain tingled and the ringing muffled.
Better.
She would have to curb the urge to shoot drugs into her system, even if they were harmless headache medicines. A new aide would be arriving in a few days, Skon, and he would know – as any Vulcan would – whether she was up to the challenge of leading the Council. Perhaps like Staron, he would notice her slips into emotion and berate her for them … as any other Vulcan would.
Crossing back to her computer, she continued her review of Skon's background and perched an eyebrow. He'd left a career as a mathematician to become a negotiator and diplomat. His bond mate had died only recently, a little more than a year ago.
Bringing up his picture, she gazed at Skon's face – young – maybe in his sixties, with black hair cut in the Vulcan fashion, showing off his strong features – a slim nose and thick jaw. His eyes shone in a hue few Vulcans had due to genetics – they were blue, like those of Surak.
Azure like water, a rarity on Vulcan … like Trip's eyes.
"Although he is not so young, he is too new to being a diplomat and may hinder my ability to negotiate. T'Pau may have chosen unwisely."
Sitting back, she sipped at her tea and continued reading up on the young man.
---
Richards finally entered the Situation Room, his pallor whiter than normal and his uniform scuffed and marred with blood. Vacant, his eyes turned to the admiral's and wandered toward the opposite wall as if haunted.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" he asked.
Oh my God. "You okay?" Archer asked. A hand reached out to grip his shoulder. The battle had been over two hours ago, whatever caused crimson to spread over the man's chest must've been fresh.
Richards, unusual for him, sat down wearily without being asked by his commander and spoke with emotion in his voice. "You wanted to know about Rita? She died thirty minutes ago."
Archer hung his head against his chest. "I'm sorry, Chris."
"She was the best tactician …."
"I heard she was first of her class."
Chris nodded absently and then rubbed one thumb against the other, transfixed by the movement.
Chris said, "You ever think about … never mind."
Archer leaned against a table and urged on the captain. "Go ahead."
Shaking his head, his eyes fluttered as if holding back tears. "Not while on duty."
"You two were--?" asked Archer.
Chris looked up slowly. "No, I would never break the fraternization rules." And then he looked back down at his hands. "Doesn't mean I haven't thought about it. She's a beautiful woman, smart, funny …."
The admiral's lips turned down. "You wouldn't be the first captain who considered something like that."
"You and T'Pol?"
The admiral's cheek turned lopsided and he nudged the captain from his seat with a gentle punch.
"Let's take a walk," said Archer. "The news I want to talk with you about isn't urgent, and I could use a little air. Can you leave the Bridge for a few minutes?"
Chris nodded and the two slipped out of the Situation Room, left the Bridge and meandered over to the Mess Hall; there, Archer grabbed a cup of coffee and watched as Richards thudded into a chair.
Jon said, "You know, I have pictures of all my crew, but somehow only T'Pol's made it on board with me."
Archer sat opposite the captain and then stared into his coffee mug.
"T'Pol and I were never intimate while she served on Enterprise. I felt the same way you do." Closing his eyes, his mind imagined his fingers gliding over the lips of her photo – stroking his index finger along her wide mouth. "Our relationship was a recent development."
When he opened his eyes, Jon gave his direct report an awkward gaze, but Richards didn't notice. The captain was too busy staring at his lap to see his commander reminisce or look guilty for doing so.
Richards said, "You know I didn't even like Rita when she joined us? I was one of those people who didn't think we'd need military onboard."
"I know the feeling." Jon leaned forward. "What changed your mind?"
"She was good at her job. First week out of space dock we managed to run into some trouble – Orion pirates. Our engines were dead in the water after receiving a few blasts, but she managed to turn it around. Saved our butts."
Richards huffed a laugh and then continued. "I guess it was after that day we both had a mutual respect for each other."
Jon sipped his coffee, remembering his own difficulties with a haughty, Vulcan science officer the first few months, when Chris spoke again.
"Is it always this hard losing crewmen?" he asked.
Archer knew a lot about Chris Richards; after all he'd been his commander for a year. Richards had a spotless record as a man who hadn't lost a single person. Today, he'd lost six. With a clenched jaw, Jon remembered that feeling – losing one was hard enough, but losing 13 as he did in the Expanse – in one battle - was then more than he could bear. Even now, he felt his stomach tighten at the loss of life caused in this firefight.
"Always," confessed Archer.
"Stark, Rodriguez, Kadir ….. This was their first assignment."
"You know it wasn't your fault."
"I honestly don't know who's fault it is."
Jon took a sip of his drink and pointed out the window at the fleet. "Everyone here lost people, and I bet nearly every commander on every ship thinks it's his fault. As the admiral, I have the same thoughts going through my mind."
Richards looked up in surprise.
"Chris, this mission is only going to get more challenging."
"I know."
Archer nodded and then gazed into the beverage below him – black, with deep brown swirling clouds. "This ship is leading the effort to retrieve the diplomats – Ambassador Simon, Aide Staron …."
"That's why we're entering Romulan space?"
"Yeah. I'd like to bring the captains together tomorrow and discuss the plan. Can you make the arrangements?"
"Sure."
"Good. Have Mathers there too in case we need translation."
"Yes, sir."
In the quiet, Archer watched Richards. "Go get cleaned up. I think either Commander Kelby or I could--"
"No, sir. This is my vessel."
The admiral leaned forward. "Don't push yourself. Take it from me, it's important to think about the issues you faced today and take your feelings into account."
"I'm the captain. I don't have time to face or feel issues."
Archer frowned, but didn't argue. With that, Chris got up and headed out the door – haunted and broken.
Jon shook his head and took off for the Situation Room. There was much work to be done before he convened the commanders of the ships and relayed orders. There were lists to summarize and check-ins to perform, asking for time necessary to repair ships. Westing and Jon spent the rest of the night and even into the morning doing so, neglecting sleep and food.
Into the wee hours of the morning, the admiral broke down and asked for additional headache meds, ignoring the furrowed brows from Westing.
-----
A doorbell brought T'Pol to consciousness and she looked at the time. It was much later than she expected – after 1100 hours. With a near-frown, she thought that her body was tired, more tired than it should've been, as if she'd neglected food and rest.
The chime rang again, and she walked briskly through her apartment to answer it.
Shran was on the other side, tapping his foot impatiently waiting for entry. Only for a moment did T'Pol consider keeping the door closed; no doubt the Andorian would only make her headache worse.
He rang the doorbell again and she opened the door.
"I have news from the front," he said. Pointing he said, "You're still in your robe."
"I just awoke."
"It's nearly noon. I thought Vulcans were more industrious than lazing in bed all day."
The Andorian pushed his way into her apartment and sat at the table in her kitchen while she glared at him.
"I am aware of the time." Following, she sat across from him at the table. "Why didn't you comm me?"
Shran's antennae drooped a little. "Jhamel is having a … baby shower with a bunch of human females, and I was not invited. I needed to leave the house. Can you believe that? Kicked out of my own dwelling."
"How can they shower a baby if Jhamel has not yet given birth?" she asked.
"No, this involves presents. Miranda organized it and invited some of our neighbors and the other parents of children at the school. Come to think of it, I'm surprised you weren't invited; I know how much Jhamel likes you."
"I am fond of Jhamel as well. Perhaps it was an oversight."
A smile suddenly passed over Shran's face. "I've heard of human female jealousy. Maybe Miranda took it poorly that you ended up tyla-tora with Archer."
There was a time when T'Pol believed the red-haired woman would've been a more suitable mate to Jonathan, and a small part of her grinned internally that the relationship between the two never came to pass.
"Perhaps." Pointedly, the Vulcan asked about the front. "You said you have news?"
"Commander Ranol from the Toltek communicated via subspace to General Krag. They are in Romulan space, and I believe they are heading to the planet where the diplomats evacuated to."
"In Romulan space?"
He told her the highlights of the battle and then went on to discuss the damage.
"The Andorians lost ten crewmen."
"I grieve with thee." No doubt there will be many more.
"I do as well. But, it is not dire yet and those that gave their lives are considered heroes. Their blood will adorn the ice of Andoria."
She pondered how many Vulcans had died and whether their katras could be taken to the Great Hall where priests and priestesses would watch over them.
Shran said, "It sounds like your mate is having difficulty commanding the fleet and the different species. Ranol talked about arguments breaking out."
My mate? We did not leave it exactly on those terms, even if I'm unsure exactly what he is. T'Pol felt compelled to correct that notion. "Jonathan is--"
"Yes, he's stubborn. But, I can think of no better man to carry out these orders. The Andorians may bicker with him, but they respect him; they would not lay down their lives for many other humans."
"No, I was about to say--"
"Besides, it sounds like the Tellarites and Vulcans are giving him just as much trouble. Ranol told Krag your people question every move the Pink Skin makes."
"Questioning an order is not refusal. By offering different opinions and options, he may be better equipped to --"
"Bah!" he said, dismissing her comment. "You and I know the Vulcans better than that."
A sigh left her lips and with narrowed eyes, she realized her headache was back. This time, it was if she heard yelling – voices rumbling loudly with protest, and her countenance must've betrayed her. Shran suddenly stopped his tirade about the Vulcans and gazed at her with concern.
"You all right?" he asked.
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
Standing, she made her way to her kitchen and started boiling water for tea. After taking out a few tealeaves and plopping them into her kettle, she decided to confide in the Andorian.
"I have been having … headaches."
"Headaches? I thought Vulcans didn't have headaches … or acknowledge pain for that matter."
Vulcans did have headaches, but they were rare. The last headache she'd had before the bout of recent ones, was in the Expanse – a consequence of kicking her addiction to trellium. Although, Shran was correct about acknowledging pain. Vulcan techniques had been used to minimize the pain – stimulation of pulse points and meditation, both of which had been exhausted, and why she now shot herself with analgesic on a daily basis … sometimes more than once a day.
"When did it begin?" he asked.
"I can't remember, perhaps a few months ago."
"This has been happening for months?" he asked.
"Yes."
"You should see a doctor." Then his antennae reeled. "On second thought, only see Phlox. I don't trust these human doctors."
"I don't need a doctor."
"Don't be obstinate."
Pouring two mugs of tea, she countered him. "It is not serious."
"The new president of the Federation has to be in good health. You've got to take care of yourself."
"I am in excellent health." Walking over with two porcelain cups, she shoved one into his hand and ignored the disgust that crossed his face. Finally, caving a little, she acquiesced. "If it becomes more serious, I will."
The furrow in his forehead told her that that promise didn't satisfy him, but he seemed to leave it alone. And before he got the opportunity to give her another round of grief about her decision, she brought up her conversation with the Klingon.
"Kolos is not budging."
"You contacted him again about joining us?"
"I did. He indicated if it did not involve Qo'noS, then he didn't want to be included."
The Andorian sighed, his antennae drooping. "It was a long shot."
"I have not heard from Gral about the Ithanites."
"I doubt those little copper savages would lift a metallic finger to help us."
Raising an eyebrow, she watched him squirm under it. He shifted gears as if hoping a change in conversation would alleviate the severity of her look.
"I'm getting a new aide. Her name is Tares."
"When does she arrive?"
"She comes within the week. And as for the she … I knew her back in ka-rek school when she was a he."
The Vulcan popped an eyebrow up. "I understood your species could change genders easily and that it was not uncommon."
"He was my friend. Seeing him with a new gender …. I'm not sure I'm ready. I always thought he was an alpha Andorian male, like me."
The eyebrow settled itself and she decided to confess the news about her aide. "I also have one that arrives. His name is Skon."
"Huh. Is this Skon married?"
She sat back. "No. His wife died recently."
"How old is your aide?"
"Early sixties. Why?"
"Early sixties? That seems old to be an aide."
"He was a mathematician before changing careers."
"I didn't know Vulcans changed careers."
As she was about to explain even her own change in interests, Shran spoke up.
"A single, male Vulcan about your age under your supervision. Sounds like a recipe for the Pink Skin to get a broken heart."
The Vulcan's lips fell flat and she shook her head. "Thy'lek, there is no need for you to suggest I must mate with everyone who crosses my path."
A grin swept across his face at what T'Pol guessed was the mention of his first name, but he remained resolute.
"I'm looking out for Archer's interests," he said.
I'm sure.
Shran glanced over at a clock across the room and then back at the Vulcan. "I think the party is almost over. You could crash it with me, if you wanted."
"No thank you."
His antennae dropped. "Well, then maybe we can see Gral and convince him to contact the Ithanites. Beats sitting here and sipping tea that tastes like drek!"
As she was about to contradict him, providing the vast healing qualities of tea, especially the blend she made, he waved her off.
"Perhaps you should save your breath and get ready," he said. "I know you want the Council convened soon, too."
With that, she decided his proposal was logical and walked off to her bedroom to shower and change.
----
Archer grabbed the bridge of his nose as he listened to Commanders Tan, Moog and Stek all argue. Tan, the leader of the Andorians, was short with a white shock of hair, dark blue skin and red eyes. Occasionally, he made a point of stepping into Stek's personal space. Stek, a Vulcan with dark skin and hair, stared without reaction, adding a few quips - monotone. And in between was Moog, a short, plump Tellarite with a long snout who pointed up toward the other commanders and occasionally shoved Tan. Richards finally stood up, his voice weary and was joined immediately by Captain Vega – a slender woman with raven hair.
Surprisingly, Jon managed to muster more patience than he thought possible and found himself grappling to focus on the low pitched hum of the baseboards as he breathed deeply, counting backwards from 20 hoping the debate would die down.
When he reached number ten, he heard the argument reach a fevered pitch. Commander Tan gritted his teeth and turned to Stek with a snarl.
"If it wasn't for your people we wouldn't--"
Archer stood up and forced his palms against the conference table. So much for counting. "SHUT UP!"
The room instantly became quiet and he exhaled noisily. The throbbing behind his eyes intensified, but he ignored it.
"You weren't asked here to become friends, you were asked here to serve in battle. And if you can't manage to do so, I'll have to report this to your governments and ask for new vessels!"
Melanie Vega, captain of the Thames and a raven-haired woman in her early 40s smiled profusely – her eyes lighting up, when Archer shook his head at her, indicating it'd be best if she wiped it off her face.
"Asking my government to send a new ship to meet you is highly illogical. It would take approximately 2.4 weeks for a ring ship to--" began Stek.
A growl caught in Archer's throat, but he swallowed it. "If that ship is more likely to follow my orders, than waiting 2.4 weeks is worth it."
The Vulcan poked an eyebrow in his direction and Archer narrowed his eyes.
Moog nodded. "I agree with Archer. We are arguing like children – unschooled and without purpose. Admiral, the Tellarites will obey your orders."
Archer nodded, glad at least someone agreed with him.
Tan shot out of his seat. "Andoria cannot allow a snorting animal like the Tellarites to--"
It was then Archer reached one hand for the table while his other doggedly fled to his temples. For a moment, he could feel his heart stutter, missing its usual beat – as if the pace had quickened to arrhythmia, and the smell of boiling tealeaves found his nostrils. The instant he smelled the faint aroma of chamomile, he opened his eyes to everyone's stares.
"Admiral, are you all right?" asked Richards.
An unsteady smile crept over Archer's lips and he nodded his head. "Yeah." Standing up a little straighter, he countered their concern. "I'm just tired of this arguing. We're supposed to be a unified front."
Guilty, the humans in the room bowed their heads, Tan's lips curled into a frown and Moog's eyes darted elsewhere; it was only Stek who held his head high and without emotion.
"Commander Tan, Commander Stek, I'd like you to follow orders under Moog." He repeated his other orders. "I'd like Commanders Ranol, Tog and T'Nara to remain with the Potomac and Thames. As the leaders, I'd like you to convey these new orders to your people."
"The Toltek needs days of repair. Would it not make more sense for the--" said Stek.
Archer said, "The Toltek is fast, and it's the speed, frankly, we could use. I'd like them to carry the survivors we find. We have a better chance of getting them out that way."
"And you want me to remain at the edge of Romulan space?" asked Moog.
"Yes. We may need you, if it comes down to it."
"Then that's where I plan to be."
"Do you all understand your orders?" asked Archer.
There was silence, which he took as confirmation.
"Good. Dismissed."
When everyone filed out, Richards leading each captain to the transporter, Vega stayed behind. Tucking a piece of black hair behind her ear, she looked up at the Archer.
"Sir, I don't mean to intrude, but … well, Arthur is my sister's son and--"
"Ensign Westing is your nephew?" he asked.
She shrugged. "Yeah. He told me you've been having a lot of headaches."
"I'm fine. Nothing serious."
"Maybe you should get your doctor to take a look at you."
He nodded. "I will just as soon as --"
"Sir," she said, laying a hand on his bicep, "I think Chris and I can take care of everything for a few hours."
"I appreciate the offer, but--"
"Admiral, you look like you could use some sleep."
The admiral gazed down at the woman. Her face, much like T'Pol's, was heart-shaped with a pert nose and high cheekbones. Melanie Vega's lips were small though, and pouted at him, something the Vulcan he'd known for years would never do.
"I'm the admiral, missing a day's sleep is expected," he said, speaking over her protest, "but, I promise to catch up tonight and see Dr. Higgins soon, Captain."
Retracting her fingers, he noticed she watched him as he headed out the door.
----
As Shran and T'Pol hung in the background, out of sight, Gral held a PADD in his hand and stared at it and the little copper creature on the other end. It was a man he'd met only ten years ago, but someone who he shared a friendship with and had kept in touch with - on and off - ever since. Ki'ar, an Ithanite, was an ambassador for his people, which meant something altogether different to them. Ki'ar was usually called in to negotiate war tactics and protocols as well as report back on how fierce the enemy was. Rarely did Ki'ar actually negotiate treaties; Ithanites were friends with few races.
But, their odd behavior never bothered the people of Tellar. Although it turned Gral's stomach, he had to admire that the Ithanites ate the hearts of the fallen to honor those who went into battle … even their enemy. And though Gral never believed it gave the Ithanites power and vitality to do so, he accepted they found the process exhilarating.
Looking at the Ithanite now, Ki'ar had aged considerably – much more than Gral had - with white tufts of hair barely visible from underneath his fez hat. An animal skin, gray with spots, covered his wrinkled copper body. And when he smiled, something that reminded him of a grimace, rows of sharp, yellow teeth displayed.
"Gral," he said. His voice was shrill and immediately the Tellarite twitched his snout.
"Ki'ar!"
The little man crossed his arms. "You want something."
A frown spread over Gral's face and he inadvertently looked up at T'Pol and Shran – who were just out of range to be seen. He grunted as the Ithanite nodded, his eyes narrowing.
"You definitely want something," said Ki'ar.
"I call because Tellar needs Ithan's assistance. We need your help in--"
"No."
"I haven't told you what it is."
"I don't need to know."
"But--"
"No!"
Shran mumbled under his breath an Andorian curse and the Tellarite continued.
"Tellar is at war."
"I heard."
"Then you know we are looking for allies."
"I heard."
The Ithanites, in Gral's opinion, were quick to rush to judgment, were stubborn, egocentric and resolute. If he heard no, then there was little else that could be done. And yet, as a Tellarite, he enjoyed a challenge. Gral nuzzled into his bed, fluffing his pillow, and despite the sedative he'd been given, decided to use his sharpest debating skills.
"Ithan has always been an ally to Tellar. Are you telling me you've changed your position? You no longer wish to be our ally … even after the Battle of Te'ta?"
The copper creature with the fez hat shook his head, causing the red tassel on the end to sway violently, and grabbed at the animal skin that draped around him. "No."
Gral asked, "Then what are you saying? You no longer wish to repay us for our help?"
"No. We won't help the Vulcans and Andorians."
"You're not helping them, you're helping us."
"No."
"You don't like the Orions."
"We don't."
"And you have no great love for the Arali, who are responsible for the deaths of the crew aboard two of your ja'jem."
Ki'ar shrugged. "Yes. True."
"Then why will you not join us to defeat them?"
The man was silent.
Gral said, "When an ally asks you to join them, you do so. Isn't that what your Elder Ti'ki said before we helped you?"
A sigh huffed from Ki'ar's lips. "He did, but--"
"Then you will help us."
"No."
"Yes."
With that, Gral ended the transmission. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Skinny looking horrified and Shran disappointed.
"He'll call back," said Gral. "I'm using Fartog's principle of patience."
"A debating skill?" asked T'Pol.
"Yes. It seems to work with the lthanites."
"It seems we are where we were only a few months ago," said T'Pol.
Shran said, "Maybe I can try to contact those from Coridan again. I can remind them that we were the ones who liberated them from the Vulcan dargs," His eyes darted to the Vulcan's who's lip had curled minutely, and corrected his statement. "No offense."
An eyebrow was her only response and it tickled Gral's stomach to see it.
"Call those from Coridan again, then," said Gral. "It couldn't hurt. Skinny, do you have any other ideas?"
T'Pol was silent, her head bent.
"Another headache?" asked Shran.
"No," she said. Before Gral could ask more about it, she turned to the two of them. "Allow me to meditate on our situation."
Gral nodded as Shran was about to pitch a fuss. "Skinny, you are the president now – we can work with you."
The Vulcan wrapped her robe around her and then headed out the door.
"Something's wrong with her," said Shran. He pointed out the door with his finger and an antennae.
"She does not seem herself. You said there are headaches?"
"I'll bring her back here tomorrow. When I do, maybe we can ask Phlox to surreptitiously scan her."
"You are devious, Blue!"
A grin threatened to encompass the Andorian's face. "I was a member of the Imperial Guard."
-----
Archer confirmed the plan with Commander Moog from the comfort of his room. The vessels would enter Romulan space tomorrow, where no doubt another battle would break out. After that, the Tellarite would take some of the fleet and wait at the edge of Romulan space while a much smaller, faster group headed to the planets they believe held the diplomats.
Science Officer Donaldson was already using long-range scans to search for various bio-signs with no success as yet.
After finishing up the conversation with Moog, Jon laid on his bed, still dressed in his uniform, and looked at the clock trying to remember exactly how many hours he had to subtract in order to know what time it was in San Francisco.
A little after midnight. Huh. I wonder if T'Pol is asleep.
Not that he could call her anyway. The ship was under communication silence with only priority subspace messages to their various governments allowed. He thought about breaking the rules a few times, mostly because he had the nagging feeling she was concerned about him, but in the end duty ruled.
Closing his eyes, hoping to catch a few winks, he felt his heart begin to pump more slowly and his breath grow long and deep.
He was in T'Pol's apartment watching her meditate in her long, blue flowing robe pooled around her. The aroma of incense wafted through the air and he sucked it letting the smell – spicy and musky – fill his lungs. The scent was like patchouli or sandalwood. It was her smell.
Perched over a flame pot, candles flickering around her darkened room, her knees were pressed against a blue mat. The room black though it was, save for the candles, showcased the tiny lights of San Francisco twinkling in the background.
God, I've missed her and this city, he thought.
Suddenly, she looked up as if noticing his presence for the first time. Strands of her hair tucked behind a pointed ear, she raised a brow as he smiled.
"Jonathan?" she asked.
"Hey," he said.
His arms spread wide as to accept her into them and yet she stared at him in disbelief, rooted to her spot. The grin beaming on his face began to fade and he eventually lowered his arms.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"You shouldn't be here."
"Why not?" Finally, he threw a small frown. "I thought you'd be happy to see me."
Slowly, she pushed herself from the floor and on bare feet approached him cautiously. When she was within reach, his fingers – middle and index – touched her neck and chin, stroking the skin in the gesture of a Vulcan caress. A gasp left her lips and for a moment he felt the surprise as if it was his own.
"You don't want me here?" he asked.
"It's not that." She shook her head. "Through our mind melds, I thought this would be impossible."
The comm whined and he reached over to slap the button, his voice groggy.
"Archer."
"Sir, there's a vessel that suddenly appeared out of nowhere – it has the markings of a bird on it and--""I'll be right there."
He saw the red flashing light above the doorway and heard the initial sounds of alert spread through the ship. As he blinked, he noticed his headache had gone away and that the smell of incense from his dream still filled his lungs. The ship shuddered slightly and he saw another vessel appear from nowhere out of his portal window – a green one shimmering into existence.
He jumped from his bed and ran to the Situation Room.
Romulans.
TBC
A/N: Just as an FYI, Skon is Sarek's father. Please let me know if all this stuff is confusing. I'm sure I could do a better job of laying it all out.