Gral emerged from his den at nearly 10:37 a.m., his voice hoarse, hair sticking out in all directions and squinty eyes carrying dark brown circles under them. Scratching his tummy, he waddled out to the circular couch in the living room and parked his rump on it.
After debating for hours on the virtues of asking Andoria to keep Shran on Earth, he'd gotten absolutely nowhere. Tyr had questioned the idea of friendship between a Tellarite and an Andorian, bringing up years of conflict and hatred between them. He'd told Gral that creating an alliance and establishing trust had been necessary, but that he'd "be a fool" to let personal friendships get in the way. More, the leader of the planet Tellar had complained about being disturbed for such an "inconsequential matter as the replacement of a diplomat."
Gral had tried to explain his reasons for wanting Shran to stay went beyond "friendship" -- that the Andorians had been allies during the times when few others believed in the council. That Shran had personally helped to keep the council together and was needed to deal with the ambassador from Earth, Neville Simon, and an aide from Vulcan, Staron.
Tyr saw no value in that, claiming the humans were the most acceptable allies they'd encountered.
The discussion had been fruitless and ended abruptly with Tyr angrily conveying that if Gral called with another such request, he'd be sent to the farthest reaches of Dengar VI – a mining colony that the Tellarites occupied.
Tired, Gral laid down – his pig feet kicking in the air – as he thought about next steps. Closing his eyes, he heard a knock.
"Gral, it's me!" said Shran. "Open up."
"Blue?" asked Gral.
Pushing himself from his couch, he heard the door pound again and grunted to himself that the Andorian was one of the least patient aliens he'd ever met. When the door finally opened, Shran scooted past his antennae standing erect and a dark azure streaming across his face.
"Ambassador Simon is a tarpig I'd like to challenge in a death match! You should've heard what he said to me today," said Shran.
Gral wearily headed back to the couch to listen. "What happened?"
The blue man recounted a story in which Simon seemed to pick a fight, daring to be killed with the blade always at Shran's side. The argument escalated until the Andorian nearly gave into the unspoken request before Shran stopped himself and Neville made an escape.
"We cannot afford the council to fracture," said Gral.
"I think Simon is a spy!"
Gral groaned. "I don't like him either, but I doubt he's a spy."
"Think about it," said Shran, twisting his fingers thoughtfully over one antenna. "He was one of the few saved after trying to head toward Romulus to negotiate, talking many in the council to join him."
"Coincidence," said Gral.
"His aide was a member of Terra Prime – someone who tried to kill us."
"Having unfortunate hiring practices and poor judgment doesn't make him a spy."
Shran's lips tightened and his cheeks turned a shade of near violet. Antennae perched as if ready to strike, his voice ripped through the silence. "Wake up and smell the milk! Too many coincidences to me mean guilt."
Gral shook his head, his voice hoarse from arguing with Tyr all night. "Blue, I have known Neville much longer than you have. We worked in the council together for years. Though I may not agree with him on many topics, he is no spy."
"Then how do you explain him daring me to kill him?" asked Shran.
"That, I do not know."
The Andorian, seemingly unconvinced, stalked around the room much like the annoying habit of Archer.
"He speaks ill of Archer every chance he gets," said Blue.
"Poor judgment."
"And he has no love for T'Pol."
Gral waved his fingers in the air to dismiss his friend. "Again, he shows poor judgment."
"He's spying on Archer – he talks with other Starfleet personnel," said Shran. "He's surely working with the Romulans."
"It is unfortunate the Earthlings do not trust each other, and although Archer is my friend, I do not think it makes Ambassador Simon a Romulan spy."
Blue stopped in his tracks. "We should spy on him."
"What?" asked Gral.
"I recommend we plant a listening device on him," said Shran.
Gral snorted, almost in laughter, until he could see the Andorian was serious. The pig-like creature emphatically shook his head, grunting.
"We cannot fracture the council further."
"I would bet my ice home he's a spy," said Shran. "And I'm not just sitting by letting him provide information to the Romulans."
"No."
"We have to act!" said Shran, pounding his fist into his open palm.
"No."
"Gral, be reasonable! He's--"
With a squeal, Gral's snout twitched in anger. The little man waddled up to his friend, nearly sticking his belly into the Andorian's black leather, as a bony finger swung into the air. He could tell Shran wasn't pleased with the move – his antennae already arching forward – but the Tellarite didn't care.
"No! I will not participate. It will further divide us. If we have learned nothing over the course of the past few months, haven't we determined that we can only win the war through unity?" he asked, rhetorically. "Neville Simon is an unfortunate choice for ambassador. He does not understand galactic issues or culture as well as Archer, but he is Earth's choice. We must continue to work with him."
Shran, towering over the Tellarite, narrowed his eyes. "We have learned many things in the past few months, and I would think the most significant is you can trust me. I have been at your side through the most difficult times."
"We should trust each other," said Gral. "I am telling you, he is not a spy."
Shran's lips turned down. "And I disagree."
Gral saw the look in the Andorian's eye and suspected no matter what was said next, Shran would plant a listening device on Ambassador Simon. The Tellarite wanted no part in it and wondered after arguing for hours on end for Shran to stay on Earth, whether it was really the right thing to do. Tyr was right, the Andorians as a race were impulsive and Gral pondered whether being friends with Shran clouded his judgment.
Seeing the two had come to an impasse, Gral sighed. "I don't want any part in it."
The two became silent and finally made excuses to part company – Shran indicating his son probably needed watching and Gral mentioning needing sleep after a late night session talking with Tyr. When the Andorian left, Gral narrowed his eyes and decided to think on what had happened between them and what would be his next step.
Of all the decisions he'd made as ambassador, he knew this would be one of the most difficult.
--
Skon had been contacted by T'Pol, the first voice he'd heard other than T'Var's for at least three days. Her voice had been tense, but missing the frenetic quality that had marred her voice four days ago – the panicked timbre, like an animal, of a Vulcan female in Pon Farr. Over the intercom, she had quickly ordered him to the safest area of the ship – Admiral Archer's quarters – as the Panama prepared for battle.
An eyebrow raised now in reflection. When she'd said the captain's name, he hadn't felt the peculiar emotion that had plagued him several days ago. The one that boiled his blood, calling him to win T'Pol through the challenge – to fight the human to the death.
'Touching the mind of a Vulcan in Pon Farr,' he mused silently, 'was not the wisest action I have ever taken.'
The act had catapulted him into a fever, one that threatened to devour him – singe his insides and turn his internal organs to ash. He could not blame T'Pol for not giving into him; she had bonded with another and had not realized that the young Vulcan male also burned.
As Skon flexed his long, sinewy muscles, he gazed at the Vulcan next to him.
T'Var is not unattractive, he surmised.
Her medium-length hair fanned over the pillow and her slender eyebrows peaked to sharp points, sweeping up as was the latest style. T'Var's eyes, now closed, were large and the color of wet sand. She had a mouth that resembled the symbol humans used for a heart.
That is inaccurate. She is quite attractive.
During his occasional bouts of reason, he and T'Var, Panama's communications officer, had spoken in Vulcan about their lives. Through their discussions, Skon learned that T'Var was an accomplished musician, part of what she indicated assisted her in the profession of communication. He gleaned that while at the Vulcan Academy, she planned – her mind unchallenged by communication on their home planet – to travel to unknown locations. Like Ambassador T'Pol, T'Var claimed to find the humans intriguing and acceptable traveling companions despite their smell and emotions.
She indicated she had never married – her bondmate having perished many years ago – and she found no logic in seeking out a replacement. After all, she claimed, one cannot have a marriage when one is always away.
As Skon viewed his partner, he watched her open her eyes.
"Did I hear that Panama may come under attack?" she asked.
"Yes. You did not imagine it."
"Then the ambassador did order to you to Admiral Archer's quarters."
"She did," he said.
Suddenly, as if she saw the flashing red light in her room, she pushed out of her bed. "I must get to my post. Now that you are no longer in danger, the ship is my first priority."
He gave a single nod. "That is logical."
A glimmer danced in her eye and sparkled, like a flicker of emotion and his chest swelled at it. As she slipped into her uniform, Skon spoke.
"Although the ambassador wishes me to stay in Admiral Archer's abode, I believe I may be of help to Panama," he said. "I would like to assist."
"The ambassador wants to prevent her protege, our representative to Vulcan, from being harmed," she said.
"Harm will undoubtedly come to me if Panama is attacked. Why not be of use in the meanwhile?" he asked, rhetorically. "Besides, Staron is back on Earth and can represent our people."
"What do you know about starships?" she asked.
"I believe the human expression is – 'just enough to be dangerous,'" he said.
With that T'Var tilted her head and poked an eyebrow into the air. The two continued stepping into their clothing and without another word said between them, the two headed off in the direction of the bridge.
--
Archer stood in front of the captains of the Panama, Shenandoah and Constantinople. Vega, Gupta and Stiles all sat – their eyes fixed on their commanding officer – as Arthur Westing, Archer's aide, scooted into the table along with them. To the side, T'Pol stood adorned in her diplomatic robes – her hands stoically placed behind her back.
As Jon was about to speak, he saw Stiles' eyes wander to the Vulcan and then narrow. Ignoring the gesture, the admiral paced around the room.
"You all know the situation. The Vulcans spotted a fleet of ships heading to rendezvous with us – both Romulan and Orion. We're outnumbered with the best hope of having a fleet of Vulcan ships reach us – at best speed – near evening." He frowned as he paced, the energy in the act helping him to convey orders. "To level the playing field, Captain Vega, Ambassador T'Pol and I have weighed the viability of using the nearby nebulae cluster – the Spider Nebula."
On cue, Arthur hit a few buttons to show the nebulae on the nearest screen – blues, greens and purples fanned out in with eight branches – like long legs. What appeared to be the trunk held oranges and yellows.
Just about to continue, pointing at one of the legs, Archer heard Stiles interrupt him.
"Sir, it's not protocol to bring an ambassador into Starfleet proceedings," he said. "Our sensors will be down and--"
"And so will theirs – that's the point. We might be able to hide or ambush them if we get lucky." Melanie heaved a sigh, protesting, "Besides, the ambassador used to be in Starfleet."
Gupta added his two cents. "I don't care whether she's in Starfleet or not, it's a good idea."
When Jon could see more debate about to erupt, he held up his hand showing them his palm and suddenly the chatter stopped.
"Truthfully, I'd rather ensure her safety for personal reasons ... and because I believe she's Starfleet's best connection to the Vulcans. T'Pol has been an ally to the humans for ... well, many years." He glanced over at his bondmate who refrained from reacting; instead he felt a warmth tingle up his spine, which he knew emanated from her. "But Ambassador T'Pol is lending us her expertise and knowing what we're up against, I'd be foolish to turn it down. And so would you."
Archer could tell it didn't relieve Stiles' concerns, but he decided that was the captain's issue, not his. Beginning to pace again, he started to call out the actions he wanted each of the captains to take.
"While we're in the nebula, we're going to have to take main systems off-line, leaving only emergency power – life support, gravity, etc."
"Why offline?" asked Gupta.
"I don't want there to even be a chance of them detecting us," said Archer. "If we go dead, we'll be harder to spot."
"How will we spot them?" asked Stiles, his arms folded across his chest.
T'Pol came to life. "We won't. Instead, we can out wait them and continue on the mission."
Stiles sneered. "Leave it to a Vulcan to hide from a fight."
"We have a mission to complete," said Archer. "If we--"
"Fighting our way out is the right thing to do, Admiral," said Stiles, standing.
Archer was about to disagree, loudly, but heard his bondmate speak up.
"Fighting our way out, Captain Stiles, is suicide," said Ambassador T'Pol.
Gupta agreed, "If our nuclear weapons get hit, we're all dead."
"But they know we're here, right?" asked Vega. "Admiral, you said yourself that you thought it was sabotage."
Admiral Archer nodded. "We only need three hours. I'm ordering communication silence."
"Won't they look for us?" asked Gupta.
"Yes," said Archer.
"But how long will that take to find us?" asked Gupta again.
Archer said, "All we need to buy is a few hours until the Vulcans come. We have their time, we can unveil ourselves when they arrive ... and hopefully that will provide the element of surprise."
Vega narrowed her eyes. "Sir, you're counting on the Vulcans to get to us by an exact time."
Archer smiled. "If there's anything we can count on the Vulcans for, it's timeliness."
Stiles didn't seem convinced. "I don't like this plan."
Crossing the room, pacing, Archer kept his eyes on the captain. Face grim, hawkish, he furrowed his brows and decided to lay it on the line.
"You may not like it, but that's the plan. You have your orders, I expect you to follow them."
Stiles folded his arms. "Sir, having an ambassador help dictate our plans is highly irregular and--"
Archer halted that discussion before it could begin again. "I said you have your orders."
Suddenly silence rang in the room and he mentally sighed. Quickly, he began debriefing them all on the exact plans. During the entire discussion, he could feel Stiles disagreement. He'd learned long ago that there was a time to give into discention and a time to ignore it. Archer had been taught that lesson from Forrest; although Forrest had been a mentor and had given him a lot of leeway when it came to voicing his concerns, Jon figured out when to shut up. With a smile, he also thought about Trip. His friend was no shrinking violet when it came to giving his two cents and sometimes himself had difficulty knowing when to stop.
Personally, even if Trip pushed his luck, Archer always liked it – at least in hindsight. And he had to admit, his former engineer always had a point.
The musing lasted only a few moments and he felt T'Pol's eyes on him. The words that echoed in his mind resounded and awakened him from a trance.
I agree, she thought.
Hoping they could hold off a Romulan attack, he gave his orders and planned with his captains and T'Pol. The meeting lasted an hour, and afterward, Archer could tell they all felt exhausted working on the minutia of the plan.
God, I hope it works, he thought.